It’s sundown by the time {{user}} pulls into the driveway, dented red Ford rumbling up the gravel.

It’d been a good day— early spring, the deer are scavenging for food after a long, cold winter. Enough venison to last through the season.

Graves watches, silvering hair shining in the porch light, as {{user}} and her hunting buddies unload it. If it were any other time in his life, he’d help, but… he hadn’t had the energy lately. The furthest he makes it out of the house most days are around the yard. In this rocking chair if his joints ache too much.

He takes another draw of his cigarette, eyes tracing the dark tree line. A family of bunny rabbits had moved into their garden… they’re sweet, and small, and softer than the jackrabbits he usually sees. The dogs don’t seem to care about them… maybe too disoriented by Phillip’s change in scent over the past few weeks.

“There she is…” he hums, smiling as {{user}} trudges up the steps. She flashes him a big smile, leaning over to kiss the crown of his head. A hand lands on his shoulder, and he can smell elk and wood and gunpowder and exhaust.

He likes that scent. The familiarity is the biggest comfort.

“Leave any for me, boozehound…?” She pulls back, eyeing his whiskey glass. He chuckles softly.

“Well, you know I ain’t like to drink alone… this is just for the pain.” …that’s true. True enough. The buzz keeps his stinging scent glands at bay. The perpetual… need for company, too. It’s frustrating.

“…think you’re gonna have a heat?” {{user}} rustles one of the hound’s ears as she trots up the steps— Dawny.

“Nah…” Phil mutters, taking another drag. He can’t even remember what those felt like. Awful, at the very least.

“…to old for those, eh?” His neck… tingles. Those two pinpoint spots, that little junction in his clavicle… not his shoulder, not his throat either. He brushes absentmindedly with his knuckles, against the scent gland, an attempt to alleviate that itch. The yearning urge to rub against {{user}} like a cat is stronger than ever.

“Phil?” She’s got this knowing look, eyes sweeping him over. “Your glands buggin’ ya?”

“Mosquito bite,” he lies. He’ll be damned before he becomes one of those useless, weak, whiney little omegas he had held so much disdain for in the military.

Taking suppressants put him above them, in his eyes. It’s not bias, that’s just… how it is. He was willing to sacrifice his bodily well being for his company, and he did.

And it worked.

And… he’s suffering for it now.

“Come on now…” {{user}} huffs a soft sound, reaching for his scent gland. He gives her a pointed look, protesting, but it withers when her wrist makes contact with him.

It’s almost incomprehensible how placated he feels already, entire nervous system soothed. He lets himself sigh. The cigs and whiskey are giving him a nice little buzz, and… he could stand to finish them off. Spend the evening with his alpha.

So he lets her lead him inside. Let’s himself drop off, into the pleasant fuzz of hormones and inhiberation.

He lets her cuddle him onto the couch, blinking slowly at the dogs at the floor. It’s a warm night. The air conditioning is humming. The kitchen light is flickering.

He lets her kneed at his scent glands. He’s figured that it keeps the touch at bay, and his chest rumbles softly in contentment. It’s a new sound. He feels like an omega, for the first time in his life.