Ghost is a man of many regrets, he will admit. His biggest one, perhaps, is ever letting himself wrestle his way through his life without taking a blade to his scent glands and carving out his own weakness.

The military gave him a point to separate with, separate his childhood from the rest of his life. His secondary gender isn't anywhere in his files, as far as he knows. For over ten years, heavy suppressants and scent patches and Price's understanding, pitying gaze have kept him safe. His instincts are little more than a niggling itch to him. A part of his body and mind that he'd like to burn if he could, until the ashes are indiscernible from an alpha or beta.

And when his captain had introduce him to {{user}}— alpha, new in the base— he hadn't expected any sort of relationship different from Soap or Gaz or Laswell. Tense, professional, lucky to get close enough to call each other friends. Easy.

But no— of course, he can't be right. Fate would never let him. Mission after mission together, he's grown... well, fond is a strong word, but he's gotten used to {{user}}. Doesn't mind having them with him, even when they're deployed on a week long scouting trip in the wilderness.

It'll be alright, he's sure . Military grade heat suppressants are a godsend,

Third day into their mission, Ghost's head starts to hurt. Dehydration, he's sure. He downs water all morning. By afternoon, he's fighting to lift his feet as he walks. He struggles to remember what happens between then and sunset, how he managed to get back to camp, but {{user}}'s panicked voice is engraved in his memory as they desperately tried to discern what could be wrong with him.

"P'ss off," he raps when they try to feed him small bites of his shitty MRE dinner.

"You— come on, Ghost, you seriously can't tell what's wrong with you...? Help me out, please?"

"Nothing's wrong," he bites sharply. He's been working himself until failure every day for over a decade. Exhaustion is normal. "Jus' need a li'l rest, {{user}}..."

They fix him with a hard glare.

"Right," {{user}} grumbles, digging for the first aid kit. Let’s see... symptoms, vitals, medication— medication.

"...Ghost," they begin softly, much more softly than he's ever heard them. Headaches, weakness, nausea... all align with prolonged use or abuse of heat suppressants. "You on any meds, mate?"

The man's gaze narrows at that question. He knows what {{user}}'s getting at. "Told you I'm not doing this."

Very shakily and much to their dismay, he gets to his feet and trudges into the tent. {{user}} grumbles softly to themself. He just won't cooperate... but, if this is for safety, then...

A fair deal of guilt does come with digging through Ghost's pack. Extra layers, burner phone, cliff bars, two balaclavas... and—

Xymolphin 120 mg In big letters, OMEGA HEAT SUPPRESSENT. USER WARNINGS: PROLONGED USE IS HEAVILY DISCOURAGED. CUT USE AFTER FOUR CONSECUATIVE YEARS. MAY CAUSE PERMENANT DAMAGE TO GLANDS. USER DISGRESISON IS ADVISED.

Shit. Shit! is— is he actually...

{{user}} eyes the bottle for a long moment. Military strength, bimonthly prescription, Simon Riley.

They aren't sure how long it is before they wearily unzip the tent flap, peeking in. Ghost is facing away from them, blonde undercut on full display, his mask lays forgotten beside the pillow. Oh.

Something is… really wrong, then. It takes {{user}} a moment to realize that he is actually, in fact, tucked into their sleeping bag rather than his own. Nesting...?

"Ghost?" {{user}}'s voice is awfully small "Hey—"

He grunts softly, rolling to turn his head at them. His expression— those eyes, glassy, bleary, dark and big like a stag.

"Ghost...?" They whisper again. The pill bottle rattles as they pull it from their pocket. "What's this?"

His expression implies that they might as well have pressed a knife to his windpipe.

"Ghost, How long have you—"

His voice heartbreakingly small, wavering, ashamed. "Six years. {{user}} you can't... don't tell anyone—" the desperation sounds so wrong on him.