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Whenever Arthur brushes against one of them, the delicate hairs in the back of his neck stand on end and he wants to hiss, afraid but defiant, before slinking away on silent feet. So when he first meets Alfred F. Jones at a military ball, smells his earthy musk underneath the thin layer of pheromones and cologne that drifts around him like a cloak, he stiffens, glares at the hand wrapped snugly around his, and says something biting and vaguely insulting before walking away.
The foreign dignitaries act affronted on Jones's behalf, but the man himself merely cocks an eyebrow as he stares at Arthur's retreating back, lips quirking to reveal the sharp point of a canine tooth.
Arthur goes to the bathroom to wash his hands, rubbing his knuckles as he thinks about what it means, that the Americans have allowed a werewolf to infiltrate their entourage, that the werewolves have already managed to infiltrate the higher council, that he's the only one who knows. And he can't reveal Jones's secret, because explaining how he knows may force him to reveal his own secret as well. He hears the door open behind him but doesn't pay it any more attention, too busy ruminating on that grim line of thought.
It isn't until the lock clicks into place that he looks up from the sink and immediately catches Jones's eyes in the mirror, blue and narrowed like chips of ice. He calmly turns off the tap, shaking his hands free of excess moisture, and reaches for a towel.
"I know what you are," Jones says, hands in his pockets. "Or, well, at least I know what you aren't."
"Oh?" Arthur says, turning around to regard him coolly.
"You aren't human," Jones says, leading.
"And what makes you say that?" Arthur retorts, crossing his arms over his chest.
"You smell," Jones answers simply.
Arthur glowers. "If there's anybody in this room who smells, it's you."
"You smell like us, to be more specific," Jones continues, plowing on as if Arthur never spoke. He's looking at Arthur like he's waiting for confirmation of some sort.
Arthur won't bite. He barks out a laugh, disdainfully says, "I'm not one of you."
Jones's eyes flash red for a split second. The next thing Arthur knows, he's shoved up against the wall, wrists twisted behind his back. He tastes copper in his mouth, cringes when he runs his tongue over his split lip.
"Son of a bitch," he spits, grunting when Jones vindictively shoves his head against the cold, hard tile.
"What are you?" Jones demands, breath hissing softly in his ear.
Arthur suppresses a shudder as fear sends a frigid chill up his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end and the primal part of his brain is telling him to fucking get away, run, run, run. But he clenches his jaw hard, bucks against the weight on his back, and says, "I thought you had me all figured out, wolf-boy."
Jones makes a soft scoffing noise in his throat before dipping down to press his nose right against the pulse beneath Arthur's jaw. The tip of his nose is cold, but the rest of him pours off heat like a furnace, a fact that has Arthur's breath catching. He struggles wildly to get away, briefly contemplates shouting for help until he remembers that the walls are soundproofed.
"C'mon, Arthur," Jones says, choosing a different route. Arthur doesn't respond well to intimidation, so Jones decides to butter him up instead. He softens his voice, adds a lilt to his tone, and he sounds cajoling, playful almost. "I promise not to tell anyone. It's just, you smell so damn good and it's driving me fucking insane." He trails a hand down Arthur's spine for emphasis, the tips of his claws catching on the fabric.
It makes Arthur's blood run cold. Sweat beads his forehead as he struggles to breathe. To be seen as prey by a werewolf is bad. But to be seen as something to rut is even worse. Arthur's heard enough stories to know this. In a desperate, last ditch effort to get away, Arthur twists his head, catches Jones's plush bottom lip between his teeth and bites.
He doesn't expect Jones to groan into his mouth and press his face closer, kiss back like he really can't get enough of Arthur's taste on his tongue. But at least the grip around his wrist slackens until he can free his hands. Jones forces him to turn around, his impossibly strong grip like clamps around Arthur's waist as he pries his mouth open, licks inside, and devours him. The back of Arthur's head bangs against the tile and he can't do anything but take it, shaking as Jones kisses him relentlessly. It isn't until Arthur thinks he's going to suffocate that they break apart.
Arthur pulls away, gasping for breath. He opens his eyes, sees Jones staring back at him with wide eyes, pupils dark and blown, cheeks stained red. His lips are parted, puffy and wet, bleeding sluggishly from where Arthur bit him. He looks gutted.
Arthur feels Jones's hands on his face, tracing the curve of his cheek, the bow of his lips, and he flinches, the sharp sting reminding him that he'd busted his lip earlier. So then the blood on Jones's mouth isn't all his.
The thought makes something in Arthur's belly twist.
Jones tilts his head and leans forward, like he's about to kiss Arthur again. It's when Arthur's sense of self-preservation kicks in. He doesn't think twice about it, just shoves the other man away, knees him in the groin, and makes his escape. He doesn't look back either.
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Alfred is nursing his cut lip and shattered dignity in the privacy of his suite with a couple of the other American suits close to his age. There's Dan, the New Yorker with the blue eyes, quick smiles, and chocolate curls, who laughs at everything and everyone but loves being a dick to Alfred especially. And then there's Jerry, who's laid back and quiet and knows how to take a fighter jet off the ground in four minutes flat, who isn't quite as annoying as Dan but is just as nosy.
Dan laughs meanly when Alfred tells him about what happened and Jerry just shakes his head, amused.
They're still trying to figure out what Arthur Kirkland could be when one of the Canadian suits comes in to fetch Dan, who jumps up from his seat and bounces out the door, cheeks dimpling with how wide he's smiling even as he complains about the shitty room service to his friend. If Dan was in his animal form, Alfred knows his tail would be wagging like crazy; Dan had it bad for that Jonathan kid. It was obvious in the way he leans into the Canadian's space like a sunflower seeking the sun. The two leave, bickering loudly as they disappear down the hallway.
"It sounds to me like you imprinted on Kirkland," Jerry says as he stares at the ceiling. His legs are propped up on the coffee table, Alfred's coffee table, and Alfred has to fight the urge to swat at them.
"That's just a myth," Alfred says, wrinkling his brow. "Besides, he's not one of us. It's impossible. Alphas only imprint on omegas and I'm pretty sure omegas don't make a habit of insulting alphas and kicking them in the dick."
Jerry shrugs, lips curling in a slight smile. "I wouldn't put it past you to end up imprinting on the only defective omega on the planet, to be honest."
Alfred snorts, crossing his arms as he thinks about it. He hopes Jerry is just kidding around, because imprinting on a short-tempered British guy who obviously hates him is the last thing he wants to happen on his first mission.
He can't forget what kissing Arthur had felt like though. Like gulping down the sweetest draught of cold water after treading the entirety of the Sahara.
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Arthur leaves on the first flight out. He never plans to meet Alfred F. Jones again, but a mere two weeks later, he's called back to the office and assigned to a hush-hush mission in Las Vegas.
"No," Arthur says, putting down the folder after seeing the American's name printed neatly next to his own.
"Arthur," Becky says patiently, crossing her arms in preparation for a confrontation. "This isn't optional."
"No," Arthur repeats, taking a sip of his tea as he walks around Becky's massive desk to stare out at the London skyline.
Becky swings her chair around, keeping him in her line of sight. "The Director asked for you, specifically," Becky says. "Even I can't say no to her."
Arthur is silent for a while, and Becky sighs noiselessly, staring at the line of his back. "You can't hack the system and transfer yourself out of this one, Arthur."
Arthur idly taps the side of his mug. "What do they want me to do?"
Becky swings her chair back around to face her computer monitor. "See for yourself."
So Arthur does, sees that the organization had caught on to the infiltration, sees that they want him to find the needle in a haystack, and he smiles, realizing what he's just been given. A way to expose Jones without exposing himself.
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(a/n: I'm not quitting on abscond but the PruCan backstory is fucking up the timeline and it's been frustrating me to no end, so I decided to take a little break, hence this little teaser thingy. I like playing with alpha/beta/omega dynamics, so there'll be a bit of that in this 'verse. There's a catch though-and I confess the idea was taken from one of my favorite Inception fics, which I will reveal as soon as the cat's outta the bag. Also, I filched two of my favorite characters from a different fandom to put in this story because...well, because I could. Virtual cookies to anyone who recognizes them. Lastly, I make things up as I go along. Expect inaccuracies. And that's it, I think. Sorry this chapter is so short! I hope you enjoyed it anyway.)