Chapter Text
Soap, not for the first time in his adult life, wakes up sticky. It’s not even the first time that it’s been thanks to his own hands, his own ministrations. It probably is however the first time that it’s been accompanied by such a profound sense of disappointment.
Ghost had been perfect, last night, gorgeous and funny and interesting, Soap could have sworn he’d been flirting too, right up until the point where he was gently but very firmly rebuffed. Jesus, Soap has always thought he was good at reading people, has prided himself on being able to understand what people want, both from the world and from him , but Ghost seems to be something else entirely.
If he wasn’t half convinced it was just wishful thinking Soap could have sworn that the disappointment on Ghost’s face last night had been genuine, that he’d wanted to say yes to Soap’s offer, that he’d wanted to come to bed with him. And what a face it was, Soap had tried to play it cool but he wasn’t entirely sure he’d achieved it. If Ghost hadn’t been appealing enough already, he had to be the single prettiest bastard Soap has ever seen.
He probably isn’t beautiful, by the classic definitions, ‘striking’ would probably be more accurate, ‘arresting’ maybe. His jaw is strong, his nose long and roman, with the obvious hallmarks of at least one break in the middle. There are scars too; an old split through his brow that continued just below his eye, another that darted through his top and bottom lips and had added a crooked charm when Ghost had laughed, the crows feet at the corners of his eyes giving him a kindness that might otherwise have been buried beneath the stronger features.
Soap doesn’t like that his proposition failed, but not because Ghost refused. He doesn’t like the confusion, the unease that being wrong has left him with. He doesn’t like the possibility, however unlikely, that he might have made Ghost uncomfortable last night. He resolves to apologise, clear the air, he doesn’t want Ghost to be in a position where he feels he has to leave because of Soap making unwanted advances.
He doesn’t want Ghost to leave, full stop.
He gets up and stumbles over to the wash basin, uses the tepid water to sluice the sweat, as well as the less savoury fluids, off him and stares blankly into the mirror as he does.
Last night had been. Well. Soap had barely cleared the bedroom door before his hand had been down his trousers, hand around his cock in a haze of arousal tinged with hurt from the rejection.
He’d teased himself more than usual last night, had flopped backwards onto his bed as he shrugged off his other clothes; stripped himself nude and laid himself out. When he’d slid his fingers into his own mouth he’d been imagining Ghost’s, had been frustrated when his weren’t as thick as he thought Ghost’s would be. He imagined Ghost’s hands when he trailed his own down his front and teased at his nipples, scraped fingernails through his chest hair.
He certainly wasn’t imagining it was his own hand that wrapped tight around his cock, fisted him hard and fast and squeezed so tight and vice-like around his knot that he came in just minutes. He let himself dream, dazedly, about Ghost up at the barn.
What if his disappointment had been real? What if Ghost had wanted to join him but circumstances had prevented him? What if Ghost was in the hayloft even now pleasuring himself to thoughts of Soap? There was no doubt that a beta of Ghost’s size would have a cock to match, but would he be willing to submit to an alpha and let Soap fuck him, or would he want to be the one doing the fucking?
It said enough that Soap actually almost thought about it.
With a sigh Soap finishes washing up, forgoes shaving since he simply can’t be arsed, and heads downstairs to see where Tablet can have got up to, since she wasn’t in her usual position at his door this morning.
Tablet it seems, the utter traitor that she is, has been spending the morning with Ghost.
Soap nearly trips down the porch steps when he spots them, Ghost is moving hay out into the feeders, but he’d clearly done plenty before that, a quick glance around tells Soap that more than half his morning chores are done already.
“The fuck time did you get up?” Gratifyingly, this makes Ghost jump, Soap does his best not to feel too smug about that, fails.
“A while ago.” Ghost says, giving nothing away, cagey bastard that he is.
“Best come in for breakfast then.” Soap barks, and turns on his heel. He doesn’t know why the idea of Ghost working alone out there makes him uncomfortable, why he’s already resolving to wake up before dawn tomorrow so Ghost can’t pull this again. He focuses his attention on the pantry instead.
Ghost’s tread is heavy on the stairs, deliberately so, announcing his presence in the room while Soap’s back is turned. When Soap looks at him he seems awkward, hands wringing his soft gloves in a bunch between them, he’s down to his shirtsleeves and there’s already a light sweat at his collar and chest in a way that makes Soap want to lick him.
“I didn’t want to overstep.” Ghost starts, and it immediately takes the wind out of Soap’s sails, deflates him until he’s sagging against the counter top behind him. “Just couldn’t sleep is all.”
“It’s alright.” Soap says, because it should be, he’d be thrilled if any other ranch hand had done this, and yet something needy and desperate in his gut is chanting to him that it should be the other way round, that he should be doing things for Ghost, that he should be taking care of him.
Maybe the summer heat has finally stewed his brain all the way to soup.
“Doesn’t seem like it.” Ghost shrugs.
“Aye, I’m sorry.” Soap shrugs and turns back to continue slicing the thick loaf in front of him. “Must’ve woken up on the wrong side of bed this morning, is all.”
“Hmm.” Ghost doesn’t sound entirely like he believes him. “This isn’t because of last night?”
“What?” Soap whips back around, Ghost’s stance is set, poised like a wrong answer will have him running to the stables and then disappearing just as fast as he came. Soap can’t have that. “No!” He sounds too defensive, he knows he does “No, Ghost, it’s not that at all, I swear.” He holds eye contact until Ghost finally seems to believe him, sends him a curt little nod of acceptance. “And I’m sorry about that, I never meant to make ye uncomfortable or put ye in a position-”
“Stop.” Ghost sighs “Don’t, Soap, you didn’t. I wasn’t uncomfortable, alright, I just…can’t.” It’s a lame excuse, and a lame little shrug Ghost offers with it, but Soap is so relieved that Ghost doesn’t secretly hate him that he’s not about to dwell on it.
“That’s sorted then.” He says instead, sets the slices of bread onto the kitchen table along with the butter bell and a block of slightly hard cheese. “Breakfast.”
“Thank you.” Ghost says, something that could be a smile showing in his eyes over the bandana, Soap doesn’t know if he means for not prying or for breakfast but he decides he doesn’t really care either way.
While Soap sits and gets comfortable, Ghost passes him to get to the sink, pulls a spare handkerchief from his pocket and dampens it to mop at the back of his neck and, when he removes his bandana, his face.
“There’s cold milk in the ice box.” Soap announces conversationally but Ghost perks up like he’s been offered fifty bucks.
“I’d kill for something cold.” He shoots Soap a grin that makes him look a decade younger and heads over to find it. In the process he drops his handkerchief, the thing slipping as he tries to stuff it into his pocket, he doesn’t seem to notice at all, too excited by the prospect of a cool drink. Soap, without even really knowing why, swipes it off the floor and pockets it, before turning back to butter his bread as if nothing happened.
Breakfast is easy, light conversation as Ghost fills Soap in on what he’s achieved this morning (even more than Soap had feared, actually, the man must have been up for most of the night), then listens while Soap outlines what will be required for the rest of the day.
“We can go for a ride if you like? I can show ye the property line, the different grazing areas for the sheep?”
“Sounds good.” Ghost mumbles around a mouthful of bread and cheese, which should be disgusting but somehow he makes even that look good. “Lemmedodishes?” He mumbles and Soap can’t help the laughter that rumbles out of him.
“Wantae try that again?” He grins, and Ghost rolls his eyes and chews faster, swallows.
“Let me do the dishes?” He repeats, but he’s already standing and pulling Soap’s plate towards him.
“I’ll put on my riding clothes.” Soap acquiesces, doesn’t know what it is about Ghost that makes him so damned amenable.
The floorboards of the house creak, Soap is used to hearing his own noise as he moves around, but he’s forced to admit as he climbs the stairs to his bedroom that he rather likes hearing the creaks and shuffles that come from the kitchen as he does, the reminder of someone else, someone welcome, here in his space.
He thinks maybe he’s been lonely.
He pulls out the handkerchief when he gets to his room, means to just throw it onto his chest of drawers, but he’s caught off guard by the fine silk of it when he pulls it out. The fabric catches a little over his rough fingertips, flows like water when he shakes it out. Expensive, then, and then boggles a little when he sees the monogram, also silk.
‘SR’ embroidered oh so carefully into the corner, burgundy writing onto pale lilac, the monogram is different from the one Soap saw on Ghost’s pocket watch last night, though that had been expensive too. Very expensive indeed.
There’s a hint of something as Soap turns it over, faint, but growing stronger when Soap brings it to his nose. It doesn’t smell of much, mostly sweat, which is to be expected from a beta, they don’t produce detectable pheromones after all, but there is something, a sweetness, something herbal and fresh that sticks in the back of Soap’s throat. It feels like a mask, like if he could just scrape the herbs away he’d be able to answer just some of the increasing number of questions he has about this enigmatic stranger.
“Ghost.” Soap mutters to himself “Who the hell are you?” There’s a clatter of a dish downstairs, and Soap knows he’s out of time for dithering. He changes quickly, grabs his gun and his hunting knife along with his favourite hat, and only stops to neatly fold the handkerchief and tuck it into his sock drawer before going to head out on their ride.
–
Ghost doesn’t ride like a cowboy, he’s well aware of that, even more aware since he’s spent a few days in the saddle next to Soap, who has a hell of a seat but always holds himself in that lax, louche way all the western men do. The ones who grew up in the saddle, who ride for practicality rather than posturing.
Soap has clearly adapted well to life in the American west and that includes the way he rides, all fluid movement and strength. There’s no way he learned to ride like that in Scotland, not with all the thick wool he’d have had to have been wearing. No matter how Ghost tries he simply can’t seem to mimic the style, that rigid posture and formality of his training worming into his form.
An American would probably just think he was stiff, maybe learned to ride late in life, maybe an old injury preventing him moving right, but anyone familiar with the English riding style would recognise it for the indicator of wealth and privilege it most definitely is. He’s starting to really hope that Soap never spent much time around the upper echelons.
“So, ewes who’ve been tupped are in this field here,” Soap is telling him, arm outstretched to encompass a large pasture of sheep lazily grazing on the grass. “Non-breeding girls are the ones I showed ye yesterday.”
“Must be nice, don’t you think?” Ghost answers, looking over at Tablet as she slowly stalks up behind a ewe who has strayed just a little too far from the rest of the flock, eyes fixed and unblinking on her quarry. Soap looks a little nonplussed, his eyebrows furrowing as he tries to follow Ghost’s gaze.
“Being a sheepdog?” his tone is bemused, a little smirk dancing at the corner of his mouth but his head is still tilted like he’s genuinely interested.
“Being that sure of your purpose.” Ghost replies. He’s not quite sure that that’s even what he means, but it’s as close as he can voice right now. He thinks maybe what he means is ‘being that certain of your nature’ or perhaps ‘that free to follow your nature’ but that conversation will be for another time, another place.
“Hmm.” Soap hums, but says nothing more, and Ghost is grateful for that. He watches as Soap swings his leg over and hops down from his horse, removing her bridle and leaving her to graze the area as she likes. “I packed us some lunch.” Soap segues smoothly as he flips open one of his saddle bags and starts to pull out cloth-wrapped parcels.
Ghost hops down himself, and loops the end of Last’s reins through the fence. Soap may be willing to give Thistle her freedom, but Ghost doesn’t trust Last as far as he could throw her, she’s a crafty minx and a troublemaker at that. She takes the indignity in good part and simply bows her head to graze alongside Thistle.
“Where’d ye find a beast like her?” Soap asks, spreading an honest to god gingham cloth on the ground, as though this whole scene wasn’t already so domestic that it makes Ghost’s back teeth itch.
“Stole her.” Ghost shrugs, doesn’t say why or where from, Soap’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline but he doesn’t pry, just like Ghost knew he wouldn’t.
“Yer a strange man, ye know that Ghost?” It startles a laugh out of him, real and belly-deep. He tugs down his mask as he does and enjoys the light touch of a cool breeze on his cheeks given the heat of the day. Soap is staring at him, eyes tracing his features with a heat in his gaze so intense it’s burning.
“I’ve been told.” Ghost nods, smile still plastered on like it plans on staying forever. Out here, in these pastures with the gentle bleating of the sheep and Soap looking at him like he’s the only thing in existence? Well, Ghost doesn’t reckon that sounds too bad.
“Long as you’re aware.” Soap grins back, dimples in his cheeks deepening and sending butterflies fluttering in Ghost’s stomach, wings beating up towards his throat. “Let’s eat.”
They eat. Soap had packed a mixture of fresh fruits and pastries. There’s hearty bread too which they tear off and eat in large chunks. When he pulls out a flask of Scotch Ghost almost groans, the heat of it sliding down his throat so welcome that he almost doesn’t complain about it not being bourbon. Almost.
They talk aimlessly, conversation meandering and so easy it’s like they’ve known each other for decades, not days. Ghost wishes it weren’t so easy, wishes it didn’t feel like coming home and tenderness. He wishes, honestly, that it was harder, he knows where he stands with harder.
He knows where he stands with worse than that.
The wind changes direction and suddenly Ghost is confronted with the overwhelming scent of Johnny, it clogs his mouth and blurs his vision, coats the inside of his sinuses like pollen in spring and just as overwhelming. He’s smelled Soap before, of course he has, but today he’s been in the sun for a long while, he’s sweating and happy and just a little aroused, scent so thick and lush Ghost feels he could be smothered by it.
Oh he wishes he could be smothered by it. Wishes he could turn his head and lean in, closer, closer until his face is buried into Soap’s collar bone, nose tucked against the source of all that perfection.
Soap pulls off his hat, begins to fan himself with it, unwittingly wafting his scent even more thickly in Ghost’s direction. Ghost’s eyes fix on a bead of sweat building on Soap’s shaved temple. Watches it as it slowly, oh so slowly, slides down his face and curls around the bolt of his jaw, continues its path until it soaks into the collar of his shirt right over his scent gland. Ghost digs his nails into his thighs so hard it hurts, even through denim.
Soap flops backwards, throws one arm over his eyes and tucks the other under his head. He’s flexing and they both know it, showing off his body to its best advantage, arms bulging and thick, shirt buttons straining over his heaving chest, sweat cooling in patches down his sternum and under his arms. He looks like a meal, like the worst sort of temptation, Ghost is oh so dangerously close to succumbing to his desire.
His eyes flutter shut as he leans in, inhales deliberately, loud enough he knows Soap must hear him, must vaguely wonder what’s happening since betas can’t pick up on alpha or omega scents. Maybe he just thinks Ghost’s a kinky fuck who likes the smell of a man regardless, might even be a little right.
His mouth drops open and his small omega fangs ache with the need to drop, to sink into the skin of the man lying oh so pliantly beside him.
He’s going to give into it, they both know it, Soap has this little smirky tilt to his lips that Ghost wants to wipe off with his own.
He’s going to give in.
The commotion in the pasture saves Soap’s neck.
Tablet is yipping, running in circles and stirring up the other ewes, all but one who is bleating miserably in the middle of the pasture, head thrown back and eyes rolling.
Omega instincts aren’t really as strong as all that, people love to pretend that there’s some sort of magic within omegas that makes them perfect parents, perfect baby machines, but Ghost’s parents are a testament to the fact that’s not the case. It isn’t all lies though, and even a hardened and useless omega like Ghost can’t bear to see an animal in labour and in pain and not instinctively want to help.
He’s up and vaulting the fence before Soap has even spotted the source of the commotion, he’s sprinting to her side and dropping to his knees not long after that. He yanks his overshirt over his head to avoid getting the worst of the mess on it and rests a steadying hand on her flank. There’s a lamb already out, breathing hard and bleating plaintively, Ghost picks it up and lays it out by her head, shows her that at least one of her babies is okay before he gets to work on helping the other.
One look tells him this one is stuck, coming breech and no way she’ll shift it on her own, he doesn’t even think about it. He reaches out, places one hand on her belly and massages lightly while the other reaches for the baby's feet, he uses his hold to adjust the angle and pull, shifting and massaging in time with her pushes.
It’s over quickly, the lamb sliding loose and falling limp onto the grass, slimy and pink and utterly tiny. It isn’t breathing and Ghost is all instincts when he starts to work on it, every part of him screaming that this is a baby, that he has to save it, that he can’t just leave it to die. It’s seconds that feel like hours before the tiny body thrashes, a gurgle sputtering from its mouth before it gets enough air in its lungs to really wail.
The ewe is quiet, focussed on cleaning off the first baby when Ghost lays the second out in front of her. Whom she ignores completely. Shit.
Ghost moves the first further away, and she rolls, tries to stand to get back to it and almost kicks the smaller lamb in the process. He tries all the tricks, all the things he knows to try, but she’s having none of it, the small lamb is on its own.
Well. Ghost went to too much effort and upset to just let it die. He lifts his eyes to find Soap for the first time since he ran over there. Soap is watching him thoughtfully, strong crease between his brows, pity in his gaze.
“Yer a real bleeding heart about the lambs, huh?”
“Johnny?” Ghost pleads but Soap is already nodding, already walking over from the fence he’s been leaning against to help, before Ghost even asks him to.
“I’ll hold her still, you get some milk into it.” And that’s exactly what they do, Soap stands the female up and locks her head between his thighs, Ghost grabs both lambs and helps them up onto their feet, grins a little ferally when they both latch quickly, tails wagging fast as they take their first greedy gulps of milk.
The minute they let her go the ewe turns and kicks at the runty lamb, before urging the larger one to follow her away and into the field, she only misses because Ghost scoops it up before she can make contact.
“Yer gonna want tae keep it, right?” Soap asks, his tone suggesting he’s already resigned to the fact. Ghost turns on the puppy dog eyes anyway, turns to face him with the lamb cradled gently against his massive body. Soap’s eyes are darting between the lamb and the stretch of Ghost’s undershirt over his pecs and biceps, so he makes it a point to flex in case that sweetens the pot. He also waves one of its little legs at him.
“Yeah.” Ghost nods and feels nothing but relief when Soap just rolls his eyes and nods back. “I’ve got a spare blanket ye can make a sling from for the journey back.” and true to his word he fishes a ratty woollen throw out of one of his saddlebags.
-
Ghost and the lamb is a problem, is becoming a problem, certainly will be one in the future. It’s the way he looks at it, Soap thinks, like this tiny creature who isn’t even important to the flock is the most precious thing on the planet. He coos at it when he thinks Soap can’t hear him, softens entirely when he remains his usual acerbic, hot and cold self otherwise.
The lamb spends most of its time in a small box of blankets by the stove to keep it warm, Ghost coming in with bottles of milk at regular intervals, turning those damned dangerous doe eyes on Soap if he’s busy and needs him to take over.
It’s stronger than Soap had expected, the lamb, considering how small it had been at birth Soap hadn’t much rated its chances of survival, but it’s tough and under Ghost’s tender care the little bugger is growing like a weed. It’s nearly doubled in size in just a few weeks. Tablet loves it, Soap would be lying if he said he hadn’t melted just a little the first time he’d come into the kitchen to find the two of them curled up together.
He ran to grab his sketchbook, made a rough sketch of the moment so he could remember it, planned to neaten it up later but then Ghost had walked in. He’d crowded up behind Soap’s back and loomed over his shoulder, eyes darting between the scene before them and the soft movements of soap’s pencil against paper. He’d ended up standing there for a lot longer than he thinks either of them had intended, soothed by the heat of Ghost at his back, the strange herbal smell of him in his nose.
“What’s a sheep’s favourite letter?” Ghost had asked.
“I don’t know?”
“Ewe.” Soap had snorted out a laugh against his better judgement, though it was worth it for the low, rumbling chuckle Ghost gave him in response.
Eventually his pencil had worn down too much to use and Ghost had reached around to pry it gently from his fingers, had pulled out a wicked looking knife and begun to sharpen it for him with deft fingers.
“Would you draw one for me?” Ghost had asked, voice low as though not wanting to break the moment, pitched quieter than the gentle crackling of logs in the stove.
Soap had shrugged noncommittal, then stayed up half the night just to do another, ended up giving Ghost the original, sneaking up to the hayloft to leave it on his bed and save them both the awkwardness of handing it over directly.
“You planning a trip to town any time soon?” Ghost asks over dinner, he has a mouthful of bread and stew at the time and it should be disgusting, though it somehow decidedly isn’t.
“Was gonnae head in next week, why?” Soap lifts an eyebrow, really looks at Ghost for the first time in a few days. He’s been trying to avoid that, looking, it’ll bring him nothing but trouble in the long term. Ghost has made his stance clear, this between them, the tension, the attraction, isn’t going anywhere and Soap is just going to have to deal with it.
He still doesn’t understand it, not really, he sees the way Ghost looks at him. Sees the hunger and the desire that burns in his eyes sometimes when he looks at Soap’s body, the fondness when Soap makes some stupid joke that has him rolling his eyes even when he’s already laughing.
Ghost wants him, Soap knows he does, but he’s also seen the hunted look he gets sometimes, especially at night. The ghosts that haunt him are always present, hovering in his periphery and making him flighty, have him jumping to attention everytime hoof beats approach the farmhouse. Soap wishes desperately that there was anything he could do to try and take away some of that fear, to soothe those echoes that he knows keep Ghost awake.
So he looks, which means he finally sees the tension strung around Ghost’s body like barbed wire. There’s a tightness around his eyes, a stiffness in his shoulders that tells Soap something is wrong, something has Ghost scared , and that’s enough to worry Soap all on its own.
“Need supplies.” Ghost shrugs “I’ll have to head in sooner than that.”
“What do you need?” Soap asks, knowing the response he’ll get.
“That’d be my business, now wouldn’t it?” His tone is dry as the dirt outside but Soap can see the little glint of playfulness Ghost so often gets when he’s being an arse.
“Prick.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“We can head in tomorrow?” Soap offers and pretends he doesn’t see the relief that weaves through Ghost instantly.
“Tomorrow.” Ghost knocks on the table once, then stands and gathers the dishes ready to wash them; Soap cooks, he cleans, like clockwork. He stops as he gets to the sink, turns to look back at Soap. “Thank you.” It’s the closest he’ll come to an acknowledgement, to addressing his vulnerability, Soap isn’t about to ruin the moment.
“Need tae talk to the farrier anyway.” Soap waves a dismissive hand, doesn’t think too much about the gratitude in Ghost’s eyes. “Want me to feed Mint Sauce?” Ghost rolls his eyes at the nickname Soap has given the lamb, but smiles and nods too.
Ghost is quiet the rest of that evening, twitchy in a way that contrasts the unnaturally still control with which he usually carries himself. When Soap leans in to pass him a bowl of preserved peaches with condensed milk he flinches away and almost spills them, rears back as though Soap’s proximity scares him.
He eats the peaches though, makes this little scrunched up happy face while he does that, has Soap’s stomach twisting with fondness, Ghost has a hell of a sweet tooth, lights up the minute Soap gets hold of anything with sugar in it. Ghost slurps the remaining juice from the bowl, wipes his face with the back of his hand after, succeeding in nothing but smearing a streak of white across his cheek.
Soap isn’t thinking when he reaches out, not about Ghost’s boundaries anyway, he’s too distracted by the satisfied grin painting Ghost’s mouth, ticking the corners up and twisting the scar across his mouth in just the right way to make Soap want to lick it. He isn’t thinking when he reaches out, which is why he does it. His thumb lands at the corner of Ghost’s mouth, traces a path across the spilled milk and wipes it away, Ghost’s breath catches but he doesn’t move away.
Soap doesn’t move his hand, freezes there with his hand cupping Ghost’s cheek with all the care he would a stick of dynamite, knows Ghost is just as liable to detonate. He strokes his thumb again, just for the thrill of it and hears the rattling breath Ghost inhales when he does. When he goes in for a third stroke he moves his thumb too far, accidentally scrapes a callus along the tender skin of Ghost’s lip.
Large hands wrap around his wrist, holding his hand where it is, not pulling or pushing, just cradling with gentle pressure as Ghost’s eyes flutter closed, his face leaning more heavily into Soap’s palm. Soap swallows with a dry click, terrified that any sound could crack through the delicate bubble they find themselves in. Ghost turns his head and presses a chaste kiss to Soap’s palm and though it’s hard to tell Soap could swear, just for a moment, that Ghost smells him.
“Ghost?” Soap asks and the dynamite goes off, Ghost’s eyes shutter and he pushes Soap’s hand away, firm but gentle. For all that his face is still bare, the mask is back on.
“Goodnight.” Ghost says as he stands and it’s as close to a sorry as Soap knows he’ll come, it’s more than Soap needed, he’d known he was pushing his luck, he’d known it wasn’t fair.
“Goodnight, Ghost.” Soap answers and hopes to God that Ghost hears his own apology within it.
“Simon.” He says “You can call me Simon, if you want.” and Soap knows he’s forgiven.
“Goodnight, Simon.” Ghost nods at him, solemn but sure, crouches to press a single kiss between Mint Sauce’s ears and bestows another upon Tablets when she worms her way over to him. Then he’s out the door, once again fleeing into the night.
-
The journey to town takes a couple of hours, both of which Soap spends staring at the way Ghost’s hips sway while he rides. The air is a little less stifling than it has been, the heat less overwhelming. Leaving just after dawn helps, the sun still low and the skies streaked with purples and pinks.
“Red sky at morning, shepherd’s warning.” Ghost intones from his mount, eyes fixed on the blush of red still clinging to the horizon.
“Och, that old chestnut?” Soap rolls his eyes “Didn’t take ye for a superstitious one, Ghostie.” When Ghost looks back at him there’s a little glimmer of humour in his eyes, if Soap could see under the mask he reckons he’d find a smile.
“Some things become classics for a reason, Johnny.” He turns to look back at the track ahead of him, giving Soap a perfect view of his shoulders flexing as he does. “You mark my words, it’ll be stair rods by tea time.”
“This isn’t England.” Soap says, firmly “The sky is clear, the ground is dry and the birds are singing, we’ll no’ get rain today.”
“If you say so.” Ghost shrugs, “I suppose for now,” he shifts just a little in his saddle, firms his grip on his reins until Last twitches. Soap narrows his eyes. “This is perfect racing weather. Hyah!” Ghost urges his mare into a gallop with a kick of his heels and a snap of her reins, pulling ahead of Soap easily. Soap hadn’t thought much of Last given her build, but she can move far faster than he expected.
Soap gives a whoop of laughter before kicking forward until the steady thrum of Thistle’s hoofbeats picks up and he gives chase. Ghost throws a look over his shoulder and Soap sees his mask is tugged down around his neck, his mouth pulled into an exhilarated grin at the sight of Soap in pursuit.
Last has gained herself some good ground and she’s far faster than Soap had given her credit for but Thistle was born for speed and he steadily gains on Ghost as they race on across the track. He’s not even thinking as he lets go with one hand, reaches out, just knows that every step, every metre of gained ground, gets him closer to Ghost. His quarry.
He pulls level and he stretches, feels only air for long moments before his hand closes over the back of Ghost’s neck and squeezes. It’s a damned dangerous move, the speed they’re going and the distance between them, he barely reaches, doesn’t know what the fuck possesses him to do it. The second his fingers clamp down Ghost pulls hard on the reins, Last stopping hard. If Thistle were any less of a mount she might not have felt what was going on, might have kept running and ultimately unseated them both. She stops just barely in line with Last, Soap’s hand still in place.
“Got ye.” His breath is panting out of him as he sucks in huge lungfuls of air, he’s sweated through his shirt and to his utter embarrassment his alpha scent is strong with the thrill of chasing down prey. Thank god Ghost can’t smell it.
When Soap’s eyes fix on him Ghost’s eyes are dark, his gaze burning hot as his own chest heaves. For just a moment as Ghost pants Soap swears he sees the glint of a too-sharp fang but then Thistle paws the ground and distracts him and he releases his hand. He’s only turned away for a moment but by the time he looks back Ghost’s mask is pulled back up, covering his mouth and the pretty overheated flush that had been on Ghost’s nose.
“Good work.” Ghost growls, voice thick with the gravel of exertion “I’m not easy to catch.”
Soap, and he knows he’s never going to fucking live this down, whines. Quietly, but absolutely audibly.
The rest of their ride is done mostly in silence, just the huffing of the horses and the clank and squeak of leather and buckles. Ghost is twitchy, keeps shifting uncomfortably in his saddle and rolling his shoulders. Usually he rides like a posh prick, classic English snobbery coating every one of his movements like a neon sign stating ‘rich fuck here’, now he’s finally riding like a cowboy.
It’s doing funny things to Soap’s insides, actually.
Not fifteen minutes later they’re reaching the wrought iron archway announcing their arrival to Soldier’s Rest, Soap has never been so glad for a distraction.
Ghost stops outside the general store, dismounts and ties Last off on the hitching post. There’s something awkward in his gait as he walks around her, a little too bandy legged for such a short ride, a little too hunched for a man as massive as he is.
“Sit on your balls, did ye?” Soap jokes and almost misses the wince Ghost does before he smiles. Probably would’ve, if he wasn’t always looking at Simon.
“Just a little stiff, not as young as I used to be.” Ghost shrugs, visibly shakes himself to his full height. He’s lying, Soap realises, this is what Ghost looks like when he lies to him. “Didn’t you have to go to the farrier?”
“Aye.” Soap nods, “Aye, I do.” and he does his level best not to be hurt by the blatant dismissal. Whatever Ghost’s reasons, whatever he’s about, he’s never given Soap any reason not to trust him. Soap walks away, internally fights the need to turn and look back at Ghost and by the time he loses, Ghost is already gone.
It would’ve helped, Soap reckons, if his story about the farrier hadn’t been largely spurious and simply an excuse to give Ghost what he wanted. It means he has to aimlessly mooch around the forge where the farrier is busily knocking together horseshoes and occasionally throw out just enough interest that he isn’t asked to leave.
He gives up after ten minutes, which is already more than he’d wanted to spend in that cramped space approximately twenty degrees hotter than hell itself. He hopes desperately that Ghost is done, Soap has sweated clean through his shirt again and more than anything wants to have a fucking drink but the bar isn’t open yet and he doesn’t like to go into the saloon alone, the working girls in there have taken a shine to him and get far too pushy.
Then again, if Soap has to see Ghost take up an offer from one of them he might just fling himself directly into the farrier’s forge so perhaps he’s gone off the idea of a drink entirely.
There’s no sign of Ghost by the horses, which means he must still be in the store.
Price had moved to town a few years back and Soap had taken to him immediately, something about the kind but powerful way he carried himself. It seemed to be mutual if the way Price had immediately taken Soap under his wing, throwing him lowball offers on essentials and always packing a little something extra into the bag. Soap thinks of him as a sort of father figure, which is confusing since he also thinks of Gaz as a brother, and Gaz’s thoughts toward Price are certainly nowhere near as toward.
The two of them run the general store together, totally platonically (which Soap believes about as much as he believes pigs fly), and Gaz helps out at Price’s bar in the evenings.
The sign on the door is flipped to ‘be back’, which doesn’t at all help the feeling of growing unease in the pit of Soap’s stomach. He opens the door, desperately grateful that Price had removed the bell over it for ‘making a damned racket’ since it means none of them notice him walk in.
He stops in the doorway, frozen at the image in front of him; Gaz sat in the corner with his feet thrown up on the table, flicking idly through a book, Price standing with his arms folded defensively but a woeful look in his eye. Ghost is in the middle, his back to Gaz and every inch of his height drawn up to loom over Price.
“-ut they were supposed to be here!” Ghost is shouting but he doesn’t sound angry, he sounds desperate.
“I told you, Simon, the coach was robbed, there’s nothing I can do until next month.” Ghost hisses and his hands come up to rake through his hair, knocking his hat off in the process. Then he’s buckling, slumping forward to rest both palms flat on the counter as what appear to be sobs wrack through his body.
“John, I can’t do this.” Ghost murmurs and Price presses his own hand over his eyes, sighs long and low.
“What a fucking mess.” Another sigh “But Simon, it seems like it would be too late even if the herbs had arrived.”
“I know, fuck , I know. It’s him.”
“And you’re sure you can’t ask-”
“I’m sure.” Ghost cuts off whatever Price had been about to say.
Soap has listened too long, he knows it and when he darts his eyes over to Gaz he sees that he’s already looking back at him, something like a challenge in his gaze, though he’d never snitch on him.
Soap quietly reopens, then slams the door.
“Fuckin’ hell that furnace cannot need to be that hot.” He fans at himself with his hat “I think I’m gonnae die of pure heat .” Gaz makes a strangled sound at that, to which Price shoots him a nasty look and Ghost is already pulling his mask back up, scrambling for his hat and replacing it.
“Done already?” Ghost sounds shorter with him than he’s ever been.
“Aye.”
“Let’s go.” and Ghost is walking out the door without a glance back, giving Soap the widest berth he possibly can as he goes.
“What’s his problem?” Soap asks Price, hooking a thumb over his shoulder, Price just sighs again.
“That’s his business, son, but go easy on him, yeah?” Price is dead serious, maybe more than Soap has ever seen him.
“I’d never hurt him.” Soap says, and damn near withers under Price’s assessing look, until he turns away and sighs yet again.
“As bad as each other, fuck’s sake.” and then he’s stomping into the back room and Gaz is standing to follow him.
“Don’t be a stranger mate, alright?” Gaz offers and then Soap is left alone in the store.
When he steps outside Ghost has already started the ride home and he has to canter Thistle to catch up to him. Ghost is still twitchy, Soap is still too warm, though he’s fairly convinced that’s the stifling tension between them more than the temperature.
An hour into the ride the heavens open, Ghost doesn’t even say ‘I told you so’.
At the ranch Ghost removes Last’s tack more perfunctorily than Soap has ever seen him. If he’d seemed uncomfortable before that’s nothing on now, shifting and sweating through his shirt, the fabric over his back drenched and clinging to his muscle like a second skin with a mixture of sweat and rain. The third time he fumbles on the buckle for her bridle Soap steps in, covers Ghost’s hands with his own and tries to help.
He seems to make things worse, Ghost throws himself to the other side of the stable, knocks over a feed bag in his haste, eyes wide and chest heaving. They stay frozen in this tableaux; Ghost poised ready for flight like a startled animal, feed strewn across the floor and a stray chicken already pecking lazily at it, Soap holding both horses’ reins and restraining himself from reaching out.
“Christ and his angels, Ghost, are ye alright?”
“Coming down with something.” Ghost grunts, his voice thin and thready, a drop of sweat trickles lazily from his temple to his chin. “Got to go.”
And he does.
Marches out of the stable and toward the barn before Soap can say anything else, before he can ask him to stay, to talk to him, to let Soap tend to him if he’s ill. And he must be ill, because he hadn’t even finished with Last, her saddle is on the floor and he’d never managed to remove the bridle.
Soap takes care of it, feels like it’s the least he can do, considering, feels like it’s the only way he can make himself useful. He gets the rest of Last’s tack off, returns her things to the hooks that Ghost has claimed as his own in the time he’s been here. He turns her out into the yard, and turns his attention to the saddle.
He hoists it up onto the rack, and stops dead.
He reacts before he’s even aware of what he’s doing, nose coming down to rest just inches off the leather seat, and confirms to his mind what so far only instinct had told him.
There’s slick on the saddle.
Omega slick.
Heat slick.
He presses closer, nose pushed against leather as he breathes in, smells Ghost, and sweat and slick all blending together into a hypnotic cocktail.
Ghost is a fucking omega.
Ghost is a fucking omega, and he’s not fucking sick. He’s in heat .
Soap whines, no room for shock when his brain is already syrupy and thick, like his thoughts are having to push through honey. His tongue reaches out to slide along the saddle before he can stop it, doesn’t want to since deep down he knows if he tries to stop now he’ll do something far worse, like go to find Ghost, who clearly doesn’t want him.
Soap has never been with an omega before, they’re few and far between out here, most people assume the crossing is too much for their delicate sensibilities, and they aren’t exactly common to begin with.
So, Soap has never been with an omega before, has certainly never been near one in heat, and maybe that is why the second his tongue touches the slick his eyes roll back in his head and he loses all reason.
His hands work at his belt, pulling and clawing at the buckles of his belt and chaps, pushing and yanking at his jeans until he can finally pull himself free. He takes another desperate lap of the saddle, savours it, rolls the taste around his mouth until it coats every inch of it, sticks to his teeth and his tongue.
His fangs grow longer, sharper, one of them nicks his tongue and the taste of his own blood mixed with Ghost’s slick is enough to have him whining and keening. He rears back and mounts the saddle, hips angled awkwardly down, buckles of his chaps clanking against the wooden frame, tangling with the stirrups.
He grinds and almost convinces himself that it's the slick, rather than his own precome, that makes the glide so smooth, so easy. He ruts forward again, and again, cock smearing mess across the smooth surface, friction nowhere close to enough, but the smell of Ghost still smeared on his cheek is more than enough to make up for that.
He’s not going to last long, even with the minimal stimulation, he’s so pent up and all the slowly bubbling feelings he’s been having about Ghost for the last few weeks are starting to rise to the surface, are prickling under his skin, writhing and setting his nerves alight. He wants Ghost, and he trusts him, and for all that it hurts that Ghost doesn’t want him, if this is all he ever gets, then dear God will it be enough.
It has to be enough.
He rides the saddle harder, swipes a hand through the mess and sucks it off his own fingers, presses them into the back of his throat and keens around the taste of him and, faint but oh so real, Ghost.
His omega, if only for this moment.
His mind drifts to Ghost, probably naked, right now, on Soap’s property, on Soap’s sheets, getting himself off by any means necessary, crying out for an alpha’s knot, empty and sobbing.
Soap comes in long stripes against the leather, hard enough there’s an ache deep in his balls, hard enough he’s gasping for breath when he comes down, a mess of come streaked across the seat. If he were a better man he’d clean it off, do his best to erase any evidence of what he’s done, of how he’s defiled Ghost’s property.
He is simply the man he is, however, and so he doesn’t. Instead he rubs it in, massages his come into the leather and thinks about how the next time Ghost rides it will be pressed against his cunt.
When he leaves he goes straight to the house and locks himself in his bedroom, trying desperately to quiet the part of his mind that is begging him to join Ghost in the barn. The smell of Ghost still clings faintly to his skin and Soap knows this is going to be a long night.