Chapter Text
Gallagher knew it was a waste of time and money. Remarkable as the craftsmanship was, both rings combined had divested him of three paychecks' worth of savings. All the while, he'd known Sunday wouldn't even give the ring a second glance.
Strangely, Sunday didn't pull away when Gallagher put it on his finger, either. It probably hadn't been the most upsetting revelation of the week.
It had started on Monday. They were standing in the kitchen, with Sunday staring at the coffee maker as if it were a bomb about to go off, all while Sleepie gnawed on a bone in the far corner. An ordinary morning.
Just as ordinary was the alarm Gallagher had set up; he was careful to brew Sunday his morning coffee without delay. He enjoyed preparing drinks, alcoholic or otherwise, and despite Sunday's incessant slander, he was capable of small gestures of servitude. No matter what Sunday whispered to the ceiling at night, Gallagher didn't intend to make life a literal hell for him.
That's why... a good nine weeks into their little domestic experiment, Gallagher had already figured out that Sunday preferred the rich, bitter aroma of a dark roast, the type that cost them half a fortune but Gallagher bought without complaint.
On this particular Monday, though, Sunday gagged. Gallagher could tell it was not the usual performance, but an involuntary spasm that doubled him over the counter.
"Whoa, easy there."
Gallagher's hand was on his back instantly. But Sunday only swatted him away, straightening up with a gasp.
"Don't touch me. The coffee... it's rancid. When did you buy this, you imbecile?"
Gallagher frowned, muttered something about "so much for gratitude," before picking up the bag. He sniffed it once. Twice.
"Bought it yesterday. Smells fine to me. High-grade stuff, too. The kind you like."
"It's spoiled," Sunday snapped, turning away to escape the scent. "Throw it out."
Gallagher didn't move though. Later, they would both remember him like that—coffee bag in hand—watching Sunday, while his own expression slid from confusion—brows raised, jaw tight, sneer already forming—into calculation—eyes narrowing, grin locking into place.
Gallagher then took a step closer, inhaling not the coffee, but the air around Sunday, robbing his omega of breath. For Sunday knew that look. He recognized it as the look of a hound catching a scent on the wind, the same look that had first proven to him he was exposed, that it was all over.
"Step back," Sunday warned, his hand drifting to the knife block. A useless gesture, but an instinctive one. Gallagher ignored him, of course, opting to lean in, to bury his nose in the crook of Sunday's neck, right over the scent gland he had so gleefully envenomated nine weeks prior.
And then, Gallagher took a long, deep drag of air. And Sunday only shuddered, revulsion crawling up his spine.
"Get off—"
The demand alerted Sleepie, who let out a confused wail. Gallagher indeed pulled back, but he didn't let go. His hands gripped Sunday's shoulders only ever so slightly tighter, pinning him in place.
And then, he smiled. Even Gallagher himself knew it wasn't his usual mocking grin. He didn't look in the mirror all that often. Not many photos of him existed. So surely, only Sunday would ever see it, the smile of pure, self-satisfied gluttony. The smile of a man who had just checked his bank account and found a deposit he wasn't expecting.
"Well, well," Gallagher rumbled, his voice vibrating in his own chest. "Looks like my aim is better than I thought."
And Sunday stared at him, the blood draining from his face.
"What are you talking about?"
"You really don't smell it?" Gallagher chuckled, a thrumming sound that grated against the ears.
"Milk. And something sweet... like vanilla. It's faint, but it's there."
He moved one hand from Sunday's shoulder down to his flat stomach, where he pressed his palm against the fabric of Sunday's shirt, right over his navel. He imagined the heat of his palm burning right through the fabric.
"You're knocked up, Birdie."
Even for Gallagher, the kitchen, the smell of the coffee, the hum of the refrigerator ... It all vanished, leaving only the weight of his own hand on his omega's stomach.
"No," Sunday whispered. Denial? Plea? Didn't matter. Gallagher's answer would have been the same:
"Oh, yes."
His grin widened until it showed teeth. He felt nauseatingly proud, like he had just built a whole house with his bare hands.
"I knew it. I felt it that night. You took it so well... your body wanted this so badly."
Gallagher then leaned down, pressing a rough kiss to Sunday's forehead.
"The lads at the bar are going to lose their goddamn minds," Gallagher murmured against his skin, talking to himself. "Knocked my omega up with my first knot while it took some of them years."
Gallagher patted Sunday's stomach one last time—two firm taps, like a job well done—and turned back to the coffee maker.
"I'll make you some tea," Gallagher said cheerfully, whistling a tune. "Decaf, of course. Gotta start taking better care of you now."
"It's about time I bought you a ring. We need papers. No way I'm raising pups with the roadkill I took in."
There were no hospitals, of course. No paper trails for a dead man walking, even a dead bitch. Instead, there were monthly visits to a man Gallagher and the others only referred to as the "vet." Professional as the man might be, it didn't take a genius to figure out that the "vet" was more accustomed to digging bullets out of enforcers' shoulders than monitoring fetal heartbeats.
Sunday endured the cold stirrups and the basement clinic's flickering lights in silence, treating every check-up like an interrogation he refused to crack under. He lied about everything, even the trivial things; how he felt, how old he was, the circumstances of the conception. It was the same strategy he'd used on Mythus: staring down the very man who had "gifted" him to Gallagher as a nice little performance bonus, only to feed him nothing but half-truths.
Sunday gave Gallagher the same unreadable expression when five months later, he built him a nursery in one of the empty rooms. It was his proudest work yet. The stench of fresh paint lingered for weeks, and so did his pride. And four months after that—following a delivery that required more towels and whiskey than medical equipment—the nursery now smelled of powder and warm milk. It was a scent so aggressively innocent it made Gallagher's teeth itch.
He stood in the doorway, a defined silhouette painted against the buttery light of the room, watching. Even Sleepie looked softer, smaller, almost a puppy again in this light, lying guard not far away from Sunday.
Sunday sat in the rocking chair by the window. He was still wearing one of Gallagher's old flannels, the sleeves rolled up to accommodate forearms that had lost their definition over the course of his pregnancy.
In his arms, the baby—a squirming, red-faced thing that had finally decided to sleep—nursed with a greedy quiet that somehow carried its own distinct rhythm. Gallagher hadn't expected much personality from a mere infant. But he remembered holding his son right after the birth, how the boy had gripped Gallagher's bloodied finger as if daring him to let go, to deprive him of anything…
It made Gallagher realize that it wasn't Sunday he must have violated the most that day, but Sunday's parents. Muddying the bloodline of the father—and hadn't he muddied it? Their son was mundanely human, without a single Halovian trait to be seen—and defiling the lovely thing the mother had bled to bring into the world.
And yet, Gallagher felt the same way about that tragedy as he did about the steak he ate for dinner. For it was the same tragedy, really: a cow birthing a calf only for it to be consumed. A tragedy humans repeated over and over, without losing a wink of sleep. So, it was up to Gallagher to ensure his son never ended up on the chopping block, because only two people cared, and one of them was too weak to do anything about it.
Speaking of weak, Gallagher had expected Sunday to look at the child, at Conall, with the same cold, high-chinned disdain he used to reserve for Mythus's envoys. For cannon fodder enforcers like Gallagher.
Instead, Sunday looked… busy. His head was bowed, his gaze fixed on the infant's sleeping face with a peaceful focus. His halo, dimmer now after all that blood loss (but still unmistakable, always unmistakable) cast an auroral glow over the child's sparse hair. One of Sunday's fingers, long and elegant, traced the curve of the baby's ear, then moved to adjust the blanket, tucking it tighter.
Gallagher took a step inside. The floorboard creaked shyly.
Sunday didn't flinch.
He didn't look up, either.
He didn't even pause the gentle, hypnotic motion of the rocking chair.
"Finally out?" Gallagher asked. His voice sounded too loud, too rough for this room, like it came from a giant trying to cram his way inside.
"He was hungry," Sunday murmured. His voice was mellow, stripped of its old oratorical power, flattened into something purely functional. He still didn't look up, but at least he entertained Gallagher for a conversation. "He eats like a starving animal."
Gallagher felt a weird, prickly heat in his chest. Pride? Maybe. Or maybe just that phantom pain again, the one that sparked whenever Sunday did something so undeniably… wifely.
He walked over, looming over the chair. He wanted Sunday to look at him. He wanted to glimpse the hateful sunset of that night once more, or maybe something new, maybe fear, something that acknowledged him as the architect who had envisioned this scene months ago, in Siobhan's car.
But Sunday's world had shrunk. It had contracted until it fit entirely within the circle of his own arms.
"He's got my appetite," Gallagher said, a clumsy attempt to insert himself into the equation.
Sunday's porcelain hand paused on the baby's back. For a second, just a second, the muscles in his jaw tightened, and Gallagher was greeted with that old, beautiful tension. But then he exhaled, a weary sound that was half a sigh, half a chant for the evil man to go away.
"Yes," Sunday said. "It appears so." He looked down at the baby, who had unlatched and was now drifting into a milk-drunk stupor. He used his thumb to wipe a drop of milk from Conall's chin, a gesture so tender, so instinctive, it made Gallagher feel like he was watching a sappy scene from a commercial.
But then, as if only belatedly noticing Gallagher's presence, Conall started crying again. A reedy sound that had been drilling into the apartment walls since they returned from the makeshift delivery room, only briefly interrupted by moments of nursing and sleep.
Sunday, as if he were a reanimated corpse, began to move his arms with a jerky, mechanical rhythm as he rocked Conall in his arms. Huh. The strain of birth must have taken a toll on him, after all.
"Give him here," Gallagher said. "You're doing it too fast."
Sunday didn't stop. He didn't even seem to hear him. He just kept rocking, his eyes fixed on a stain on the carpet where Sleepie had puked earlier. Gallagher noted the disarray of his hair, spilling over the shoulder of the flannels Gallagher had forced on him; all because the buttons on his own shirts were too fiddly for nursing.
"Sunday."
The omega stopped. It was rare for Gallagher to address him directly by name. He then blinked, slowly, like he was waking up from a trance. He turned to look at Gallagher, at the man whom he had to thank for putting him in this position, and for a second, Gallagher felt a swell of that familiar, pathetic pride. Look at us, he thought. Up at 3 AM with the pup. Just like normal people.
"You're panicking. He's clearly uncomfortable," Gallagher said. "Let me take him for a bit. Your arms must be tired."
He reached out, his hand landing on Sunday's twitching shoulder.
The reaction was instant, as if Gallagher's hands were scalding hot. Sunday, for the first time since their woeful meeting, flinched—not a dramatic jump, but a vibrating tension that ran down Gallagher's own spine. He twisted away, turning his body so the baby was as hidden from Gallagher's view as he could manage in the chair, wedged between Sunday's chest and the wall.
"He's fine," Sunday whispered.
"I'm just trying to help," Gallagher said, annoyance prickling at the back of his neck. "That's half my DNA. I never hit you, I've sworn off alcohol, what makes you think I'd harm our child?"
Sunday finally turned his head. He looked at Gallagher, and there was no emptiness in his eyes now. In its place, there was only a terrifying surplus of feeling… a heartbreakingly desperate, possessive heat.
"He doesn't need you," Sunday said. "He's calm. Listen."
And against his better judgment, Gallagher did listen. Indeed. The crying had stopped. Conall was nuzzling into Sunday's neck, grunting out contented sighs. Being pressed closer to the source of his mother's scent was all it took to calm him.
Sunday dropped his chin, rubbing his cheek against his baby's head, humming that strange, vibrating Halovian melody again.
To Gallagher, the scene was agonizing. The melody was a wall of sound. He only stood there, his hand still hovering in the air where Sunday's shoulder had been. He watched Sunday plant kisses all over their baby—lingering kitten-kisses that looked like he was trying to breathe life into the kid.
"See?" Sunday murmured to the baby, ignoring Gallagher completely. "You're safe. I've got you. Just me. My sweet Raphael."
Just me. And there was that name again, Raphael, the name Sunday had reserved for his baby bump. Gallagher had always envisioned his late uncle's name for his firstborn son: Conall Gallagher. It was the name the boy bore on the papers, the name he would attend school with. And even back at the "vet's" office, Sunday had only nodded it away, as if Gallagher's insistence was a mere afterthought.
The pride in Gallagher's chest curdled. He wasn't part of this "normal moment" between Sunday and "Raphael." Sunday had built a world in the space of two square feet, an empire made of skin, milk and whispers, of "I love yous," of psychic melodies that evaded Gallagher because he was hollow and human, leaving him stuck outside the borders.
Gallagher stared at Sunday's back: at the curve of his spine hunched protectively over the child. At that moment, it felt like Sunday was stealing something from him, right in front of his face.
"You really like it, don't you?" Gallagher's voice was low.
Sunday didn't turn. "Like what?"
"Playing mommy."
Gallagher felt his shoes dig into the floorboards as if each word he spewed was a nail cementing him in place. He let a lazy, cruel grin spread across his face, the strain in his face heavier than the ache in his gut. "I mean, look at you. You're a natural at this! Who knew the high-and-mighty Oak Head was just born to be a broodmare? You never voiced even a single word of complaint."
Sunday stiffened. His hand paused on the baby's back. But he didn't speak. He just resumed rubbing the infant's spine, an infuriantingly symmetric circle as if engraving the motion into memory.
"Why not? The shoe fits," Gallagher chuckled, devoid of warmth and humor. "I was worried you'd be colder. More... detached. But you're obsessed with the pup. Can't put him down. Can't let anyone else touch him."
He paused, waiting. Waiting for a snap back. A glare. An insult, perhaps? Anything. But Sunday just kept rubbing. Rub, rub, rub. Ignoring him.
"Since you love it so much," Gallagher drawled, pitching his voice a little louder, "maybe we shouldn't wait too long for the next one. Why stop at one, right? This apartment has plenty of rooms. We could fill them all up."
Silence. Sunday only swallowed audibly, as if wishing to rid himself of the vile taste Gallagher's words left behind, just like that. He adjusted the blanket, and Gallagher was back to just being background noise, like the hum of the radiator.
Gallagher leaned forward. "I'm thinking four or five," he whispered into Sunday's ear, watching his profile intently. "Maybe a little girl next. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Someone to dress up in those frilly little dresses you used to buy for your sister. Or maybe twins. Yeah... twins would really keep your hands full. You wouldn't have time to think about anything else. Just feeding and changing and nursing until you forget what it was like to wear a suit."
Gallagher felt a spike of searing rage. He wanted it to hurt. Mentioning the beloved sister had felt like explosives escaping his lips. Yet… nothing.
"And you know the best part?" Gallagher whispered once more, close enough to smell the milk and disinfectant on Sunday's skin. "By the time we're on number five, you won't even remember being Sunday. You'll just be 'Mom.' You'll be so busy drowning in diapers and spit-up that you'll thank me for it. You'll thank me for giving you a purpose that actually sticks, that can't be taken away from you so easily, because unlike your title, this one is written in flesh and blood and can be seen even under the microscope."
Sunday stopped. He exhaled as if he knew he'd allow Gallagher a small victory by acknowledging his presence. And yet… Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he turned his head. He looked Gallagher dead in the eye.
"Are you finished?" he asked. His voice was flat. "Or do you have more chauvinistic fantasies you need to jerk off to?"
Jerk… off to? The insult landed perfectly. The vulgar choice of words proved how much Sunday had changed, from blushing virgin to Gallagher's personal whore, but the more Gallagher had changed him, body and mind, the more of an intruder Gallagher felt like next to him.
Sunday still had the faculties (or perhaps he had them more so than ever) to look at Gallagher's grand, terrifying threat and convince himself it was nothing but a pathetic attempt to get attention.
And just like that, Gallagher's grin vanished. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. But he didn't snap. He didn't yell. A strange, calm clarity settled over him—the kind that usually came right before he pulled a trigger or signed off on a mission that could very well kill him.
"Fantasies?" Gallagher repeated softly. He moved so fast Sunday didn't have time to shield Conall from the sight of his own father. Gallagher's hand shot out, not to strike, but to grab Sunday's jaw, forcing him to look at him. He squeezed hard enough to bruise, to prove he was a formidable alpha showing his years in the business, watching Sunday's eyes widen.
"You think I'm trying to be funny here? That I'm joking?" Gallagher's breath ghosted over Sunday's lips. A week ago, he had captured those lips in a kiss, helped him drown out the reflexive sounds of an omega's pleasure. Gallagher had been riding a euphoric high that night ... a shame that the memory didn't help stifle his rage.
"You think because I let you play house with this one, I've gone soft? You think there are lengths I won't go to just to prove a point?"
He released Sunday's jaw with a shove and reached for the nightstand, yanking open the drawer.
He pulled out the box of condoms. Gallagher had made a big show of bringing them home that night. He had promised he'd be satisfied as long as he got an alpha heir out of their arrangement. If their son, if Conall, showed early signs, Sunday would never have to see the "vet" again. Because maybe, just maybe, Sunday had learned his lesson, maybe Gallagher could rest, maybe they could both rest—
He looked at the box for a second, then looked at Sunday. With a sneer, he crushed it in his hand, the cardboard crumpling jarringly loud in the room. He tossed the mangled package into the trash can in the corner. It hit the bottom with a final, hollow thud.
Sunday clutched the baby tighter against his chest, his eyes darting from the trash can to Gallagher's face.
"Gallagher—"
"No," Gallagher cut him off. He wasn't smiling anymore. "You wanted to call my bluff? Fine. Let's start the clock on number two right now."
He loomed over Sunday, an inevitable shadow. "Doc said six weeks for recovery, right? You better start counting the days, Birdie. You better start hoping he's not underselling the time limit. Because the second you're cleared, I'm filling you up again. And again."
Sunday stared at him, and finally, finally, the boredom was gone. In its place was the hard-earned realization that he had pushed the wrong button.
"Gallagher, wait," Sunday stammered, shrinking back into his chair. "He's... he's awake. Yes, he doesn't understand us yet, but you cannot possibly wish for him to hear his own father speak like that?"
Huh. Suddenly Gallagher was acknowledged as the father, just like that. Only took cruelty to get there.
"Ideally, he'll have a little brother or sister before he's old enough to remember a single bad thing his Daddy said."
Gallagher felt exhausted to the bone. And as if Sunday had read his thoughts—or perhaps some white noise leaked out of even a hollow man—he said:
"You look tired, Gallagher. Is it really that exhausting? Having to keep being a monster all the time?"
Oh, hitting him with the psychoanalysis card? At this hour? Just because Sunday had a scholarship and a degree from the most prestigious university in the country, he thought he could win an argument here?
"Whatever," Gallagher spat. "Nothing has ever come easier to me, but you wouldn't know."
"The correct expression is 'more easily,' you dimwit."
Let him talk. Words would never weigh as much as their son's breath ... the warm, crying proof resting in Sunday's arms that Gallagher could always win. Easily. Conall wasn't the consequence of a philosophical (or grammatical) debate, only that of biological pragmatism. Gallagher didn't need a diploma or good grades to make Sunday pull those funny faces every night as he came on his knot. He could always win. Again, and again…
"Night, wife." He did not intend it as a goodbye, but as a commencement.
And again, and again, and again…
Gallagher hadn't shown his face around these parts for months. Tonight, the bar was especially loud, a backdrop of noise that usually helped Gallagher think. But tonight was different. The thickness in his blood didn't come from the alcohol, but from the weight resting in his vest pocket.
"Tonight, we celebrate the new dad! Cheers, Gal!" Callahan bellowed.
A roar of approval swept through the room. Glasses clinked—amber lagers, neon cocktails, shots of cheap whiskey—all raised in a salute as uneven as the teeth of the mobsters Gallagher usually shot. Even a few shadows in the back booths lifted their cups, acknowledging a man they didn't know, but whose tab was clearly open.
With a triumphant smirk, Gallagher took his phone out of his vest, and slid it across the damp wood of the booth table. On the screen was the photo from this morning: Sunday, pale and infuriatingly ethereal, bathed in sunlight that seemed dull compared to his own studio-light radiance. Pressed against his chest was the baby: very mundane, very human, and much better suited for the natural lighting. And still, with Sunday's beauty alone, together, they looked like a scene right from a movie.
Amelie stared at it. Then she laughed: a familiar, incredulous bark.
"Bullshit," she spat, sliding the phone back. "Nice try, Gal. Who is he? Some model you clipped from a magazine? A paid actor? Or did you finally learn how to use Photoshop?"
"He's my wife," Gallagher said calmly, taking a sip of his beer.
"Get real," another enforcer chimed in, snorting. "Look at him. That's... that's a Halovian! A high society beau. I recognize 'I have a villa in the sun-lit part of the city' money when I see it. He'd get married to a famous director or a celebrity chef or whatever ... wouldn't even look twice at a guy who smells like cheap tobacco and dog hair."
A fourth voice spoke up:
"Yeah, he's way out of your league, man. It's not even funny."
Gallagher felt a prickle of irritation. He opened his mouth to argue, to tell them exactly how he had dragged that perfect angel down into the mud, but a voice cut across the table.
"It's true."
Siobhan.
She was slumped in the corner of the booth, nursing a whiskey that looked like her fourth or fifth. Her usually sharp eyes were glazed, her eyeshadow smudged at the corners, her foundation cakey. She hadn't spoken for an hour, just drinking with a grim determination that bordered on professional.
She pointed a wavering finger at the phone. "It's true," she slurred, the words stumbling over each other. "I've seen them. They're... quite the odd couple."
The table went quiet. Siobhan wasn't known for lying. She wasn't known for these types of jokes, either. Normally, she'd argue against the idea that every Halovian was born into old money. But she couldn't exactly defend Sunday when he was practically the poster child for the stereotype.
"Wait." Callahan looked from her to Gallagher. "You're serious? You've actually seen this guy? In Gal's apartment?"
Siobhan let out a laugh that sounded more like a choke. She swirled her glass, staring into the amber liquid as if it held a verdict … or her remaining dignity.
"Of course I have, have spoken to him via telepathy, too," she whispered. She shuddered, a full-body tremor that she tried to hide by hunching her shoulders. "God... I wish I hadn't. I really wish I hadn't. It's... it's keeping me up at night."
For a second, the raw, naked trauma in her voice hung in the air. Gallagher could guess: Siobhan was remembering the car ride. The way Sunday had looked in the backseat. The noises behind the steel door as she stood guard in the gray-lit hallway. And whatever self-pitying bullshit Sunday must have beamed into her head.
"Whoa," the young enforcer chuckled, nudging Callahan. "Hear that? 'Keeping her up at night.' Someone's jealous."
"No kidding," Callahan grinned, leaning toward her. "That stings, doesn't it, Siobhan? You always had a thing for the pretty human beta girls. A real freak. Have your alpha instincts finally woken up?" He gestured loosely at the phone. "Must kill you to see a face like that waking up next to Gal's ugly mug instead of yours. You could have propagated your race, but instead you get to watch us toast a mongrel's birth."
"No," she said, her head snapping up. Her voice kept rising, cracking with panic toward the end. "No, you don't understand. I'm not into that shit. I couldn't care less he has a halo and that everyone has the hots for him or whatever. Let me tell you, I am absolutely—"
Gallagher moved.
He didn't lunge, nor did he slam the table. He had every reason to, but still, he simply shifted his weight, his designer dress shoes finding Siobhan's worn-out stilettos under the table and pressing down—hard. At the same time, he draped his arm over the back of the booth behind her, his hand landing on her shoulder.
His fingers dug in. Just a little. Just enough to pinch the nerve near the neck, a warning grip he used on unruly subordinates.
"Haha, stop it, Missus," Gallagher boomed, his voice drowning out her next words. He offered the table a wide, easy grin, but his eyes were fixed on Siobhan's profile, watching her with the cold certainty of a man looking at a corpse.
"Horrified? Come on, Siobhan. I know I'm no beauty queen, but I'm not that unsightly." He shook her slightly, playing it off as rough affection. "My wife loves me just fine. He likes them older and rough around the edges."
He squeezed her shoulder harder. Shut up, the grip said. Remember who drove the car. Remember who helped me tie him up. You're as much responsible for Conall's very existence as I am.
"Isn't that right, Siobhan? He's all over me."
Siobhan froze. She looked at Gallagher—really looked at him—and saw the "empty man" staring back. The one who had barged into Mythus's office in lieu of a mission report, smelling of sex and blood, spinning the mission gone awry as some triumph they could leverage against any remaining followers of Sunday's ideology. Mythus hadn't believed it, of course. He could have broadcast Sunday's omega status to humiliate him; instead he pronounced him dead on the spot. But he hadn't escorted Gallagher out of his office either, hadn't demoted him, and as if in reward for sparing him another dull day at the office, he had simply gifted him Sunday on a silver platter—provided he kept his omega's true identity under wraps.
She realized, with a drunk's sudden clarity, that if she spoke, she wouldn't just be exposing Gallagher; she might have to return to that office and spill what had actually happened.
The fight drained out of her, leaving her small and gray against the leather seat.
"Yeah," she whispered, picking up her glass with a trembling hand to hide her mouth. "Yeah. He... he really loves you, old man."
"See?" Gallagher released her shoulder, patting it once like one would pat a dog much smaller than Sleepie. He turned back to Callahan, his chest swelling with a dark, toxic pride. "Told you. Now, who's buying the next round for the new dad?"
"I'm buying!" The young enforcer slammed a credit chip on the table. "But you gotta tell us, Gal. How? Did he fall from the sky? Did you save him from a burning building? What's his name?"
Gallagher chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. He felt the weight of Siobhan's gaze on the side of his face. He leaned back, spreading his arms across the top of the booth, expanding his silhouette until he seemed to consume all the air in the corner.
"Something like that," Gallagher said, his eyes glinting with a storyteller's malice. "Found him on the side of the road, actually. Late one night. My little Birdie."
He paused, letting the image settle. Siobhan made a small, strangled noise into her glass. Gallagher ignored it.
"He was lost," he continued, spinning the narrative with the ease of a man who had rehearsed it in the mirror. "Looking for a ride. He didn't know where he was going, just knew he couldn't stay where he was. Family matters and all, they didn't leave him many choices. He looked... fragile. Like a strong wind would blow him away. So, I opened the door."
"Haha! Not with noble intentions, of course. But he was none the wiser."
He looked directly at Callahan."I told him, 'Get in. I'll take you where you need to be.' And he did. He got right in the back seat. Trusting little thing."
"And?" Callahan leaned in, captivated. "Just like that?"
"Just like that," Gallagher smirked. "Took a bit of convincing to get him to stay, of course. He's got a bit of a temper. High-born types always do when they don't get their way immediately. But he learned. He realized pretty quickly that he was better off with me than wandering the streets. It just took him a while to admit he has a thing for human alphas."
"Unbelievable," Amelie muttered, shaking her head. But there was respect in her voice now. "He's younger too, wow. You really are a lucky bastard."
"I make my own luck," Gallagher corrected. "Though I regret not being able to meet up as much going forward. He's very insistent on having a big family."
He finished his beer in one long swallow, the bitter liquid washing away the last of his inhibition. The others, once again, were anything but shy about expressing envy and disbelief.
They wouldn't hate his guts if they knew the truth; Gallagher was certain of that much. Ethics were the butt of the joke at this table. But he had grown tired of being in the same position no matter what he did… the jokes that had defined his visits for years: Gal, the notorious bachelor; Gal, the creep who couldn't get laid without a rag and chloroform; Gal, the washed-up alpha who couldn't keep even a beta around for longer than a month.
No. "Lucky bastard" sounded much better.
He stood up, the booth creaking in relief.
"Enjoy the drinks, boys and girls. And you, Siobhan." He dropped a heavy hand on her head, ruffling her hair aggressively, messing up the severe cut she usually kept so pristine. She only sat like a stone statue, waiting for the pigeon to fly away. "Get some sleep. You look like you've seen a ghost."
Gallagher walked out of the bar, the chorus of goodbyes and "Cheers, Casanova!" following him out into the cold night.
The walk home was a blur of neon lights and self-satisfaction. The alcohol buzzed pleasantly in his veins, not enough to make him stumble, just enough to make the world feel soft and pliable. He felt like a king returning to his castle.
He unlocked the apartment door quietly. The silence of the house was a sharp contrast to the roar of the bar, but Gallagher didn't mind.
The nursery door was ajar. Gallagher pushed it open. Sunday was exactly where he expected him to be—in the rocking chair, though the baby was now in the crib. He was awake, staring out the window at the brick wall of the adjacent building. Maybe Gallagher should purchase a TV.
He didn't turn when his alpha entered. The usual treatment, then.
"Ready to give number two another shot?" Gallagher asked, his voice a little too loud for the hushed room.
Sunday had yet to fall into heat, though it was about time. And if his heat never came, that would be all the confirmation they needed for Gallagher's virility.
"You're not drunk," Sunday observed. "Were your friends that much of a bore?"
Gallagher cackled as he stepped out of his shoes. "Oh, Birdie, you should know that I'm keenly aware of my limits."
Sunday sighed. "I find your sudden interest in moderation baffling. You've even put down the cigarettes. I can't figure you out for the life of me."
"Moderation" was a polite way to put it. Ever since Sunday arrived, the bottles that once lined the entryway had vanished. The stench of smoke no longer clung to the walls, the carpet, the curtains… Gallagher had even started bringing home decorations. They were things that never pleased Sunday, despite the hefty price tags, but they made the place livelier nonetheless.
It was a paranoid habit, really. The nagging thought that his own mother might crawl back from the grave, or perhaps a god—or worse, the police—would barge through the door and immediately see the situation for what it was. The idea of anyone looking at Sunday—at Conall—and feeling pity? The same way the social workers had looked at Gallagher, only to discard him anyway?
It made him lose his appetite. It even killed his craving for nicotine.
"To me, it's hardly a riddle," Gallagher replied, choosing to entertain Sunday before filling him up, as per their nightly ritual. "Don't you realize the space you occupy now? You aren't just some shiny new toy for me to ogle. You've simply taken the place that alcohol and cigarettes used to hold."
Sunday's shoulders tensed, but he didn't turn around. "I beg your pardon?"
"You're my stress relief."
Another sigh. "I see."
"No, you don't," Gallagher stepped closer. He was rarely this excited for the next part. "You take all the poison inside me. Your sweet body soaks up my frustration like a sponge. Why do you still look at me as if you think I hate you?"
Sunday shook his head. "You call me your bitch every night you rape me."
"Rape? That's a strong word. We've talked about this before, haven't we? If you want to classify it as rape to sleep better at night, that's fine. But it doesn't take away from the fact that you always finish before I do—"
"Enough. Enough. Raphael might hear. I'll do whatever degrading thing you want as long as it shuts your damn mouth."
Later that night, with Sunday panting on the sheets, Gallagher mouthed an admission into the skin:
"You're famous, by the way."
Sunday let out a confused moan.
"At the bar." Gallagher clarified, sliding his hands his hands underneath Sunday's clammy back, trapping him between his arms and his chest. "Showed them your picture. The one from this morning."
Sunday did something he never did, then. He did it just once. If Gallagher wasn't so close, if he didn't feel the sound reverberate against his cheek, he might have doubted his own ears: Sunday sobbed.
"You... you showed them?"
"Yeah. They think you're beautiful," Gallagher breathed out the words. He leaned down, his open mouth hovering over Sunday's swollen nipple, his breath laced with the faint, stale trace of beer.
"They're right, you know."
He latched on.
Gallagher was never one for taking photographs. He wished he could change that, but alas, he had no photos to remember the first year of Conall's childhood. He barely had time to decide on a camera, the same way the nursery barely had time to gather dust before a second crib was added.
Sunday, heavily pregnant by now (and ha! It hadn't even taken them a heat), was feeding Conall one morning, spoon scraping against the bowl with an irritating scrape. Conall seemed to loathe the sound as well, forcing Sunday to stop mid-motion.
Then, he turned to Gallagher, his expression as serious as if he were the mafia don again, discussing a trade deal. "Will the second one affect the milk supply?" he asked. "He continues to refuse solid food."
Gallagher blinked, surprised by the sudden pivot to logistics. "Maybe. Why?"
"Then we need to stock up on formula," Sunday said, returning his attention to Conall. "I won't have Raphael go hungry just because you couldn't control your impulses."
Huh. Conall was a bit of a runt, Gallagher had to admit. Nothing concerning yet—he had checked—but an alpha would definitely have progressed faster than this. It was unfortunate. Not because his legacy was at risk; he could plant another heir in Sunday easily enough; he already had. No, aside from the negligible awkwardness of honoring his beloved uncle with a wimp of a son, the main issue was the barrier it created. A beta son, or god forbid, an omega, would only validate Sunday's overprotectiveness. Gallagher could already see it: the moment the boy presented, Sunday would use his fragility as the ultimate excuse to wall the big bad alpha out of "Raphael's" life for good. Currently, Gallagher was not even allowed to help change Conall's diapers without Sunday throwing a fit.
"Fine," Gallagher muttered. "But I want to feed him some, too."
Sunday didn't answer.