Chapter Text

Let Down

Prologue

Shell smashed, juices flowing
Wings twitch, legs are going
Don't get sentimental
It always ends up drivel

One day I am gonna grow wings
A chemical reaction
Hysterical and useless
Hysterical and

Let down and hanging around
Crushed like a bug in the ground
Let down and hanging around

Let Down - Mack Loren (originally Radiohead)

*

1985

Hope, Steve thinks, does not die easy.

It does not go gentle into that good night, does not wither fast and leave a soothing balm in the wake of its death.

At least not for him. That would be too merciful.

Steve Harrington now knows he isn’t worthy of mercy.

Hope rages within him instead, alive and writhing even as he lays broken on his dorm-room floor. His cell-room floor. His body still aches from active labor less than 24 hours ago, pain flaring in the absence of medicine they promised but never administered.

His throat is still raw from screaming, sobbing, pleading, to anyone that would listen.

To have his pup returned to him.

A kind nurse, one of the few decent Omega House staff, had let him hold his tiny pup. Just once, just for a few precious minutes. It was long enough for Steve to see a healthy little boy, a smattering of freckles across peach-soft skin, the scrunched nose of a newborn suddenly inconvenienced by the outside world.

Long enough to feel the fragile weight against his chest and the desperate pull of instinct that surged through him like wild-fire.

Long enough for the resolve and defiance that had been dying inside him for months to rise to the surface, just for that moment.

And long enough for it to combust the minute the pup was wrenched from his arms.

He’d watched in shock, frozen, as that same nurse carried his son away. By the time he staggered from the bed, stumbling through the searing ache in his body, the guards were already there. Already blocking the door.

They hadn’t let him see where his pup went.

They hadn’t let him even whisper his name. Not once.

Instead, they dragged Steve back to the Breeding Ward, tossed him into his old room like he was garbage. Locked the door behind them.

Now, hours later, he's still there, curled on the cold concrete where he landed. His arms ache to hold his pup. His chest aches even deeper, hollow and gnawing, the kind of pain that settles solid in the bones.

Broken.

Empty.

But not hopeless. Not yet.

That’s the cruelty of it. Somehow, after over a year of captivity, after months of punishments and isolation, after every shred of freedom has been stripped away, he still clung to hope. He still told himself he would get out. That someone would come for him.

He still let himself believe he could fight his way free, that there would be a future where he’d raise his pup and teach him to walk, to laugh, to live outside these walls.

But tonight, staring at the locked door through swollen eyes, Steve finally understands the truth.

The House doesn’t return pups. His son will be renamed, remade under someone else’s legacy. Steve will never see his first smile. Never hear his first word. Never have the chance to protect him from this harsh world.

And hope, that knife he’s carried for too long, sharp and unrelenting, only twists deeper every time he lets himself hold onto it.

So he lies still. Silent. Breath shallow, body weak, eyes unfocused on the blank wall across the room. He doesn’t scream again. Doesn’t fight. Doesn’t let the fire rise this time.

Hope does not die easy.

Tonight, Steve buries it.

Buries it deep, buries it frantic, frantic, frantic.

And with it goes a thread of golden warmth wound tight in his chest, the Bond he can't afford to feel anymore. It burns as he shoves it deep, deep, until it’s smothered.

Until the silence inside him feels safer than the ache.

When the morning comes, there will be nothing left of the boy who fought.

Only a shell, lying atop hope’s grave.

And across the House, an alpha howls his throat raw.

Chapter One

Another day passes as the night closes in
The red light goes on to say it's time to begin

I see the man around the corner waiting, can he see me?
I close my eyes and wait to hear the sound of someone screaming here

No more tears
No more tears
No more tears
No more tears

No More Tears - Ozzy Osbourne

*

1987

Eddie Munson isn’t even surprised the day his luck finally runs out.

He’s managed three years of it anyways. Longer, if he’s feeling generous and counts, you know, his whole life passing as a beta. So yeah, three years of dodging cops, nosy landlords, and the scent-hounds from the House? Not bad for a freak like him.

But of course, his grand downfall has to happen in the middle of a Tuesday shift at the goddamn factory.

The first whiff of it stops him cold; cloves and smoke, sharp and earthy. His scent. His scent, which he hasn’t caught in years thanks to (super illegal) suppressants and blockers. A discreet sniff of his wrist confirms that the chemical veil he's been hiding behind for years is thinning, breaking down.

“Well…shit," he mutters, shoving greasy curls out of his face. "Shit."

Not great. But not shocking. The guy he’d bought his last batch from had been shady as fuck, all twitchy hands and oil-slick smiles. But Eddie had been low on cash and desperate enough to hope the stuff would work. And now here he is, in a factory crawling with alphas, halfway through an overtime shift, with his body starting to scream Ripe omega here, come and get 'im loud and clear.

His gaze darts around the shop floor. Four alphas are working in sight, a couple betas hovering by the break room. Too many eyes. Too many noses. His pulse thrums hard against his skin as he starts backing away from his station, praying by some ever-loving miracle nobody’s noticed yet.

But Eddie’s blessed with Munson luck.

So they've noticed.

The biggest of the alphas, a burly specimen with a buzz-cut, lifts his head and sniffs. His eyes bleed Alpha-red in an instant, pupils blowing wide.

“Oh fuck me,” Eddie breathes, already turning.

“Omega.” The growl is low, unmistakable, rolling across the shop floor in repeated whispers.

Panic shoots through him then. Eddie speed-walks down the line of machines, weaving past tool carts, eyes locked on the exit door like it’s the pearly gates themselves. He’s so close, two dozen steps, maybe less, when a meaty hand clamps down around his arm.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Eddie snarls, terror bleeding into rage as he jerks back, gums stinging in a way that let's him know he's flashing fangs. His body is all adrenaline now, fight roaring up where flight has been stolen from him.

The alpha laughs, low and hungry. “You’re done running, Omega.”

“Oh yeah? Fuckin' watch me," Eddie growls, low enough, alpha enough, that the asshole's hold on him falters. It's enough give for Eddie to rip his arm free, teeth bared like a cornered dog as he pivots towards the door. “Hands off, Terminator, I’m not in the mood to be your chew toy.”

The alpha lunges again but Eddie bolts sideways, shoving himself through a gap in the machines. Shouts rise up all around him; get him, grab him, don’t let him out. His boots pound against the concrete, pulse rabbiting, vision fixed only on the glowing red 'Exit' sign ahead.

But more bodies block his path. Two betas, nervous but obedient, arms outstretched. Behind them, another alpha is sniffing the air, eyes darkening, grin feral.

Eddie’s chest heaves, panic simmering just under the surface. “Alright, guys, let’s think about this,” he pants, backing up as they advance. “I’m a terrible catch. Loud. Bony. Way too much hair. You want a prize? Go hunt a nice, soft omega somewhere else.”

No one laughs.

He spits on the floor, lips pulling into a familiar smirk. “No? Okay. Guess we’re doin' this the hard way then."

He throws himself forward, all wiry muscle and adrenaline, and for a glorious second he thinks he might actually break through. His nails rake across skin, catching one of the betas hard enough to make him yelp. He’s halfway to the door when the sharp hiss of a dart-gun cuts through the chaos.

Something stings his neck.

“Shit,” he hisses. His hands claw at the tiny dart embedded in his skin, ripping it free, but the tranquilizer is already spreading through his veins, heavy and working fast. His knees buckle.

He crashes to the concrete, vision swimming. Above him, the alphas close in. The factory security guards stride over, tranquilizer guns still raised.

“Got 'im,” one mutters.

“Call the cops,” another says, pointing to the floor foreman.

Eddie’s head hits the floor with a crack. His body won’t move, his tongue feels thick. But his mind is screaming.

Not the House, anywhere but the House, no, no, no…

The world tilts one final time, then goes dark.

*

When he comes to again, it's to the sting of antiseptic in his nostrils. The bite of metal encircles his wrists, a light bright enough to penetrate his eyelids directly above him.

His lids flutter, but are still too weighted with sedation to actually open.

Then come the voices. Normal volume, uncaring that he's lying (formerly) out cold right next to them.

"…concerned that he's still unconscious?" The question holds only curiosity where there should be at least a hint of concern.

"Hardly. They dosed him with enough tranquilizer to take down a rutting alpha." This voice is dry, bored. Like they were discussing her grocery list instead of a human being. "He may be big for an omega, but his body's hardly prepared to process that much sedation."

Oh, good. That's why he feels like his veins are filled with cement then.

He tries to say as much, now seems like the ideal time for plucky sarcasm, but all he manages to do is twitch his lips a little. Can't even get his mouth to open. Or his tongue to move.

But the intent was there, so. Gold star for Munson.

The voices continue anyways, and at least he's awake enough to listen in.

"And we're sure the tranquilizer didn't scew his numbers? For the blood draw."

Eddie's blood runs cold. There's only one place sadistic enough to draw his blood while he was sedated against his will.

One place where he no longer has rights. Where he's a commodity, little more than breeding stock.

An omega. Not a person, not anymore.

"They bring them in tranqued quite frequently. Perhaps not to the level this one was, but we can still get an accurate reading," comes the woman again, matter-of-fact. "This one shows high numbers for fertility, even before suppressant detox. Pending the remaining tests, he'll go right to the Breeding Ward."

Fertility. Suppressant detox. Breeding Ward.

There goes any hope that he somehow isn't in an Omega House.

As that hope dies and fear, roiling and cold, replaces it, Eddie rallies enough strength to crack his eyes open. Make his lips part, his tongue move, to scream, to yell, to do anything. Through his panic, his mind works faster than any sort of logic can catch.

Naturally, what comes out is fear-fueled sarcastic deflection.

"Man, is chivalry dead or what?" He croaks, heavy tongue leaving a slurred edge to every word. "Could at least buy a guy dinner first before giving him a full workup."

His gaze slides slowly to the right, where he can now see two figures regarding him with a mixture of disdain and boredom. Both betas, both holding clipboards and adorned in white lab coats.

"Loving the mad-scientist look, really," he continues, a little less of a slur to his voice, while he tests the hold on his wrists. They don't budge even a fraction from the table.

One of the figures shifts her attention to her clipboard, scrawling something no doubt about his stellar attitude. Without looking up she directs to her colleague, "Subject is awake, begin tactile exam."

"Subject has a name," Eddie snaps, panic starting to simmer now. "Eddie Munson, you got that down on your little clipboard, right?"

He has to hand it to them, they do a spot-on impression of pretending he doesn't exist despite him being their current subject. Doctor 2 is rolling a machine over to the exam table, pulling wired nodes that end in round adhesive patches from it. Eddie realizes he's shirtless when the nodes are attached to his bare skin.

Realizes he's completely bare when he looks down and sees nothing but his own skin.

"Prepped for response testing," Doctor 2 rattles off. She hasn't even looked up at his face once. At least she misses the way his cheeks are now flushed pink.

Panic rolling into a boil now, Eddie tugs at the restraints again. The machine is beeping steadily beside him, chirps coming quicker in time with his heaving chest.

"Response to what? Hey, response to what," Eddie demands, voice cracking into a low growl.

The doctor hesitates for a split second, her eyes finally lifting to meet his. A small frown is the only indication that she sees the desperation written across his features.

"Feral response is elevated, note chromatic modulation of the iris and fang extrusion," she rattles off to her counterpart. His eyes must be shining Omega-gold then, fangs extended. Fucking great.

Then she's reaching for one of his wrists, fingers cold as they probe below the restraint. Eddie flinches when she finds what she's looking for; her fingers dig into the soft scent gland there, pressing hard despite the sensitive area.

After a few seconds, the unmistakable scent of omega fills the space between them.

"Manual stimulation produces Omega's scent successfully. Scent is faint, likely due to prolonged use of blockers," she rattles off, nose twitching when the soft scent turns bitter. "Note negative scent shading. Possibly fear induced."

"Possibly," he tries for a snarl. It falls flat when his voice cracks. "Jesus Christ, do you even hear yourself?"

If she does, she doesn't give two shits. She's already shifting closer to him, those frigid fingers lifting and angling for his neck.

Her sight is locked on his throat. His sensitive bonding gland. The one spot on an omega that should only be touched by someone trusted, someone they're loved by in some capacity.

Not this fucking monster.

Her fingers barely brush against the sensitive gland before Eddie flies into action. The machine beside them is beeping shrilly now, following the rabbiting of his heart, as he jerks violently against his restraints.

They still won't give.

The snarl that rips from his throat this time is guttural, alpha, a violent warning.

The doctor doesn't heed it, too busy actually looking at him with panic-tinged curiosity. All rational thought bleeds out of him, replaced only with pure, unbridled instinct. Instinct that has him growling, feral and dark.

His last warning.

Eddie sinks his fangs in deep. Grins around the soft flesh of her arm, the shrill sound of her screams. In that moment he knows only rage and the metallic tang of blood. All else fades to the distant corner of his mind as instinct takes over.

When he blinks back to himself, there's a guard's hand squeezing the hinge of his jaw to leverage it open. The doctor's already halfway out the door, cradling her arm to her chest. Blood drops down her fingers.

He thinks he should care.

He's finding it hard to.

"Noting extreme aggression under duress." comes the other doctor's voice, still flat. To his dismay, she doesn't look frightened or even shocked. If anything, she just looks mildly inconvenienced that she has to handle him now. "Continuing exam." She scribbles her final note before nodding at a second guard. "Muzzle him."

"Fucking what," Eddie growls once his jaw is released, arching up off the table.

A guard is coming at him now with what's unmistakably a human-sized muzzle. Another grips his throat to shove his head back, holds it in place with bruising force. The doctor regards it all with that bored gaze.

As they're clasping the muzzle over his jaw, a fucking muzzle, the doctor drones on.

"Omega showing hostile behavior. May require conditioning before breeding attempts," she says with a sigh.

Eddie's answering snarl is muffled against the unforgiving leather covering his mouth. His fangs are still fully extended, large and long enough to put an alpha's to shame, and pressing hard enough into his bottom lip that he can taste his own blood.

He can't speak, can't move, can't do anything to stop what's happening to him.

What he can do is ignore the rapid beeping of the monitor beside him and glare up at the doctor. She's moving in again now that he's restrained, her fingers somehow even colder than the other one's as they probe around his bonding gland.

Ignoring another muffled growl and the plume of acrid distressed omega scent her prodding elicits, she drones on.

"Copulatory gland remains intact. Omega is not pair-bonded. Gland emits normal levels of pheromones despite suppressant usage."

It goes on like that for what seems like hours, Eddie unable to do anything besides descend into deeper depths of panic and fury. She takes a needle to his bonding gland, then his scent glands, declaring his 'pheromone production viable'.

Listens to his heart, his lungs. Catalogues every scar and 'dermal imperfection'. Comments on his beta-like height despite 'clear malnutrition'.

His scent reaches new levels of distress, panic, when the doctor orders the two guards to lift and part his legs, strapping them by the ankle into stirrups until he's spread wide open.

Helpless. Vulnerable.

Her cold fingers finish prodding his soft stomach and move lower. He tries to thrash against his bonds as she lifts his cock, makes insane notes about the fucking size. Moves lower to probe at the soft lips he never touches, dips inside him in such a clinical way, such an alien way.

"Slick gland intact, will need to monitor production at time of first breeding."

Tears that he's been fighting this whole time finally spring to his eyes. He refuses, refuses, to let them fall.

Oblivious to, or uncaring of, his unraveling, the doctor steps away finally, pulling off her latex gloves as she does. "Omega will need to be monitored for suppressant detox, will perform additional exam in 7 days. Pending results, Omega is an excellent candidate for breeding program," she says as if she hasn't just sealed his fate. Then, turning to the guards, "He's ready to be collared and processed. I suggest isolation for the night, until his feral response abates."

She doesn't even look at him again before leaving the room.

*

The guards leave him strapped to the table while they step out of the room. Legs spread, vulnerable, the only sound his ragged breathing and the rapid beeping of the monitor.

It feels like hours. Certainly long enough for him to descend deeper into the pits of despair.

Three new guards return, all betas. It takes all of them to unhook him from the monitor, remove all restraints but his muzzle. Their grips are bruising as they manhandle his wrists into new cuffs, his arms now bound in front of him.

A fucking collar is forced around his neck, unyielding leather biting into his bonding gland. Two hard nodes press into the hollow of his throat.

"Fuckin' move," one guard huffs as they pull him from the table and start dragging him out the door.

The hallway they haul him down is lit by harsh fluorescent bulbs, walls white and linoleum cool beneath his feet. His feet are still bare.

He's still bare.

Bare and muzzled and collared.

Captive.

Eddie's panic rises, heart feels like it's in his throat and vision tunneling to the endless bright hallway. Manic energy surges through his limbs as that word clangs through him on repeat; captive, captive, captive.

It rises to a defeaning crescendo until his entire body is thrumming, vibrating, with the need to get

away

away

away.

A snarl rips from his throat as he throws his weight against the guard to his right, jamming his elbow into the beta's side with enough force that the man's grip on him loosens. Then he does the same to his left, harnessing their surprise.

And maybe he still has a little luck left, because it works.

He's high-tailing it down the hallway now, naked and muzzled and collared but not captive. The guards are shouting behind him, boots heavy against the lineoleum in fast pursuit. But he's faster, long legs good for something besides passing as a beta.

Eddie Munson is good at running away.

His chest heaves as he rounds a corner, nose twitching when the burning scent of antiseptic gives way to what is unmistakably distressed omegas. It makes something stir in his chest, instincts rising as his inner omega unfurls in answer to a call he's determined to ignore.

Still, it cuts through the chaos in his brain. Through the pounding of his bare feet and the blare of the alarms now sounding, and roots itself somewhere deep in his gut.

For half a second, his instincts falter. His omega, wild and untamed from years of restraint and repression, shifts course. No longer focused on escape, but protection. It’s old instinct, bone-deep. The same instinct that once upon a time made him throw himself between weaker omegas and a furious alpha.

The same instinct that Uncle Wayne begged him to hide, shove down, lest he get found out as an omega.

He skids to a halt at the next corner, breath ragged, eyes darting down the new hall. Rows of reinforced glass doors line the corridor, each leading to a small, sterile room. Inside, he catches flashes of wide eyes, trembling shoulders, curled-up figures in thin white clothes.

Omegas.

Fuck.

He should keep running. He knows he should. There’s no saving anyone, not now. But one of them, one of the omegas, looks up. Meets his eyes through the glass. She’s small, barely twenty, with a shock of strawberry-blonde hair sticking to her damp face and a collar that matches his own.

Something in Eddie’s chest cracks.

“Shit,” he breathes, the sound muffled behind the muzzle.

He stumbles closer to her door, hands trembling. There’s no keypad on the outside, just a seamless panel of metal. He presses his cuffed wrists against it anyway, desperate, thinking maybe…maybe…

A click echoes down the hall.

Boots. Shouting.

They’re coming.

Eddie’s head whips around, pulse roaring in his ears. He spins toward the far end of the corridor instead, toward a heavy set of double doors at the end. They’re not glass. Not metal. Painted white like the walls, but scuffed and worn, as if people have tried clawing at them before.

Exit.

His brain screams the word, instinct and hope tangling in a violent, frantic mess. Then he's running again. Every muscle in his body burns, the collar heavy around his neck, the cuffs biting into his wrists. The lights blur overhead. He can almost taste air that isn’t recycled, isn't tainted by the acrid stench of terror and pain and lonely.

He’s close enough to touch the doors when it happens.

A sharp click, and then pain.

It rips through him with no warning, white-hot and total. His knees buckle instantly, a strangled cry caught in his throat as electricity tears through his collar and into every nerve.

His vision whites out. The smell of electricity and burnt flesh floods his senses.

He hits the floor hard, body jerking once, twice, before it goes limp.

He’s dimly aware of shouting, boots again, closer this time. Rough hands grabbing at him, hauling him upright by the arms. His head lolls forward, curls falling into his eyes. The room fades in and out of focus.

“Should’ve told him about the shock failsafe,” one of the guards mutters.

“Wouldn’ta mattered,” another grunts. “This one'sa runner, dumb fuck woulda tried anyway.”

Eddie’s too far gone to fight when they drag him back down the hall, his bare feet dragging along the linoleum.

A door opens, hinges groaning. Then he’s thrown with no care onto the cold floor of a small, concrete room. His shoulder smashes against the ground, a choked sound escaping his throat as the door slams shut behind him.

The fluorescent light above buzzes faintly.

His world is spinning. He can taste blood, faintly metallic, at the back of his tongue. The collar hums once more against his throat before falling silent.

He blinks, and for a brief moment the room comes into view. Two narrow beds bolted to the wall, a steel toilet, a single dresser.

A dorm. A cell.

Maybe both.

Eddie stays where he is, sprawled on the cold tile, chest heaving, body trembling from the shock and the fading adrenaline.

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels the tears slide down past the muzzle, hot and silent.

And still, through the ringing in his ears, through the heavy fog of pain and exhaustion, he swears he can smell it.

Fear.

Desperation.

Other omegas.

And it’s with one thought that he finally goes still, burning eyes sliding shut as he lets his body sink into unconsciousness.

He's not the only one trapped here.

He's not alone anymore.

*

For the second time in 48 hours, Eddie wakes heavy and sluggish from unconsciousness.

The first thing he registers is that he's, somehow, warm.

The last thing he remembers is being on the floor; cold concrete biting through his skin, shock still humming through his collar. Now there’s a soft mattress under him, a blanket pulled to his chest.

He blinks up at the flickering light above, groaning when it stabs through his skull. His wrists ache, but the cuffs are gone. So is the muzzle. The collar still bites at his throat, but he can breathe again.

The second thing he notices is all scent.

It hits him all at once; sweet omega heat, syrupy and rich, overlaid with distress, sour and burnt, and threaded through with the heavy musk of alpha.

It’s overwhelming, layered, inherently wrong.

His instincts trip over themselves trying to make sense of it. His mouth floods with saliva, fangs tingling, every buried omega reflex in him sparking to life.

Then he sees him.

Curled against the wall on the second bed, knees to his chest, cheek pressed to the mattress. Thin white clothes hang off a frame that’s too lean, too still. Caramel-brown hair sticks to his temples with sweat. There’s a faint tremor in the long fingers that clutch his blanket.

Honey-brown eyes are open but unseeing, doe-like wide and framed by thick lashes.

But empty. Oh so, heartbreakingly, empty.

And even like this, Eddie thinks, Christ, he’s fucking beautiful.

Not the soft kind of beautiful, either. Not the delicate, soft sort of omega Eddie expected to find in a place like this. This one looks carved from the ache of surviving. Sharp edges, hollows where hope used to live. His scent pulses with the remnants of heat, but underneath is nothing but exhaustion.

Hollowed out.

Broken.

Something ugly and defensive claws up Eddie’s throat. Fear dressed like anger, the defense he’s familiar with.

“What the fuck is this,” he mutters, pushing himself upright. The motion sends a flare of pain through his shoulders, but he ignores it, scanning the walls, the door, anywhere but the man. “They throw me in the loony bin with you so you can drool over me while I sleep?”

The other omega doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch.

That stillness rattles Eddie more than if he’d screamed. He staggers to his feet, bare and shaking, half-snarl, half-plea caught behind his teeth. “Hey! You deaf, sweetheart? I’m talkin’ to you!”

Nothing.

He takes a step closer, throat working around the sharp edge of panic. That’s when the scent shifts. Heat rises to cloying, distress to choking. The air turns heavy, thick enough to taste. Eddie freezes. His body knows before his mind catches up.

Omega Drop.

The phenomenon all omegas are taught to fear, brought on by not being 'properly cared for' during, or after, a heat.

Eddie can only guess at how 'cared for' omegas are in this glorified breeding center. Tries not to think about how he'll find out for himself soon.

Instead, he focuses on the omega in front of him.

“Shit,” he breathes. "Shit."

Up close, the signs are obvious. The glassy stare that doesn’t focus. The shallow breaths. The way the omega’s hands twitch like he’s teaching for something that isn’t there. His pupils barely respond to the light.

He’s gone somewhere inside himself. Too deep to come out alone.

And Eddie hates that he knows what to do. Hates even more that he can’t make himself walk away.

“Alright, alright,” he mutters, half to himself as he sinks to his knees beside the bed. “Not your fault, huh? Some asshole alpha did a number on you."

He hesitates, then reaches out. His hand trembles when it touches the other man’s arm, finding warm skin, fever-hot. The omega doesn’t pull away, doesn’t do anything at all really.

So Eddie does what instinct tells him. He gentles his scent, draws it low and steady, something meant to soothe. The musk of cloves and smoke, the faint crackle of fire beneath it.

“Hey,” he says again, quieter now. “You in there, man? You gotta come up for air.”

A sound answers him. Barely a breath, but it’s a sound. The omega’s fingers twitch against the blanket.

“That’s it,” Eddie murmurs. “You’re not alone, okay? I got you.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe because no one’s said it to him in a long time. Maybe it's what he needs to hear right now.

When the omega shivers, Eddie moves without thinking. He pulls the blanket tighter around him, careful not to crowd, just enough to stop the trembling. The scent in the air starts to thin then. Still sharp, but not choking now.

Minutes stretch. Eddie stays there, grounding the omega with sound and scent, muttering nonsense under his breath, scraps of comfort he didn’t know he remembered how to give. Eventually the omega’s head tips toward him, eyes fluttering fully open. Those empty, honeyed eyes meet his.

For a second, something flickers there; recognition, or maybe the ghost of it.

Then it’s gone again, and Eddie swallows hard. “Yeah,” he whispers, more to himself than anyone. “Guess we’re both screwed, huh?”

The omega doesn’t answer. But his scent steadies enough for Eddie to breathe again.

Minutes tick by, and Eddie can't bring himself to move away.

He tells himself he’s just making sure the guy doesn’t choke on his own breath, or burn up from fever, or whatever the hell happens to omegas stuck in Drop. But minutes stretch and stretch and he’s still there, kneeling on the floor beside the bed.

The air hums with heat and heartache. That scent, saccharine sweet, almost too much, seeps into his lungs until he’s dizzy from it. His instincts keep tugging at him, whispering soothe, steady, protect, and before he knows it he’s moving.

When he reaches up it's slow, like approaching a wild animal. His hand lands lightly on the omega’s arm. The skin is hot, damp with sweat. He draws small circles with his thumb, the way Uncle Wayne used to when Eddie was a kid having a panic attack.

Then he shifts closer, resting an elbow on the edge of the mattress, letting his scent roll low and calm in the air.

The tremors in the omega’s hands ease minutely. So Eddie keeps going, slow strokes up the arm, across the shoulder, tracing the outline of a spine that’s too prominent under paper-thin fabric. He murmurs nothing words as he moves, voice rough but hushed.

“Easy, sweetheart, it’s okay. You’re not alone, you hear me? I got you, just breathe.”

The omega makes a tiny sound, more breath than voice, but it pulls something in Eddie’s chest so tight he almost forgets to breathe himself. He keeps stroking, down the back, up again, fingers splaying over warm skin.

The steady rhythm anchors them both.

He doesn’t notice time passing anymore until the tremors fade completely. The man’s breathing evens out, deep but still fragile, like a tide that could turn again any second. Eddie sits there with his hand resting between shoulder blades, thumb moving absently, feeling each rise and fall beneath it.

It’s the first calm either of them has had in days, he's sure. Maybe years.

After a while, the omega shifts. Just barely, fingers curling against the blanket, head turning more toward him. Eddie stills, afraid to break whatever fragile peace has formed. Then the man drags in a long, ragged breath, and it catches halfway, shuddering.

Eddie leans forward automatically. “Hey. Hey, easy. You with me?”

The omega blinks. Slow, disoriented. Those wide eyes focus on him for the first time. For a heartbeat, Eddie swears something in them sparks. Confusion first, then recognition that isn’t really recognition, just the aching relief of another human face.

The omega looks so goddamn young like this, lashes clumped with tears, lips parted like he’s forgotten how to speak. Eddie feels something twist in his chest.

“Hey,” he says again, quieter this time. “You’re safe. For now, at least.”

The omega’s throat works around the effort to answer. When his voice comes, it’s a whisper, hoarse and soft enough that Eddie almost misses it.

“Thank you.”

Just that. Two words.

It hits harder than it should. Eddie swallows, throat tight, and manages a crooked half-smile.

“Don’t mention it, man. Literally. Don’t. The guards’ll probably make me regret playing nurse.”

The ghost of a smile flickers over the omega’s mouth, barely there, but real, and then his eyes start to close again. Exhaustion drags him down fast, pulling at his body like gravity. Within moments, his breathing evens out once more, slow and deep this time.

Eddie sits there long after he’s asleep. Watching, listening, tracing slow patterns over the blanket to make sure that breathing doesn’t change. The scent in the room settles around him, soft now, sugar and warmth instead of acid and fear.

He lets his head tip back against the wall, exhaling a long, shaky breath.

“Guess we’re in this together, huh?” he mutters to the ceiling. “Real goddamn fairy tale.”

There’s no answer, just the soft sounds of sleep beside him.

As he lets sleep finally overtake him too, he has the crazy thought again:

He's not alone.