DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
THE CALL OF THE WILD
WANDERLUST
THREE
THE ISLES
Alfred, take Mikkel's family inside," Gilbert ordered.
Alfred wanted to argue that his playing host would dismiss him, second-in-command (in-training), from the proceedings—and a confrontation, perhaps—but Gilbert's tone was frank and his words were not a request. His red eyes held the Northern leader in place, like a sheepdog watching a threat. He didn't look away, not even when the Omegas passed by him, which impressed Alfred. It was truly amazing to watch his brother-by-mating-law become the pack-leader. Gilbert's expression stilled into a reticent mask and his body seemed to grow bigger, always prepared for the worst. It baffled Alfred how frightening he could look, and how fast he could move if need be. Though the Northern Alphas looked physically stronger, built more like Ivan, Alfred liked Gilbert's chances if their negotiation deteriorated into an attack. He knew how talented a fighter Gilbert was, undefeated in the Kirkland pack, as Gilbert had begun instructing Alfred in combat, too (much to Arthur's vexation). He wished he could stay and test the skills he had been learning from his Alpha relatives, but Gilbert's stark look did not invite suggestion just then, so he retreated. Grudgingly, he acknowledged that his being a young Omega benefited the family more than him being the second-in-command just then, because it benefited the likelihood of Mikkel and Berwald playing nice. He doubted that either one would have let his Omega-mate and pups be escorted away into the company of strange Alphas, after all.
All of this went quickly through Alfred's head as he led the Northerners to the house and then extended his hand, inviting them inside.
Arthur and Matthew were already standing in the entrance hall, waiting to receive them, and both of them, Alfred noticed, had changed into his best clothes. Doubtless, they had been spying on the party from the window and had taken the opportunity to make himself look presentable. It was a very Omega thing to do. (Though, presentable was a subjective description in Matthew's case, as he now only fit into Alphas' clothes, which had been tailored loosely to fit him.) Alfred spared a glance for his dam, but it was his brother who stepped forward.
He really does look like the pack-leader's Omega-mate, he thought, ill-fitting clothes or not. It still surprised him whenever Matthew looked someone directly in the eye, because the shy Omega-pup had spent most of his life looking down. I'm proud of you, Mattie, he smiled, thinking that Matthew somehow looked taller with his gaze lifted.
"Welcome to the Kirkland pack," Matthew said sweetly, a soft, receptive smile on his lips, "and to our home." He bowed his head, enough to be respectful, but not enough to yield his position.
The taller of the two Northern Omegas—Mikkel's mate—mirrored the gesture in wordless acknowledgement. Alfred marvelled at his grace; he moved like the chords of a song.
"My name is Matthew Kirkland," said Matthew. "This is my brother, Alfred, the pack's second-in-command; and my Omega-father, Arthur. I apologize if my Alpha-mate offended you," he added, a sliver of characteristic shyness peaking through. "He's very cautious."
The Northerner's eyes—violet, like Mattie and Ivan's—looked from Matthew's face to his swollen abdomen and back. "He has good reason to be," he said, accepting the apology. "How far along are you?"
"Thirty-six weeks," Matthew replied, blushing.
"Your first," said the Northerner. It wasn't a question, but Matthew nodded anyway.
"My name is Bjørn," he introduced himself. "My Alpha-mate is Mikkel Densen, pack-leader of the Densen clan in the North-West. My pups, Andrias, Emil, and Kujâk; and my brother," he somehow indicated the other Omega without moving an inch, "Tino, and his pup, Peter. His Alpha-mate is Berwald Oxenstierna of the North-East. We're grateful for your hospitality."
Bjørn didn't look or sound grateful, but Alfred blamed it on fatigue.
"Please, come in," Matthew extended his hand, inviting the Northerners to sit by the large smoldering hearth while he and Arthur went to work preparing a meal.
"You must be starving," Alfred said in pity, and immediately got a reprimanding glare from Arthur, which he felt was unwarranted. What? It's the truth.
"We've managed," Bjørn said coldly, though his pride was undermined by Kujâk tugging on his coat.
"Papa," he whispered, his black eyes big and pleading, "I'm hungry. I'm really, really hungry."
Bjørn sighed.
Matthew smiled, and said: "Tea and scones in just a moment, little one. And warm cream for the newborn?"
Tino looked sheepish. "Peter's not yet weaned," he said, then passed the squirming bundle to Bjørn, who—habitually, and without pretense—unbuttoned his clothes to let the pup suckle.
Alfred felt himself instinctively turn away, embarrassed on Bjørn's behalf. "Do you want somewhere private to, uh... do that?" he offered.
"No," said Bjørn, colder still.
"Alfred, will you fetch the tea-chest, please?" Arthur ordered.
In the kitchen, the Omega-father smacked his pup in the back of the head. "And I was worried about Scott insulting them," he grumbled. "I should've been more worried about you, Alfred."
Alfred frowned. "What—? It's my fault that he decided to strip five minutes into the conversation? Would you do that in a stranger's home?"
"Feed my starving pup? Yes," said Arthur curtly, "I would. I suggest you get used to the sight," he added as Matthew entered.
"Well, they think you're a prude, Al," he said delightedly.
"What—me?" Alfred gaped. He couldn't believe his ears. He was a hunter! He swam naked with Alphas! He knew more bawdy jokes than anyone else! (—except, maybe, for Gilbert; Gilbert had lived in a fort.) "I'm not a prude!" he whispered harshly in defense.
Matthew stifled laughter in his hands.
"Take this out," Arthur said, pushing a serving-trey into Alfred's hands, "and apologise for your rudeness."
Alfred rolled his eyes, but grudgingly complied.
I'm the second-in-command, I shouldn't be in here serving guests like an Omega-mate; I should be outside with the Alphas. I shouldn't have to sit in here making pleasantries and having tea and watching some Omega feed a newborn!
Alfred had already faced resistance being an Omega second-in-command. What would the pack-members say if they knew that he was being omitted from the negotiations and forced to play house with his dam and brother instead?
The Northerners had discarded their heavy outerwear—coats and cloaks folded neatly in a pile by the door—and were busy washing-up with lilac soap and a basin of water, which Matthew had procured. The three pups seemed to know the routine, because they were quiet and didn't fuss as they cleaned their hands and faces under their dam's scrutiny. Tino helped the youngest, scrubbing his cheeks until they were rosy, and then his fingernails until the grime was gone. It looked suspiciously like charcoal to Alfred, who decided that Kujâk was the family artist. His black eyes grew wide when he saw the serving-trey Alfred brought, laden with fruits, cheese, and hard bread, and he wondered how long it had been since the Northerners had eaten anything besides fish and barley porridge.
"Papa, may we—?" Emil asked eagerly, trying his best to look dignified whilst salivating.
Bjørn nodded his consent.
Tino sat cross-legged on the wool rug with the pups, looking just as eager as they with his big, round eyes. He held Kujâk on his lap and smiled at Emil, who whispered so softly Alfred didn't hear it. It was a very domestic picture they made, with the hearth at their backs and the demure smiles on their faces, something Alfred recognized as being universal to all of the Omegas he knew, and he was glad to see it playing here. The Northerners had all looked rather defensive outside, not just the Alphas, and Alfred had wondered at—worried at—how they would behave indoors, but he needn't have. They were all afraid outside, he knew, generous in understanding, but all Omegas—except me—feel better indoors. It's where they belong. It's where they feel safe and happy. Like Tino, he thought, whose face looked friendly now that he was no longer guarding his newborn against a pack of hostile Alphas. This made sense to Alfred. He had seen it countless times in his dam and brother and other pack-members. It was familiar, which was a comfort.
But Bjørn was not a comfort. Bjørn was something else.
Alfred set the serving-trey carelessly on the floor at Bjørn's feet, deliberately avoiding eye-contact with the older Omega. There was something about his cold scrutiny that Alfred found intimidating, though he was reluctant to admit it. He had never felt undermined by an Omega before, especially not one who, at that very moment, was feeding a newborn. He should have looked the least threatening, the most domestic of them all, playing the obedient Omega-mate and father, but he didn't. The mystery of Bjørn—the glacial beauty and grace of him; the knowledge in his eyes; the whisper of nobility—revealed something alien that made Alfred feel suddenly inadequate as an Omega, himself, reducing him to a scolded pup in the presence of someone greater. Bjørn's presence was not that of a caretaker and homemaker, but of a High Omega, a ruler of Alphas and Omegas alike. It was something Alfred didn't understand and he didn't like it. He hated how small Bjørn made him feel, even though he outranked the Northerner—he being the Kirkland's second-in-command, while Bjørn was merely the Omega-mate of a refugee.
Don't look at me like that, he thought, still kneeling. He could feel Bjørn staring coldly down at him. Don't underestimate me. I've been through too much to be looked down upon by someone like you.
And yet—
When their gazes met, Alfred hastily looked away.
Godsdamn it! he cursed.
He yearned to escape the suffocating politeness and domesticity of the house and rejoin the Alphas outside.
"You're new to your position as second, aren't you?" Bjørn said, weaving the question into a mere statement. "You're less than a year pair-bonded, and you don't have pups."
Alfred failed to see how being second-in-command and having a family were connected, but he shook his head. "Are you judging me for not having pups?" he asked, crossing his arms.
"Why shouldn't I? You're judging me for mine."
Alfred opened his mouth to deny it, but stopped. "I'm sorry," he said instead.
Bjørn's gaze was unyielding in its maternal reproach, making him look so much like a younger, taller Arthur that Alfred felt thoroughly chastised. Bjørn may have been half undressed to suckle a pup, but it was Alfred who felt uncomfortably exposed by those analytical violet eyes.
"You're walking a difficult path, Alfred Kirkland," Bjørn said after a long, tense pause, "and I commend you for that, but don't be so quick to judge and dismiss the roles of Omegas as being less important than those of Alphas. Both genders have strengths and weaknesses that you have the unique opportunity to exploit. A clever leader would not waste one in favour of the other."
Alfred blinked. Did he just give me... advice? Slowly, he nodded, feeling somehow scolded and encouraged at the same time.
Bjørn's tone was full of confident self-importance, and Alfred suddenly understood why Gilbert had ordered him to be the Northerners' escort. It wasn't to discredit Alfred as the second-in-command, but, rather, a wordless way of showing their guests the utmost respect by acknowledging and honouring the Omegas' positions.
Bjørn's not just Mikkel's Omega-mate, he realized, he's the Alpha's advisor and confidant, just like Mattie is Gilbert's. His word holds just as much weight as Mikkel's—maybe more, he thought, considering the pups. If Bjørn feels threatened by us, if he doesn't think his pups are safe, then he'll tell Mikkel, and Mikkel will... Alfred didn't want to think of what the Northerner might do. They're double-teaming us. This—he regarded the illusion of domesticity—is just a much subtler negotiation. Bjørn's watching us, judging us, collecting information to report back to Mikkel. This isn't just a tea, it's a reconnaissance mission!
And Dad and Mattie both know that, he realized, impressed and embarrassed he hadn't translated it sooner.
Arthur's horror at Alfred insulting the Northerners—accidentally or not—suddenly seemed like a legitimate fear: "apologize for your rudeness," he had said. And Alfred did:
"I really am sorry," he said, bowing his head in repentance. "I didn't mean to offend you."
Bjørn regarded the younger Omega dismissively. "I'm an Omega of the far North," he said. "Do not think that words can hurt me, Alfred Kirkland."
That was needless teasing," Tino said when Alfred had left. He eyed his companion in bemused reproach.
Bjørn chuckled, his glacial facade softening into amusement. "I know," he said, shifting Peter's weight from the right side to the left, "but I couldn't resist. He has too much potential to waste on misogyny. It's bad enough when Alphas disrespect the role of Omegas in the pack; it would be shameful for an Omega second-in-command to do the same."
Tino nodded in agreement. It was hard not to admire Bjørn's tenacity, an Omega who had always been proud of who and what he was, or hard to see the High Omega he had been born to be. He wielded his matriarchal influence like an Alpha commanding his pack; a kinder, more nurturing commander, but no less a warrior inside. It made Tino wish that his own dam had ingrained such a fierce pride and self-confidence in him, but he and Bjørn had grown-up living very different lives, and his dam had died long before Tino's first Heat. Perhaps if she had lived to guide him into adulthood; if she had the chance to nurture his self-worth and taken the same care with him that Bjørn's Omega-father had, then things would have been different. He couldn't deny that he envied Bjørn his early-life, having always known his worth; having always had supportive Alphas and a devoted dam by his side.
Tino had seen Bjørn's Omega-father only briefly, and never spoken to him, but the picture would be forever ingrained in his memory. It was uncanny how alike he and Bjørn were (and Emil, too; Tino could already see the adult the Omega-pup would become), in looks, yes, but also in the way they moved, and spoke, and regarded the world around them. Bjørn's dam was revered far and wide as a shaman, and called gods-sent by some and witch by others, but he was admired and respected—and feared—by all. Tino had never wondered at Bjørn's oddities, or where he had learnt his talents; one look at the Thomassen leader's Omega-mate had revealed it all. Bjørn had, doubtless, inherited traits from his sire, who was a proud and stubborn warrior, but it didn't take a fortune-teller to know that he was his dam's pup inside-and-out. He was the descendent of a very old Omega bloodline, whose powers, steeped in the Old Religion, had made them famous—and coveted—for their connection to the gods, who seemed to favour them above all others. If the rumours were true, then Bjørn's line had been hunted and killed by superstitious clans afraid of their powers and the prophecies they spoke, but Tino still envied them. What must it have felt like to have such power over Alphas? What must it have been like to strike fear into the hearts of warriors with a single, piercing look? There was a time when Tino would have sold his soul for such influence; now, he was only glad he had never had the chance. In hindsight, Bjørn's dam had been lucky that the Densen clan accepted his gifts and not murdered Bjørn in the womb.
"He'll be a good leader someday," Bjørn predicted, speaking of Alfred. His voice broke a silence that Tino had not even been aware of, too used to Bjørn's quiet contemplation by now.
"Someday?" he asked.
Bjørn nodded. "Yes, but for now he's still much too young. He hasn't learnt humility yet, nor the difference between pride and arrogance. Controversy will be good for him. He'll thrive on it, eager to prove himself, and in doing so he'll learn to think for himself, which all great leaders must do. It will take time, and he will struggle more than not, but history will remember his name."
Tino shook his head at the Omega who had become his surrogate brother. "Sometimes I think you really do have the gift of foresight, Bee." He smiled affectionately. "And other times I think you're stark raving-mad."
"It's a fine line," Bjørn agreed.
They're really good eaters," Matthew praised, watching the three pups devour anything, everything, that Arthur put in front of them without complaint.
Bjørn nodded, silently criticising the Islander's needless comment. North-borns did not have the luxury of being picky eaters; the climate was harsh and the growing season too short. If you didn't eat what was in front of you, you didn't eat at all, and all three of his pups knew that. They had felt the hollowness of empty bellies too recently to refuse what they were given now. Food is a chore, not a luxury, Bjørn thought with martyr-like pride. No one in their clan—no local or visitor—had ever commented on the food, because good or bad, it didn't matter. Few of their pack-members starved each winter and that's what was important.
"I'm afraid that Peter is a bit fussy," Tino said conversationally. (Bjørn secretly blamed it on the pup being an Islander and not a North-born.) "But I'm hoping he grows out of it."
Matthew smiled and asked Tino about Peter, and Bjørn realized that, perhaps, he was being too uncharitable to the Omega-father-to-be. He had to remind himself—again—what it was like to be an ignorant first-time parent, and grudgingly recalled his own tactic of trial-and-error. (Really, it was a miracle that Andrias had turned out so well.)
In secret apology, he said: "You and your Alpha-mate must be excited." He indicated Matthew's abdomen.
Matthew's smile migrated to his eyes. "Yes," he said, "very excited, and... nervous. It's our first," he repeated with a coy laugh. "I just hope it goes well."
"The birth's not the hard part," Bjørn said, a degree of wicked glee in his tone. His gaze slid to his pups and back. "Being an Omega-father is much harder."
"It's true," Tino agreed. He was rocking Peter as he paced, trying to coax the newborn to sleep. "I'm sure your dam will tell you the same, the worrying never stops."
Bjørn didn't miss the subtle glance from Matthew to Arthur, whose dismissive smile looked reassuring but tired. This family is no stranger to hardship, he read in the exchange. They've endured tragedy, like we have.
"I wouldn't worry about the birth," he continued, before an awkward silence settled. "You have a good figure, fit for bearing pups, Matthew. You'll be fine."
"See?" said Arthur, gently scolding his pup. "I keep telling you there's nothing to fear. You'll have the whole family to guard you and me by your side. You won't be alone like I was."
"Were you?" Bjørn asked, feeling a sudden unlikely kinship with the elder Islander. "So was I, with Andrias.
"Well, not completely alone," he amended, "Mick was there, but we were both young and afraid.
"We were alone in the mountains," he began, noticing his rapt audience.
He might have been known for his silence on most occasions—"that's Mikkel Densen's Omega-mate, the one who never speaks to anyone else"—until there was a story to tell. That's when Bjørn's cold facade thawed and he took centre stage. The players would pluck their strings and the Omega's serene voice would fill the longhouse. Even Alfred sat forward in intrigue, now, like a fish hooked by a single, silvery line.
"We had gone for a hike to our—our tree," he said, a trifle embarrassed. "I was thirty-eight weeks pregnant, but we thought it would be okay. My dam had delivered me at precisely forty weeks without complications, and I felt fine, so we went. We never dreamt he might come early," he said, smiling ruefully at the pup in question: Andrias, who was sitting quietly by the hearth, listening to a repeat of the story he already knew. "The tree wasn't far from the longhouse, but it was raining hard by the time we turned back, and Mick and I took shelter in an old watchtower. We thought it was exciting being trapped together in the storm... until the labour-pains started.
"At first, we thought that something was horribly wrong and we panicked. Mick tried to call for help, but his howl was lost in the storm."
As Bjørn spoke, he recalled the day of Andrias' tumultuous birth. In his memory, he heard himself panicking:
"Mick! It's the pup—it's coming now!"
He saw his white-faced Alpha-mate nod in understanding, and heard his deep, determined voice say: "Okay.
"Okay," he repeated, stripping off his cloak and preparing a bed. "It's going to be okay. I'm going to make it okay."
"I don't know what to do," Bjørn confessed, squeezing his Alpha-mate's hand. He was only sixteen-years-old and scared. "I want my dam. I don't want to do this alone."
"You're not alone," said Mikkel fiercely, kissing Bjørn's head; holding tightly to his hand. "You've got me. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. We're in this together, okay? I won't leave you."
"I think my labour lasted as long as the storm," Bjørn mused, now, "though, it was all such a blur back then."
"An Alpha delivered your pup?" Arthur interrupted, scandalized.
"My Alpha-mate," Bjørn corrected, giving weight to the title. "Alphas are not as bad at midwifery as you may expect. It's they we turn to when we're scared, isn't it? It's they we look to for protection. Mick might've been clueless about the birthing process, but he kept me calm and he made me feel safe. He promised he would take care of us—Andrias and I—and he did."
"I've got you," Mikkel said in Bjørn's memory. His hands held firmly beneath each of Bjørn's spread knees, keeping the prostrate Omega anchored. Bjørn dug his bare heels into the Alpha's shoulders as he threw back his head, teeth clenched in pain. "I've got you, love. I won't let go. Push against me, Bee. It's going to be okay. Just push."
And push he had, until Mikkel finally released his legs to pull the slippery, howling Alpha-pup from his body.
Andrias had looked small, but Bjørn had not been afraid for him. As long as Mikkel was by his side, he would never be afraid.
Matthew listened intently to the narrative, his heart beating harder with each word, as if Bjørn's mellifluous voice was telling a horror story and not the mundane tale of his first-born's birth. He blamed it on the Northerner's natural gift for storytelling, which brought to mind the legendary poets of a bygone age. The room seemed to fall away as his calm, undulating narration filled the silence, adding all the right inflections in all the right places, like a musician inventing a song. His voice replaced the house and hearth with such a visceral scene from far, far away that Matthew felt like he could see the watchtower, hear the rain, smell the blood. He didn't even realize he was twisting his shawl into anxious folds until Arthur reached over and placed a reassuring hand atop his, stilling them.
"The truth is," Bjørn concluded, "I've never given birth without Mick by my side. I had midwives with Emil and Kujâk, and both births were easier for it—they were easier anyway; the first is the hardest—but Mick has always been by my side. It may be unconventional and others will tell you it's inappropriate, but it's worth it. Being in labour is not when you want to feel distanced from your Alpha. Trust me," he said, this time looking directly at Matthew.
Matthew nodded, his head reeling. Could we really do that? he wondered, daring to hope. Could Gil be with me in the birthing-room?
Arthur would never allow it: "It just isn't done!" he would say. He was having a hard enough time keeping his lips pinched now, Matthew noticed.
But he had to admit—privately, at least—that the mere thought of having Gilbert with him did make him feel less afraid, and he found himself agreeing with Bjørn's logic. Gilbert had protected him from everything else in the world, why not labour as well?
"What a ludicrous notion!" Arthur said in the kitchen. His voice was a low whisper, so soft an Alpha wouldn't have heard. "Alphas in the birthing-room, what next?" He shook his head.
For all of Arthur's liberties, he, like his brothers, held fast to Islander tradition, and change rarely came into the Kirkland household without a fight. The fact that they accepted Matthew's Western ex-soldier still surprised him more often than not, though there were times during loud, verbal arguments that he honestly feared his uncles might cast Gilbert out. Stubbornness and entitlement burned hot in Gilbert and Scott both, and Matthew had found himself braced between them more than once, pleading for a peaceful resolution. ("Why can't you just be patient with them, Gil, like Ivan is?" he had said after one such row, and immediately regretted it. The way that Gilbert's flushed face had twisted jealously at being compared to Ivan was enough to make Matthew feel guilty—and aroused, but he blamed the hormones for that.)
Usually Matthew stayed neutral about household changes, especially if they were petty complaints between his bickering relatives, but this time he spoke up:
"Why?" he asked Arthur, refilling the kettle and hanging it to boil. He didn't know why, but he felt strongly inclined to defend Bjørn. "Dad, you've told us often enough that you were—and I quote—scared half-crazy when Al and I were born. Wouldn't you have been less afraid if Papa had been there?"
"Maybe," Arthur admitted, "but only by necessity. I didn't have an Omega-parent in my life. You do," he said, as if he wasn't referring to himself, "and I'll not let you out of my sight, I promise. You'll be perfectly safe, Alpha or no. I've delivered hundreds of pups," he exaggerated. "I'd like to think I know a good deal more about pregnancy than Gilbert Beilschmidt.
"Don't fret," he added softer, noticing Matthew's hesitance. "There's a reason why Alphas are forbidden from the birthing-room, love. It's to protect them."
Matthew frowned, puzzled by that.
"Giving birth is a rather loud, messy, sometimes dangerous process, and it's painful. Alphas don't want to see their Omega-mate's in pain," Arthur explained. "It makes them feel helpless, and guilty—sometimes it turns them off mating altogether. They don't like things they can't control, which is why so many of them become paranoid around a pregnant Omega. It's something they can't feel, so they can't understand it. They can't predict it, so they can't fight it. Gilbert is already worried for your safety, Matthew. Don't frighten him further."
Arthur smiled placidly and then returned to the main room; Matthew stayed in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil and contemplating his dam's words.
He felt conflicted, now. Bjørn's confession had touched his heart and quieted his fears, but how could he not trust Arthur's sagely advice? How could he choose to believe a stranger over the Omega-father who loved him?
I'll ask Gil, he decided, gently rubbing his abdomen. I'll let him decide for himself. He'll prefer that. We've never talked about it before, and he might be horrified by the thought of the birthing-room, just like Dad thinks. He might not want to be there. I might be worrying for nothing...
And yet, Gilbert was much more alike Mikkel than any Islander Matthew knew. He may have only spied the Northerner from the window, but the way he spoke, the way he held himself, the way he regarded his surroundings, all reminded Matthew of Gilbert. Gilbert was more disciplined, more subtle, but their natural instincts seemed the same. The way Mikkel had guarded his family, fearlessly facing a pack of unfriendly Alpha strangers, and risking all to protect them, reminded Matthew of Gilbert and Gilbert's promises. I'll love you and our pups until the day I die, and if I die trading my life for yours then I'll go with no regrets. And if that wasn't evidence enough, the way Bjørn talked about Mikkel proved it. The blind loyalty and unshakable confidence he had in his mate was familiar to Matthew, and he felt a kinship with Bjørn that he couldn't explain. He found that he trusted the Northern Omega for no good reason at all, except for the one thing they seemed to have in common: their Alpha-mates.
Matthew loved both his parents, but he didn't see much of he and Gilbert in Arthur and Francis' relationship.
He did see he and Gilbert in Bjørn and Mikkel's.
The whistling kettle shocked him back to the present and he resolved to talk to Gilbert about everything later. It was Matthew's role as the pack-leader's mate to act as a diplomat, and Gilbert had allowed the two Northern Omegas into the house trusting to his wits, but more so his discretion. Matthew had always been good at playing the roles he was given, which recently included host and Kirkland family matron (in-training—Arthur wasn't ready to give that up quite yet), but the thing he cherished most was Gilbert's trust. He was truly flattered that the Alpha valued his opinion above all others, and, in return, always tried to give Gilbert an honest one.
When he asks me about the Northerners, I'll tell him the truth.
Matthew filled the teapot with boiling water, but nearly dropped it when a sharp pain jolted up his spine.
He managed to swallow a mouthful of profanity as he lowered himself carefully into a chair, rubbing hard at his abdomen, and breathing deeply like Arthur had taught him.
"The first is the hardest," Bjørn's voice echoed in Matthew's head.
I really hope not, he thought, waiting for the contractions to cease. For Gil's sake, I hope it's all okay.
Well—?" Mikkel asked when he and Bjørn were reunited.
The Alpha looked weary, but not yet defeated. He needed a bath and a decent meal, not rationed, and a good night's sleep, but he was no less determined now than when they had set sail two months ago. In fact, he reminded Bjørn of a wolf, the sigil of the Densen clan, which Mikkel had always worn with pride. He would never wear it again, now, which depressed him, but Bjørn didn't think he needed the pendent to look like a warrior. Even now, in clothes that needed mending, his hair a mane of braided tangles, and an axe strapped to his belt, he looked like an old wolf, grizzled and greying, perhaps, but not without strength in his bones and a fight in his heart.
Bjørn leant up and kissed him. "It was a nicer reception that I expected," he reported. "They spared nothing in the way of food and hot water. Tino is with Arthur, now—the present patron," he explained—"finding clean clothes for us to sleep in. He and his Omega-pups have been very accommodating.
"Matthew—Gilbert's Omega-mate," he added, "is thirty-six weeks pregnant. He's only fifteen, it's their first."
Mikkel's shoulders dropped and his facial muscles relaxed into an expression of sudden understanding. "Oh! That makes so much sense," he acknowledged. "It's no wonder Gilbert's so protective of his home then, even if it does make him act like a dick."
Bjørn lifted an eyebrow. "You're one to talk, Mick. I seem to recall someone growling at everyone who looked at me the first time I was pregnant. And Matthew Kirkland is just as young and frightened as I was then. Don't judge Gilbert too harshly," he advised.
"He knows what he's doing, I'll give him that," Mikkel acknowledged, business-like again. "He's no stranger to negotiation, and he's as thorough as a fort commander. A good one." He rolled his eyes, bemoaning the late hour. It had been a tediously long discussion and they were all tired and hungry.
"It's been a long day," Bjørn agreed.
Mikkel sighed. "I'll be glad to lie down and sleep with a roof over my head. They're preparing the guesthouse for us now. We'll talk more in the morning," he mocked the Westerner's voice.
Bjørn chuckled.
"What do you think of them, Bee? Really?" Mikkel asked after a moment. "Can we trust them?"
Bjørn leant against Mikkel and smiled. "Yes, I believe so," he said. "I like them."
You like them—?" Gilbert asked, eyeing his Omega-mate dubiously.
"Yes," Matthew replied, turning down the covers on their bed and fluffing the pillows, "I like them. I don't think they're all that different from us."
Gilbert grunted as he tugged off his shirt. "Did the pack-leader's Omega say anything about him?" he asked, crawling into the bed beside Matthew.
"He implied that Mikkel's a good Alpha-mate and father. Those aren't things to dismiss, Gil," he added when Gilbert frowned. "If an Alpha isn't good to his own family, do you really think that he's fit to lead? I don't think it was his position as pack-leader that made him the Alpha he is—"
"An arrogant dick?" Gilbert cut-in. Matthew ignored him.
"—and I don't think Bjørn would talk so fondly of someone he didn't trust."
"And you trust him, do you? Bjørn?" Gilbert guessed.
Matthew nodded. "I do. I really don't think they mean us any harm."
Gilbert sighed and sat back, his shoulders stiff with tense knots. "It's not their intention that worries me," he admitted. "It's what they'll attract."
Neither of them spoke for a time, both deep in thought as he contemplated everything he had learnt. Finally, Matthew settled down and Gilbert followed and he laid his head on Gilbert's bare chest, feeling warm and safe in his Alpha-mate's embrace. Gilbert rested his hand on Matthew's abdomen and smiled when he felt a kick.
"I won't risk you," he said, breaking the silence. "If it comes down to you or them, you know I'll choose you."
"I know." Pause. "Gil—?"
"Hmm?"
"About our pup... the birth, I mean. I wanted to ask you..."
"Yes—?" Gilbert prompted, suddenly alert. He sat up, dislodging Matthew, his red eyes reflecting the bright starlight. "What is it? What's wrong? Is something wrong? What are you scared of, schatzi? Tell me. I'll fix it," he said, looking just as worried and confused as Arthur had described.
"No, nothing's wrong, love. I just... Would you stay with me when it happens? Would you be in the birthing-room if you could?"
"Yes."
"Yes—?" Matthew repeated in surprise. He, too, sat up. "Just like that, just—yes?"
"Of course," Gilbert confirmed, eager now. "Can we do that? Are we really allowed to do that? Matt," he said when Matthew failed to answer, "I may be completely useless at, err... everything pregnancy-related, but if you don't mind having me there, if I won't be in the way, then I want to stay with you."
"It might be pretty gross," Matthew warned him. "And it could take a long time. Dad says a first birth usually does. I won't judge you if you'd rather—"
"Do you want me there?"
Matthew didn't hesitate. "Yes, I really do."
Gilbert smiled. "Then I'll be there."
It was late, but Mikkel was not asleep. He was trying to be asleep, but the distrust in him kept him alert. Living on the ship for two months had conditioned him like a sentry on nightshift, and he found it difficult now to sleep in the quiet stillness, too used to taking his rest during the loud, busy day. Noise now comforted him; the quiet made him nervous. It's why he and not Bjørn saw the shift in the shadows and the slender figure that rose carefully from the pups' bed.
"Em?" he said, curious.
The guesthouse was not as big as a longhouse, but it was entirely barren except for the bedding, and Mikkel's deep voice echoed off the wooden walls. It roused Bjørn, who whispered: "Mick?" in concern. Mikkel hushed him. "Go back to sleep," he said, gently rubbing his Omega-mate's back. Bjørn's insomnia so often prevented him from getting a good night's sleep that Mikkel felt guilty for waking him. In the bedding beside them, Tino muttered softly before returning to sleep, hugging Berwald, who was hugging Peter, neither of whom moved. The sensitivity of an Omega's ears would never fail to impress Mikkel. It was no wonder why they had slept poorly on the ship. Mikkel courteously waited a moment, letting them both relax, then turned his attention to his Omega-pup.
"Em?" he repeated. "What's wrong?"
The violet-eyed pup looked small standing all alone in the emptiness, dressed in a faded tartan pattern that hung off his thin frame. By process of elimination, Mikkel decided that the mild, sweet scent must be Matthew's, who was the only Islander he had not yet smelled. It renewed his gratitude for the borrowed clothes, the food in their bellies, and the roof over their heads, until he heard Emil's whispered voice.
"Dad," he said seriously, his eyes big and unblinking, "are we safe here?"
Mikkel heard defeat in the Omega-pup's tone, nervous but fatigued, as if he had resigned himself to fear. It made him feel guilty, accepting Emil's fear as his fault.
I should've protected them, he thought, feeling the words like an old, aching wound. I should've done better.
"Come here," he said, reaching out. Emil came without goading, gliding silently across the floor like a specter to take Mikkel's hand. Mikkel pulled and closed his Omega-pup into a warm, one-armed embrace. Emil let himself be shifted and wrapped. He snuggled closer and buried his nose beneath Mikkel's neck, taking comfort in the proximity and his sire's scent. The tartan he wore smelled of wool and soap and Matthew Kirkland, but Emil's baby-sweet scent was as pure as spring thistles. If Mikkel could, he would keep him pure like that forever; never touched; never tainted. He breathed in as he rested his cheek atop Emil's pale head, and said with confidence:
"You're safe wherever I am."
Emil was quiet for a moment, pensive, but his argumentative nature got the better of him. "That's not a real answer," he said.
Mikkel chuckled. He loved and hated how much Emil was alike Bjørn. "You're right," he ceded. "You're too clever for your own good, my wee puffling," he teased, nuzzling the pup.
"Honestly, Em? I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know what we'll find here, or for how long we'll stay. But I promise," he said seriously, squeezing Emil, "I'll do everything I can to keep you safe. All of you. Okay?"
Emil didn't speak. In reply, he laid his head on Mikkel's shoulder, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
