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Perturabo was very, very sick of being in this meeting. It was important to have meetings, he supposed, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. The air was thick with his brothers’ scents and it was giving him a headache. He just wanted to go back to his ship and take his suppressants and sleep until they kicked in and he stopped feeling so awful.
But Horus, beloved Horus who Perturabo was certain was not trying to be infuriating, was letting Dorn talk and talk and talk about… what was he talking about? Some campaign? Somewhere far off from Perturabo’s position that would have no effect on anything he did?
Perturabo peered across the room, his mind ticking over everyone present. Horus, listening like the good brother he was. Russ, who looked even less enthused than Perturabo felt. Fulgrim, listening but not as eagerly engaged as Horus. Sanguinius, similar to Fulgrim but somehow less warm. Lion, in a similar state to Russ but less expressive about it. And Rogal fucking Dorn, droning on about some compliance in a sector of space on the opposite side of the galaxy from Perturabo’s posting.
Perturabo pinched the bridge of his nose. It felt like his guts were beginning to squirm, a sure sign that he was probably a couple hours or so from a full-blown heat. If he could just get back on the Iron Blood, he would be fine. His suppressants would stave off the worst of it, and he would remain functional until his useless reproductive system calmed down again.
“Is there a problem with my stratagem, Perturabo?”
It took Perturabo a second to process the question preceding his name. He looked blearily at Dorn, nose wrinkling a little at the scent of angry alpha wafting from him. And now Dorn wanted to fight with him. Perfect.
“Only with making me listen to it,” Perturabo growled, hearing Russ snicker.
Dorn’s scent thickened. He would have been removed from any self-respecting court of Olympia, letting his scent just spread like that. Perturabo’s lips twitched toward a snarl.
“Why is that a problem? Is there something more important you need to attend to?” Dorn asked with a curl of his own lip.
“Yes, actually. Why do I need to hear what you’re going to do too far away from me for it to matter?” Perturabo snapped.
Dorn glowered at him.
“Because the entire point of this meeting is to share campaign strategies, something you have yet to do,” Dorn growled, his chest grumbling with an alpha’s challenge.
Perturabo… supposed Dorn might have been correct about that, but having a snarling, uncontrolled alpha challenging him was making Perturabo want to snarl back, reason be damned.
“So you actually want to hear about my work? Or would you be just as happy if I did leave now, because I clearly don’t have anything worth sharing?” he barked, shoving himself to his feet.
“Rogal, Perturabo-” Horus started, also standing up.
Dorn stalked forward a step, teeth bared, and snarled, “You’re right. Your methods won’t be useful. The rest of us take issue with the careless sacrifice of our sons.”
“ROGAL!” Horus barked, his own scent flaring, but Perturabo was already half-way over the table, a furious omega scream ringing in his chest.
Russ of all people stopped him, arms locking around his middle and yanking him to a halt before he could tackle Dorn.
“Don’t kill him!” Russ shouted into Perturabo’s back, “I know what he said but you can’t kill him!”
Perturabo almost ripped free of Russ’ hold before a second set of hands latched onto his shoulders. Lion, letting his nearly-imperceptible beta-scent of petrichor flow around Perturabo, which mostly served to make him angrier.
“Let GO of me! If Dorn wants a fight that bad he’ll have one!” Perturabo roared, yanking against his brothers.
Fulgrim appeared in Perturabo’s vision and ripped Russ’ hands away from him.
“Stop it! You’ll hurt him!” Fulgrim yelled, which did more to calm Perturabo than Lion’s scent by virtue of confusing him.
“EVERYONE STOP!”
Perturabo froze, same as everyone else, as Horus stormed forward and began pushing everyone away from each other, including pushing Perturabo back to his side of the table. The fury in Horus’ command and scent made Perturabo want to apologize, in spite of not really knowing what to apologize for. Dorn had started it.
Perturabo noticed that Sanguinius also had to be separated from Dorn, who looked a little abashed and a lot shocked.
“Sit down,” Horus demanded, and they all did.
He turned to Perturabo, the concern in his eyes dampened by disappointment.
“Perturabo, why didn’t you tell me you were about to enter heat? I wouldn’t have asked you to come if I’d known!”
Which meant they all could smell him. Perturabo made a gesture of vague confusion, trying to hide the humiliation coiling in his jaw.
“What does that have to do with anything?” he asked, “I was less prepared for this meeting to last as long as it has than I would have liked, but it’s nothing I haven’t had to do before.”
“What do you mean by that?” Fulgrim exclaimed, his expression one of heavy distress.
Perturabo (and Lion, he noticed) frowned at Fulgrim, who folded his hands primly and said, “You’re in heat. You shouldn’t be doing anything but nesting.”
Perturabo stared at him, dumbfounded.
“I’m hardly invalid-” he started, but Sanguinius interrupted.
“You’re in heat, Perturabo. Do you have someone you can spend it with?”
Perturabo felt the humiliation rise higher in his face.
“That is an extremely invasive-”
“He doesn’t have to tell you-”
“What bearing does that have-”
Perturabo stopped and looked at Lion and Horus, both of whom had started talking at the same time as him. Then, to Perturabo’s shock, Dorn spoke up.
“That is none of our business, Sanguinius.”
Perturabo shot a suspicious look at Dorn, who looked almost shellshocked. He met Perturabo’s look with an expression of… sorrow? Something other than his reawakening reproductive organs sank in his abdomen.
“I didn’t know you were an omega,” Dorn said quietly, looking almost horrified.
Perturabo’s desire to rip his face off gained a second wind.
On Olympia, one’s secondary gender was less important than one’s primary. It was considered uncouth at best to display your secondary characteristics in public, and in most establishments doing so would see you removed from the premises. Your primary was what mattered. Male or female was what defined your social roles; your secondary was for your partner alone, and it did not have any bearing on anything else.
Perturabo had learned fast that Olympia was odd in that regard.
His tendency to keep his scent-glands covered and his heats private had proved a boon when on worlds that considered all omegas lesser. Most saw him as a beta, or a particularly recalcitrant alpha, and Perturabo had experienced enough interactions on various worlds to pick up on how often omegas, like the women on Olympia, were looked down on.
They were fragile, they were weak, they were everything Perturabo was not, which still made precious little sense to him. His secondary did little to his physical capabilities other than inconvenience him on-schedule for a short time. His spars with Magnus and his own combat record had proven that much.
“If you say something stupid about how you never would have said that if you’d known I was an omega…” Perturabo growled.
Dorn grimaced a little, and Russ scoffed.
“Of course he wouldn’t have. Although, if you bite his throat out now, I’ll defend your right to do so.”
Horus glowered at Russ.
“No one is biting anyone’s throat out,” he said slowly and firmly, “and if you all could stop acting like this changes anything, I would greatly appreciate it.”
“Horus, he’s an omega,” Fulgrim hissed, as if he thought Perturabo wouldn’t hear him, “He’s in pre-heat, nearly full! He shouldn’t be anywhere near the frontlines!”
“Fulgrim’s right, Horus,” Sanguinius said, his wings ruffling oddly - bristling, actually - “Perturabo needs time off.”
“I am right here!” Perturabo snapped.
Russ leaned in and said, “The frontlines are exactly where an omega belongs. It’s better for them to have an enemy to rip to shreds instead of a family member.”
Perturabo slowly raised his hands, a mix of fury and sheer incredulity mixing as a low growl in his chest. He was going to beat Fulgrim into the table using Sanguinius, and then add Dorn to the pile. How fucking dare they? All of them?
Lion stood up suddenly. All eyes shifted to him. He looked all of them over, eyes narrowed.
“Horus is right. This changes nothing. Perturabo, if you are not feeling well, we will reconvene with you later. The rest of you: did Perturabo’s performance before now give you any cause for concern?”
Perturabo could see his brothers exchange looks, and gritted his teeth. He folded his hands together and clenched them hard.
“Exactly. His status has had no effect on his work up to now, and I see no reason to believe that that will change just because you’re all now aware of it. Perturabo, do you need to return to your ship?”
Perturabo wanted to say no. He could feel the tar-like pity oozing from Fulgrim and Sanguinius, and Dorn’s expression was pleading for a solid punch or four. He did not want to give them more reason to call him inadequate.
Still, he did need his suppressants. The excitement had likely shortened his internal clock, and he had no desire to suffer through a full heat.
“Yes,” he said stiffly.
Horus nodded, and shot a glare at Fulgrim, Sanguinius, and Dorn.
“Go ahead. I’ll send you the notes for whatever you miss, although I suspect we’re not going to make much progress after this.”
Perturabo tried not to silently snarl at that, but it was hard. This was why he kept his private life private. Letting others in never led to anything good.
He got up and stalked out of the meeting room. Everyone who happened to be in his path quickly removed themselves, unwilling to risk catching his attention while he looked so enraged. Perturabo made it to his ship, and his room, unapproached.
The suppressants were a handful of tiny pills that Perturabo was seriously considering making an injection so this could never happen again. It would be a little difficult, but he was sure he could manage to overcome the need for ingestion. Once he’d taken his nap, and his body stopped trying to mutiny against him, he’d start designing it.
Perturabo woke up to a vox call.
“What?” he asked, noting that it had been just long enough that he felt hot and sticky but not insane, which meant the suppressants were doing their job.
“Lord, you have a visitor heading your way. We couldn’t stop him.”
Forrix sounded apologetic. Perturabo sighed.
“Which one?” he asked.
“Dorn.”
Which was just perfect. Perturabo rolled out of bed and threw on a himatary, deciding that he really didn’t care what Dorn thought of him at the moment. Dorn was lucky Perturabo felt like answering the door at all.
Unsurprisingly, Dorn looked repentant and awkward when Perturabo met him in the doorway of his quarters. Surprisingly, he was holding a box.
“I have been informed of my misconduct,” Dorn said, his spine ramrod straight, “and I am here to make amends.”
“By interrupting my oh-so-important rest?” Perturabo asked with a hint of bite.
Dorn didn’t rise to his challenge, which was so out of character that Perturabo considered making up some insult about Sigismund to try and get a reaction. Instead, he held out the box.
“This is for you.”
Perturabo stared at it, then sighed and took the box, flipping it open and freezing.
There was a quilt inside. A soft, plush quilt with Inwit patterns sewn into it. It… there was no way Dorn knew what a gift like that meant on Olympia. Surely he had no idea.
“It is customary to offer nesting material to an omega family member,” Dorn said after a moment of Perturabo just staring at his quilt, “Normally, this would have been done on the first heat, but-”
“Who was this for originally?” Perturabo asked, his voice tighter than he intended.
Dorn frowned at him.
“No one, really. I had been informed, when I was found, that some of my brothers were omegas, so I made gifts for them in preparation. This one… has been gathering dust, I admit, but it wasn’t made for anyone else.”
Some of the tension left Perturabo’s body. An Inwit tradition between family. Good. Excellent, even, because Perturabo was not prepared to handle everything that sort of gift embodied in Olympian culture being offered by Rogal Dorn of all people.
“...fine.”
Perturabo turned to go back into his room.
“Perturabo?”
He paused and glanced over his shoulder at Dorn, who seemed to be struggling to articulate something.
“I should not have said what I did. Not because you’re an omega, but because it was cruel. You are… an excellent commander, and we are lucky to have you,” Dorn finally said, looking almost proud of himself.
Perturabo couldn’t help but quirk an eyebrow at him.
“Were those Horus’ words verbatim or did you summarize them?” he asked.
Dorn’s expression flickered with annoyance, but again, instead of rising to Perturabo’s jab, he shook his head and exhaled.
“They were Lion’s,” Dorn said, and Perturabo rolled his eyes.
“Go away, Dorn, and let me rest.”
Just as infuriating, Dorn just nodded and didn’t even mention Perturabo’s rudeness.
“You also need time to yourself; your earlier strategy was inefficient.”
That got Dorn to glare at Perturabo properly and begin yelling, but Perturabo shut his door before he could make any sound but an offended inhale. It hadn’t actually been bad, Dorn’s idea, but Perturabo would rather have Dorn furious with him on his own merit than coddling over something neither of them had control over.
He did regret it a little when Horus came to his room hours later to lecture him about trying to get along with his brothers.