Booker Wilson || PALdemic Alpha

[They/Them]

The walk from the Council building takes fifteen minutes, and Booker doesn't say a single word the entire time. His jaw's clenched tight enough his teeth ache, shoulders locked up in a way that makes the old military injury in his left one start screaming. The Omega follows a few steps behind—his "compatibility match" according to whatever bullshit evaluation the Council ran—and he doesn't need to look back to know they're there. Can feel it in the way his whole body tenses, the way the red tracer veins beneath his skin pulse brighter with every step closer to his apartment.

Feed properly within forty-eight hours or face exile. The Council head's words won't stop looping through his skull like a death sentence.

His apartment looks exactly how he left it this morning: like a disaster zone. The double bed's unmade, sheets tangled and half dragging on the floor. Kitchen table's buried under unwashed plates crusted with days-old food, empty whiskey bottles, maps of contested territories, disassembled weapons he hasn't gotten around to cleaning. The living area's even worse—workout equipment shoved against one wall, treadmill covered in discarded shirts, weights scattered across the floor. Empty blood vials from the dispensary litter the counter—the expensive kind that barely fucking work anymore.

He stops in the doorway with one hand braced against the frame, and the red rings around his pupils burn in the low light. He hasn't slept properly in—what, three days? He lost count somewhere around Tuesday. His flannel hangs loose on a frame that's dropped way too much weight, and that tremor in his left hand has spread to his right.

"Ain't much," he mutters without looking at them. Can't look at them. If he does, he'll see the judgment in their eyes, the pity, and something in him is gonna snap. "Wasn't expectin' company."

It's a shit excuse and they both know it. He's been living like this for three years.

Booker forces himself to step inside, leaving the door open behind him, and moves to the kitchen table to shove some of the debris aside with more force than necessary.

"Council give you the full brief?" The words come out rougher than he intended, borderline hostile, and he still won't look at them directly—keeps his gaze fixed on the mess in front of him like it's suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. "Got forty-eight hours to handle the feedin' situation. Properly."

His jaw works around that word. Properly tastes like ash on his tongue. They both know what it means—the Council made it crystal fucking clear. Intimate feeding, not clinical. Compatible Omegas only work when there's actual contact, actual connection. His hands curl into fists against the table edge hard enough his scarred knuckles go white.

"After that, they're lockin' me up or kickin' me out if I don't comply." A muscle jumps in his jaw. "So. That's where we're at."

The apartment suddenly feels too small, walls closing in. Their scent fills every corner of his space—sweet and warm—and it makes his Alpha hindbrain howl. Makes him want to close the distance between them and bury his knot inside them and his face in their neck and just—

Fuck...

His canines ache as he clenches his jaw to stop the needy, desperate sound from breaking free.

"I dunno how to do this," he admits, voice gone rough and low. "I don't fuckin' want to need this."

[She/Her]

The walk from the Council building takes fifteen minutes, and Booker doesn't say a single word the entire time. His jaw's clenched tight enough his teeth ache, shoulders locked up in a way that makes the old military injury in his left one start screaming. The Omega follows a few steps behind—his "compatibility match" according to whatever bullshit evaluation the Council ran—and he doesn't need to look back to know she's there. Can feel it in the way his whole body tenses, the way the red tracer veins beneath his skin pulse brighter with every step closer to his apartment.

Feed properly within forty-eight hours or face exile. The Council head's words won't stop looping through his skull like a death sentence.

His apartment looks exactly how he left it this morning: like a disaster zone. The double bed's unmade, sheets tangled and half dragging on the floor. Kitchen table's buried under unwashed plates crusted with days-old food, empty whiskey bottles, maps of contested territories, disassembled weapons he hasn't gotten around to cleaning. The living area's even worse—workout equipment shoved against one wall, treadmill covered in discarded shirts, weights scattered across the floor. Empty blood vials from the dispensary litter the counter—the expensive kind that barely fucking work anymore.

He stops in the doorway with one hand braced against the frame, and the red rings around his pupils burn in the low light. He hasn't slept properly in—what, three days? He lost count somewhere around Tuesday. His flannel hangs loose on a frame that's dropped way too much weight, and that tremor in his left hand has spread to his right.

"Ain't much," he mutters without looking at her. Can't look at her. If he does, he'll see the judgment in her eyes, the pity, and something in him is gonna snap. "Wasn't expectin' company."

It's a shit excuse and they both know it. He's been living like this for three years.

Booker forces himself to step inside, leaving the door open behind him, and moves to the kitchen table to shove some of the debris aside with more force than necessary.

"Council give you the full brief?" The words come out rougher than he intended, borderline hostile, and he still won't look at her directly—keeps his gaze fixed on the mess in front of him like it's suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. "Got forty-eight hours to handle the feedin' situation. Properly."

His jaw works around that word. Properly tastes like ash on his tongue. They both know what it means—the Council made it crystal fucking clear. Intimate feeding, not clinical. Compatible Omegas only work when there's actual contact, actual connection. His hands curl into fists against the table edge hard enough his scarred knuckles go white.

"After that, they're lockin' me up or kickin' me out if I don't comply." A muscle jumps in his jaw. "So. That's where we're at."

The apartment suddenly feels too small, walls closing in. Her scent fills every corner of his space—sweet and warm—and it makes his Alpha hindbrain howl. Makes him want to close the distance between them and bury his knot inside her and his face in her neck and just—

Fuck...

His canines ache as he clenches his jaw to stop the needy, desperate sound from breaking free.

"I dunno how to do this," he admits, voice gone rough and low. "I don't fuckin' want to need this."

[He/Him]

The walk from the Council building takes fifteen minutes, and Booker doesn't say a single word the entire time. His jaw's clenched tight enough his teeth ache, shoulders locked up in a way that makes the old military injury in his left one start screaming. The Omega follows a few steps behind—his "compatibility match" according to whatever bullshit evaluation the Council ran—and he doesn't need to look back to know he's there. Can feel it in the way his whole body tenses, the way the red tracer veins beneath his skin pulse brighter with every step closer to his apartment.

Feed properly within forty-eight hours or face exile. The Council head's words won't stop looping through his skull like a death sentence.

His apartment looks exactly how he left it this morning: like a disaster zone. The double bed's unmade, sheets tangled and half dragging on the floor. Kitchen table's buried under unwashed plates crusted with days-old food, empty whiskey bottles, maps of contested territories, disassembled weapons he hasn't gotten around to cleaning. The living area's even worse—workout equipment shoved against one wall, treadmill covered in discarded shirts, weights scattered across the floor. Empty blood vials from the dispensary litter the counter—the expensive kind that barely fucking work anymore.

He stops in the doorway with one hand braced against the frame, and the red rings around his pupils burn in the low light. He hasn't slept properly in—what, three days? He lost count somewhere around Tuesday. His flannel hangs loose on a frame that's dropped way too much weight, and that tremor in his left hand has spread to his right.

"Ain't much," he mutters without looking at him. Can't look at him. If he does, he'll see the judgment in his eyes, the pity, and something in him is gonna snap. "Wasn't expectin' company."

It's a shit excuse and they both know it. He's been living like this for three years.

Booker forces himself to step inside, leaving the door open behind him, and moves to the kitchen table to shove some of the debris aside with more force than necessary.

"Council give you the full brief?" The words come out rougher than he intended, borderline hostile, and he still won't look at him directly—keeps his gaze fixed on the mess in front of him like it's suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. "Got forty-eight hours to handle the feedin' situation. Properly."

His jaw works around that word. Properly tastes like ash on his tongue. They both know what it means—the Council made it crystal fucking clear. Intimate feeding, not clinical. Compatible Omegas only work when there's actual contact, actual connection. His hands curl into fists against the table edge hard enough his scarred knuckles go white.

"After that, they're lockin' me up or kickin' me out if I don't comply." A muscle jumps in his jaw. "So. That's where we're at."

The apartment suddenly feels too small, walls closing in. His scent fills every corner of his space—sweet and warm—and it makes his Alpha hindbrain howl. Makes him want to close the distance between them and bury his knot inside him and his face in his neck and just—

Fuck...

His canines ache as he clenches his jaw to stop the needy, desperate sound from breaking free.

"I dunno how to do this," he admits, voice gone rough and low. "I don't fuckin' want to need this."