Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1. nightmares

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The world is pretty fucking horrible.

No, really. It’s terrible. All around suck. Nightmares pale in comparison. Deadpool’s nightmares pale in comparison, and Deadpool’s been tortured and maimed and blown up and cut in half, plus there was that time with the hell dimension and the brief affair with Lady Death, who’s got quite the horror kink, and every bad dream he’s ever had ends up with him shooting himself in the head for a break, so yeah. The world is pretty fucking horrible.

He’s been to a couple other alternate Earths, and he’s pretty sure his is the worst one out there. The other Deadpools don’t even know how good they’ve got it. Not sure exactly how it got to be this way. Not sure who fucked up their timeline and turned the world to shit, and if he did know he’d totes be time traveling and ganking that asshat, but here it is anyway. The world in all its shitty glory.

Sometimes he’s determined to help. Pitch in and save some people. (Kill some people)

Other times, he’s too depressed to function. Those days are spent naked in bed with the covers drawn up over his face, with the voices so loud in his head that it drowns out the noise from the world outside. He both hates and loves those voices. Hates them for being assholes to him from sun up to sun down, loves them for being so loud and overpowering that they can in fact make him forget about how shitty the world is for a few blissful minutes at a time. It’s pretty sad that the best times in his life right now are when Yellow and White are yelling at him about how fucking ugly and gross and useless he is. Ah, but those are indeed the good times.

Because every time he ventures outside, reality hits all over again.

This world is fucking horrible.

Honestly, he’d fuck off to an alternate Earth forever if he could. But getting access to alternate Earths isn’t easy, and it’s even harder to convince the molecules of his body to stay in a reality that doesn’t belong to him. He gets to stay maybe three hours before his atoms all rearrange and send him hurtling back to his original Earth. Which really fucking sucks.

He can’t even kill himself.

But oh, he does try. Loads of times. Plenty of times.

All the times.

It never sticks. He wakes back up sore, dizzy, and back to square one. Stuck in this truly nightmare universe.

Deadpool isn’t the only one trapped here, of course. Not by a long shot. He’s not even an omega, so he doesn’t have to deal with all the shit they have to deal with. He isn’t the one being strapped to tables (well, besides that time in Weapon X) and chained to fence posts. He’s not the one being passed around like a piece of meat, raped and degraded and talked over and tortured. It’s not even fair that he’s depressed about the world, because he doesn’t even have any right to be depressed about the world. He’s not one of its victims. Oh sure, there’s all sorts of prejudice levied at alphas. Deadpool’s heard them all. Dumb knothead. Stupid, slow, caveman, brute. His parents, two betas, would have given him up to an alpha detainment center at birth, except they had a hard enough time getting pregnant with him and figured he’d be their only kid. Sometimes he wonders if the alpha detainment centers would have been a kinder alternative to their less-than tender caregiving.

But if alphas are a bullied minority, omegas are –

Just.

Well, Deadpool prefers not to think of it.

Prefers not to think of the brothels that take omega babies, raise them up like breeding stock, sold off at their first hint of a heat to rich sick fucks. Prefers not to think of the chains in every back alley bolted to the concrete, there for any self-respecting beta who wants to teach their omegas lessons. Deadpool’s killed his fair share of betas in those back alleys, but in this world that’s never been enough. It never actually helps the omegas to kill their owners, because then what? There’s nowhere for omegas to go. Nowhere safe. Just – the next owner. The next rich sick fuck. The next holier-than-thou beta who thinks they’re better for being born beta. When Deadpool’s finally had enough and tries to step in, it’s always the same story. The omegas see him for the dumb knothead he is and don’t even let him help them, refuse to go anywhere with him. They just – he gets them unchained and they all just – sit there in the alleys, waiting for their next beta owner, begging whoever comes by to take them and claim them.

They don’t know any other life.

And an unclaimed omega? Nothing good ever happens to them.

Other times they’re limp with exhaustion, too injured even to protest as Deadpool picks them up and walks them to a clinic. He’ll stay until they’re well enough to wake up, stay because they’ve got no one else to stay with them, even as he feels awkward and big and judged in those stuffy sterile waiting rooms. Alphas are uncommon and people like to gawk. They especially like to gawk at Deadpool, who’s not only an alpha but a scarred, scary-looking alpha. Scaring people has its advantages when he’s on a job, but shit does it suck when he’s just trying to help. There isn’t any room for a scarred, big ugly alpha in this world to offer anyone help. Nobody accepts anything from him and it’s all – it’s all just –

Fucking horrible, okay?

He’s wearing a hoodie pulled low over his face, hands gloved, no skin showing unless someone draws close enough to peer under the hood and glimpse his face. He doesn’t like to go outside, but sometimes he needs groceries and sometimes he likes to check on Weasel, one of the good ones in a world full of shitty ones. Weasel’s a beta, but he hires alphas, and he doesn’t leer at the omegas. He’s all monosyllabic and neutral grays, and he isn’t ashamed to be friends with Wade the way most people would be. He owns a bar in one of the shadier areas of town, caters to all sorts of criminals… but it’s good. When the entire world sucks ass, petty criminals are some of the least shitty humans to hang with. They’ve all been at the bottom, so they fit. Deadpool isn’t someone who fits in a lot of places. Sister Margaret’s might be one of the only places, in fact.

That’s why he’s maybe a little protective of it.

So when he trudges up to Sister Margaret’s tonight and sees the newly-installed hitching post by the front door, sees the one nude omega who’s tied to it by her wrists and kneeling, shivering, on the sidewalk, Deadpool sees red.

He stomps past the post, jerks the steel door open so hard it clangs against the brick wall. Inside, people are drinking and playing pool and smoking, but the buzz of the familiar atmosphere stops as soon as he enters, like a storm cloud raining on everyone’s parade. He tromps straight to the bar and grabs Weasel’s shirt collar, yanking his wide-eyed deer-in-the-headlights beta self over the counter. Guns cock behind Deadpool and he knows he’s ruffling some feathers, but he’s too enraged to care. Too betrayed to care.

“What the hell?” he says, low and demanding. “You got a hitching post?”

Weasel tries to shrink away, pulling at his shirt. “C’mon man, it’s not –”

“It’s a fucking hitching post!” Wade shakes him. A few voices behind him are demanding he let the bartender go, all gruff and outraged. Wade flips them the bird and says, “What’s next, chains in the alley?”

But Weasel’s sudden stillness and wide eyes are telling.

Deadpool lets him go, pushing him away so that he stumbles into the alcohol on the shelves behind him. Wade finds himself sitting on a barstool, shocked, the wind kicked out of him by the unmistakable truth that’s staring him in the face. Behind him, there’s rustling sounds like weapons being lowered, stuffed into waistbands. Somebody takes their turn at a pool table and the balls striking each other sounds far away. It feels like he’s not even in his own body right now. Sister Margaret’s was supposed to be the place where Deadpool could escape the realities of this shit world, and now – fuck.

Weasel looks awfully guilty behind those coke-bottle glasses.

“You didn’t.”

Weasel flinches. “I didn’t want to –”

“You had chains installed in the alley too?”

“I didn’t want to!”

“I can’t believe you’d –”

“They were gonna shut me down, man!” Weasel says. Deadpool stops. “They were threatening to close us down for noncompliance. If I didn’t let them install –”

Weasel cuts off, clears his throat. He turns away and bends under the counter to grab up the good stuff, booze he saves for special occasions. Deadpool constantly needles him to break it out and he never caves. He pulls it out, now, pours them each a shot glass. As soon as he slides one over the counter toward Deadpool, he catches it and downs it in one burning gulp, thunks the empty glass back on the counter. Wordlessly, Weasel refills it. When he downs his own, Weasel sighs. His shoulders are slumped, bags under his eyes, hair limp and greasy. Now that Deadpool’s looking closer, Weasel doesn’t look like quite the triumphant beta he’d been half-expecting to find when he saw that fucking hitching post. Deadpool slumps onto the bar, head hitting with a solid, smarting smack. He moans.

“I hate the world,” he mumbles with his cheek smooshed against the cold surface.

Weasel hums. “What the fuck can I do about it? Besides drink. I can do that.”

“You know I’m gonna kill a fuck ton of motherfuckers out there,” Deadpool says.

“I figured.”

“Like, right now, probably. If there’s a beta out there right now using those chains –”

“I get it, man,” Weasel cuts him off. “I’ve already got Marley and Jones on standby for all the bodies. The chains were installed, what, three days ago? And I can’t stop anybody from using them. The alleys belong to the public, yadda yadda. So, I’ve been doing what I do best and turning a blind eye at all the people going out there. But shit, it skeeves me out. To be honest, I’m glad you’re gonna do damage control –”

“Anybody out there right now?” Deadpool’s tone is dark.

Weasel shrugs. “Blind eye. I don’t know.”

Deadpool – Wade – gets it. The only way to stay even remotely sane in this fucked-up universe is to turn a blind eye to all the crap occasionally. Unfortunately, this is Sister Margaret’s. This is supposed to be the one place Deadpool can get away from it. From the prejudice against alphas and the omega brutalities both. This is supposed to be his spot. Is it any wonder his blind eye is refusing to turn right now? Is it any wonder the urge to kill someone is so close to the surface? Pulling himself to an upright position, peeling his face off the bar, he turns in his seat and scans the crowd, wondering which one of these faces owns that shivering omega girl who’d been tied to the post outside. And sure, she’s not being raped or mauled or tortured at the moment, but it activates every violent urge he’s ever had that a literal human person is forced to kneel in the cold naked while whoever thinks they own her gets to drink with his buddies and be merry in warm comfort.

Someone in here is about to die.

But first. Deadpool shakes his empty shot glass in Weasel’s face until it’s refilled.

Downs another shot.

Then, slamming the glass down, Deadpool marches toward the back door.

If someone’s chained in the alley, a whole mess of people are about to die.

And honestly, at this point, Deadpool’s looking forward to it

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You’re not supposed to refuse your owner anything.

You’re not – not a person. You don’t get to have opinions. You don’t get to have a voice.

But Peter – Peter was a person. For the first seventeen years of his life, he was a person. Aunt May and Uncle Ben treated him like a person, like a son. He never went to school like a real person would, but they taught him how to read, how to write. He never played with other kids like a real person would, but Aunt May would play superheroes with him in their warm little house, and Uncle Ben spent countless days building trainsets with Peter in their basement. It didn’t register to Peter that his guardians were doing anything illegal until it’d been too late to save them. They loved him like a son and suffered for it, in the end. Because apparently Peter isn’t a real person like he grew up to believe, and it was wrong of them to treat him like one. Peter shouldn’t have his own opinions because Peter is an omega, and omegas are holes only. Omegas aren’t meant to spend their heats alone in their bedrooms, the way his aunt and uncle taught him. Heats are meant to be spent with their legs spread and their holes filled, servicing real people. Betas, mostly. Sometimes alphas use him, too, but they’re few and far between, knots so big they rip when they’re pulled out. Even when he’s not in heat, Peter’s supposed to service the real people, to sit on their cocks and bounce when he’s told, to bend over and take whatever he’s told to take.

It’s been a hard, long transition.

Five years, now? Six?

Peter’s lost count, can barely remember what life looked like before those cops stormed Aunt May’s house, before he’d been stripped and prodded and collared and sold. Owners liked the thrill of having a willful omega at first, it seemed. Enjoyed beating him when he spoke, liked mounting him while he kicked and bucked and yelled at them to stop, liked holding him down and taking what they wanted. Most omegas aren’t raised to think of themselves as real people. Most omegas never fight.

Peter fought.

At first, anyway. For a long time, he fought.

But he’s been taken too many times to count by too many betas to count, and he’s tired. There are what feel like permanent rope burns on his wrists and ankles, his back tattered from beatings, his hole so used it gapes. He’s finally starting to realize that this – this is the world. This is the whole world outside of his Aunt and Uncle’s warm home they’d tried to give him. The entire world is – is just –

Horrible.

And all the people in it are worse than horrible.

His owner this time bought him for practically nothing. Omegas go cheap, these days, especially the ones who’ve been used as much as Peter has. Cheap omegas are expected to be docile, to do what they’re told. So when his owner, a rich beta named Frank, sat back on his desk chair, freed his cock, and told Peter to sit on it, Peter was supposed to have crawled across his office floor to sit on it. He was supposed to have serviced the real person who bought him during the man’s lunch break. Instead, two of Frank’s co-workers witnessed Peter saying no.

This isn’t his first time in a back alley, chained to the slimy concrete.

But it’s the first time he’s been left like this for so long.

It’s the first time an owner’s just – just abandoned him here.

Two days, at least, with his ass high in the air, wrists and neck chained to the ground, ankles chained to posts and spread out. His owner had taped a piece of paper on his back before he’d left, but Peter hadn’t known what it said until hours later, when a beta knocked the paper off mid-ride and it’d fallen to the ground beside him. Most omegas never learn how to read. He almost wishes he didn’t know how to read, either, when he reads the scrawled note left taped onto him.

Free to use or take

Peter’s been sold plenty of times. He’s never been – never been free to take.

And nobody – nobody takes him.

They just use him, instead, like he’s not even worth it, leering at his torn hole and commenting to friends about how damaged he is. They talk over him like he can’t hear them or can’t understand. They stick their cocks down his throat and laugh about how gross Peter is with so many people’s cum dried or dripping all over him. They speculate that he must be diseased by now even as they use him themselves. Then they inevitably add their own cum to the mess that’s caked on him, zip themselves back up, slap him on the ass, and leave. Peter feels so weak he can hardly even lift his own head at this point, sick with hunger and thirst, barely conscious enough to whimper any time someone new sticks something in his hole. He’s had cocks, bottles, boots, who even knows what else stuck up there over the past two days, stuck in this alley. Nobody’s going to take him with them. He knows it, now. He’d hoped, that first day, but he’s only gotten dirtier and weaker with each passing minute, and he knows he won’t be leaving this alley alive. He’ll be chained here and raped until he dies of thirst, then hopefully his body can be discarded. And he – Peter almost welcomes it. Leaving this horrible world and everyone in it. The only way out is to die, and laying here chained to the ground, covered in cuts and cum, Peter wants it.

In this moment, he wants it.

A thick steel door creaks open down the alley. Peter whines low in his throat but doesn’t move, can’t move, just lays there as footsteps and mocking laughter get louder and closer. And then there are hands on him, rough hands that slap and poke and prod. Three betas crowd around him, laugh when Peter flinches. One sticks the toe of his boot into Peter’s loose hole and kicks a little. Another unzips and shoves a hard cock down Peter’s throat, who swallows almost reflexively, lips wrapping immediately around the dirty pungent organ. His throat is dry and it hurts, but it gets lost in all the other hurts. He hears the sick squelch of someone entering him from behind, the grunt of apparent disappointment from the beta, who complains that he’s too loose. They work out a position that lets both betas enter him at the same time, then, and finally the friction of being stretched by two cocks at once seems to satisfy them. Peter’s mostly incoherent, pain faraway, floating on the edge of unconsciousness, wondering if this is the moment where the world will fall away, hoping for it, oh God, hoping for it –

“No wonder no one’ll take him,” the one in his mouth says, laughing.

“Yeah,” another grunts as he thrusts, in and out, beside his friend. “Too loose, still.”

“Never seen an omega this far gone.”

“It’s pretty disgusting, actually –”

“Makes for a pretty good cum dump, though. Look at it all –”

“Hey!” Peter’s face is jostled, slapped. He moans around the cock in his mouth, throat trying and failing to swallow. “Think the little fucker’s falling asleep on me, his mouth keeps going slack. Does he even feel you guys at all right now?”

“Don’t blame me, I make omegas cry I’m so big –”

“Well this one’s falling asleep, you must be losing your edge –”

More laughter, egging each other on. The two in his ass take the playful ribbing as a challenge because they’re suddenly speeding up, all rough jabbing thrusts that bump into each other, and Peter does feel it then, whining around his mouthful as he’s stabbed from behind by two hard cocks at once.

It happens in a blur. It might not be happening at all, he’s too delirious to know for sure.

But the betas behind him both yelp, twin cries of outrage as they’re ripped out of him and thrown somewhere. The one in his mouth pulls out quickly, and Peter hangs his head, saliva running down his chin, limp. His vision keeps sliding in and out of focus. There’s scuffling sounds behind him, nothing he can see, then sudden quiet. Peter tries to keep his eyes open, heavy as he blinks them. Then footsteps getting close once more. Peter whines at the sound, moaning, unable even to speak out in protest. Not another one, not another one, please –

But it is another one. A man, he crouches in front of Peter, and when he’s close enough to smell through all the other smells clogging up the alley, he reeks like –

Like alpha.

Peter whines again. When the man presses a soft hand against his sweaty, matted hair, Peter flinches away, weakly trying to shuffle out of reach. Betas are bad enough, but an alpha –

Please, please no, please –

“Shh,” the man above him coos. Pets his hair again, Peter too weak to shift away.

His hand disappears. He moves to Peter’s side, out of sight. Some shuffling, again, but this time nothing else enters him, there’s nothing except the jostling of the chains around his wrists, one by one, until there’s hands sliding his arms out of the chains, soft petting hands and a voice that shushes him when he whimpers. Those hands snake up to his collar, and Peter’s too out of it to realize when that chain unravels from around his neck, too. He’s so far gone he barely feels it when the alpha releases his ankles from the posts, barely feels it when he’s picked up from the concrete and held against a solid chest, a rapidly beating heart. Peter moans again, wordless, tongue heavy in his mouth. One hand finds the hoodie he’s pressed against and he grips at the fabric, holding on. His head lolls against the alpha’s shoulder. Somewhere far away, he feels a deep well of panic rising up. Panic that he’s being taken by an alpha, panic that out of all the betas who’ve used him the past two days, it just had to be an alpha to finally take enough of an interest to remove him from the alley. He’s never been owned by an alpha. Omegas owned by alphas don’t last long, and he’s already so weak. He won’t – this isn’t – why –

But all that is muted.

Peter falls in and out of consciousness like half-formed dreams passing in swirling colors.

People’s voices, soft, hard, jostled hands.

Bright lights, a cold, hard bed. A prick on his hand. More voices.

That soft shushing voice from the alley, the rich musk of an alpha, bitter stress pheromones and the undercurrent of smoked meat. Peter’s nose twitches and he turns his face against the smells, head lolling. “Don’t I always pay…? C’mon, you know I’m good for it…”

“Knothead alpha brought in another one.”

“Bad shape, not sure he’ll last the night –”

“Why d’you think he keeps bringing them in? Not claiming them –”

Peter floats.

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Deadpool pokes his head into Sister Margaret’s only long enough to catch Weasel’s eye at the bar and yell at him to fetch Marley and Jones. Weasel’s frowning face is the last thing he sees before he’s letting the door slam after him and hightailing it out of the alley. The omega clinic three blocks away sees him a lot, and they’re just gonna have to see him again tonight because this dude looks like he’s nearly dead already. His head keeps lolling this way and that, lifeless except for the hand that’s clutching at Deadpool’s hoodie. Every time the little omega whines, Deadpool’s heart lurches. He might have been too late for this one, who’s bleeding and cut to bits and so pale it hurts to see, caked with dirt and dried cum and a patchwork of whip scars to rival Deadpool’s own. The omega’s face isn’t scarred, though, just dirty and bruised, dark hair matted and sweat-soaked. He’d be a cutie if he weren’t about to die from very obvious and prolonged torture.

The lady behind the clinic desk sighs very deeply when she sees him thundering inside.

“You again?” She complains, exasperated. “How many omegas are you going to –”

“This one’s hurt bad,” Deadpool says, arms wrapped around him. He can feel his face settling into a scowl as she stands there staring and not immediately springing into action. She should be springing into action. “Think you can get him set up with the good stuff any time soon before he, you know, dies?”

She eyes him, wary. “Right, right, I’ll page –”

But Deadpool’s already walking away, storming into the triage room to get the omega seen right fucking now. And who cares what these doctor shits say about him, who cares that he’s feeding into their biases about alphas, acting like an idiot who doesn’t even know how to wait to be seen, bringing battered omega after battered omega here as though he were the one who’s battered them. They think he hurts these kids himself, but who cares, right? As long as this one gets to live, it doesn’t matter if they call the cops to get him hauled away, doesn’t matter that this omega tried so valiantly to get away from him when he smelled that he was an alpha. Even out of it and near dead, the omega didn’t want Deadpool helping him. It’s nothing new. And it doesn’t matter.

Yellow and White are roaring in his head and it doesn’t matter.

They have to pry the omega out of his arms. For some reason, Deadpool doesn’t want to let him go. But they have to pry the omega’s hand off of his hoodie, too, so Deadpool doesn’t feel too bad about the weird surge of emotions in him as the omega is placed on a gurney and wheeled away. Omegas don’t usually cling to him. They’re usually fighting to get away even as he’s dragging their brutalized bodies to one clinic or another. It’s only natural that his alpha instincts are kicking in for the first omega who clung to him. He wants to go with the omega. Long-dead instincts buzz like angry bees inside him, making him pace the floor of the waiting room. People shy away from him, stare at him, whisper about the dumb brute alpha who’s pacing like a caged animal, but it’s nothing new. No, what is new is how every atom in his body keeps urging him to charge through those doors and scent out the omega, find his room, keep anyone from touching him. The doctors have to treat omegas clinically. Sworn oaths and all. They can’t use the omegas like society says they’re meant to be used, not when they’re patients in the clinic.

In theory, Deadpool knows the omega is safe back there. He’s safer at the clinic than he’d be anywhere else.

Still, Deadpool paces.

Finally, finally, a bored nurse comes out to let him know that the omega is in bad shape and that it’d be too expensive to treat everything that needs to be treated. He’d need to stay for round-the-clock fluids for at least a few days, not to mention a surgery needed for an internal injury that’s bleeding, and the STD that’d need a round of antibiotics. He’s got an issue with his bladder, too, and needs a catheter. They don’t usually waste resources on an omega that would need so much work done.

Deadpool didn’t know it was possible, but he hates the world even more right now.

“Do all that shit,” Deadpool insists. “I can pay, you know I’m good for it –”

The nurse clicks her tongue at him, shaking her head. “Why would you even let him get this bad if you wanted him to live –”

“You have to treat him,” Deadpool says, hard and demanding. The alpha in him feels restless, enraged, caged. His eyes take on a red tinge. The woman steps back, wide-eyed. “If I pay, you have to treat him. I want him to live and he will be treated.”

“It was irresponsible of you –”

“Just treat him!”

He might have roared. A little. Just a little. But a roaring alpha is like a charging bull to a world that hates them, fears them, thinks they’re too dumb to control themselves. He’s tackled to the ground by three security guards shortly thereafter, hauled away from the clinic and shoved onto the sidewalk. Deadpool lets himself be manhandled only after he gets the nurse to agree to treat the omega, only after he’s agreed to pay for the treatment. He imagines killing the guards, killing the smug nurse, killing the whole entire shit world. But that omega’s in the world. Deadpool needs to stick around to make sure he’s actually treated. He agrees to wait outside but demands to be kept updated. White and Yellow have a lot to say about the whole thing. None of it’s any good.

[Just go, bro. That omega’s toast either way.]

[[I bet he wants to die. What, you wanna torture the poor fuck by making him live?]]

[Just because you can’t die, you want everyone else to have to –]

[[And you let your eyes go! What the fuck, you never let your eyes go!]]

[It’s that omega, he’s all hot and bothered –]

[[You realize as soon as he’s conscious, he’s gonna give you the boot, right?]]

[This is pathetic, I wanna go home –]

“Oh stop your whining.” Deadpool plops his ass down on the sidewalk and leans his back against the clinic, right outside the doors. His head thumps on the wall behind him. It’s chilly out, but his heart’s still pumping him full of adrenaline and he’s sweating through the hoodie. He’d take the thing off, except then he’d be risking terrifying that omega even more when he finally gets to see him, and also he’s not in the mood to deal with even more stares as people pass on the street. He closes his eyes to block out the world, because if he has to see even one more sad little omega on a leash, shivering from the cool autumn night air, Deadpool might break and start a massacre or something. He’s still not allowed in Europe after that last one, still dodging the occasional overzealous assassin.

[That’ll never stop being funny, bee tee dubs.]

[[An assassin coming after someone who can’t die, y’mean?]]

[Duh!]

He doesn’t wear his Deadpool suit anymore. It’s too recognizable. Everybody wants Deadpool’s head on a spike for one reason or another. Most of the world hates him for constantly killing rich betas. There’s a Resistance, and they try to help omegas too, all hush-hush hard-to-find. But even they’ve refused to work with Deadpool, seeing him as nothing more than a liability to the cause. They don’t want a violent, wanted alpha supporting them. He’s been captured twice for being too difficult to control and unkillable. Both times sucked enough for the next two lifetimes, thanks. Weasel gets guards snooping at the bar for him even now, off and on. So he’s retired the Deadpool suit. At least until everybody who’s after him inevitably dies of old age and he’s free to don it once more. He can kill people just as easily in a hoodie, anyway, as evidenced by those three betas in the alleyway tonight.

“I should buy that omega some clothes,” he mumbles to himself.

[Ooh, shopping trip!]

[[Should get him a plushie to cuddle, too. Like. I’m just saying.]]

[Yellow’s a big ol’ softie.]

[[Shut the fuck up.]]

“A plushie is a great idea,” Deadpool gushes.

After so much practice living in this unbearable world, it’s easy to turn it all off. Easy to jump up and skip off to a store for a big old dose of comfort shopping. He buys clothes and toiletries and a backpack to put it all in, a phone for the omega, some sneakers that hopefully might fit his feet. He guesses at all the sizes, actually, but the omega is emaciated, small, so it’s easy to guestimate. He’s feeling sad and alone and he can’t stop thinking about that girl tied to that hitching post, so he buys warm clothes for his omega, all long sleeves and comfortable cotton blends. A big fluffy sweater, too, and then of course the plushie, an adorable, soft bear with rainbow fur and a pert little button nose. The bear won’t fit into the backpack and neither will the shoes. He returns to the clinic and sits outside it, bear in his arms and the backpack and shoes beside him. Deadpool feels at least marginally less likely to murder someone, now. He cuddles the omega’s bear.

Then he settles in to do something he hates.

He waits.

Chapter Text

2. the clinic

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He wakes up groggy and sore.

He’s got – there are wires attached to him. He’s strapped down to a hard bed, white lights blaring overhead, rhythmic beeping somewhere in the room. A clinic, then. Peter’s been taken to a clinic only a couple other times when he might have died otherwise. Owners drop omegas off at clinics when they’ve been too rough with them, but they aren’t free. Omega clinics aren’t covered by any sort of health insurance. Every time he’s been sent to one, he’s paid a steep price afterward, body passed around at parties, loaned out to his owner’s friends. It’s never anything new, just more of the same, but the abuse always ramps up after a clinic visit, as though Peter needs to pay back whatever the treatments cost with his body and his service and his obedience. But his owner is gone, he remembers suddenly. He left him in that alley with that sign on his back. So how is Peter here, how is he going to pay –

The alpha.

There was – Peter’s heartrate kicks up. He jostles the restraints tying him to the bed, pulling at them. It’s useless, of course, and he stops trying after a few panicked breaths, chest heaving, lets his body go limp on the bed and turns his face toward the wall. He squeezes his eyes shut, bright lights hurting his head. His throat’s still sore, and oh God his ass feels like it’s on fire, shooting bursts of agony every time he moves even an inch. He was supposed to have died in that alley and now – now he’s here. With wires coming out of him, strapped to an unforgiving table in a disorienting, bright room. It’s cold, unbearably cold, and he’s naked and uncovered, goosebumps trailing along his arms, teeth chattering. That alpha brought him to a clinic, but… why? He can’t remember if he even got a good look at the alpha, can remember only the way that he smelled, the alpha-sour scent of anger and bitter stress in the air, the undercurrent of smoked meat and campfires. But even as he remembers the scent of anger, he remembers that the alpha’s voice was soft. Gentle? That can’t be right. Peter was too out of it, can’t trust his own memory, as broken and choppy as it is.

But he’s in a clinic. The alpha brought him to a clinic.

He must be – he must intend on being Peter’s new owner.

An alpha owner.

Please, please no, please –

The door opens. Peter turns his face toward it and blinks his eyes open, watching the beta nurse approach. She checks his vitals, fiddles with the I.V. drip, writes something down on a clipboard. She sees him watching and frowns at him, her stern, disapproving face enough to make Peter flinch and turn his head back toward the wall. He stares at the white wall while she fiddles with something around his leg, a bag crinkling, some of the wires jostling. Her hands will touch him without warning and his heart lurches every time, whole body flinching away. She snaps at him to stay still and he tries, but everything hurts and he apparently isn’t supposed to look at her, so he can’t tell when she’s going to touch and where, and he can’t control the flinches, can’t –

“The alpha can stop loitering outside now,” she says suddenly, her voice cutting through the rhythmic background beeps and making Peter flinch all over again. And then a hand slaps him across the face and she snaps at him to stop moving again, her voice angry and strained. Peter screws his eyes shut and tries to breathe, tries to block out her movements and her voice. If he doesn’t, he’ll just keep flinching. But it’s hard to block out her voice, because she’s on an intercom system or talking on a walkie talkie or something and she’s talking about an alpha, which must be his alpha, the alpha who plans to own him, and he can’t not hear –

“He’s been out there scaring customers all night,” a different voice is saying, static crackling.

A cabinet is opened, some rustling. The nurse snorts, says, “This one’s stable enough now, if he wants to keep waiting he can do it in here. Let me leave first, though, I don’t wanna run into the beast –”

“We’re going to let him stay in the omega’s room?”

“Where else?” the nurse says. “At least in here we won’t have to look at him anymore.”

Peter bites his lip and tries not to speak, tries not to whimper, tries not to panic.

“What if he – will the omega survive?”

“We did our part,” the nurse sounds annoyed. A cabinet door slams. Peter does whimper, then, curls up on the table as much as he can while restrained, cringing away from the nurse who sees him moving again and whaps him over the head. All along, she keeps talking, “If that idiot alpha decides to use him in here, that’s on him. We’ll inform him of the risks, get him to sign a liability waver –”

She’s apparently done with whatever she was doing, because her voice gets further away as she leaves, the door clicking shut behind her. Peter takes a deep breath as soon as he’s alone, but he can’t calm his racing heart. They’re letting that alpha into his room. They’re – he’s never had an owner come to his room in a clinic before. They’re supposed to drop omegas off here and come back when they’re healed. He won’t heal if the alpha can just – can just come into the room. He won’t get better, and then what’s even the point of being in a clinic if he’s just going to be used some more while he’s here, this isn’t –

He doesn’t even have time to panic about it properly.

Because before he knows it, his door is opening again. Peter isn’t looking, but he smells him.

That campfire, cooked meat smell. The alpha.

The door opens slowly, though, creaking on its hinges. Shuffling steps, then the door’s clicking shut. The alpha is moving things around, sets something down. The chair in the room slides across the floor and then the alpha is sitting in it right beside Peter’s bed. Peter’s face is turned toward the wall, but he can feel the alpha’s presence, can feel him there right beside him.

Then there’s quiet.

Peter holds his breath, but nothing happens.

There’s just – quiet.

And then, quietly, the alpha starts to – to sing.

A soft little melody, slightly off pitch. Something about a flying machine. Peter keeps trying to hold his breath, keeps trying to stay braced for whatever’s coming, but the little tune in that rich, soft voice relaxes him despite himself. His body just – unbraces. The longer they sit there with the alpha doing nothing except singing, the more he can feel himself relaxing into the table, the calmer his heart gets. But it’s – he knows something is coming. This can’t be it. He tries to stay focused because any minute now there will be hands on him. He’ll flinch like he did with the nurse and then there will be hell to pay, okay, this quiet, relaxing little song can’t last and he’s got to stay ready, got to –

The song does taper off, finally. Peter, near dozing at that point, jerks awake at the silence, his whole body tensing all over again because he moved when he wasn’t supposed to in front of an alpha who owns him now, and –

The alpha starts talking.

“I got that song from Titanic. There’s probably a ton more words to it, but Rose sang it in the middle of the ocean while her lover boy was freezing to death right in front of her, and I promise I’m not gonna start ranting about how they should have kept trying to get Jack on that fucking door, he could have fit, damn it, screw that whole mythbusters episode that claims he couldn’t – but I promise not to go there because once I go there I can talk for hours and nobody wants that. Anyway, Titanic. I like that movie because they didn’t cast a single alpha. They could have made that asshole that Rose was supposed to marry an alpha, he was all angry and mean and terrible, but no, he was a beta! That was super progressive of them back then. Only alphas were ever supposed to be angry and mean and terrible, right? But not in Titanic. The dudes who made that movie gave the world the middle finger and said you know what, betas can be assholes too.” The alpha pauses here, like maybe he’s waiting on an answer?

Peter doesn’t know what to say.

Peter doesn’t know what to say.

This feels like a test he’s not passing. He can’t possibly pass it. Should he agree? He does agree, but he can’t say he agrees, because then he’s saying that betas are assholes, and that’s – that’s not something Peter’s allowed to say or think or believe. He isn’t allowed opinions, anyway. He isn’t allowed to speak. Betas don’t like it when he speaks, he can’t imagine how an alpha would react if he tried it in front of him, this is a test he can’t pass –

He says nothing.

But he’s tense all over, again, wondering what will happen next. Now that he’s ignoring an alpha, an alpha who owns him now. It’s got to be something truly horrible –

The alpha keeps talking.

“You’re gonna be in here a few more days, at least. They did some kind of surgery on you last night for internal bleeding. I’ve been told that went well. You’ve got an STD, but it’s one of the lame ones. Antibiotics will clear it up fast. Um, they had to get you set up with a catheter, but in my opinion that’s pretty cool, you don’t have to get up to go to the bathroom. Sometimes I pee where I’m sitting, too, only there’s no cool bag to catch it so all my clothes get soaked. So. I’m jealous of your pee bag! Hmm, what else, what else… they had to stitch up your ass, some kind of lateral-whatever surgery, which, yikes. Are you in pain right now?”

The abrupt question makes Peter freeze up.

What’s the right answer, he needs to answer, what’s the right answer –

“Aw, honey, you’re okay.” The alpha’s voice is soft again. Is he – is he talking to Peter? “I want to know if you’re in pain.”

Peter tries to swallow. His throat still hurts. He keeps his eyes closed.

“Nothing’s gonna happen to you,” the alpha says, still with the soft, soft tone.

“Y-yes,” Peter manages, just barely, hoarse and braced.

But again, nothing happens to him. No slaps, no hands, no touches at all. The alpha thanks him for telling him, then the chair squeaks as the alpha moves away. Peter hears footsteps, the door opening, the alpha retreating. In the quiet of the empty room, Peter wills himself to breathe, in and out, in and out, slow intentional breaths. He’s not sure what he’s just done, talking with his voice, talking to an alpha, admitting he’s in pain. And he – he is. Everything’s sore. Laying on this table is painful. But he feels like maybe he shouldn’t have admitted it. Maybe he should have said he was fine. Because pain can always get worse, and he should be grateful instead of saying he’s in pain. He should have said he’s much better, he should have thanked the alpha for the clinic, for bringing him here, for letting him live. Admitting he’s in pain is dangerously close to claiming the clinic isn’t helping, that the clinic isn’t good enough. Oh, God, he should have said no, this was another test and he couldn’t pass it –

The door opens. Peter flinches as though that sound were a gun.

He can’t stop himself from looking, now, eyes wide and wild as he jerks his head to see what’s happening. The nurse from before stomps inside the room, grumbling to herself, her face pinched and frowning. She grabs his hand and, when he whines and flinches away, fingers curling away from her rough grip, the nurse uses her other hand to slap him again. He cuts off another whine and lets his head stay turned back to the wall, tries to breathe, breathe, breathe. The I.V. twists uncomfortably before she finally lets go, and his hand curls into a fist, jagged nails digging into his palm. She stomps away, door clicking shut behind her.

Quiet, again.

And – oh. Oh. Whatever she gave him works fast, sharp edges of pain smoothing out all over. His head feels full, eyes drooping. He sucks in a breath and suddenly it doesn’t hurt to breathe, doesn’t hurt when he wiggles. His body feels boneless and he hardly even feels the hard table underneath him anymore. It’s – it’s good. He feels – feels good.

He feels… good?

The door opens again, that slow creak.

He rolls his head over and sees the alpha creeping back into the room. He’s big and broad-shouldered, as big as any alpha he’d ever seen, but he’s hunching his shoulders and he’s got his hands stuffed in oversized pockets on his hoodie. His face is shadowed under the hood, pulled low, but it’s so unbearably bright in this room that Peter can see that he’s – scarred. A lot. His whole face is red and pockmarked, scabbed. He sees Peter looking and freezes in the doorway, eyes wide. Peter feels good, still, for the first time in years he can’t feel anything but good, his head floating on a cloud, his body so light and airy he can’t feel it.

The alpha lets the door close behind him. He edges toward the bed, Peter’s eyes following him to the chair, which is closer than Peter expected it to be, right next to Peter’s head.

“Feel any better?” the alpha says.

Peter blinks. He can feel his own eyelids blinking in slow motion.

The alpha looks – nervous?

“Y-yes,” Peter says. It occurs to him that maybe he feels good because the alpha told them to give him pain meds. It occurs to him that maybe he feels good because he admitted to the alpha that he didn’t feel good. The alpha – fixed it?

“You sure?” the alpha says. He keeps wiggling on the chair, this way and that. He takes his hands out of his pockets and wrings his hands together, but he’s wearing gloves that squeak, so he stops. Sets his hands in his lap instead, fingers drumming on his leg. He looks so stiff and uncomfortable on that chair that Peter isn’t sure why he’s even sitting here. Why is this alpha in the room with him? Talking to him? Singing? What can all this mean? Why hasn’t he touched him?

The alpha said something. Peter didn’t hear it. He whines, suddenly upset not to have heard, not to have listened.

The alpha’s face looks – soft, eyes wide and brown. He shushes Peter like he had in that alley, cooing. A hand comes up to Peter’s head, petting his hair, but Peter sees the hand coming and flinches away from it. He screws his eyes shut again, confused, painless but scared, terrified of what this all means, terrified of that gloved hand coming toward him, of this alpha who smells like fire. Alphas aren’t good. No, betas aren’t good. Alphas are worse. They’re vicious. They hurt, and hurt, and hurt, and – but this one hasn’t hurt. Not yet. This one doesn’t even slap him like the nurse did when he flinches. He just – that hand lands on his head, featherlight and soft, and he starts petting his head, petting through his matted, gross hair until Peter’s face relaxes, until he turns his head back and slow-blinks heavy eyes to stare at this alpha who’s doing everything wrong. The alpha starts talking again, quiet and soft, words that Peter can’t focus on through the pain meds working through him. The words must not matter because the alpha doesn’t punish him for not listening, doesn’t do anything at all except keep petting his head.

Peter never thought in a million years he’d be able to fall asleep in a room with an alpha.

Must be the pain meds, he thinks.

And then he’s out.

-

-

-

Deadpool’s never been in the omega’s room in the clinic before.

If he had, there would have been hell to pay much, much sooner. The omega is laying restrained to a table, hooked up to I.V.s and monitors and all sorts of wires. Everybody knows that hospitals are fucking cold, kept cold on purpose to kill germs or whatever, but they didn’t cover the omega at all, not even with a sheet, and he’s still dirty and cum-crusted all over. They cleaned off his stomach for the surgery but nothing else, and he’s laying here on a hard table with nothing but wires. Restrained. When he leaves to find someone to give the boy painkillers, furious that they didn’t do it in the first place, his eyes are red again and he’s almost arrested. Almost. He keeps himself very, very still when he speaks, though, and when the nurses still look terrified he gives them money. Money makes most things go away. This time is no different. They accept it and agree to give the omega painkillers, tell him to wait while they administer them.

He asks about the restraints.

“It’s so he doesn’t pull on any of the wires,” the lady says. “Omegas spook easy."

“I wonder why that is?” Deadpool asks, sarcastic.

The lady shrugs, clearly uncomfortable talking to him.

Later, after the omega falls asleep, he bugs them again for wash cloths and warm water, spends half an hour cleaning the dirt and cum off him. They were going to do that later, they’d claimed. Assholes. But the omega sleeps through him running wash cloths over him, over all the places that aren’t already covered by bandages. Deadpool washes the kid’s face off and still he sleeps. He removes the restraints on his arms to clean under them and still he sleeps. Geez those pain meds must work like magic. Omegas never sleep around Deadpool. Nobody sleeps around Deadpool. Deadpool hardly even sleeps around himself. He’s kicking himself for not buying a blanket, because it’s fucking cold in here and they didn’t give him anything at all. They’d give him something if he asked, he’s sure. But he’s even more sure that if he talks to any of them again right now, someone’s going to end up dead and he’s going to end up in jail, so. Instead, Deadpool covers the omega’s feet with socks he’d bought and drapes the fluffy blue sweater he’d bought over the kid’s torso, trying to cover as much of him as possible. He’d dress him, except all the wires are in the way, so he drapes two more long-sleeved shirts over his legs, wraps him up like a pitiful little burrito.

He leaves the restraints off because fuck them all.

Hesitates for a second, then grabs the omega’s hand. Holds it.

[You are so screwed.]

[[You saw how scared he is, right? Of you? You’re kinda repulsive.]]

[You’re an alpha. He’s gonna wake up and kill himself on these wires trying to get away from you.]

[[Should probably restrain him again if you really wanna hold his hand.]]

[I mean, true. That’s the only way he’d let you do it.]

[[And did you notice that nurse’s bad attitude? I think she’s evil.]]

[Kill her!]

[[Kill them all.]]

For someone who’s got voices in his head constantly telling him to kill people, Deadpool can control himself surprisingly well. It’s because of his parents, probably. Those assholes. They only ever talked to him when they were yelling about how out of control he was, about how alphas aren’t good for anything. So now even when he kills people, he does it in control. He killed them the same way. Calm, collected. Slow, but always in control. Omegas aren’t what people tell them they are, and Deadpool likes to think he’s not what everyone tells him he is. Deadpool can totally be smart.

[You didn’t graduate, brah.]

[[Last week you stuck your finger in an electric socket.]]

“I did that on purpose,” Deadpool protests, whispering. The omega’s soft breaths remain even, steady. Okay so, sometimes he’s an idiot. It’s not because he’s an alpha, okay? It’s because he’s him. The distinction is important. And sure, he hasn’t met any intelligent alphas before, but for fairness’ sake, the only alphas he’s met were ones sent to kill him. Surely other alphas exist out there who get high school diplomas and know how to prepare their own taxes. They can’t all be idiots. Omegas aren’t just holes and alphas aren’t just violent lunatics.

And that’s that.

[Keep telling yourself that.]

[[Idiot.]]

[Violent lunatic who kills people.]

Deadpool groans. He plops his head onto the end of the table, still holding the omega’s hand in his gloved one, and starts counting backwards from 800. It usually quiets the boxes for a little while because they can’t count. And they call him an idiot. But because he hasn’t slept in a few days, and last night was spent sitting on the sidewalk hugging a bear and trying not to murder people, as soon as his head hits the table he can feel the exhaustion creeping up on him, can feel it dragging him under. The omega is safe, now. He can sleep.

He closes his eyes and does.

-

-

-

When Peter wakes up this time, everything hurts again. He feels like he needs to move but he’s too sore, ass on fire all over again, that painless cloud nothing more than a weird fever dream. He’s thirsty, God, his throat aches. Reflexively, he tries to bring his hand up to rub at his eyes, realizes he still can’t. Restrained, he thinks at first. But no, it’s – his hand is clutched by another, that alpha holding on for dear life. He’s – he seems to be sleeping, his head splayed out on the table beside Peter’s arm, the alpha half-hanging out of the chair and bent into a slumped position that looks too uncomfortable to contemplate. He’s been covered, too, by… shirts? His feet feel warm. But Peter’s other hand is free, the restraint hanging off the table, discarded. He rubs at his eyes and feels like crying.

He does cry, is crying, can’t stop the tears if he wanted to –

It’s just all too much. He can move his hand, can rub his own eye, the alpha is holding his hand and sleeping in the room with him, he’s covered, Peter fell asleep in the room with an unknown alpha, and now everything hurts again and he’s – he’s –

He’s broken, isn’t he?

It took a few years. But he’s – he’s broken.

He’s good at crying silently. He doesn’t cry often, but sometimes it’s all too much, and – but he’s good at doing it without anybody noticing. The alpha should have been none the wiser, too, but something wakes him up. Maybe Peter moved too much trying to get his hand free. Maybe he can smell the bitter salt in the air from his tears. Whatever the case, the alpha wakes, groans, lifts himself out of his slouch with a wince and a huge, back cracking stretch, all the while with his hand clamped onto Peter’s. Peter freezes, tries to stop his sniveling. Sniffs, rubs at his eyes, but it’s impossible. The big alpha sees him crying anyway. He freezes himself for a heartbeat, two, then drops Peter’s hand like a hot potato and scoots the chair away from the bed with loud, grating screeches against the floor. Peter turns his face away, tries to hide his crying, mumbling an apology because he’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to cry, pretty sure the alpha would rather see him grateful and thankful and not crying like a weak omega bitch who doesn’t know how good he’s got it –

“’M sorry, shh, ‘m sorry,” the alpha’s saying.

Peter sniffles again, convinced he didn’t hear that right.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, baby boy,” the alpha says. He sounds remarkably earnest, but – but that can’t be right. “The nurses probably need to come check on you, it’s – I dunno how long we’ve been sleeping. Let me just – I’ll go check. Um. Brb!”

The chair screeches again as the alpha throws himself out of it, stumbles from the room. Peter isn’t given time to wonder about the strange behavior, because a nurse is coming through that door, followed closely by the alpha, who hovers awkwardly in the background while the lady works. She checks his I.V. drip before her eyes fall on the restraints or lack thereof, and then she’s rounding on the alpha and complaining, “I knew alphas were stupid, but you can’t just come in here and do whatever you want, there are rules –”

“Excuse me,” the alphas interrupts. Peter’s never heard his voice sound so – rumbly. Dark. He flinches at the sound, sure that whatever’s about to happen, it’s not going to be good, heartrate kicking up because this is all his fault, please no, please – “But I’m paying you asshats a lot of fucking money right now, and you didn’t even give him a blanket! Or a sheet!”

“There are rules –”

“Rules against blankets?” The alpha sounds aghast, utterly repulsed, his voice going up an octave as he throws his hands up and growls. Peter doesn’t even know what’s going on, now, what they’re even talking about anymore. Blankets? Why would they have given him a – but the alpha looks mad, his eyes sparking red. Peter cringes on the table and might whimper, his omega quaking at the sight, at the tension in the room, at the undeniable truth that he’s about to feel pain, this is all his fault, this is –

“Shh, no, shh, sweetie, you’re okay.” The alpha is suddenly there, a hand petting his head.

Peter isn’t restrained, but he lays there and can’t make himself move anyway.

He’s just – frozen. In fear. In dread. Just – frozen.

He’s never seen alpha-red eyes before.

“Do what you need to do, doc,” the alpha murmurs, his voice whisper soft again. “He needs more pain meds, too. See the furrow?” And ridiculously enough, the alpha presses a finger to the furrow between Peter’s eyes, smoothing it out and letting out a giggled, “Boop!”

Peter blinks up at him, cross-eyed.

“I can’t work when you’re in here,” she complains.

“You can for thousands of dollars,” the alpha singsongs. His eyes aren’t red anymore.

The nurse must think thousands of dollars sounds reasonable, because she approaches the bed and gets to work. For the most part, Peter’s too busy focusing on the alpha standing over his head to pay attention to what she’s doing. His face is close at this angle, albeit upside down, but Peter can very clearly see how damaged he is, the scars seeming to ripple and move over his skin. A scab on his chin is kind of just hanging there, ready to fall off. It should scare him. What could have happened to cause so much damage? Something gruesome. Something, maybe, like what Peter’s been dealing with for – for a long time. He must look bad, too, right now. Alphas don’t go through what Peter’s been dealing with, though. It had to have been something else. Something recent, if the open sores are anything to go by. But they do ripple. Peter focuses on one scar on the alpha’s cheek to be sure, watching it, and before his very eyes it moves like something’s crawling underneath.

He must have zoned out watching it, watching those scars, because next thing he knows he’s being shifted, pushed onto his side. He cries out in pain and fights against the nurse’s hands, whose grips are hard and rough against his back and thigh as she keeps trying to get him to roll over.

“You don’t want to do that.”

Peter freezes, chokes off a pained whimper.

But the nurse responds. The alpha must have been – must have been talking to the nurse.

Not him?

“He’s making this difficult when he fights,” the nurse says. She sounds as annoyed as ever.

“Okay,” the alpha drawls the word out ever so slowly. His hand is still on Peter’s head, one of them anyway. Soft pets, still. That low, growled tone must not have been directed at him. Still, Peter’s heart thunders in his chest. He feels like he can’t breathe. “So you were going to, what? Hit him? You think that’ll make it any easier for him to not be in pain? Because in case you hadn’t noticed, that’s the end game, here. No pain. Have you hit him before?”

Now she sounds flustered. “Omegas need correction –”

“You’ve hit him before.”

“I’ve corrected him when he needs correcting. Your omega is useless.”

“I’m giving you to the count of three to leave before I literally murder you.”

Her hands fall away from his back and Peter’s back and ass hit the table hard. But while he’s crying, the lady’s retreating, saying, “This is why alphas should be locked up!”

“Oh, get over yourself!” the alpha yells back. “I’m still paying! Get me somebody who doesn’t hit half-dead people and tell them he still needs more pain meds! And a blanket! Damn, fuck, shit – shh, you’re gonna be okay, baby boy, ‘m sorry, I won’t hurt you. I really wanna murder that bitch but literally anybody else would want to do that, too, I swear I’m not – oh, c’mere, I gotcha, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

Peter is – so fucking broken, okay. He’s in too much pain to protest when the alpha scoots onto the table, scooches in and wraps an arm around him, hangs half off the table because they both can’t fit. Peter hides his face in that hoodie and scrambles to grab hold of it, still unrestrained, crying, white-hot pain from his ass falling on the table sparking behind closed eyelids. It hurts, oh, God, it’s worse than when he was raped one time after another, worse than those two betas entering him at the same time, worse than – worse than – please, no, please –

“Shh, little omega, shh,” the alpha’s whispering, over and over. “Someone better’s gonna come help you, shh.”

But there is no one better, he wants to say. They’re all like that. They’re all –

He’s shivering. The alpha is warm against his side, but he’s – he’s cold. He’s so cold. His head feels heavy. Still the alpha whispers to him, his campfire-sharp scent overpowering all the betas that have been in here. He thinks the door might be opening, thinks he might hear that telltale creak.

He can’t be sure, though.

Peter passes out.

Chapter Text

3. are you real?

-

-

-

He needs another surgery. It all happens fast, a whirlwind of activity from the moment he sagged unconscious against Wade’s chest. Deadpool notices the blood on the table pooling underneath the omega, and before he knows it, a gaggle of security guards are wrestling him away from the room and those fucking nurses are storming in to wheel the omega away. At least the one who’s apparently been hitting him wasn’t one of those nurses. If she had been, nothing could have convinced Deadpool to let them take the omega away from his sight. He can’t trust what they’re doing to him behind closed doors, not a single one of these assholes.

“Are you sure he’s worth another surgery?”

Deadpool yanks the clipboard out of the doctor’s hand and signs the damn form.

“Just fix him.” Deadpool aches for Bea and Arthur.

Still, the doctor hesitates. “You realize you won’t be able to use him, right?”

“Why are you still talking to me?” Deadpool throws his hands up. “Get in there and fix him!”

“For six to eight weeks at the earliest,” the doctor insists. He’s a portly man, a beta, short and stout like a teapot and about two seconds away from being strangled. Deadpool’s eyes are red again. He takes a clearly threatening step toward the white coat, who seems to tremble where he stands. But he’s cocky or stupid or both, because he swallows hard and squares his shoulders, a determined glint on his pudgy little face. He clutches his clipboard and tries to explain, all slow and pointed, “There are too many anal fissures to make him a viable hole for at least six to eight weeks. That’s six to eight weeks where he’ll need stool softeners, six to eight weeks with a mouth to feed that won’t be contributing at all to your household, six to eight weeks where if he’s not kept clean and unused, he’ll die anyway from infection –”

“What else do I need to sign?” Deadpool demands.

“N-nothing, no, but you need to understand –”

“I understand!”

“You’re an alpha! You clearly must not be understanding this. That omega in there won’t be of any use to you for –”

Deadpool likes to think he can control himself. But his omega’s been wheeled away with blood coming out of his ass, unconscious, by people who don’t even give a shit, and the words that he’s trying very hard to speak aren’t being heard. Nothing he says is going to convince this surgeon to surgery. He’s signed the forms. He’s talked the talk. He’s been patient and tolerant. But though he hates to admit it or claim it, in the end Deadpool is, in fact, an alpha. He’s bigger and broader by design, he’s got alpha pheromones coming off him in pungent waves, and he’s so fucking done. The surgeon takes hasty steps backward and finally, finally shuts his gob when Deadpool yanks his hood down and shows off his face, growls at him for good measure. The sight has the man stumbling into the wall behind him.

“Boo!” Deadpool crows into the sudden silence.

The surgeon jumps.

“Go fix my omega,” Deadpool says. He shoos him down the hall, following him as he stumbles away. “Go, go, go, go,” he says, all faux gentle, soft voice. He watches the man run away and imagines giving chase, imagines barreling him over and slamming his pudgy little face against the cold tile floor. Imagines a lot of other things, too. He’s killed a lot of betas, but Deadpool is invested in ending this one. Later. When there aren’t any witnesses. After that omega finally gets to leave this fucking clinic. When he’s safe. If Deadpool gets arrested right now, there won’t be anyone around to make sure these asshats do their jobs. So, he’s controlled. He’s the patron saint of controlled. He’s so controlled that he returns to the omega’s room, sits himself down away from anyone he could potentially kill, and waits. And waits. And waits.

Waits some more.

He plays candy crush on his phone for a while.

He texts Weasel cat memes.

Texts Dopinder, who’s having a very nice vacation in the Bahamas.

He waits.

When the door opens and the omega is wheeled back into the room, he’s cuffed to the table again and unconscious. Deadpool uncuffs those restraints even before the last nurse has left the room, a big fat middle finger to their rules and their attitudes and their hatred. The lady stomps out of the door claiming she’s going to be telling her boss about this, but who really cares, right? What can they do, kick out the guy who’s giving them more money than they usually make in a year? Yeah right. But they’ve removed the shirts he’d wrapped the omega with and didn’t return them, and still no blanket or sheet or covering at all. Deadpool takes off his hoodie and drapes it over him instead, the chill in the air raising instant goosebumps as his arms are exposed. And the omegas in this whole clinic are apparently all naked in this icebox, God fucking damnit. The last thing he does is stick the fluffy rainbow bear he’d bought under one of the boy’s arms. It brightens the otherwise dismal scene, having that bear there amidst the bandages and wires and pale skin and bruises. He’s briefly worried that the bear smells too much like him, since he cuddled it all night, but that hardly matters now that the omega’s got his hoodie over him. Either way, his scent is all over the boy. Oops?

[I like it.]

[[Sameeeee… but he won’t, will he?]]

[Oh, he’ll absolutely hate it. Our scent is gross.]

[[Like a burnt corpse, isn’t it?]]

[Crispy.]

He’s not good at this. He’s good at killing the bad guys, but when it comes to the part after that, to the clinics and the waiting and the interactions with countless betas who suck ass in the bad way, when it comes to the part where the omegas cower and beg him not to come near them, to the fear and dread and terror stinking the place up, all those bad emotions directed at him… he isn’t so good at this part. He paces the room until the omega wakes up. Back and forth, wall to wall and back again, antsy and nervous and itching to run away from this place. But then how must the omega feel? To be trapped in this world with all these assholes, completely powerless and unable to escape anywhere? At least Deadpool gets to go home after this.

The omega gets to – what? Go back to an auction house?

Would an auction house even take him right now?

He can’t be used for six to eight weeks at the earliest…

Shit. Shit, damn, shit.

They won’t take him. And if the auction houses won’t take him, the brothels absolutely won’t.

He’s – he’s stuck with Deadpool, isn’t he?

[You didn’t think this through, clearly.]

[[He’d be better off dead.]]

[Betcha he begs to be killed when he realizes he’s stuck with you.]

[[Should have let him die back in that alley.]]

[Instead you had to go and save him. HA! Like you could actually save somebody.]

[[Talk about being a dumb knothead.]]

[Dur dur dur.]

He’s talked himself into quite the bad brain day by the time the omega shifts on the table, groans a quiet little huffed breath as he rouses. Deadpool freezes for only a second, wide-eyed, heart in his throat. The boxes are right. They’re assholes but they’re right, and – and then he rushes over, stumbles into the chair beside the boy, takes his hand and shushes the kid’s panic. He’s out of it, eyes glassy as they slow-blink open. Nothing says high on drugs like the way his hand curls into Deadpool’s and links their fingers. The omega’s grip is strong and tight right away, latching onto him, and Deadpool can feel himself freezing all over again. He stares down at their interlinked hands and kind of forgets to breathe. This is the second time this dude’s clung to him, and it’s – addicting. But his scent is all soured with fear and pain and clinic-misery. His other arm comes up in a panicked, aborted flail, stopping its trajectory as it comes into contact with the rainbow bear. Breathing hard, labored breaths, the omega cranes his neck to move his head off the table and look at the plushie. The hand that’s not curled into Deadpool’s curls into the bear’s fur and clenches.

They pause like that. The kid just – stares at the bear like it’s an alien.

Or like a creature from the black lagoon.

Something scary.

Deadpool gulps. He’s pretty sure he shouldn’t say anything the boxes are thinking right now. But he sucks at awkward silences even more than he sucks at waiting, and waiting for an awkward silence to go away on its own? Impossible. The omega’s eyes flick to him when his voice breaks as he hurries to explain, “There were other ones, but this one reminded me of you with its little button nose, and I figured if we were gonna have to stay at a clinic for any length of time, we’d need that cheery rainbow color to offset the sheer misery of this place.”

The omega won’t stop staring at him.

Deadpool fidgets. “Um – I named him Arnold.”

More staring.

And then, after frantic commentary from the boxes, Deadpool hurries to add, “But you can name him something else. I only named him because we cuddled last night, and I couldn’t cuddle him unless he had a name, that’d be rude, but then we – and you don’t – shit. He’s yours, if you want him. Name him anything! George? Harry? Or, like, a girl name works too. It’s not like he came with a preexisting gender, the lucky bastard. Maybe Molly? Mildred? Maggie? Some other name that starts with M?”

The omega’s voice is raspy, crackling like it hurts to talk. It’s a victory, though, that he seems to take pity on Deadpool’s mad rambling and finally says a hesitant, stilted, “Are you… real?”

Deadpool gasps. “Do you see things that aren’t real too??”

The omega jumps, flinches, apparently unaccustomed to Deadpool’s excitement.

“Sorry, I won’t – ‘m not gonna hurt you,” Deadpool says. He slumps, shoulders hunching.

In the face of the omega’s fear, he suddenly remembers that he isn’t wearing his hoodie. At all. It’s literally draped over the omega right now. He’s exposed under the ugly fluorescents of this damnably bright hospital room, a mere foot away from a terrorized omega who hasn’t let go of his hand, somehow, and his skin isn’t exactly happy to be here. He’s grotesque every day, sure, but today his skin is somehow worse than usual, all rippling and red and angry. More open wounds than usual, too. His bald head probably reflects the harsh light overhead like a mutant disco ball.

He suddenly can’t stand the omega’s eyes on him.

Those fearful, panicked eyes.

Deadpool’s sick of being scary.

“I’m just – the nurses! They need to know you’re awake. I’ll just – yeah.” He gestures out the door even as he disappears through it. What an awkward fucking hell situation. It’s even worse when a nurse is in the room. Every time one of them comes in to change bandages or check vitals or administer pain meds or bring food, the whole atmosphere goes all tense and stilted, with Wade trying Very Hard not to go all red-eyes at their less-than-stellar bedside manners and the omega holding his breath and seemingly trying Very Hard not to move even a muscle until they leave the room. By the beginning of day three trapped in this hell dimension, Wade is ready to bounce. The omega’s been successfully removed from the catheter and can, with Wade’s help, very gingerly make it to the bathroom. He’s still taking round the clock pain meds and laying immobile as much as possible, but it doesn’t seem like they’re doing anything for him here that Wade can’t do for the boy at home. There’s no reason why they’re still here at all except that he can’t work up the courage to ask the boy to come home with him and the clinic likes taking his money. Not great reasons to belabor the inevitable.

The omega’s been sleeping off and on at all hours, obviously exhausted. Wade watches him sleep sometimes. Sounds creepy, but it’s comforting to watch the rise and fall of his chest under the cover of Wade’s hoodie, to hear the soft breaths of a relaxed rest that contrasts so painfully with how nervous and careful the omega acts any time he’s awake. Wade doesn’t sleep much, himself, too busy panicking internally at the fact that he’s somehow gotta convince this kid to come home with him or he might as well have died in that alleyway. And it’s – well, selfishly, Deadpool feels a little overwhelmed at the prospect of living with a terrified omega who hates him, okay? He’s never lived with a living, breathing embodiment of everything he hates about the world before. Home’s supposed to be the place he can pretend he’s not a scary, big ugly alpha. Now it’ll be all he can think about 24/7. Every time the omega flinches or jumps, every time he looks down at his feet instead of making eye contact, every time he stutters or whines, those aborted pleas he starts and stops every time Wade gets too close – shit. It’s a lot to think about.

On the other hand, Deadpool kind of fucking likes this kid.

He can’t even explain why. He obviously doesn’t know much about him. But over the past few days, Deadpool’s noticed that the omega’s sickly sour scent sometimes softens like a cool dewy morning before the break of dawn. Only ever when they’re alone, only ever for a few minutes at a time, but those few minutes of omega-soft almost-contentment? When they’re sitting, and Wade’s rambling about something random, and the omega’s been given his pain meds and he’s holding his rainbow bear, one hand petting through the bear’s fur while the other’s latched onto Wade’s hand… Wade’s never smelled anything like it, that earthy warmth that even overpowers Wade’s own grating, gross campfire stench. Maybe all omegas smell this – this peaceful when they’re not scared for their lives. Deadpool wouldn’t know, since omegas are generally scared for their lives in his less-than-comforting alpha-strong-pungent presence. This omega is, too, a lot of the time. But those brief glimpses of the omega at rest? Those brief moments where the whole room floods with that omega-soft aroma?

Deadpool could get high off that smell and overdose on a smile.

Ooh, but that’d be the best way to go.

Mostly, he wants the omega to smell content like that all the time.

It’s become a personal challenge, really. Best Ways to Make that Smell Come Back. So far, the simultaneous holding of the bear and Deadpool’s hand does the trick, sometimes, especially after a fresh dose of the pain meds. The first time he smelled it was after the nurses had unplugged most of the wires and gotten rid of the catheter, after they’d wheeled a wheelchair into the room and told the omega to use it to get himself to the bathroom down the hall. They’d left soon after, totally unhelpful wretches, the wheelchair left the furthest away from the omega’s table as it could possibly be. The omega had stared across the room at it, wide-eyed and frozen, sitting up on the table so stiff and uncomfortable, before stealing a few quick glances at Deadpool.

Wade, for his part, just looked wide-eyed back. “Can you even stand?” he’d asked, incredulous.

The omega sucked in a bracing breath. “I c-can – I’ll try to –”

“No, nope, no, let me help –”

He’d wheeled the chair over to him, helped him off the table with the omega’s hand clutched onto one of his biceps as he stepped shaky feet onto the cold tiled floor. Once he was in the seat, finally, breathing hard and sweaty from that small accomplishment alone, Wade had grabbed his discarded hoodie off the table and held it out to the omega, who just sort of stared at it. Used to the staring at this point, Deadpool didn’t really mind it, although it did still make him want to duck and cover, to hide his skin from that sharp-alert gaze.

“No more wires,” Deadpool had said. “You can put it on for real now! If you want? Or I got – I think I got you at least one other shirt those nurse-assholes didn’t steal –” He’d moved toward the backpack, mumbling to himself, his hoodie reeking of that sickly sour omega fear. He both wanted to wear it to hide behind and not wear it because of the way that smell made him feel. Like a knothead. Like a brutish, violent alpha who cowed omegas in fragile states. A monster. Which he was. He was that, so it was fine, it was deserved that he felt like one –

“No, I –” the omega cut himself off, biting his lip. Deadpool froze in his tracks. The omega’s voice was still stilted, still hesitant, but he used it a little more each day around the alpha. He tried again, his hands clenched around the wheelchair arms so hard his knuckles were white. Brave little omega, to talk to an alpha who looked as horrifying as Wade did. To talk at all, in this world. Omegas don’t talk very often. Deadpool hangs onto every word the kid utters, all awed and grateful every time it happens. Has an omega ever said anything besides terrified pleading sobs to him before?

[Nope.]

[[Do blood-curdling screams count?]]

But this omega does. He’d steeled himself and said, “Please, I’ll – I want to wear it. If I – can I? I can wear it?”

Deadpool rushed to help him into the hoodie, to pull his arms into the sleeves and zip it over his wrapped torso. And it – he’s an alpha, okay? He doesn’t like it, but he is one. He’s got all that territorial bullshit hardwired into him. Seeing his hoodie on this omega, seeing the way it wraps around him and hangs off his smaller frame, it does things to Wade. Makes him feel warm and dare he say happy? Is this what happiness feels like?? The omega hugged himself in the hoodie, arms wrapping around himself, eyes lighter and less terrified, if only for a moment. On a roll, Deadpool had gotten a pair of comfy black sweatpants out of the backpack and helped the omega into those as well, until at last the omega sat in that wheelchair clothed from the neck down in warm clothes, smelling of that earthy-rich chilly morning dew and looking for all the world like a real actual human being for once. And later, when they’d made it back to the room after an exhausting trip to the bathroom, after that smell was long gone and the omega’s pain was back, he’d laid flat on the table, bear in one arm, and grabbed Wade’s retreating hand and murmured, “Can I – can I keep wearing this?”

“Of course, baby boy,” Wade assured, disturbed that he thought he’d be required to strip all over again. He’d squeezed his hand. “That hoodie looks better on you anyway.”

“Are you real?” the omega had asked then.

The question’s come up a few times.

-

-

-

Peter feels like he’s dreaming.

He can’t tell he’s even awake, because everything’s all wrong and wonky and strange. For three days now, the big, intimidating alpha has stayed with him in the room. But he literally gave Peter the clothes off his back. It’s obvious he’s uncomfortable without the hoodie, but still he let Peter use it. He’s wearing nothing except a white V-neck that clings to his muscles, ripped and corded like a straight-up bodybuilder. It’d be terrifying how big the alpha is, except the way he carries himself is anything but, so careful and hunched, all fidgety like a flighty bird wanting to leap off into the sunset. He talks to Peter like he’s a person. Nobody’s spoken to him like he’s a person since his aunt and uncle, in literal years, and it’s – jarring. Extremely jarring. He lets the alpha’s voice wash over him sometimes and breaks a little more on the inside at the sound of it. To have something he never thought he’d have again, even for a moment… even knowing this can’t last, Peter breaks. The alpha doesn’t even mind it when he cries. And he does cry, seemingly without cause, randomly throughout the day. It feels like when he’s not sleeping, he’s crying, as silently as he can, soft snuffled breaths and tears trailing down his face. The alpha coos at him and pets his head and holds his hand and Peter can’t breathe –

It’s so bizarre how everything’s flipped.

Was it only a couple days ago that he dreaded this alpha coming into the room with him?

Now he – he’s scared when the alpha leaves. He pops out for a bathroom break or for a food run or to demand a nurse bring more pain meds, and Peter hardly breathes while he’s gone, frozen in dread and panic because what if the alpha doesn’t come back at all, what if he leaves and never comes back, or what if the nurses come in while the alpha’s gone –

Why does he feel safer when the alpha’s here?

It shouldn’t be this way. Peter shouldn’t be this way. There has to be something fundamentally wrong with him, but he’s – he feels almost real when the alpha’s around. Like he’s someone who can be talked to. Like he’s someone who can talk, who can cry or feel or be, like he’s real. And of course this can’t last, which is – so terrifying it aches. The alpha’s been patient so far… more than patient. He’s been practically kind. He helps Peter to the bathroom (embarrassing). He’s sung songs to him and told him stories about his life (none of which sound real) and read articles from his phone to him and gave him clothes and a teddy bear and –

None of this feels real.

Any minute now, Peter’s going to be back in that crusty alleyway, whining under a stranger’s cock. Any minute now, he’s going to wake up alone in this clinic, naked and cold and too sore to move. Any minute now, he’s going to wake back up curled up in the kennel at his last owner’s house, to that old beta Frank kicking at the kennel and pissing on him through the bars. Peter’s not prepared to wake up. He’s not ready for reality to rip this kind alpha out from under him like he never even existed in the first place. He probably doesn’t exist. Everybody knows that alphas aren’t kind. This is a fever dream cooked up by the pain. He’s going to wake up soon and the bear will be gone and the clothes will be gone and this alpha’s soft, crooning voice and gentle hands will be gone and no wonder he keeps crying, the wait for this all to poof out of existence will kill him if the pain doesn’t first –

He falls asleep after a nurse brings them dinner, bland, tasteless food but food nonetheless. He’s on a restricted diet, he knows, so they don’t bring the typical kibble omegas usually eat. The alpha helps him sit in the wheelchair to eat, a slightly more comfortable surface for his still raw, burning ass than the unforgiving, hard table. They gave the alpha the same bland food that they gave Peter, but the alpha doesn’t complain. It’s another point in the this-can’t-be-real column that the alpha eats with him and talks to him all the while, mouth full of food as he rambles and gesticulates and spills some down his white shirt. Everything about the alpha is unreal. Even a beta wouldn’t help Peter to the bathroom or give him clothes or eat with him like he’s a person. But an alpha?

Peter stops himself there. He can’t bear to think about the last alpha who used him.

He’s cried enough for one day.

But after they eat, the alpha helps Peter back onto the table, wordlessly hands him the rainbow bear and runs a scarred hand through Peter’s hair. He’d removed his gloves sometime when he’d removed the hoodie. Peter’s too scared to verbalize it, but he likes the feeling of that rough hand running over his scalp, sort of leans his head into the caress. If he’s dreaming, it’s a good dream. He should probably enjoy it while it’s happening, right? The alpha croons at him as he drifts off, that soft lilting baritone washing over him all over again. He doesn’t focus on the words, in and out on the sound itself.

But subconsciously, Peter must have been thinking about the last alpha he’d been around.

Or maybe trying too hard not to think about it.

Because one second he’s all omega-soft, drifting off under that campfire rich scent, and the next second he’s back there. Back in the lobby at Oscorp Tower, strapped into one of the stockades that lines the wall by the elevators. His arms and neck are restrained in the stockade, ass at waist level to anyone who wants it. His owner had given him something before leaving him there for the day, a pill that pooled heat low in his belly, that had his own penis stiff and angry, bobbing untouched in the chilly air-conditioned lobby. His hips sway as he whines, trying to thrust into nothing, thighs slick from the forced heat, hole achingly empty.

“In trouble again, Slick?”

He’s blindfolded, but he knows the voice of Harry Osborn by now, knows that sharp alpha scent that has his thighs clenching, that has him whining and thrusting his hips, desperate. The blindfold is wet with his tears, shame curling through him at the need that has him acting like an omega slut. Harry tsks close by, his breath hot against Peter’s ear right before a hand slaps down on Peter’s ass, stinging his already-sore flesh. He grunts out a gasped breath and wiggles, trying to chase that retreating hand with his ass, all slick-wet and tingling. The alpha laughs and slaps him again, a few more times until Peter’s pushing himself backward to take the punishing blows, hating the pain but needing the contact.

“What’d you do this time, hm?”

Peter moans at another blow, grits his teeth

“C’mon Slick,” the alpha says. He hears a belt buckle jostling, the sound of a zipper, then the blunt tip of Harry’s cock as it slides over his slick and lands at his hole. It rests there, teasing at his opening, and Peter whines again, trying to impale himself backward onto it even as he hates himself. “Tell me what you did to land yourself here again. What is this, the fourth time this month? Just look at you. Look at this mess. You’re a mess, Slick, you know that? Such a needy thing. What’d you do?”

Peter knows what’s coming. Hates it. The knot. The brutal, punishing pace. How the wood of the stockade scratches his wrists and neck until his skin bleeds, the way Harry talks. The onlookers in the lobby, their murmured judgements and their whistles and their laughter. He hates it, he hates it, he – oh, God, please, please fill him up, please –

The tip presses a bit. Only enough to tease. His hands clench into fists.

He feels – empty.

“I – I didn’t –” The tip bears down, barely breeching him. Peter chokes off a sob and keens.

“Keep going or I won’t.”

“Please, please – I didn’t, didn’t get hard when he – when my owner –”

“Course you didn’t get hard! That old beta couldn’t fill you like I do, hm? You need an alpha to knot you good, just look at you –” The alpha reaches under Peter and rubs a rough hand against Peter’s erection, grinding his palm on it so hard it aches, makes Peter wail, trying desperately to follow that hand as it retreats. Then Harry laughs, slaps him on the ass, and slides home with one jabbing push. He talks when he fucks, monologuing a string of half-coherent dirty talk that Peter tries to block out. It doesn’t take much to focus less on the words whispered hot against his back and more on the huge alpha cock stabbing into him, filling him up, wet from Peter’s own slick. His cries fill the lobby, louder than anything Harry’s saying to him, so loud that the other omegas in stockades wince and cry with him. Alphas always fuck harder than betas, all rough punishing thrusts and slaps and – and Peter needs it right now, that ache like an unbearable itch inside him that even being filled can’t scratch. The pill keeps him right on the edge of release, utterly incapable of achieving that release. He’s been left on the brink for hours, now, hours where he’s been fucked and laughed at and teased with little touches against his flank, with stinging slaps, with the brute force of wide belts and now, now –

Now Harry slows down, panting above him, that swell at the base of his cock catching onto Peter’s hole – catching until it, until it –

“Omega!”

Peter flies into motion, crying out as he whacks his arm against the alpha leering over him and bolts upright on the table, fighting now, fighting because he’s unbound and they can’t take him, they can’t –

“Shh, no, no, you’re okay,” the alpha’s saying.

And he looks – it’s not –

It’s not Harry Osborn. It’s the – he’s scarred. Bald. Big. It’s –

Peter’s eyes widen in horror even as he wheezes out a panicked breath and curls away from the looming alpha he’d literally just – he’d just hit. Peter hit the man clear across the face with his entire arm, so hard there’s blood under his nose and – and he was kind and Peter hit him. He’s going to – he’s going to – “Please! I’m – I’m sorry, I wasn’t – I didn’t – please!”

Suddenly there’s a firm hand on his arm and an even firmer, Alpha-barked, “Omega.”

Peter freezes in place. Holds his breath, quelled into silence.

“Nobody is going to hurt you.” The alpha’s voice is all no-nonsense, dark and rumbly. Peter stares down at the scarred hand clenched around his arm and tries not to breathe, not to move. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees that alpha-red again, those eyes glowing like hot coals. He trembles under that hand, heart racing. When the alpha’s voice breaks the tension, cuts through the silence, his tone is a touch softer but no less firm, no less rumbly. “I’m not going to hurt you. The nurses aren’t going to hurt you. Nobody, you hear me? Nobody. I’d hurt them first. I’d hurt me before I’d hurt you.” And then softer still, on the edge of a croon: “You had a bad dream, sweetie. Yeah? ‘s just a dream. I’m going to let you go now and scoot my chair away and give you some space, okay? I promise you’re okay.”

The alpha – the alpha does exactly what he said he was going to do. He scoots his chair away, plops into it on the other side of the room. Peter watches him retreat with his heart in his throat. None of this makes sense. The dream made sense. That world – that world made sense. This world can’t be real; this alpha can’t be real, he’s –

“I’m sorry,” Peter says. He’s staring the alpha in the face, tracking the crooked nose and the blood and the smeared red where scabs used to be. His eyes are that soft, soft brown, not a hint of alpha in them.

The alpha grins, all teeth. Shoots him two thumbs up.

“You’re, like, super strong. Never be sorry for that, baby boy.” Then his eyes widen and he leans forward in his chair, sets a hand against his mouth and whispers like there’s anyone around who might be listening in, “Don’t tell, but I’ve got a healing factor. Watch, watch –”

He reaches up to his nose. Peter jumps at the sudden snap that rings loud in the room.

His jaw drops.

The alpha sniffs, experimental. Grins again. “See? All better!”

“You – you just –”

“Yeah. Pretty rad, amirite?” Then a whispered, furious, “No it is not gnarly –”

“You can heal?”

“Yep!”

“Are you…” Peter hesitates. But if literally hitting him in the face doesn’t send this alpha into a blind rage, then maybe he can – maybe he can speak. Maybe it’s okay to talk in this weird fever dream that isn’t ending. “… a mutant?”

“Eh, kinda?” The alpha leans back in the chair and shrugs. Doesn’t seem angry to have been asked a question. Peter is – Peter is suddenly fascinated. The alpha waves a dismissive hand in the air and says, “It was a whole thang. Wasn’t born with it or nothing. I don’t know all the semantics, but – um. I guess I’m mutated? Mutant-adjacent?”

He shrugs again.

“But then why…” He hesitates again, cuts off the question. It’s a bad question.

The alpha waves him on, though, prompting, “Why…?”

Peter steels himself. He’s already seen how sensitive the scars make the alpha. It’s a bad question. But he’s gotten this far. “Why don’t your scars heal?”

He’s braced for an outburst that never comes. Instead, the alpha picks at a scab on his cheek, glances away. “Right?? I’m stuck like this forever, unfortunately. I know it’s gross, but it’s not contagious or anything. The short and dry of it is that I got the cancer, got tortured a little until my cells mutated, wham bam thank you healing factor, which is now constantly fighting the cancer, and the fight just so happens to show up on my face. And everywhere else, honestly. It’s all over. Like, all. Over. But I’m – I don’t want to scare you. I know it scares you to look at me, but scaring you is honestly the last thing I want to do. I usually cover them up. I mean, even at home, even when I’m alone, I cover them. You won’t have to, like, look at them all the time or anything.”

Then the alpha flinches, bolts upright from his slouched position in the chair.

Peter flinches at the sudden movement, too.

“Shit,” the alpha breathes. “Sorry, no, I’m not gonna go near you, I just – um. I just. About that whole home thing.”

Peter waits, perplexed. His heart races at the alpha’s sudden spike of anxiety.

What could be making an alpha scared?

“I’m not sure how much about your condition you’ve heard, but the docs are saying you’ll need around six to eight weeks for your ass to fully heal? From the surgeries and the tears and shit. I was gonna –”

“My mouth,” Peter says. He wouldn’t interrupt an alpha on any other occasion, but he’s got an idea of where this conversation is going and he’s – he doesn’t want to wake up from this dream yet, please not yet –

The alpha’s voice trails off. His head cocks to the side.

“You can still – it’s not as good as having both, but you can still use my mouth,” Peter clarifies when it seems like the silence might stretch on forever. The alpha’s eyes widen. Desperate now, he clutches at the sleeves of the hoodie he’s been allowed to wear, and his vision goes all blurry with tears. There’s no reason why this alpha would keep him. Peter’s more than broken. He’s physically incapable of giving him what he wants. Six to eight weeks is a long time. Too long. It’s practically a death sentence to an omega. Would have been a death sentence to Peter, except for some reason the alpha’s paying to keep him around. He’s not sure how he feels about it all, can’t parse through the swell of so many emotions inside him right now. All he knows is he’s overwhelmed, confused, broken… and that he doesn’t want to die. Not yet. Not now. Having an alpha for an owner would have sounded like a nightmare before he’d met this one. It might still be a nightmare, if this is all some sort of elaborate act. But maybe it’s not all an act. Maybe this alpha is real. Maybe Peter can be a person again, sometimes, can wear clothes sometimes and talk sometimes and maybe even eat real human food, occasionally. There’s a chance this is all real and Peter’s – he’s so fucking frantic to hold onto that thin, frayed little bud of hope that’s blooming inside him.

There’s no reason the alpha might keep him, but – “I can make it good for you,” Peter insists at the alpha’s silence. “I can – I can still use my mouth, and my hands. I’d listen to you –”

“Stop.”

“I promise, I’ll do whatever you want,” Peter swears.

He hasn’t always obeyed owners. But for this chance, for this little sliver of hope –

But that little sliver of hope seems to be growing smaller by the second. Peter sees it all flash before his eyes as the alpha scrambles to a stand and beelines it for the door. He’s mumbling something to himself, too low for Peter to hear, but whatever he’s saying doesn’t matter because he’s leaving, he’s walking out, Peter played all his cards too soon and the alpha didn’t like it, doesn’t like what little Peter can offer him. He’s – he’s leaving –

“Please!” Peter’s voice breaks.

The alpha’s face looks positively stricken when he glances over his shoulder at Peter, freezing for a moment with one foot out the door. He shakes his head and Peter’s heart is breaking –

“I’ll be – I just need to –” the alpha stutters, gesturing madly out the door.

“I can be good –”

“You are good,” the alpha hurries to say. “You’re fine, I just need to leave right now – it’s me, it’s – you’re okay, I’ll be – I’ll be back.”

The door clicks shut behind him. Peter sits on the table and leans against the wall beside him. The abrupt silence rings in his ears like waves crashing over his head, the sudden emptiness of the room a stark, vivid picture of Peter’s entire life. It’s all empty and none of this was real, he can’t breathe –

His hand feels around for the rainbow bear, finds it further down on the table. He clenches a fist into the bear’s fuzzy fur and brings it close to his face, nuzzles it. It still smells like the alpha, a faint whiff of fire and smoke. He doesn’t like the alpha, he doesn’t. He just – he wanted it all to be real. The clothes and the petting hand and the soft words and the conversation and listening when Peter spoke and – Peter hugs the ball of fluff to his chest –

– and cries.

Again.

Chapter Text

4. say my name

-

-

-

Peter’s almost nervous to the point of throwing up. He is nervous to the point of nausea, his stomach all in knots. The bathroom’s too far away, though, and he’s not sure he’s even allowed to wheel himself out of the room without permission. In any other clinic visit, he was expected to use a bucket in the corner of the room, but this room’s lacked a bucket from the start and the big alpha’s been helping him use an actual toilet. What’s the protocol when the alpha isn’t here? He holds the bear and tries deep, slow breaths, curled around the bright-colored ball of fluff. It’s so backwards, but he feels closer to a panic attack than he’s ever been before, wrapped in these borrowed clothes and hugging a stuffed animal, curled up on the table in this sterile, plain room. He’s not being beaten or raped or hit or degraded, but he’s – this isn’t – he’s not okay –

It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

Since the alpha left?

His concept of time is shaky on the best of days, when everything runs together in a string of pain and misery and more pain. But it feels like it’s been a while. Too long, maybe. Like maybe he won’t come back at all. Maybe he won’t. Peter can’t offer him anything. It’d make sense to cut his losses. What do they do with damaged male omegas? When a brothel won’t take him? Peter can’t imagine it’s anything good. He’s not sure how they kill worthless omegas, not sure how fast or slow it’ll be.

Should he try running?

Run where?

He can barely walk. It’s – it’s impossible. Hopeless.

He’s already dead anyway. What’s even the point?

The bear’s eyes are buttons sewed on with black threads. He fiddles with one of them, rotating it back and forth, back and forth, trying not to think. It’s hard not to think when he’s relatively pain free. This unbearable wait might have been easier if he hadn’t taken those pain meds earlier. It might have been –

The door swings wide.

Peter jumps, his heart in his throat, hands clenched in the bear’s fur.

He’s got another pitch. Prepared another angle that’ll make the alpha agree to take him.

But it’s – it’s not the alpha.

Instead, two orderlies file into the room. One has a big plastic bag full of stuff that he sets on the floor beside the alpha’s chair. The other one enters with a clipboard. He turns and shuts the door behind them. The click of the lock as the man’s finger presses it rings in Peter’s ears, makes his heart thump.

Peter can’t breathe. He feels like he can’t breathe. It’s – he can’t breathe –

The one with the clipboard discards the paperwork on the chair.

“Stand up and bend over the table,” one of them says.

Peter doesn’t move.

They’re both wearing light green scrubs. He’s seen them around in the hallways, occasionally, over the past few days. They’ve kept a wide berth between them and the alpha, so they haven’t interacted at all with Peter up until now. Clearly impatient, the one closest to him grabs him by the arm and drags him off the table. Yanks the bear out of his arms and tosses it aside. It lands somewhere on the ground, but Peter can’t see where because his face is shoved onto the table with a rough hand pressing down on his neck. The other guy must have come closer to help; a sharp yank pulls his borrowed sweatpants down to his knees. With his chest pressed into the hard, unforgiving chill of the metal table, it’s even harder to breathe. Peter pants out panicked breaths, hands clenching onto the table and gripping hard.

A kick to his foot forces his legs open.

And this – the chill of the room, the pressure against him, manhandled like an object –

This is – familiar.

“What was that alpha thinking?”

“What, giving it clothes? Clearly alphas don’t think. No wonder it didn’t listen to you. Betcha it thinks it’s a person, wearing clothes and getting babied by that freak.”

“You think you’re a person, omega?” The man’s hand grinds down into his neck, choking him.

“Is that it?” Another hand slaps down on his ass. The sting comes as a shock, abrupt and out of nowhere, and his ass isn’t anywhere near prepared to handle even one slap, because it sends jolts of sharp, stabbing pain into him. Peter whines, choking on a cry, clutching at the table for dear life. He’s suddenly sweating through the sweatshirt, feels sticky and disgusting. The alpha isn’t coming. He left him here to die, and now – now – There’s laughter behind him, then the one holding him down leans close, breath hot against Peter’s ear, and commands, “Reach back and spread your hole.”

Shaking, Peter obeys. He pries his hands off the table and then scrambles to reach for his ass, spreading his cheeks until the cold air kisses his hole. It tries to clench and Peter moans out in pain at the position, the stretch almost unbearable, almost enough to make him let go of his buttocks and try to curl up in agony. He’s not close to healed internally, not close to prepped if they want to use him, he won’t survive this – and maybe this is how they kill omegas, maybe rape is the way they get rid of them – slow, slow death, a whore until his last breath –

They’re laughing again.

One presses a finger against him until his hole swallows the intrusion.

Peter’s panting, whining. “Pl-please –”

“You’ll take what you’re given,” the man snaps. The finger crooks inside him.

The other beta’s laughing still when he says, “Take it easy. If we pop a stitch –”

“Right.” The finger is yanked out of him, quick enough to hurt.

They pull him off the table and shove him onto his knees, where one of them feeds him his cock while the other whips his out and tugs on it, watching. Tears leak from the corner of Peter’s eyes and he gags on the penis as it shoves against the back of his throat. Still, his lips wrap around it like he was made for this, made to be on his knees, made to have his face pressed into a random stranger’s pubes as he services him, choking on a mouthful. And he – he was made for this. The alpha was just a – just a fluke. A fever dream. He never actually existed in the first place. Peter hasn’t even been awake until now, until this very moment when he’s giving head to a beta. The other beta loses interest in watching. He shuffles forward and grabs Peter’s hand, pressing it onto his penis and forcing Peter’s fingers to close around it.

“Better get me off like this,” he says, and Peter moves his fist up and down. “Otherwise I might have to use that damaged hole after all.”

“Don’t know why anybody would want a male omega,” the one in his mouth grunts.

“One less hole than a chick.”

“Good enough for a back-alley whore, but to keep? Ha!”

“That alpha’s a fucking idiot.”

“This one won’t last the week, anyway. He was – nghh – leaking slick, a little –”

“Ooh, can you imagine what that alpha’ll do when it goes into heat?”

“That hole won’t survive a knot –”

The one in his mouth grabs handfuls of Peter’s hair and starts thrusting against his face. Peter gags and tries to relax his throat, tries to hold on for the ride, at the same time as he pumps his fist over the other beta’s cock and tries to keep rhythm, his knees groaning against the ground, pants pooled at his feet now. They’re still talking as they use him, casual conversation between pals, all laughing voices and mocking tones, but Peter’s having a hard time concentrating. Now that the betas pointed it out, his asshole does feel – wet. Moist. He’d thought it was blood from the beta crooking that finger into him before, from a stitch coming loose, but – but it’s not. It’s slick. Not much, not yet… but his body has apparently decided that this was the week, when he can’t be used, out of all the weeks, to start a heat cycle. No wonder he feels sick to his stomach. His last natural heat was – he can’t even remember when it was. Months, years? He’s had so many heats forced on him that his cycle doesn’t know up from down. And now –

The betas are right. A heat right now will kill him. That alpha won’t be able to resist, and –

Wait.

The – the alpha!

The betas were – they talked as though the alpha might be taking him. The alpha’s a fucking idiot for keeping him, they said. Hadn’t they? Is he going to keep him? But then – where is he? Why’s Peter servicing these orderlies right now?

A warm gush of liquid hits the back of his throat, bitter and salty. Reflexively, Peter swallows.

After a few heartbeats, the other beta shoves his friend out of the way and cums into Peter’s mouth, too.

Afterward, the orderlies tuck themselves away. They leave without pulling Peter’s pants up or even getting him back onto the table. Just leave him kneeling, a rumpled mess in the middle of the room, drool on his face and a bad taste in his mouth. He kneels there for a few minutes, wide-eyed and panting, crying silent tears that drip off his chin. His heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest, his asshole clenching and slick, the chill of the room raising goosebumps on bare legs. It’s a slow, arduous process to crawl his way back to the table and pull himself up. The bear’s half under the table and he makes sure to grab him on the way up. He lays himself down on the table and, grunting from the effort, tugs one pant leg up at a time, shimmying back into the sweatpants even as the movement shoots pain through his ass, his vision blacking in and out of focus. Everything hurts, again, when he finally manages to lay flat with the bear hugged tight to his chest. It was a good reminder, he thinks. He needed it. Needed to be used. Needed to remember that that’s the way of the world. Teddy bears and warm clothes aren’t realistic. Soft words and gentle hands aren’t realistic. He can’t come to expect them. Not ever.

Whether the alpha comes back or he doesn’t, Peter won’t let himself forget that again.

Pain won’t kill him. But hope?

Hope hurts.

-

-

-

[[Stop freaking, we thought of everything!]]

[We didn’t clean the apartment!]

[[Okay but we thought of cleaning the apartment.]]

[Thinking about it doesn’t hide all the guns! There’s a bazooka on the coffee table!]

[[Pretty sure we’ve got a bowl of grenades in the bathroom.]]

[It’s gonna scare him off! We’re scary! We gotta stop by the apartment and clean –]

[[It’ll take too long, bro. We’ve already been gone too long!]]

[Thirty more minutes won’t kill anybody –]

Deadpool decides he’s had enough of their bellyaching and informs them that if they don’t cease and desist, he’s going to start singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow. It doesn’t do anything to shut them up, of course, and White and Yellow continue their argument all the way back to the clinic, so loudly that Deadpool’s dulcet off-key rendition of their most hated song can’t break through their sound barrier. It’s fine, though, because Deadpool’s got his head in the game and he’s officially ready to be the proud new owner to a bouncing baby boy. Well, to a boy. A rape victim boy who’s terrified of him because he’s an ugly gross trash fire alpha. Whatevs. During the forced shopping trip, Wade’s discovered that he no longer gives a shit that the omega fears him. Wade knows he won’t hurt the omega. Somewhere in the collar aisle, he realized that if he wants an omega to be safe, if he wants this omega to be safe, then he’s going to have to buckle up and keep the kid safe. And who knows, maybe one day they could even be friends. Buddies. Ol’ pals. He might not be able to change anything about any part of this shit world, but he can offer up his safe little haven to someone else who has even more of a reason to hate the shit world. He’s – he’s excited, okay, this is going to be great.

[So says the guy who just sobbed for an hour in a dirty toilet stall.]

[[You hugged a toilet paper roll and rocked back and forth.]]

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Deadpool sings. People cross the street to avoid him, shielding their children as he passes on the sidewalk. He salutes them with his free finger and is even more eager to get home in the dusty darkness of the coming night, his nose sick of smelling that bitter beta stench that clogs up the world. At least he’s covered, now, having bought another hoodie first chance he got. This one’s got a furry rainbow mohawk going down the hood, glitter along the sleeves. He probably should have gone with another solid black one to avoid prying eyes, but shit, he needs some fucking color in his life, okay? People are going to stare whether he’s blacked out or wearing a fucking tutu, whether he’s fully covered or showing skin. Alphas smell like shit and he smells worse than most, so. If he wants to wear a glittery rainbow hoodie he’s going to wear a glittery rainbow hoodie. The omega likes the colorful bear; maybe the sight of Deadpool wearing this might soften the kid to him, maybe disarm all that pesky wariness his new unwitting omega’s got mucking up his scent all the time.

The clinic looks ominous as he approaches it.

Deadpool grips his bags, staring at the doors leading inside. He swallows.

[Chickenshit.]

[[I thought you were excited? Don’t tell me you were lying to yourself.]]

“I am!” he says. “Excited, I mean. Not lying to myself.”

[Right.]

[[Okay.]]

[Of course.]

The staff let him through without a word. With some scoffs and raised eyebrows, but without a word. Thank Christ for small favors. Deadpool’s good at not thinking – White and Yellow do enough of it for all of them – so he decidedly isn’t thinking when he bursts through his omega’s door with his bag full of goodies and deepens his voice as he exclaims, “Ho ho ho! This would have worked better if I’d gotten a red hoodie, but – hi! Again! Hi again!”

Wade waves.

The omega is laying down on the table, hugging his bear. The sight renews Deadpool’s resolve to see this through. The kid looks like shit. Adorable shit, granted. But still. He’s red-eyed and somber, hair all rumpled, face sallow and pale. And the whole room smells of fear and pain and sorrow, stifling, so bad it brings tears to Deadpool’s eyes. Christ, how can betas stand to smell this all the time and not try to fix it, to help, to soothe the omega into something less miserable? The omega jumped when the door burst wide but hasn’t made a move since, calm brown eyes tracking Wade as he dumps the bags of goodies onto the floor and digs through one of them, rummaging as he mutters to himself.

“Ah ha!” Deadpool brandishes a hairbrush, holding it up in triumph.

The omega seems to draw in on himself.

“My name is Wade Wilson, bee tee dubs,” Deadpool says into the silence. “I’ve been avoiding the whole name thing because I literally hate that I’ve got a name and you probably don’t. It’s not cool. But we’re gonna be roomies, so. You can call me Wade? Or just, like, hey you. I also respond to Bea Arthur’s Beau or Bootilicious or Bob. Call me anything, it’s all fine.”

“M-mr. Wilson –”

“Eeeeeeeee,” Deadpool’s voice shrieks without his approval. The omega’s mouth clamps shut.

He hurries to say, “I did say to call me anything, sorry, that’s – that’s –”

[Go on, tell him he can call you Mr. Wilson.] White’s tone is goading.

[[Gag me, we’re gonna be reminded of our old man all the fucking time with that –]]

[Mr. Wilson, Mr. Wilson, Mr. Wilson.] White chants.

Deadpool winces. “Um, that’s fine. Mr. Wilson. Coooool. Awesome. Go on.”

“Um –” The omega looks uncertain. Bites his lip.

He hates himself for putting that uncertainty there over nothing. There’s a clipboard on the chair; Deadpool shoves the thing into the floor and plops himself down, groaning with his head in one hand, face hidden by the hoodie pulled low. He knows he’s already fucking everything up. He’s got to pull himself together, here. C’mon, Deadpool. Head in the fucking game –

“I don’t really like Mr. Wilson,” he admits. His head is still in his hand. “Lots of shit memories with that one. But I did say call me anything. If that’s what makes you comfortable then that’s totes fine, I’ll deal –”

“Wade.”

Deadpool freezes. Very slowly, he raises his face away from his hand, peeks over.

The omega’s eyes are wide. When he sees Deadpool looking, he says, “I can… call you that?”

[This one’s brave.] White coos.

[[Braver than dumbshit here.]]

[Unquestionably.]

“Oh absolutely,” Wade gushes, fast and frantic to reassure. “Not a lot of people even use my name, so it’s actually really great to hear it from somebody who’s not just a figment of my imagination. Not that the voices in my head ever use my name, either, the assholes… but yeah. Yes. Please call me that. If you want. I like it.”

[You are such a basket case.]

[[Overeager much?]]

“Do you have a name?” Deadpool asks. “Or something you like being called?”

The omega hesitates, arms tightening around his bear.

“It’s cool if you don’t,” he’s quick to add. It was a dumb question, and the misery on the boy’s face speaks volumes. Omegas don’t have names unless it’s something obscene or degrading. Even then, it changes owner to owner. Nothing that’s theirs. He taps the hairbrush on his leg in rhythm with his racing heart and says, “We can come up with something badass. Something you like. Not everyone gets to choose their own name, you know. I sure as shit didn’t… who’d pick Wade? At least mine isn’t a string of nonsensical vowel sounds, though. Parents these days name their kids some weird ass unpronounceable, unspellable shit. Pretty sure they use the button-mash-on-a-keyboard method and decide, you know, that looks just weird enough to get my kid confused with the sound a hacking cough makes. Or they’re named after rando household items and foods. I met a beta named Kale once. Kale! Like the salad! Poor bastard. I bet my life savings he croaks from a heart attack one day because he can’t stand to eat himself.”

As he speaks, he keeps tap, tap, tapping the brush against his leg.

The omega’s eyes seem to be drawn to the movement.

“Are you –” The omega starts, stops, all halted and unsure.

“I literally love hearing your voice,” Deadpool says into the silence. “You can ask questions.”

Still, it takes another false start before the omega takes a deep breath, releases it. Looks away and says a quiet, hesitant, “Are you going to – hit me with that? The – brush?”

“What!” Deadpool exclaims. The omega flinches at the outburst, looks scared.

[Asshole. You are such –]

[[Fix this you fucking dickhe –]]

“I got this so we can get those knots out of your hair.” Deadpool has to speak through a sudden lump in his throat. He waves the brush in the air in front of him and gestures at the boy’s head, the boxes roaring in his mind. Very quietly, he can’t help but add, “I won’t hit you ever. I know that probably sounds unbelievable and I know you can’t trust me and I know I’m scary, but – I mean it, baby boy. I’m not going to hit you ever.”

He’s pretty sure the omega doesn’t believe him, if the disbelief painted across his pale face is anything to go by. But he does give his permission for Deadpool to approach with the brush. The alpha helps him sit up on the table crisscross applesauce style so he can work the brush through his matted, knotted hair, starting at the bottom and going slow. A lot of owners opt to keep their male omegas shaved. It’s cleaner, that way. Less maintenance. Others find the act of shaving an omega’s head work in and of itself and don’t bother. They leave their hair in utter disarray. Who cares if an omega’s hair knots itself into a rat’s nest, greasy and matted with crusted cum? Omegas already carry that bitter, pungent stench of fear and hopelessness around with them, so their hair smelling bad makes little difference. It doesn’t impact their ability to serve, so – but Deadpool’s been plucking at the kid’s hair for days now, trying to very slowly pick through each knot. He’s been dying to get his hands on a brush. In the quiet of the uncomfortable little white room, he keeps talking while he works, murmuring different name options for the omega and running through pros and cons of each possible name.

The omega sits stiff and still, his head bowed so Deadpool can get at the knots at the back.

He says nothing.

Good thing Deadpool’s used to talking to himself.

[He looks like a Tom. Suggest Tom.]

[[Nah, he’s definitely an Andrew. Drew for short!]]

[Tom!]

[[Andrew!]]

[Ask him which one he likes better. It’s gonna be Tom –]

[[It’s gonna be Andrew.]]

Deadpool pauses the brush on a rough patch of hair, smoothing through it with his fingers so it won’t tug too hard. The omega remains ramrod straight and still. “Here’s a thought,” Deadpool says, both to the omega and to his pesky boxes. “But what about Tobey? It’s got that cute ring, you know. You kind of look like a Tobey. Also, I’ve never met a single asshole Tobey. They’re all complete dolls. Granted, I’ve only ever met nice people in alternate realities, so none of my Tobey references come from this dimension, but Tobeys are usually hella friendly as long as they aren’t from around here. Because everybody from around here is an asshole. It’s almost like there’s something in the water here, amirite? Must be why I’m such a joy to be around; I never drink the water.”

[Tobey is fucking lame.]

[[No way he’s a Tobey. Tell him my idea! Tell him Andrew!]]

[Tom!]

“It’s all mellow yellow and Canada dry for me,” Deadpool keeps talking.

The omega never speaks up about any of the name choices, never says anything at all about it. He does, however, point out the clipboard with paperwork Deadpool might need to sign, tells him that a couple orderlies came around earlier to drop it off along with that bag of stuff that’s beside the chair. It’s off, something in the omega’s voice. Something a little dead. Flat. Wade doesn’t always get subtleties, but he’s so hyper focused anytime he gets to hear this omega talk that it’s hard not to pick up on the strain in the kid’s voice. It’s discharge paperwork, of course. Because Deadpool is taking the kid home and that’s that. It’s the only option. Maybe that’s what’s off. Maybe the thought of going home with Deadpool is what’s making him sound so dead inside. It’s probably – of course that’s what it is. Nobody sane would ever want to come home with Deadpool. Deadpool doesn’t even want to go home with himself.

But it’s what they’ve got. It’s all they’ve got.

“Hey, are you okay?” Deadpool asks, pausing on a tangle. Another stupid question.

The omega’s shoulders tense, rounding forward.

“I know you don’t exactly have the pick of the litter here. It sucks, I know it all sucks, but I can –I can be a good roomie. I’ll wear my hoodies so you won’t have to look at all the gross shit, and I can cook a mean lasagna. I’ve got two bedrooms so you can have your own, after I clean one of them out because it’s super disgusting right now, but. I mean, I’ll take the gross one, of course. I earned that mess. And I’ve already got loads of ideas on shows we can watch and I don’t know about you, but hiding away from the world and just – resting? Sounds good right about now. My alpha stench is hard to stomach sometimes, but there’s windows we can use to air the place out. But if you’d rather not come home with me –” Here Deadpool falters. What can he possibly offer as an alternative?

But a hand comes up and grips Deadpool by the wrist, latching onto him with a sudden fervor.

The omega’s hand is trembling, clammy.

“Please,” his voice is a whisper, head still bowed. “Please, please take me with you.”

Deadpool swallows, struck speechless. The boxes fall quiet.

“I want – please."

“Yeah,” Deadpool’s voice is gruff. He clears his throat, pats the hand that’s holding his wrist in a vice grip. The omega’s fingers clench, gripping onto his hoodie sleeve. The brush is stuck on a knot, so he gently pulls it out of the omega’s hair, using his fingers to pick at the strands holding it in place. He sets the brush down on the chair and turns his other hand, slides it so he can link their fingers together. He hasn’t held hands with someone like this before, not ever. They’ve held hands so often over the past few days that it’s almost natural, now, the weight of the omega against his palm a calming, anchoring pressure. Now that he’s standing beside instead of behind him, they can meet each other’s eyes. Even that should feel strange. People don’t often meet the eyes of an alpha, especially not Deadpool. They’re both a little watery. He says as earnestly as he can through the lump in his throat, “Course I’m gonna take you with me. It’ll be great! I even bought – I mean I fucking hated that I needed to, but the nurse said they wouldn’t discharge you to me unless I did, so I had to go buy a – shit, let me show you.”

From one of the bags, he pulls out a collar.

The omega’s eyes are wide and shocked as he brings it to the table. Their hands latch back onto each other on autopilot, but the omega’s eyes never leave the collar as Deadpool holds it up in between them.

“It took a while to pick one out,” Deadpool explains, awkward and big. The collar feels weighty in his hand despite the fact that it’s the most comfortable one he could find. He tried it on his own neck at the store in the middle of the aisle to see, tested out dozens of different materials and brands. Almost got kicked out of the place because apparently seeing an alpha trying on collars scared the customers. Whatever. This one was the best, though. A dark blue nylon, lined on the inside with soft sheepskin leather. Extra breathable with notches to adjust the fit and tightness, and the brass d-ring in the center for the leash is lightweight, too. Collars aren’t overly common for omegas; it denotes some level of commitment that most owners don’t have toward what they consider a piece of property. Leashes are required, however, and it’s much less miserable to attach a leash to a collar than it is to wrap a chain around an omega’s neck and pull them along. At least a collar evenly distributes the pressure.

“I had to get a fucking leash,” Deadpool says, scowling down at the collar. “Someone noticed I didn’t bring you in with one. I never bring any omegas in with one unless I just happened to find them with one already around their necks, but I’ve never tried to bring anyone home with me, either. I guess I didn’t realize how serious this place was about their compliance with leash laws. It’s all fucking ridiculous and – but I mean. I figured this might help make it more comfortable? It feels good against your neck. And I won’t be leading you along with it. Fuck that. You’ll be in the wheelchair anyway. Besides, the law doesn’t say anything about who’s got to hold the end of the leash. You can just walk yourself.”

“Can I –?”

Deadpool holds it out to him. “Course. It’s yours.”

He can’t read the expression on the omega’s face as he reaches out a slow hand for the collar. He lets go of Wade’s hand to take the collar into both of his, his bear dropping to the table as he runs his thumbs over the padded leather interior.

“You got me a collar?”

Deadpool fidgets in place. “It’s more comfortable than just a leash.”

“You’re going to –” He cuts himself off again, hesitant.

That’s going to get old fast. “You can ask me questions,” Deadpool says again.

He’s frowning, eyes all sad. “I’ve never had a collar before. None of my other owners…”

He shakes his head, then looks up at Deadpool. Says, “Thank you. Wade.”

The gratitude sounds genuine, bright, as the omega’s scent smooths and softens into something less despairing. This world sucks. It sucks that a person is thanking him for getting a collar and leash that he’s forced to wear in public. It sucks that if they ever do go out anywhere, he’ll be expected to use the leash to tie the kid to a hitching post on the sidewalk. It sucks that Deadpool has to own somebody just to protect them. The gratitude sounds genuine, but it stabs straight through Deadpool’s cold dead heart. He doesn’t want this life. The omega doesn’t deserve it. Brave, brave omega. Using his name. Talking to him. Deadpool wasn’t lying when he said that nobody calls him by his name. Betas call him alpha, their tones all dismissive, lips curled up. Weasel and a few other friends call him Wade, but never an omega. It’s – fucking brave.

While he’s turning the collar over in his hands, Deadpool picks up the clipboard.

For better or for worse, it’s time to blow this popsicle stand.

“Wade?”

The omega mutters it, whisper soft and tired. Deadpool thinks he could get used to his name, thinks of how dangerous that thought is. “Yeah, baby boy?”

“I do have a name.”

Deadpool perks up, pen scritch-scratching a random line as he stops writing and freezes. “You do? Do you want me to know it? I’ll use it, if you tell it to me. Promise.”

[I bet it’s Tom!]

[[How does he have a name? That’s weird, isn’t it?]]

[Maybe he gave it to himself. Or had progressive parents? Super progressive?]

[[He’s unusually brave around us, too. Like, stupid brave.]] There’s suspicion in Yellow’s voice.

[What, you think he’s from the Resistance? Give me a break.]

[[It’s totally possible! You think it’s impossible?]]

[He was almost dead when we found him.] White’s reminder is sobering. [If he was from the Resistance, they did our boy wrong.]

[[… I bet his name is Andrew.]]

[Tom!]

The omega seems to be thinking. It’s quiet for a minute or so while he fiddles with the d-ring on the collar, looping a finger into it and twirling it around. He doesn’t look at Deadpool, head low and eyes down, looking all tiny in that oversized hoodie, his hair still a mess. It’ll take a while to work through all those tangles. A bath will help. Warm water and soap. It turns out that dried and crusted cum makes for a shitty conditioner. Eventually, Deadpool returns to scratching the pen against the clipboard, penmanship almost illegible through his rushing to get it all finished. It’s not like it says anything important anyway. Not liable if the omega dies, last known STD, blah blah, sign here blah. Inside the bag the orderlies left, Deadpool finds the prescriptions he’ll need, extra bandages to change out at the site of the surgery, that cream they’ve been inserting into his ass every night. If the omega can’t do that by himself, Deadpool’s going to have to. Not that he minds doing it, he’ll totally be the best nurse in all the land, but – but the omega won’t like it, an alpha that close to his ass. What a fucking mess.

He’s still rummaging through the bag when the omega clears his throat.

Deadpool looks up, glancing over at him.

“It’s Peter.” He sucks in a breath as soon as he says it. His shoulders tense up, his hands gripped tight around the collar he’s still fiddling with. When Deadpool says nothing for one heartbeat, two, he says it a little louder. “I have a name, and it’s Peter.”

[Awwww]

[[Why didn’t we guess that? It’s perfect!]]

Deadpool scrambles to a stand, drops the medical supplies he’s been pilfering through. He wipes a sweaty hand on his sweatpants and holds it out toward the omega, who eyes it like it’s a snake that might bite him on the nose. They pause like that for an awkward amount of time, until Peter seems to come to the conclusion that it won’t, in fact, bite him, and grabs Deadpool’s hand into one of his own. Instead of shaking hands like Deadpool expected, Peter links their fingers again and holds on. Deadpool’s insides all sort of melt at the contact, at the soft sweet scent that fills the room.

He thinks he might be grinning when he says, “Nice to meetcha, Peter.”

And Peter, brave little omega –

Peter’s mouth quirks up, too.

Chapter Text

5. numb

-

-

-

They take a quick bathroom break before they check out because it’s been hours since their last one, and Peter didn’t think he was allowed to go on his own. To be fair, he’s probably right. It’s not like they give omegas blankets or clothes or any other sort of basic common decency here. Knowing all that, Deadpool feels like a fucking idiot to have expected his omega to have been able to piss when he needed to piss. Despite the fact that they’re both low on the societal totem pole, they come from two completely different worlds. Deadpool gets to do things. He comes from a world where he’s ignored and ostracized, sure, but he takes for granted the privilege he has in all the other ways, all the other millions of little ways he never stops to consider. He can pee when he wants to pee. He can grab a burger or go shopping or pop into the corner store for some spicy hot chips and a lemonade. People don’t hurt him. If he had any hair to brush, he could have brushed it. He can take all the showers he wants. On bad brain days when the world’s too much and he’s a depressed, unresponsive lump on the couch, he gets to be a depressed, unresponsive lump on the couch. Peter doesn’t get any of that.

He doesn’t even have control over his own basic bodily functions.

It’s – fucking maddening.

So they go to the bathroom, Deadpool wheeling him down and helping him on the toilet. He tries to make it as normal an experience as possible by babbling the whole time about random shit. Jury’s still out on whether or not that helps. Most likely, nothing helps. When that’s done, Peter holds the collar out that he’s been clutching in a white-knuckled grip, holds it out to Deadpool, eyes down.

“You sure you wanna wear it?” Deadpool checks, hesitating. He doesn’t like it when Peter’s eyes are all downcast. Doesn’t like the stiff shoulders, the held breaths. And Peter’s hand is trembly, a bit, where it holds the collar out to him.

It was a dumb question, though. Of course, he doesn’t want to wear it.

Peter’s head jerks up at it, eyes widening. “Y-you don’t w-want–”

“No, nope, no,” Deadpool rushes out all at once, scrambling to grab the collar and decidedly ignoring the way Peter flinches back, the way he tries to melt into the wheelchair and away from Deadpool. “I want you with me,” Deadpool says, also decidedly. “It was a dumb thing to ask, I’m not good at this. I just – I just hate this whole thing. Not the – not you. You’re great! Just – I’ll stop talking now. Can I?” He shakes the collar out in front of him. Peter gives a careful nod and tilts his head to the side, exposing his neck. He waits there, very still, once again seeming to hold his breath. Come to find out, Deadpool’s hands are shaking a little, too, when he very slowly wraps the collar around Peter’s neck, has a hell of a time buckling the clasp. Once it’s there, though, it’s – it’s a hell of a thing, but as Deadpool fits the leash through the collar loop and hands the chain off to Peter, something inside him can’t help but settle into place. His boxes quiet down, his heart slowing. On a very visceral level, it feels like somebody is his, now. It feels permanent. He hates this, he knows he hates it, but at the same time… that’s his collar. Around Peter’s neck. Peter who accepted it readily, who bared his neck for him, who’s holding his own leash in two slack hands and eyeing it like it’s the craziest thing he’s ever seen, all wide-eyed wonder. A brave, totally adorable omega accepted a collar from the ugliest, gnarliest, least attractive alpha to have ever alpha’d.

It fills Deadpool all the way up with determination to make sure Peter never regrets it.

-

-

-

Peter feels braced for something horrible.

And really, he’s overdue for something horrible. It’s been days at the clinic, literal days, and the most horrible thing he’s had to deal with were a few grumpy nurses and a blowjob or two with some orderlies. Meanwhile, the most unreal alpha in the world’s been singing to him and talking to him and petting his head and brushing his hair and he’s wearing real clothes and the collar –

Swallowing, he reaches up and fiddles with it. Runs trembly fingertips over the soft, cool nylon.

A collar.

If he were a person, being collared should have made him feel – degraded. Owned. Outraged.

But he’s not a person, is he? Not anymore, if ever at all.

Maybe it’s hardwired in an omega’s brain, this floaty-sweet feeling of safe as soon as the collar closed around his neck. Maybe he can’t escape his biological weaknesses. A collar doesn’t mean safe. Shouldn’t. He’s never been gifted a collar before, but he imagines that if any of his other owners had given him one, it would have felt stifling, itchy, weighty, wrong. But this one, given by this alpha…

He shouldn’t like this alpha.

He shouldn’t.

He doesn’t know him at all. Apparently all it takes is a few sweet words and some clothes, and Peter’s omega is ready to leap into bed with a big, scary stranger, ready to follow at his heel like a dog seeking out scraps. If only his other owners had known that.

But still, even as Peter hates himself for it, he feels – safe. More grounded.

Wade’s behind the wheelchair pushing him across the concrete as they walk, his usual lively fidgeting all quiet and cut off, hunched shoulders as he hides behind his rainbow hoodie. It’s understandable why he’s being quiet, why he’s trying to hide, because there hasn’t been a single person who’s not stopped to stare at them as they passed. Peter’s used to being stared at, gawked at, sure, but these stares feel different from the typical lustful-greedy-appraising ones he usually gets. These stares feel like judgement, like hatred, like – revulsion. And either they don’t care how loud they’re being or Peter can suddenly hear better than he could have before, because he can hear their whispers long after they’ve passed, can feel the disgust in their voices, can smell it in the air. People give them a wide berth and still he can hear them, smell their twisted emotions, feel their stares. He wonders if Wade can, too.

Peter keeps his eyes on the sidewalk, trying to ignore them.

Counts the cracks as they roll over them.

Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight -

“The hell kind of freakshow is that?”

“Is that omega wearing clothes?”

“That’s an omega, right? Why is it wearing –”

“Did you get a whiff of that alpha? Talk about a stench –”

“I’ve seen that alpha before! He’s got the ugliest face, I’m not joking, it’s –”

“What do you think that alpha did to that omega? It smells sick –”

Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five –

“Not sure why we let alphas walk free like that, just look at him –”

“Ugliest motherfucker, it made me throw up one time, you should see its face –”

“Thank God it’s covering that up –”

“I don’t know, I feel a little sorry for –”

Finally, they approach a towering brick building with graffiti tagged on the side and bars on all the windows. They’re both silent in the elevator, a musky cramped box that jolts at every floor, each jolt sending spikes of pain shooting through Peter’s ass. It’s pretty easy to ignore the pain, though, through the sheer terror that’s gripped him the closer they’ve gotten to Wade’s home. A few seconds from now, they’ll be alone behind closed doors. A few seconds from now, he’ll be alone with an alpha. They’ve been alone before, but that was at the clinic. That was where there were other people who could walk in at any moment. Maybe Wade will be kind again, but he’s an alpha, and Peter’s omega trusts him, and that’s – that’s scarier than anything he’s ever gone through. At least he never trusted any of his other owners. Trust is so easily shattered, especially base instinct trust formed over a tentative few days, and his heat’s going to hit soon and if this moment when they enter the secluded house of an alpha doesn’t shatter his omega’s trust, then the heat cycle will. Either way, nothing that happens in this apartment is going to be good. His heart’s thumping fast in his chest and he feels like he might come apart all over, like he could shake out of his skin. The elevator doors jerk open on the eighth floor, the ding ringing loudly from the cavern of Peter’s tunnel vision.

He wants to run and hide.

Wade wheels him down the dim hallway with its chipped paint and its musky brown carpet, wheels him all the way to the end, where he stops them in front of a door marked 8A. Peter stares up at the door and tries to will his heart to stop beating so wildly, tries to breathe despite how his body instinctively wants to freeze up. Nothing behind this door can be any scarier than anything else he’s had to do in this world, he tries to remind himself. If anything, it’ll be more of the same. Always more of the same. One hand clenched in the fur of the bear he’d been given, his other hand white-knuckled on the chain of his own leash, Peter tries to remind himself of all the good things this alpha has done. Wade gave him this teddy bear, and these clothes, and his own collar. He’s holding his own leash. Why would the alpha have done any of this if he were going to turn around and take it all away the moment they were finally alone in his apartment? Why do any of this at all if he were going to – going to –

“Um, I just need to – I gotta – wait right here!” Wade says, then, the first thing he’s said since they left the clinic.

Peter watches Wade unlock the door. Watches as the big man shimmies through the cracked door, refusing to open it all the way. Watches as he clicks it shut behind him. He leaves Peter sitting in the hallway.

There’s a flurry of motion on the other side of the door, bangs and shuffling.

Wade’s mumbling to himself, muffled words that are hard to hear through the door.

More bangs, things clattering, the sound of something scraping against the floor.

The whirr of a vacuum startles Peter into a flinch.

Is the alpha – cleaning?

He sits in the hallway for what feels like a long time, listening to the strange chaos happening inside the apartment. At last, the doorknob is jangling and then the door’s jerking open. Wade skips out and rushes to wheel him inside, his mouth moving a mile a minute about how he’s going to be a clean roomie, no worries, and that he didn’t even know he owned a vacuum until just now but don’t let that scare you, he’ll totally use it more than once a decade now that he knows he had it. The door is kicked shut behind them and then Peter’s inside, officially inside and alone with the alpha, who can and will do to Peter anything he wants to do.

Apparently, what he wants to do to Peter right now is feed him.

He wheels Peter over to a window in the living room, parking the wheelchair beside it. The window’s open and the sounds from the street below help drown out Peter’s terror, who feels suddenly very drained. It’s hard to maintain fear for long stretches of time, and Wade will do what he likes either way.

“I’ll give you the grand tour after we eat,” Wade says, puttering around in the kitchen behind Peter, who’s staring out the window and hugging his bear. “I did a quick sweep of what’ll be your room, but I don’t have any air fresheners right now and it still smells like – um, me. Which, yikes. You’ll probably want the window seat for a while, sorry, I know this whole place reeks – I’m here a lot. Like all the time? Most of the time. Everywhere else on this shit earth is pretty shit, but it’s nice and quiet in here. You wanna watch tv while I cook?” Peter hasn’t watched tv in a long time, doesn’t think he can stomach doing so now. It’d feel too much like – what? Like May and Ben’s house? Like he’s normal? But it seems like Wade is waiting for an answer, like he actually asked Peter a real question that requires a real answer, so Peter shakes his head, wordless.

It’s strange that that seems to work. Wade resumes his talking.

“Not that heating up canned soup counts as cooking, but it works in a pinch. We can get a grocery order delivered tomorrow. I know you’ve got to watch what you eat for a while, but I’ll buy everything on your approved foods list and we can just go to town with it all. Liquid food diets for the win – like seriously, it saves so much time on chewing.”

Peter lets the words wash over him, too overwhelmed to try and talk back.

Wade seems – he seems the same.

In the seclusion of being completely alone with an omega, Wade still seems – the same.

Babbling, talking to Peter, expecting answers. It’s like nothing’s changed.

He’s still wearing clothes. Still holding his bear. The bear.

Peter’s braced for something horrible. Instead, Wade turns his wheelchair around so that he’s facing the living room instead of the window. He hands him a bowl of yellow soup with little skinny noodles floating around in it, tiny chunks of chicken intermixed. Then Wade gets one bowl, too, and plops down on a wide mustard yellow couch. The cushions sag under his weight, worn down and frayed, and Peter sits there while Wade eats thinking that this can’t possibly be what’s happening right now. None of this feels real. He’s dreaming, and he’ll wake up any minute now back in that alley sucking on cock, stuffed full of it. But the bowl is so warm in his hands, steam rising from it and warming his face. There’s a spoon set in the bowl, like he’s allowed to use one. When’s the last time he’s eaten with a spoon? He shouldn’t let his mind go there. Wordless, Peter picks the spoon up with a trembling hand and takes a bite. Canned soup has never tasted this good, the glide of the warm broth soothing his churning stomach. Any minute now this will all be gone. His heat will hit full force, and it’ll all be over. Wade might seem like a saint right now, but he’s an alpha. Faced with an omega in heat, writhing and begging for it, he’s going to do what every other alpha would do. And Peter won’t – he won’t survive it. Not like this.

One thing at a time.

He takes another bite of the soup.

-

-

-

He’s asleep.

Deep down, Peter knows he’s not asleep. He knows that when he’s going through motions, he’s doing them all in real time. But his body and his brain feel disconnected, too far away from each other to communicate. Even his vision zones out. He spends a fair bit of time playing with his own eyesight, focusing in and out on little droplets of rain on the windowpane so that the world outside the window fuzzes in and out, in and out, like the static on Wade’s old tv, like warping colors and motion on the street below are things his eyes can manipulate. None of it makes sense. His thoughts don’t make sense. The occasional moments where his brain stops producing thoughts at all don’t make sense. How one droplet of rain can entertain him for hours on end, or how the feel of the bear’s fur whooshing back and forth when his fingers glide over it can send him into what feels like a trance. He can’t seem to control when he zones out, either. It happens in the lull of the night in the too-quiet apartment, when the world feels like it’s sleeping and breathing slow. He stares at the ceiling, his brain all blank. Thinking nothing. Feeling nothing.

Numb.

Wade Wilson makes the least sense of all.

He’s loud and chatty, sometimes. He can talk for hours without any input from Peter about all sorts of random things. He shies away from anything serious, sticking only to funny anecdotes about a slew of quirky characters. A girl named Domino who’s unreasonably lucky and claims it’s an actual superpower. If she’s real, she shows up at the best possible moments, oftentimes bailing Wade out of jail or helping him with his work, whatever that is. Wade’s talked around that particular topic a whole hell of a lot, but he’s never actually come out and said what he does. Peter can piece some things together… and what he does piece together seems sketchy, a little shady, a little concerning. A gun under the couch cushions (ooh, I’ve been wondering where she was!) or a bunch of slits cut out of one wall in the kitchen (throwing knives is therapeutic, you sure you don’t wanna try it?) or the jail stories or the bedroom Wade keeps locked up (it’s like a bomb went off in there, seriously, I’ll clean it one of these days…) or that time Wade took his phone out into the stairwell of his apartment complex, and Peter could hear him through the walls chatting about bodies that seem to have been disposed of.

Like he said, only a little concerning.

Even more concerning, though?

The fact that he heard that conversation in the first place.

It’s – strange. Isn’t it? Being able to hear conversations happening through the walls? He can hear the people in the adjacent three or four apartments, too, all jumbled voices and televisions and sex sounds. He can hear the omega one floor down being used on a schedule, three or four times in the early afternoons and dozens of times throughout the night, can hear every knock at their door that signals another beta stopping by for a quick fix. It’s not uncommon for people to list their omegas out for use, not uncommon for betas to use their omegas as a way to make money on the side. Of course, most people can use an omega for free in back alleys or at their workplace. Maybe the one downstairs isn’t earning any money at all. Maybe he’s just – being passed around for fun. Used by all the beta’s friends because why not?

He’s being used right now.

Whining around a mouthful, rhythmic grunts and whimpers. Choked cries.

A hand slapping against flesh.

Peter zones out as he tracks another raindrop’s slow descent against the window.

It slides down the glass, slow and steady.

Speeds up a bit when it hits another raindrop.

Slows down again, a snail’s crawl down the window.

He couldn’t hear this well when he was younger. He never heard the neighbors. When, then, did this horrible thing happen to him that lets him hear this well now? It’s a curse. A punishment for being an omega, maybe, or for just being him. Do all omegas hear from impossible distances like this when they’re well fed, nourished? But then, he couldn’t hear like this when he was younger. Peter couldn’t – he can’t – why is this happening to him –

“Hey, Pete?”

Wade’s using his Soft Voice, all slow and careful. Still, Peter must have been zoned out because he flinches anyway, heart thumping in his chest. Despite being all stuck and trapped inside his own head, Peter exerts All the Effort and finally does manage to at least turn his head away from the window until Wade comes into focus. The alpha is in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a spatula in hand, twirling it around on one finger. There’s a carton of eggs and butter set out beside the stove, a dollop of butter already sizzling in a pan. As far as sounds go, it’s one of the good ones, much better than what’s happening right now one floor below theirs. Honing in on it, Peter waits until that soft sizzle drowns out everything else, hyper focusing on each splash of it against the pan’s sides. From the countertop, Wade watches him watch the pan, tilting his head, unbeknownst to Peter growing increasingly concerned by the constant zone outs. At least he isn’t cowering, though, or freaking out, right?

“How do you want your eggs?” Wade asks.

Peter’s watching the pan, though. Seems not to hear him.

He clears his throat. “Hey, Peter?”

The omega’s eyes flick up, toward Wade’s face. Wade checks the hood’s still up on his hoodie and says again, “How do you want your eggs?”

“I –”

Peter’s voice cuts off. He looks – blank, eyes unfocused.

Wade sets the spatula down and edges toward the omega, whose unfocused eyes seem to be staring in the vicinity of the sizzling pan. He’s huddled into a blanket on one of Wade’s fluffy chairs in the living room, has been ever since they’d gotten home, actually, moving only to change bandages or for a bathroom trip or to eat. When he’s not eating or peeing or getting doctored by Wade, he’s sat there in the chair covered head to toe in that blanket, listless and quiet. They’re on day two of the same routine. Two days since they left the clinic. Two days since Peter’s parked himself in that chair and seemingly claimed it for himself. Wade’s tried getting him to sleep in the bed. Wade’s bed, though of course it’s Peter’s bed now. He even cleaned the sheets! But Peter won’t go into the bedroom. Won’t leave the chair. He watches through the window as people amble along on the street below and just sits there. He sleeps there, upright and curled up under the blanket. Even when his eyes are open, though, the boy seems to be sleeping. In a trance, almost. It’s a little creepy. Even the boxes say so.

Is it bad that Wade’s a little creeped out by the vacant stare?

Maybe even a lot creeped out?

Peter needs more than Wade can offer. He needs serious professional help, is what he needs. Deadpool’s a professional, all right, but not the kind Pete needs. He needs someone to talk him through whatever has him suspended in some sort of frozen animation. He needs someone who can fix whatever’s gone wrong in his brain. Instead, he’s got Wade, who can talk for sure, but who never knows if he’s saying anything that’s penetrating the listless, vacant stare. No matter what he says or doesn’t say, Peter just sits there. He nods when he feels like he has to, maybe, but he hasn’t said much of anything at all. Wade misses the kid’s voice. Misses that soft, brave timber.

[Face it, you’re ugly and gross and you stink –]

[[Peter’s never going to feel comfortable around you. Have you forgotten that nobody ever has?]]

[You should let him go.]

[[Anybody’s better than you.]]

Weasel might take the kid if Wade asks nicely. Or threatens bodily harm. He’s the only beta he knows who wouldn’t treat Peter like an object, who wouldn’t hurt him. But Wade’s eyes glow red at the thought of sending Peter to Weasel. Something inside him sees that collar around his neck and thinks, mine. It’s wrong on so many levels. Peter isn’t Wade’s. Peter is Peter’s. Bad alpha. But Peter never has to know that’s how his twisted little knothead brain is thinking, and anyway, Wade’s going to take care of the kid, whether that means tying up a therapist and holding a gun to his head to make it happen –

It’s an idea, anyway.

[A bad one.]

Peter had seemed petrified when Wade asked if he needed help to apply the cream to his ass, so Peter’s been dealing with that on his own. He spends over half an hour in the bathroom with the door locked every night, hopefully applying that junk where it needs applied. He’s back there now, locked up tight in the bathroom, and Wade’s on the couch watching a rerun of his favorite golden girls. He’d made the kid scrambled eggs earlier after being entirely unable to get him to answer how he wanted them cooked, then they’d spent the day in the living room with Wade talking and Peter not talking the day away. There’s a sweet smell in the air now that the sun’s gone down, that soft honey dew sweetness that comes and goes, comes and goes, the earthy ozone wet scent after a good rain making Wade feel sleepy and boneless. It’s weird, but he’s been sleeping better these past few days. His alpha knows where Peter is, knows that Peter is safe. He can sleep.

He drifts off to a laugh track on the tv and to the dark nightfall outside the open window.

-

-

-

[Kill him, kill him, there’s someone –]

[[Stop it, it’s not –]

Something’s wrong. He’s not sure at first what wakes him, just that something does. Feverish and sticky with sweat, Wade rolls off the couch and lands with a thump to the floor, scratchy carpeting itching at his face. His hoodie’s still on, of course, gloves and all, his blotchy red face the only part of him exposed. He’s used to wearing all the layers, well accustomed to keeping himself under wraps. Even when he’s alone he keeps covered, doesn’t like to see himself. But he’s so hot it feels like he can’t pull in a full breath. Gasping, he pushes himself upright and peels off his clothes, peels the hoodie over his head and tosses it to the side. His gloves stick to his skin, but eventually those come off too. It’s dark, but his eyesight feels – different. Better. Through a red haze, he can see every nook and cranny in the room. Sees the empty chair that Peter usually sleeps in, takes in the open window. Something smells – oh, god.

Dragging in a full breath of it, Wade whines. Dimly, he realizes he’s hard in his sweatpants, his cock angled toward his belly. It throbs, pulsing in the dark. Panting, Wade drags a hand over his erection, palming it through his pants. The boxes are yelling something but he’s too hard to hear them, his knot already swelling at the base. Sucks in another gulp of air, of that sweet needy scent – of, of Peter, who’s in heat. Peter’s heat’s in the air and Wade whines again, low in his throat, vision all red and hazy. He’s the sweetest smelling omega, a burst of warmth that wraps itself around Wade’s cock, that forces it to a rigid stand. Through the fog, Wade hears Peter in the other room, in Wade’s old bed, finally using the bed. And he’s – he’s whining, too, with a voice full of something frantic and – and scared. Something in Wade jumps to attention at the sounds, at the whimpers and cries. Peter’s scared. He’s crying.

Someone’s pounding on the front door.

Growling, Wade drags himself to a shaky stand, his alpha leading the way, thoughts too jumbled to focus. His door’s hinges are shaking from the force of whoever’s pounding on it. Unbothered, half nude and hard, Wade wrenches the door open and a snarling, angry alpha shoves his way in, his scent giving off powerful, rancid pheromones.

Wade shoves him back, hard enough that the alpha’s back hits the hall wall outside.

A piece of plaster rains down on the alpha’s head.

The alpha groans and growls, scrambling back up, scrambling to get inside.

“Fuck off,” Deadpool says, snarls, roars.

The other alpha pauses, takes a long slow look at Deadpool, finally seems to see him.

He hesitates.

He’s obviously hard, too, the stinking stench of arousal hanging heavy in the hallway.

“I’ll pay you,” he says then, a greedy little gleam in his wide arousal-blown eyes. He’s looking past Wade now, trying to see into the apartment, scenting the air. “I’ll be in and out – wanna pound that omega, sweet smell – how much –”

Wade grabs him by the face, pushes the alpha down, this time to the ground.

“Fuck. Off,” he says again, whispers it hot against the alpha’s ear.

[Kill him, kill him, go to Peter!]

[[No don’t, don’t, Peter’s scared, lock yourself away from him, he’s scared –]]

Peter would be able to smell it if Wade killed this guy right here. Would be able to smell the decay of death, the odor of it too close to the apartment. Peter’s scared. He’s in heat and he’s scared, Deadpool needs to go to him, to make it better, show him he’ll protect, nothing to be scared of, nothing to be –

“Let – lemme pay you,” the alpha tries again, panting under Wade’s hand. He wiggles like a stuck pig. “In and out, be quick, just lemme knot him –”

Wade’s had enough. His alpha’s had enough.

He’s controlled. He’s always controlled. When he kills, he’s controlled.

But Pete’s scared.

Wade drags the alpha up by his shirt collar, drags him down the hallway as far away from their apartment as he can get. The alpha’s snarling, snapping his teeth at him, scratching at Wade’s hands and demanding a go at the omega, just one ride, just one knot, how much, he’ll pay, he’ll pay – through the heavy steel exit door, Wade drags the alpha out into the stairwell, shoves him over the balcony so he falls through to the bottom, down eight floors. Stomps back to 8A.

He slams the apartment door shut, locks it up.

Stomps to the window in his angry red haze, wrenches the thing down so hard the wood splinters but doesn’t break. Scents sealed into the apartment now, sealed away behind the scent blockers in the walls, his alpha scents the air, drags Wade toward the bedroom door that’s wide open. He sees Peter sprawled out on the bed like he’d fallen there, writhing against the comforter with his hands clenched into the fabric. He, too, must have felt too hot for clothes, because his shirt and pants lie in a pile on the floor beside the bed, the white bandages wrapped around his middle a stark contrast against the dark blue blanket. He’s hard, too, his painful erection bobbing in the air untouched as he wriggles on the bed and whines.

Wade stumbles toward the bed, toward Peter.

Peter, who must have picked up on his scent, because his clenched eyes open wide. They lock eyes from across the room. Wade freezes in place. Peter’s scared.

He edges closer, crooning when the omega’s scent sours.

“’s okay,” he slurs. “Won’t hurt you. Help you.”

Peter hasn’t spoken in days. He does, now, hoarse and pleading, “Pl-please, ‘m hot, pl-please –”

“Help you,” Wade says again.

“H-how?”

Wade stops, tilts his head. The alpha’s fully leading the charge, now, fully at the helm, even the boxes quieting in response to its presence. The omega’s sweet smell is sour with fear and – and sickness. He’s hurt. Wade’s alpha whines, dropping to his knees on the floor, shuffling toward Peter all slow and low to the ground. He tries to make himself seem smaller, seem less scary as he approaches. When he makes it to the bed, he kneels beside it and leans his head against the comforter, a slow hand coming up to stretch out toward Peter. Hot and sweaty, Peter grabs for Wade’s hand, clutches it in a vice. They both whimper at the contact, breathe out in unison.

“Help you,” Wade insists. He can’t seem to speak much else.

But again, Peter whispers, “H-how?”

Peter’s slick is pooled on the bed, smelling so sweet and inviting. But he’s hurt. Can’t take a knot, can’t take anything. He needs it but it’ll – hurt him. He’s too injured for mating. Wade won’t hurt him. Wade will help him.

“Can I? Want to help you.” Wade rumbles, red eyes tracking the collar on Peter’s throat, at the way it moves as Peter swallows. He’s not sure what he’s asking for. Peter knows even less. But still, the omega’s whole body trembles where he lies. He arches his back as a wave of the heat scent fills the room, clenching as another pulse of his slick pools out. Wade crawls onto the bed and wraps himself around Peter, sweat-slick and feverish to the touch.

“Don’t- don’t want to – be used,” Peter manages.

Wade nuzzles his matted hair, breathing his scent in deep. “Won’t, won’t, Peter.”

“Pl-please, are you – are you conscious? A-aware?”

Wade’s hips are moving without his permission, undulating against Peter’s hip. He doesn’t respond verbally, just nuzzles the omega close, tightens his arms around him in a brief hug. Then his hand slides lower, fingertips grazing Peter’s erection. At Peter’s sharp, stilted inhale, the alpha grins, wraps a hand around that length and squeezes.

Peter whines, thrusting into his hand.

“’m aware,” Wade says. “I – think? You need help.”

“Heat won’t stop un-until I’m – used,” Peter moans out, hips jerking. “W-won’t survive – it. Be-being used. But the – the heat won’t stop unless – unless –”

And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? Heats don’t stop unless the omega is taken, one way or another. But Peter’s ass can’t handle anything going inside it right now. Even fingers would be – it’d be a risk. Peter’s going to writhe in this state on this bed forever unless Wade does something, unless Wade helps. And his alpha really, really wants to help.

“You’re okay,” Wade says, breath hot in Peter’s hair. He humps against Peter’s hip again, his length hard and long and big as he grinds it into Peter’s sweet skin. The air is stifling and warm and there’s a fever in the room. The whole room seems to pulse with it, through Wade’s red hazy gaze. If there’s a world outside it, Wade never would have known. Right now, it’s only them. In this room. On this bed. That’s all that exists, all that matters. He nuzzles his omega and says an insistent, “’m gonna help you. Peter. ‘m not gonna hurt you.”

“F-feels good, alpha,” Peter says, breathless as he thrusts into Wade’s hand. “Wade. I ca-can, I can call you – that? Wade?”

“Course, sweetie,” Wade breathes out. “Like it.”

“Like your – like the way you smell,” Peter stutters, twists his head to nuzzle under Wade’s chin, scenting at his neck.

Wade’s alpha really, really likes that.

But Peter pulls back a bit, whining. “Smell like – like another alpha. Who –?”

That rancid fear washes over the room again. Wade’s sick at the thought, pulls Peter against him again, his palm rubbing over Peter’s length. “Gone now, no worries. Gone now. Tried to get in but I – he’s gone now.”

“You’re not – not renting me –”

“No!” Wade growls. Peter flinches, and Wade shushes him, nuzzling. “No, Pete, no.”

He whispers again, “No worries. I wanna take care of you.”

Wade’s alpha’s always had a one track mind. Kill, kill, mostly. It’s never looked at a helpless, owned omega and thought, want, though. There’s always been something a little wrong with him, even before Weapon X. He should have wanted to own and dominate and knot omegas. That’s what alphas do. Instead, he wants to feed them things and give them blankets. Always, that’s what his alpha’s wanted. He remembers being six years old, that cold night his dad threw him out of the house, told him to sleep outside because he was stinking the place up with his alpha stench. He was too angry to sleep, though, his alpha too restless, and he’d wandered down to the stop sign at the end of his street. There’d been an omega chained to the stop sign, naked and cold, her head lolled against the metal. He’d taken off his jacket and wrapped it over her shoulders, the tiny jacket not nearly big enough to cover any part of her at all. She’d startled awake at the weight of it, though, jerking away from him with big round eyes and a whimper.

“Why are you out here like this?” he’d asked her.

She sniffed the air, scenting him. Shuffled away as much as the chains allowed.

“It’s cold,” he’d said. “Why are you chained up?”

“You’re cute now,” she’d said. Her voice was hoarse and sad. “But when you’re bigger, you’ll be mean and bad.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re an alpha,” she said.

“I don’t want to be mean and bad,” he’d whispered to her.

“And I don’t want to be chained up in the cold.”

She’d turned her face away from him, then, shrugged off his jacket so it fell to the sidewalk. He didn’t have anywhere to go, though, so he’d sat next to her for a couple hours in the silence of nightfall, wondering when he’d turn mean and bad and why it had to happen at all. His mom and dad were mean and bad, but they weren’t alphas. It seemed like people could be mean and bad no matter what they were.

So why couldn’t alphas be good? Why couldn’t he?

He’d left his jacket on the ground beside her, walked back to his parent’s house.

In the morning, his mom had taken a switch to him, that he’d lost his jacket. They wouldn’t buy him another one since he was too stupid to keep track of it. He’d spent the whole winter freezing cold in the walks to and from school, all the while wondering at the omega who’d been chained up in the dark on a random stop sign. It seemed as though everyone were right about alphas being stupid, because he couldn’t understand a single thing about the world or why it worked the way it worked. His alpha was angry inside. All the time, it was angry.

But now, with Peter, in this warm fever-rich haze, Wade’s alpha wasn’t angry.

It was – it was a soft thing. Low to the ground, crooning, baring its neck to Peter.

Wade had never liked his alpha. Barely understood it. As far as alphas went, it never did what they were supposed to do.

But right now? With Peter’s fear smoothing out into that sweet-safe contentment?

He thinks, for a brief second, for just a flash, that maybe –

Maybe his alpha isn’t so bad.

Chapter Text

6. heat

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He knew it was coming.

Still.

Still.

When he finally manages to gather enough courage to stand up off the toilet and fumble for the bathroom door, walk with careful, slow steps into the living room where his chair and blanket and bear are, Wade’s passed out on the couch with the tv bright in the otherwise dark room, the screen altogether too loud and flashy, too much to handle. Peter holds his breath as he eases the remote out from Wade’s slackened grip, watching the alpha’s face for signs he might wake. It isn’t the first time he’s seen Wade sleeping, but it’s his first time seeing the alpha through eyes clouded by the beginnings of a heat, and – Peter breathes out a long, slow exhale and stands there, shaking but stopped short by Wade’s face relaxed and at rest, by the alpha’s scent, all at once overpowering and calming. It doesn’t make sense, but the alpha’s – taken care of Peter, hasn’t he? This whole time. At the clinic, here in the apartment. Food and warmth and endless talking, filling up all the empty spaces in Peter with a steady stream of – of presence. He’s not alone, not – less than, with Wade. At least, not yet. Wade hasn’t tried a single time to use Peter, hasn’t even hinted around the topic. Days now, days and days, and Wade is still just – feeding him and talking to him and helping him stand upright in the shower.

In warm showers. He’s clean. He doesn’t smell anyone else on him and it’s – it’s –

Wade lets him feel clean.

Considering all that, considering how – unreal the alpha’s been, Peter can forgive the omega in him that’s so close to the surface for wanting to press his nose against Wade’s neck, for wanting to scooch in on the couch and wrap himself full body into him. Standing above the sleeping person who just – who just wafts out safe, safe, safe, it’s no wonder that it takes every ounce of effort not to give into his omega and just – just lay on top of him and stay there forever.

Peter sets the remote on the table beside the couch.

His legs are shaky.

The air feels warm and thick with his heat, now, and he’s incapable of resisting the urge to scent Wade, to fill his nose with that alpha-strong musk that’s become comforting instead of scary. He can hardly pull in a full breath, all twisted up inside, cramps hitting full force. But he stands as long as he can there, pulling in that scent. It’s all over the apartment, of course. Wade’s scent is everywhere. But it’s strongest here, strongest right next to him. Would be stronger still if Peter pressed up against him, if he leaned over a bit –

Panting, Peter forces his legs to move. Stumbles back and away, cutting off a whine by gnawing on his own lip, by wringing his hands together. They’re clammy and shaking and he’s coming apart –

The chair isn’t a good idea. He can’t sit. He can’t stand. He can barely –

But that room.

Wade said it’s Peter’s now, right? He can use it.

He can – and the bed belonged to Wade. Clean sheets, he’d said, but it used to be Wade’s room. He probably used to spend a lot of time in there if it was his. And he said Peter could use it. He did. Stumbling from the snoring alpha, down the hallway, he drags himself to the open doorway to that bedroom, a hand gripping the doorframe as he tries not to hyperventilate. He hadn’t paid much attention to the room when Wade showed it to him, and he can’t focus on it now either, a hairsbreadth away from another wave of the heat. It’s dark and it’s empty and Wade’s scent hits him in the face at the doorway. He can’t contain the whine if he wanted to, now, as he staggers toward the bed and lets himself collapse. Every movement is a struggle. His nerves are on fire and Wade smells like a fire and everything’s just – just too hot and too burning and this is how he dies, this is it, right here right now this is how Peter Parker dies.

-

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Omegas go into heat all the time.

It’s not just the stereotype – it’s reality. When omegas aren’t in heat naturally, it can be forced. Easily. Constantly. On a whim. And it is. Often. Because why not? Even betas can get high on heat scents permeating the air, that whiskey-hot fever that rolls through the room. Betas don’t react as strongly, but it’s a drug nonetheless. An insta-aphrodisiac to smell a heat-slick omega, to see them writhe in want and need when usually they’re faking it or crying or listlessly empty shells who lie there and let things be done to them. It’s no fun that way. But an omega in heat, wanting it? Needing something they usually seem to hate? Omegas in forced heats line back alleys and workplaces and come equipped with toys and shackles and gags. They’re everywhere. And Wade’s an alpha. Betas get off on heat scents, sure, on the sounds and sights of omegas acting like needy little sluts. It isn’t instinctual for them, though. It isn’t biological. Betas see omegas in heat and think, “Fuck yeah I could get off on this.”

Alphas see it and go incoherent.

The scent alone is usually all it takes.

It’s a hunter’s instinct, a predator waking up, sights and sounds and smells all sharpening into hollow points, into something crisp and writhing inside and alive. It sends the human parts of them into the background, those pesky little human thoughts that always focus on the wrong things. Humans are petty creatures with petty problems. Sometimes it takes that overpowering heat scent to shut up all the noise for a while, to focus on what really matters. Taking. Mating. Giving even the smallest parts of you over to another, throwing yourself into that animal one-track mind.

It’s always been different for Wade’s alpha.

It smells an omega in heat and wants to kill whoever made them that way.

kill, blood, kill

the omega needs but doesn’t want

the beta wants but doesn’t need

unnatural, must kill, blood, ripping flesh, death

To be fair, it usually winds up following through. He’s killed so many betas who’ve forced heats on their omegas, which means he’s also been around a fair share of omegas swept into a heat. He crouches next to them in alleyways, kills anyone who comes too close, his alpha hoping for them to try, needing their blood the way that the omega just needs beside him. His alpha barely even looks in the omega’s direction, red eyes ever watchful at the mouth of the alleys, hand wrapped around a knife or else drumming fidgeting fingers against a bloodied pipe he’d ripped off the wall and had been using as a makeshift bludgeoning tool. Whatever works. And as the heat fills up the air, that heady, pulsing stench that curls its way around him, his alpha only wants more blood, more death, more bodies.

And it gets it. It always gets it.

Betas smell that heat and come a-calling, and Deadpool’s alpha waits for them.

It’s different now.

With Peter in his apartment, writhing on his sheets, sweat-slick and panting.

It’s – different.

It’s not Deadpool’s alpha at the helm right now, it’s Wade’s, all soft cooing touches and slow strokes across his skin, those animal thoughts all centered around Peter’s needs and Peter’s fear and Peter’s comfort. He’s wrapped himself around Peter with his much bigger body, crooning promises of safety and protection and safety into the boy’s ear as he soothes him, one big hand wrapped around Peter’s straining length, the other aimlessly rubbing over the omega’s exposed shoulder. Peter’s been biting his lip to contain his sounds, but the alpha doesn’t like that at all, takes it as a sign the omega isn’t comfortable around him. He whines, slides his hand from the omega’s shoulder to brush his fingertips along the boy’s pretty pink mouth, along that closed, tense line. Wade tries to speak. “Can talk, Peter. You can – don’t have to hide. You’re okay. Take care ‘a you.”

Peter’s shaky exhale is warm on Wade’s finger.

Then he turns his face into Wade’s neck, hides his lips by pressing them against Wade’s carotid, tiny little kisses against his textured skin that send full body shudders through the alpha. His cock thrusts languidly against the omega’s hip, hand warm as it rubs over the omega’s wet tip, back and forth over it until there’s finally a little sound, a tiny breathy whine that vibrates against Wade’s neck. For a handful of minutes this seems to be enough, the slow slide of their bodies wriggling against each other, Wade’s alpha red eyes focused on the top of Peter’s head, his senses honed in on each shudder, on each whimper, on how smooth Peter feels against him. It takes a turn, though, when the next wave of heat wracks through the omega’s body. A shaky hand latches onto Wade’s bicep as the boy shudders and writhes against him, whining low in his throat, finally moaning out a cracked, hoarse plea.

Wade speeds up his hand. “Shh, shh, you’re okay, shh.”

But Peter shakes his head. “N-need, need more, more, alpha, need, oh –”

The omega grabs for Wade’s free hand, grip firm as he guides it down, guides it in between his legs, at the slick that’s wet the sheets beneath them. He pressed Wade’s hand against that spot, against his rim, whining again. There’s a tremor in his voice, now, as he says, “N-need, please, alpha, need –”

Wade pulls his hand back, away from that spot, the slick on his fingers smelling like the sweetest damn thing, groaning low when the omega pleads for it. “Can make you feel good, alpha, can m-make you feel – please, I need – please, don’t you want…?”

“You’re hurt, sweetie,” Wade tries to say, his voice all slurred and rumbling.

Another heat wave has Peter’s back arching off the bed.

Wade scrambles off the omega, away, retreating only for an instant, hard and damn near leaking himself at this point, every nerve alive with the want, need, want curling sweet and hot in the room. Peter cries out as the contact disappears, his hips trying to chase Wade’s hand as it leaves him. One of his hands clench into the sheets while his other hand latches onto his own dick and pumps it a few times, hard and rough. The big alpha leaves the room entirely for one heartbeat, two, until Peter fears he’s scared the man off entirely and cries alone on the bed, feeling far too open and far too – wrung out. His hole hurts, achingly empty, burning on the inside and itching, aching to be filled, those stitches pulling uncomfortably at every wave of the heat that pulses through him. He won’t survive this, he won’t – but he needs and – he needs – his first natural heat in what might be years and he won’t survive this –

It’s too much, that need, too insistent. Fever-hot, Peter’s hand lowers until he can press a finger inside, two fingers, until he’s stretching himself and crying at the burn, crying because it feels like something is tearing but he can’t stop –

A rough, scarred hand wraps around Peter’s wrist, tugging it away from his hole. His fingers are pulled out with a squelch and his hole clenches, trying to chase them, empty and twitching. But Wade is back, he’s back and he’s – he presses a soft kiss against Peter’s slick fingers and moves his hand so it clenches into the bedsheets above his head. Peter clenches those sheets until his fingernails leave crescent-shaped tears in the fabric, his chest heaving as his hole spasms, cold air against the sensitive nerves there. He spreads his legs out, spreads them open because that’s all he is, all he could ever be, just a hole for the next beta, nothing but a needy little –

But it’s not a beta who presses against him now.

It’s not a beta, it’s all alpha, those rich fiery pheromones enough to make Peter’s vision go all hazy-gold, tunneling until Wade is all he can see, kneeling above him on the bed. Somewhere along the way, he’s removed his pants, and he’s – he’s a sight, completely nude for the first time around Peter. Something otherworldly. Wade presses something warm and wet over the omega’s stomach, then, a – a washcloth, hot and soothing all at once. Peter moans, the knots in his stomach instantly relieved, the nausea receding, but his hole’s still clenching in the open air and his slick sticky on the bed, a pool of need. He’s not all conscious of it when he starts to beg, when whispered, breathy words just pour out of him, all whimpered pleas to be filled, to please, please fill him – he’s so empty, he needs –

Wade presses one of those rough fingers against his hole, then.

Keening, Peter humps the air, grinds down onto that finger trying to get more.

But Wade pulls back again, sets a firm hand down on the rag across Peter’s stomach, alpha-red eyes staring down at him. It’s supposed to be scary – is scary – but Peter’s omega whines and wiggles under that hand, undeterred by the fear. Above the fear, there’s only the need. Wade is rough and textured and big – and his voice is all soft, all gentle, he’s everything different from what Peter’s ever seen or had or heard before and it’s – it’s not scary, it’s – please, he needs – “Slow down, baby boy. You’re hurt. Lemme take care ‘a you. Nice and easy, that’s it, nice and easy – look at you all open for me, pretty little omega, doing so good. You’re okay, nice and slow, I’m gonna try to find – ahh, there you are.”

He quirks one finger into him, slow, slow, too slow.

Only one finger and it’s too slow –

But then that single digit wiggles a little, finds that spot – Peter’s mind screeches to a halt as he jerks his hips up, tries to wriggle under the alpha’s firm, guiding hand, pushes for more. Wade shushes him, praises him for keeping his hands in the sheets, tells him how good he is, and it’s just the heat talking but Peter starts crying right there on the bed, right there with that finger in his twitching hole. He grips the sheets tight and he cries.

“You’re okay,” the alpha is saying again, over and over, soft little shushes.

The cramps hit again, the rag gone cold by now.

Wade guides his finger in and out so slowly it’s near unbearable, hitting that spot inside him each time. They’re both shaking from the effort to go slow, from the effort to be still, Wade’s whispered praises a constant trickling stream against the dam that’s walled up Peter’s ability to enjoy a heat. Heats aren’t good, heats aren’t – ahh, but the alpha’s finger bumps right where it needs to, not big enough to stretch him the way he needs to be stretched, but – but enough to press where it needs to press to make Peter see stars. And then the alpha’s words cut off as he leans forward and uses his mouth for something else. Moaning at the warmth wrapped around him, the omega’s whole body shaking from the sensation, his mind feels thick and sluggish, every point of contact with the alpha like fire. Nobody’s ever –

He’s supposed to be using his mouth on the alpha, not the other way –

oh please, please do that – please don’t stop – please –

He comes completely apart under the alpha’s firm hands, whining out loud, panting out heaving breaths, hands white-knuckled in the sheets as his slick pulses out of him, pulses out from around the alpha’s seeking finger. The alpha slurps his tongue around him with a gusto, with enthusiasm like maybe he enjoys what he’s doing, and he must be, has to be enjoying this because when Peter’s blurry unfocused gaze trails down toward the alpha, past his bobbing head and those red, slick lips, his cock is hard and angry, curved toward the man’s belly in the air untouched. He’s never wanted to reciprocate, never wanted to – but Wade’s cock is pretty like that, skin textured and pockmarked even there, and his knot’s all swollen at the base, which is – it’s – it should be terrifying but Peter wants, needs, wants –

“P-please,” Peter whimpers, whispers, too soft, too soft.

The alpha must have heard it, though, because he comes up for air, a trail of saliva the only thing still connecting them. The sudden chill on his penis makes it jump, bobbing toward Wade’s face. The alpha kisses the tip and giggles, red-eyed and – and he looks happy, his face all soft and eyes wide and satisfied. Peter’s never seen an alpha look this way before, never seen one look all soft and debauched, lips swollen and red from taking Peter in like it’s normal. “Whatcha want, Peter?”

He says Peter’s name like a promise, like an indisputable fact.

His name is Peter. He has a name and it’s Peter.

“Gonna take care of you,” the alpha adds. “Let me? Give you anything.”

“I –” Faced with someone actually listening to him, Peter’s heart speeds up.

He closes his eyes, head thumping backward against the bed.

“Shh, no no,” Wade says, petting his side. “Give you anything. Pretty Peter. Whatcha want?”

Peter can’t speak, can’t – someone wants to listen to him and suddenly he can’t speak.

“Want my mouth, pretty Peter?” The alpha leans down again and swirls his tongue over Peter’s erection, over the tip, mouthing it until a whine drags itself out of the lump in Peter’s throat. His rough, scarred hand curls around the base of him, pumping up and down. His other hand flexes against Peter’s ass, one finger wiggling inside his slick. “My hands? Baby boy, don’t be scared. Take care of you. Yeah? Let me?”

He sounds so earnest, so – hopeful. Peter’s eyes are wet as he blinks them back open.

He takes a deep breath. There’ll be time to panic at these thoughts later. The shame will come later. The shame will always come. But right now, with the pretty, kind alpha’s unique scent blanketing this room, that fiery, sulfuric smell that hugs him close, and his finger so slow and careful as it brushes up against Peter’s prostate, even now still and slow inside him, Peter feels that oh-so familiar curl of shame shutting up, can feel it withering in response to Wade’s – to Wade’s everything. The alpha isn’t taking, isn’t – isn’t doing anything right. But maybe he’s doing everything right because Peter wants, needs, wants, his omega surging forward as he finally forces the words past his lips, says a quiet, shy, “I – can I h-hold you, too? Your – can I…? Just – hold it?”

It’s nearly incoherent, but his gaze is on the alpha’s penis, leaving no doubt as to what he wants, what he’s asking for. Something rumbles from the alpha’s throat as he leans forward to nuzzle his face against Peter’s dick. “You sure, Peter? Don’t have to, wanna make you feel good, want to take care of you.”

There’s something – vulnerable in that.

Peter somehow manages to uncurl his fist from the sheets, reaches down a shaking hand to rub against Wade’s head. The alpha flinches at first contact but then leans into the touch, relaxing under it, lets Peter pet him the same way Wade kept doing in the clinic. The texture of him is new and different and grounds Peter in the here and now, helps remind him who he’s with, that he’s not in the alley, not being taken, not being – well. He rubs his clammy hand over Wade’s bald head, over the bumps and ridges of those ever-moving scars, and he breathes.

“I want to,” Peter says. It feels true.

Stronger then, he repeats, “I want to hold you. Alpha. Can I? Please?”

“Don’t have to worry, Peter,” the alpha says. “Don’t have to beg. Give you everything. Let me – here, let’s –”

He sits up, slides his finger out of Peter in one slow, slow glide. Peter whines at the loss, his hole open and twitching, begging for something to fill it. Intellectually he understands that it’d hurt him to be filled right now, that it wouldn’t be smart to try. But there’s no place for that right now in this fever-hot room, no place for thinking. He just wants, he wants and he needs and – he feels empty and it aches – his hands twitch in place as he tries not to reach down, tries not to try and spread himself open.

Wade lays out beside him on the bed, then, upside down so they can touch each other. Peter should be ashamed at how quickly he latches onto that angry red penis, should feel that all-too familiar curl of whore-slut-omega when he grabs hold of it. But Wade whines under him, his breath hot against Peter’s own erection, hips moving slow into Peter’s grip, and he can’t think this is bad. He can’t think anything about this is wrong or bad or – or whorish, because Wade takes him in his mouth and he can’t breathe through how hot and wet and real this feels. His hand wrapped around the big alpha feels right; it feels right when Wade twitches in his hand, when his mouth hums out whining vibrations into Peter’s own erection. He likes how firm he feels, likes the weight of him, feels slick pooling under him all over again as he grips Wade’s dick and makes him feel good, too.

It’s – it’s never been mutual before.

There’s something overwhelming about it, about Wade slurping around him, about holding onto Wade in return, gripping hard as he tugs on him. Then Wade traces his finger around Peter’s rim before pressing into him again. It goes from overwhelming to all-consuming, the smells of their scents mixing in the air around them, heat and hot and burning as he feels swept away by it all, swept into a wave of his heat that whites out his vision and curls his toes, makes him arch into Wade’s mouth and whine as he spills inside that wet, determined mouth. The alpha swallows around him, holding on for the ride, and when those pulses finally recede and Peter twitches a hand around Wade’s erection, whimpering, the alpha raises his head grinning, licks his lips. There’s drool on his chin. Red-eyed, Wade swoops his head low again and licks down Peter’s thighs, licks at his slick, laps at it like a cat hungry for milk.

Peter shudders all over, tugs on Wade’s penis.

It’s long and curved and fits just barely in Peter’s hand, but – but it’s not scary.

Somehow, Peter isn’t scared right now?

He’s all melted snow and heavy limbs, his omega too close to the surface. So close he can feel his chest rumbling, can feel the vibrations in his throat. He’s – he’s done this before, when he was a kid. Sometimes. But he can’t remember when – he can’t think of why he might be doing this now, when he’s supposed to be taken, controlled, taken. This isn’t a life where omegas should be purring.

But he is.

His omega is – is purring.

It’s thinking alpha, want, alpha and it’s purring.

He’d told Wade that he would use his hands. That he could still make the alpha feel good even if his ass was too – damaged. And he – at the time, he couldn’t imagine wanting to do it. He’d been determined to do it but he hadn’t wanted to. But his omega feels soft, all warm, and Wade’s still licking at his thighs like he can’t get enough. Alphas don’t do this. They take and they take and they – but Wade hasn’t. Even now, he’s just – giving. Expecting nothing. Not even thrusting into Peter’s hand, just these slow languid movements, all soft and accepting. Or, rather, hard and accepting. So, so hard. The heat is quiet, now, the waves satiated into a brief lull.

Trying not to jostle Wade, Peter scoots closer to the alpha, cranes his neck.

Takes that hard length into his mouth.

-

-

-

Peter’s slick is fucking nirvana.

Wade feels drowned by it, positively drowned. In the best of ways. Can a drowning be a good thing? Because he’s drowning and it’s good, it’s oh so good, he wants to choke on it and never come up for air, his alpha instantly addicted to how this boy tastes –

And then, just when this shit couldn’t get any better, Peter deepthroats him.

Wade groans out loud and freezes in place, asserting every bit of effort into not moving an inch. Peter still has bruises on his face, he’s not – he’s injured, he shouldn’t be doing this – oh, he’s a wizard with his tongue do that again –

[How can he even be doing this? We’re disgusting.]

heat, take care, want, want

[[Dumb alpha doesn’t even realize how gross it is.]]

[How is this beautiful boy not hurling chunks right now at the sight of it?]

[[At the smells. Shit we are gnarly.]]

[The gnarliest.]

heat, want, Peter smells good, happy, safe, want –

The heat seems to be – calming down, now that Peter’s been taken care of. It’ll come and go for a while yet, but it’s – quiet now, the scent less an inferno and more a smoldering ember in the background. As soon as Peter’s mouth wraps around him and takes him in, Wade is seeing stars, groaning and whining as the omega leads the charge. He keeps as still as he can, hoping not to hurt the boy, determined not to add another bruise to that pretty, injured face, but he can’t stop the tremors, can’t stop himself from coming almost right away, flooding that warm mouth with hot white liquid. He’s been hard for what feels like forever now. That warmth was too sudden against him, too much too fast. Peter swallows reflexively but some leaks out of the corner of those pretty pink lips. Wade very suddenly itches to roll himself around and kiss those lips with his own, wants to taste himself there, to mix Peter’s slick with his own come. And he isn’t the best at resisting his own urges, so.

He rolls himself around and presses his lips to Peter’s.

Peter hums, eyes closing as he – he kisses back. They’re kissing.

take care, want, mate, pretty omega, take care

But with the ebbing of Peter’s heat comes the sudden influx of voices.

[What are you doing? Peter isn’t mate. Peter is scared omega who has no where else to go!]

[[You’re naked in bed with a terrified omega and you’re liking it.]]

[You get off on scared omegas now?]

[[You’ve turned into an asshole knothead only looking for one thing –]]

[Forcing it –]

no, no, take care, keep safe, take care

[[Convincing yourself he could actually ever want you. He’s in heat you dipshit, there’s no way he actually wants you.]]

[You’re naked right now, do you realize how gross you look –]

[[Take a look in a mirror sometime, you’re a literal nightmare monster sucking face with an omega who fears you –]]

mate? want? take care?

[He’s not your fucking mate, are you crazy?]

[[We don’t have a mate. Nothing that looks like us gets to have a mate –]]

Somewhere along the way, Wade stopped responding to the kiss, his lips stiff and unmoving against Peter who finally pulls back, uncertain. The omega under him looks up at him through soft brown eyes, his brow furrowed in concern, his lips smooth and wet and unblemished. He looks beautiful and unblemished everywhere else, too, besides the spattered bruising. Wade might be sick. He scrambles off the boy, whimpering, throws himself on the floor beside the bed… the room is dark and smells like sex, smells like them, like that honey-rich sweet scent when Peter’s content mingling so well with Wade’s fire, but that can’t be right because Wade isn’t wearing any clothes at all right now, he’s completely naked and he’s – he’s gross. He’s large and alpha and he’s positively disgusting to look at, to smell, and Peter just – he just laid there and took all that. He laid there and let Wade, let Wade –

Only he didn’t let Wade do anything, did he?

Peter hadn’t had a choice.

The omega was supposed to be safe here. Wade’s alpha was supposed to be – was supposed to have kept the kid safe. He was supposed to keep covered and stay away from him and not scare him. Instead, at the first hint of a heat, he was – he –

mate, his alpha insists. take care, mate, take care

But alphas are dumb. It’s so dumb that it doesn’t even realize what it’s done. It’s so dumb that it doesn’t even grasp how unattractive Wade is, how he’s not even mate material. Nobody would ever actually want Wade. Wade doesn’t want Wade. Wade wants to be somebody else, anybody else, but he’s stuck like this and he can’t stand – his alpha is an idiot. It’s so dumb that it smells an omega in heat and thinks mate. It’s so dumb that it still somehow thinks Peter wanted all of that. Wanted him.

He’s not proud of it, but he might be panicking.

Wade stumbles to a stand, his legs like jelly. He needs to find clothes. Cover. Regroup.

“W-wade?” Peter’s voice, drawing him back toward the bed.

The omega is sitting up on his elbows, still splayed out with slick on his thighs. Wade might be breathing erratically, can feel himself hyperventilating, standing there shaking with his skin too exposed, too exposed. Peter pushes himself to a sitting position, his face all soft, soft, concerned. He pats the bed beside him, staring at Wade. “Can you – come here?”

Wade’s eyes are wide, the red all bled out of them. He takes a step toward the door.

“P-please?” Peter adds. He takes a deep breath. “You said – said anything I want.”

[Brave omega.]

[[Why does he want us? We’re literal trash.]]

[Maybe he’s lying? Maybe it’s the heat? Maybe he likes trash?]

Wade can’t say no to Peter. He should run, wants to run, but – but he did say Peter could have anything he wanted, and somehow that seems to mean Wade sitting with him right now. So he edges back toward the bed. Sits on the end of it, all stiff and fidgeting. Can’t look at the pretty omega, can’t face him. His heat scent is still so strong, so potent, and Wade can’t let his alpha succumb to it again, can’t let his alpha do whatever it wants to do when it just – it doesn’t get how this works. It doesn’t understand that it can’t have nice things. He plucks at the sheet and wishes he could cover up with it, but Peter is still sitting on the thing. But then Peter’s hand reaches over and grips his arm, and the boy’s head comes down to lean on Wade’s stiff, unyielding shoulder.

“Tired,” Peter says, then a soft, hesitating: “Are you… okay?”

“You should – should sleep,” Wade says. “While you can. I’ll – ‘m sorry, baby boy. I didn’t mean to – I didn’t want to. I should go get dressed. ‘m sorry you had to look at – not to mention touch –”

“Liked it,” Peter says. “Alpha. Liked – you.”

Wade’s shoulders hunch. He’s got way too many voices saying otherwise right now.

“Talk later,” Peter says then. “Will you – can we sleep?”

Wade jumps to a stand again. “Of course, I’ll just go –”

“T-together?”

Wade freezes, at once at war with himself, too many voices expressing their opinions on the matter loud and clear. His alpha is a whimpering, confused mess. He needs to cover up. He’s gross and he smells and he’s – he’s all pustules and scabs and Peter should not want to – but Peter’s saying he does want to, and he wouldn’t say something he doesn’t mean, would he? Peter’s capable of thinking for himself, and right now this is what he’s saying he wants. For some reason, he apparently wants to sleep with Wade Winston Wilson, the big ugly alpha nobody’s ever wanted before. It’s baffling and confusing and Wade’s still a little high on the heat-scent that’s coiled in the air around them, still a little hard. They’re sticky and need to shower. But Peter wants to sleep with him.

And beyond the panic and the disbelief… Wade yearns for that.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, okay. We can – we’ll sleep.”

Peter scoots himself to the head of the bed, curling up among the pillows, and when Wade finally manages to get himself there too, Peter curls around him. He throws an arm over Wade’s bare pecs and leans his head against Wade’s shoulder and he’s – there’s a low, low rumble emanating from the omega’s chest, the vibration sending shivers down Wade’s arm. Is he – do omegas purr?

[Oh em gee this is precious!]

[[What the hell is even happening right now?]]

mate, take care, mate

The alpha sounds – rather smug. Wade tries to breathe, tries to relax into the pillows. His skin feels hot to the air, burning where Peter’s pressed against him. He’s itchy and hard and he can understand literally none of this, literally none of this at all. When it sounds like Peter’s breaths even out, his head heavier on Wade’s shoulder, the alpha reaches up a hand to lay it on Peter’s arm, all slow and wide-eyed. His heart’s in his throat and he feels like crying.

[Peter’s gonna be terrified of you when the heat ends.]

[[Just you wait. This won’t last.]]

[He’s – he’s purring though. Maybe we did something right?]

[[He’s in heat. What could a big ugly alpha have possibly done right?]]

Wade dozes off to those words, to that question that lingers.

What could a big ugly alpha ever do right?

-

-

-

[[Nothing. The answer is nothing.]]

[Oh God, this is gonna hurt isn’t it?]

mate, take care, safe, protect

[[… idiot alpha.]]

Chapter Text

7. waking up

-

-

-

Peter’s whining in his sleep.

Sweet sex hangs in the air like a warm blanket over the room, the smells of them mixing to the point where Wade can’t pick out one scent from the other. It’s all rich and warm and heady, an air of calm he’s never smelled in his apartment before. He’s also sticky as fuck, though, sweat-soaked and hard, dick pulsing in between his legs. It makes for a stimulating, breathless mix of uncomfortably comfortable, and if the situation weren’t so – so damn sad, then Wade might be as blissed out as his alpha is. Instead, as soon as Peter’s whines wake him up, his brain comes alive thinking Not Nice thoughts, and he simultaneously wants to dart from the room to find a hoodie to disappear behind and reach over to pull Petey closer, scent at his neck.

Instead, he just lays there, stiff and aching. Curls his hands into fists to resist reaching out.

Peter must have moved away from him in his sleep, is curled up by himself a few feet away. Probably got sick of touching Wade’s skin, which feels even itchier than it usually does, all red and inflamed. He wiggles a bit on the sweat-damp sheets to scratch that itch, but the movement just makes it worse, pulls at the scabs. Peter murmurs something, then, shifting a bit, and Wade sucks in a breath to keep from moving again, to keep from waking him.

[[When’s the last time we were naked in bed with another person?]]

[Before Weapon X for sure.]

Oh, God. They’re not about to bring up –

[[That’s right!]] Yellow sounds positively gleeful. Wade tenses in the dark, whispers for them to shut the fuck up, but when have they ever listened to him, anyway? [[That beta who got a kick outa dominating the big dumb knothead who somehow thought he was good enough to stay in school. I miss the way he’d call us trash as he was –]]

[You remember how disgusted he was with the knot?]

[[He’d slap us around as he’d plow us from behind, calling us all sorts of –]]

IN THE JUNGLE, THE MIGHTY JUNGLE, THE LION SLEEPS TONIGHTTTTT

For some reason, the steady rhythm of uyimbube, uyimbube, uyimbube, uyimbube is the first song that comes to mind, so Wade thinks the melody as loudly and as obnoxiously as he can to block out the voices. The assholes know it’s never a good day when they bring up – that – and he’s in the middle of a heat with Peter. This needs to be a good day. As good a day as Wade’s brain can have, anyway, which buckles underneath the weight of an extremely low bar. The red glow of the clock on the nightstand says it’s only been a few hours since they fell asleep, but Peter’s stirring, now, moaning here and there. His brow is creased, mouth downturned. He won’t be asleep much longer. Wade breathes in and out a few slow, measured breaths.

Okay.

He can do this.

He can keep the alpha in check. He can help Peter not injure himself trying to fill himself up, stay in control and not feel like the worst sort of asshole in the process. But shit, they barely even know each other. If Peter’s ass wasn’t damaged, he’d have given the omega some toys to use and locked him in the bedroom, kept his alpha well away from someone who’s too compromised by the heat to say no. But Peter wouldn’t have been able to control himself, not like this. Wade’s smelled plenty of forced heats before, with that unnatural chemical twinge that scrapes against his senses with all the finesse of a sandpaper dildo. This heat’s different. It’s all the way sweet, pungent and strong. A real heat, maybe the first one Wade’s ever smelled. There’s no way Peter could reasonably be expected to stop himself from trying to relieve that ache inside him, and his ass is damaged. If he’s alone in his room, he’ll hurt himself trying. Shit, he almost did already trying to spread himself on his own fingers earlier. So Wade’s staying. He wants to pretend he’s staying only to help Peter, only to make sure the omega doesn’t hurt himself. He wants to pretend he’s doing the right thing here, but his alpha is – is happy. That can’t be a good sign.

safe, mate, take care

[[How many times are you going to repeat those same fucking words?]]

[I don’t think the poor thing knows any other words.]

[[I can’t wait to hear what it says when pretty Petey flat out rejects us.]]

[Ooh, maybe it’ll know other words then.]

[[Words like pitiful, and pathetic, and loser.]]

Wade can physically feel his alpha drawing in on itself, curling up inside his chest. It feels a little hard to breathe, which isn’t anything new. It’s either a really good thing or a really bad thing that Peter takes this moment to finally roll toward him, panting in the dark as he throws an arm over a frozen Wade’s chest and burrows his sweaty face into Wade’s shoulder.

“P-please,” Peter whispers it through panted breaths. His hips gyrate against Wade’s side.

Wade’s alpha is instantly alert.

“You’re okay,” Wade says for the both of them. He sucks in another breath. Peter must be fully out of it not to even seem to notice Wade’s skin at all right now, pressing full-body into him like he’s a normal person who isn’t textured like ground beef. But his alpha croons in his head and doesn’t seem to remember the whole skin thing, either. It’s getting in Wade’s way right now that he’s fighting himself, warring with the alpha. He can’t seem to make himself move, can’t seem to press through the sudden spike of terror and insecurity and give Peter what he needs. But Peter can’t want this. It’s biology. They didn’t discuss this prior to the heat, when Peter would have been able to think, would have been able to tell the big ugly alpha off for even suggesting he help the omega through this heat. He shouldn’t be here in this bed, his body shouldn’t be responding to these panting breaths that don’t belong to Wade, they’re just, this isn’t –

“Alpha, p-please,” Peter’s saying, over and over, his breath hot on Wade’s shoulder, lips wet and warm against his ruined skin. “Need yo-ou, please. Know I’m just a – ‘m a slut, sorry, ‘m used but I can, my mouth, please, please –”

[[He thinks we’re rejecting him.]]

White’s an endless string of curse words.

safe, protect, safe, mate

Thoughts turning off, giving way under sheer instinct, Wade turns his body and wraps his arms around Peter, holding onto him while the smaller omega shakes and writhes. His alpha feels soft like melted wax inside his head, low to the ground as it frets over mate, mate, safe, soothe. Wade smooths a trembling hand over Peter’s tangled curls. He rubs his nose over that hair, breathing in that sweet, rich blend of them, crooning out whispered praises he can’t honestly remember one moment after he says them, his head too full of endless praises for the boy in his arms to figure out which ones he’s saying and which ones he’s thinking and which one’s he’s feeling. Peter is so brave to go through a heat with Wade, to turn into him instead of cower, so brave to be using his voice, what a pretty voice, sweet Peter has such a sweet voice –

“Take care of you, don’t worry.”

Wade unfolds from around Peter and gets them into a better position, has Peter lay his head on the pillows and then gently guides the omega’s hands to the sheets, to grab a fistful of them and spread himself out. Peter’s limbs move willingly, obedient, and when Wade kneels in between his legs and taps on each leg, Peter spreads them and shows his wet hole without hesitation, all loose and sloppy and twitching in the open air. He grips the sheets in both hands as he rides the waves of the heat pulsing through him, begging Wade to touch him, to fill him, please, he’s so empty, please, it aches –

“Shh.” Wade runs one of his scarred hands over Peter’s trembling thigh. “I gotcha, pretty Peter. You’re doing so well for me, honey, so well. Look at you, so open and ready, your slick smells like heaven, like honey and warm and wet and sweetness. You’re perfect, I gotcha, you’re okay. Can I taste you? Feed that pretty hole my tongue?”

Peter’s eyes are wide and unfocused, tears wetting his lashes. “P-please, please.”

“Good please or bad please?”

Peter’s hips lift off the bed a bit as he wiggles, humps his penis into the air. “G-good, please, I need – need, please –”

“Shhh, I gotcha.” Wade’s hand soothes over Peter’s thighs again, warm trembling skin like fire under his hands. He’s whispering praises about how brave Peter is, about how good he’s being, how trusting and open and good, all the way up until his breath is warm against Peter’s pulsing hole and his face is pressed in between the omega’s legs. One of Peter’s hands unfolds from the sheets and blindly reaches down to lay across Wade’s head, and he keens out loud and shakes when Wade’s tongue traces around his rim, warm and wet, warm and wet, points of connection that force Peter’s eyes closed as he bites his lip and tries not to make too much noise. His slick pulses out of him in a slow, slow stream that Wade’s tongue catches. He swipes a slow stripe over Peter’s hole, swirls his tongue, Peter shaking from the effort of being silent, eyes leaking from the overstimulation, from the want, need, want that hovers in the spaces where they aren’t connected. He can’t make sense of it but something inside him aches to drag the alpha up and latch onto him, to press into him full-body, to be filled and full of him as they wrap themselves into each other. Heats make him thirsty, his whole body on fire as it craves being filled. Heats haven’t ever made him want to – want to – wrap himself around the one taking him, though. It feels like a whole other level of want he’s never experienced before, his omega reaching out for Wade, crying out for him, wordless and stilted and scared.

Then Wade’s tongue presses against his pucker.

Peter’s toes curl. He’s pretty sure he cries out loud, cries something unintelligible.

One of Wade’s hands smooths over his thigh, petting him as he works.

It’s slow torture, sensory overload that turns the whole world hazy around them. The heat lasts days longer than it feasibly should, days and days where Peter aches, cries because he’s empty, Wade shushing him and whispering little praises here and there. By day four, they’re exhausted and wrung out, high off the scents, a little lost in their own world. Wade manages to put in a grocery order on his busted up old ass laptop because they’re running out of food and he can’t find his cellphone, but his alpha doesn’t want to open the front door even for a moment, doesn’t want to risk anyone smelling how potent and delicious Peter’s scent is. Peter watches Wade pace in front of the door where he’s sprawled out on the couch, head propped up on pillows from the bedroom. He’s naked under the blanket they’d dragged off the bed, naked all except for the collar. He plays with the d-ring with a finger as he watches the alpha, listens to him talking to himself, eyes half-lidded as he admires the way the man prowls from side to side, admires the way his muscles flex. After four days of heat, the alpha’s grown less aware of the fact that he’s unclothed, seems less bothered showing his skin off. Loose sweatpants hang off his hips in a way that reveals just enough to captivate, and captivated Peter is. He can’t seem to keep his eyes off the way those sweatpants hug his ass as he’s prowling in one direction, can’t seem to keep his eyes off the way they show off those hips of his as he’s prowling in the other. The alpha is built like a wall of muscle, all agile grace in the way that he moves. For someone so big, he’s light on his feet. Prances, skips, jumps up and down like an eager child when he’s excited about something.

His omega is all curled up and – sated.

It’s – so weird.

So very, very weird.

He feels – sticky and gross, though. Could use a shower. Wade’s showered a couple times while Peter rested off and on over the past few days, each time returning to the bed smelling a little less like Peter for his omega’s comfort. Even in his sleep, Peter hadn’t liked it, had sensed the change and nuzzled close to fix it, to get his scent back on the alpha. But Peter’s been too strung out to be able to stand in a shower, and he isn’t allowed a bath until the stitches in his asshole dissolve and he’s healed down there. Wade’s given him sponge baths instead, which was weird. Weirdly – alluring. Weirdly sensual, the big alpha taking care of him, washing away his filth while he’d talked and talked and talked.

Somehow, the alpha makes all this bizarre stuff feel – almost normal.

He’s so casual about it all.

Giving an omega a sponge bath?

Nobody else would have done that. Nobody.

“I think it’s safe to open the door,” Peter croaks from his safe little cocoon on the couch.

Wade’s pacing screeches to a halt, head tilting in Peter’s direction. He immediately switches his trajectory toward the kitchen, pours Peter another glass of water and brings it to him, helps him sit up to drink it. Peter does because he’s thirsty, producing all that slick having taken its toll, and this should feel weird but doesn’t, the alpha waiting on him like this, so quick to enter his space like he belongs there and Peter so quick to let him. Wade smooths a hand over Peter’s head while he drinks, apparently incapable of resisting the urge. Similarly incapable, Peter presses his head into it, leans into the touch, closing his eyes on a sigh and breathing deep of the alpha’s scent. It lingers in the air as the alpha returns to the door.

He’s eyeing it. “We’re safe in here,” Wade says, almost whining.

“Your food won’t be safe if you leave it out there, though.”

“Our food,” Wade corrects, almost absent-mindedly. “I think I know it’d be fine to open the door on some level. It’ll take like three seconds to bring all those bags in, two if I’m speedy. And if there’s anything I’m good at, it’s speedily bringing in a grocery order to avoid having to interact with pesky neighbors. They’re mostly betas and they mostly leave me alone anyway. But I also don’t want to? We’ve been safe in here. We’ve been – it’s been good. And your scent’s like hell and heaven smooshed together to make a fantastic little bliss baby. That fantastic little bliss baby shouldn’t be subjected to the outside world. The world’s out there. My alpha – um. I don’t like it.”

“Is that who you talk to?” Peter asks. His heart beats fast at asking the question, instincts yelling at him to shut up, shut up, he’s got no right to speak or ask questions or exist. He tries to ignore it. “When you’re talking to someone? Is it your alpha?”

Wade’s shoulders slump forward, head ducking. “Sometimes.”

“It has a voice?”

“Sometimes.”

Peter hesitates, but the alpha looks so suddenly stiff and uncomfortable, facing away from him. He wants the confident prowling to come back, so he ignores his own racing heart. “My omega feels like something other, sometimes, too. An awareness outside myself? I… don’t usually hear it as a voice, but I can see how it could manifest that way? For me, it’s more like a – presence? Feelings and senses that sometimes don’t belong only to me. A weak, cowering thing that likes to curl into itself and hide away. It’s either a ball of nerves or a ball of – of need, or both at once in the back of my mind.”

“Shit, Peter, that’s not how I see your omega at all.”

The matter-of-fact tone stops Peter short.

He swallows. “You – don’t?”

Wade turns to look at him, those pretty brown eyes wide and earnest, sparking in the light of daylight that streams in through the window. “Course not. Look at it this way – I basically just admitted that I hear voices, and instead of that scaring you away, you use that pretty voice of yours to tell me something personal about you. Evening the playing field and shit, tryin’ to make me feel better. I can tell you’re scared of me, sometimes, but you still talk to me like I’m a person. Never had an omega talk to me before, did you know that? Shit, I even scare betas off.” He taps on his head, grins a little. There’s some melancholy to his expression that calls out to Peter, makes his omega whine. Peter’s hand clenches into the blanket, the urge to get up and cross the room to press into the alpha almost too strong to resist. “I’ve got enough voices up here to form an off-key quartet. In fact, we do form an off-key quartet sometimes. Yellow’s got the worst taste in music, oh em gee. We don’t even agree on the normal shit. Yellow thinks socks and sandals together is gnarly, the bastard, and White makes fun of pineapple on pizza. But – shit, Pete, it’s unanimous up here when it comes to you. All four of us thinks you’re brave as fuck.”

pretty mate, safe, comfort, protect

[[We also unanimously think he’s gonna run once this heat ends.]]

[The alpha doesn’t. Poor dumb nut thinks we’re fated or some shit.]

[[It’s almost funny how pathetic that is.]]

[Like someone as pretty and brave as Pete would get stuck with a loser like Wilson.]

[[One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever dooooooo.]]

[Two can be as bad as one, but there ain’t no number like the number one!]

[[Four’s pretty bad too.]]

[It’s definitely too crowded up here. That dumb alpha’s stolen all my elbow room –]

[[Can’t masturbate without elbow room –]]

“Somebody’s walking this way.” Peter’s voice cuts through the boxes, that muted, subdued tone as the omega props himself up on his elbows on the couch enough for the alpha to freeze up and listen to the outside world. He can’t hear anything besides the cars on ground level honking and tires rumbling over asphalt, a muffled engine backfiring. But Peter’s looking a little spooked, his bruised, pale face wide-eyed as he watches the door. His heat’s tapered way down, spikes of it a ghost in the air, his scent all calm and breezy, but it sours a little as they listen at the door. Wade peers through the peephole and sees bags of food on the mat, not a soul in the hallway.

Still, Peter says somebody’s coming. Not sure how the kid knows, but it’s always good to get a heads up. His alpha’s on high alert at the news, growling in the back of his mind, eyes bleeding red as he shoves himself to the forefront. A wave of his alpha stench rolls off him, pungent and lingering as it spreads throughout the room and coats all the fabrics. Peter seems not to notice, doesn’t even flinch. It’s unreal.

“Is somebody about to steal our groceries?” Wade will gank somebody over the bag of pop tarts out there.

Also, to keep Pete safe. That too.

But the pop tarts.

“It’s a man,” Peter says. “Dunno who. But he’s walking up the stairs and mumbling under his breath about you. I assume it’s you? Wilson’s your last name, isn’t it?”

“You can hear into the stairwell?”

Peter’s eyes flick to the floor, darting away. “Um, yeah? I guess. He’s one floor away.”

“That is so fucking cool.” Wade keeps an eyeball in the peephole, waiting to see who’s about to pop out of the stairwell. Someone using his last name could mean anyone at all. Likely nothing good… probably not an assassin after Deadpool though, so. Do all omegas hear this well? Or is this a Peter-specific thing?

[[Oooh, do I smell a plot twist?]]

[Whoever smelt it dealt it.]

[[… I can’t stand you.]]

It turns out to be the landlord who stomps through the doors down the hallway and stops in front of Wade’s door, breathing hard and red-faced. Elevator must be out. He’s an older man with all of eight teeth and a receding hairline, potbellied and greasy. A beta, of course, because you can’t be a landlord and be anything else. Or maybe an alpha could become a landlord in theory, but it wouldn’t work in practice. Who would the tenants be? Other angry dumb knotheads who can’t string six words together? No thanks. The man leans over their groceries to bang on the door as he scratches his stomach through a wrinkled button-up. Wincing at the sound so close to his face, Wade takes his eye off the peephole and shuffles back a step, shrugging at Peter’s wide-eyed, frozen face.

“It’s just the landlord,” Wade whispers. “He’ll go away if we’re real quiet.”

“Wilson, you asshole!” The man bellows through the door. Peter visibly stiffens, hand gripped tight in the blanket, his other frozen on his collar. Wade’s alpha stench rolls through the room all over again, pheromones screaming back-the-fuck-up and stop-scaring-Peter. Not that Dewie can smell it through the scent blockers in the apartment, but he never claimed his alpha was smart. It just knows that it doesn’t like the look of Peter scared, especially not here, especially not during a heat. So it reacts, sending those strong pungent signals wafting through their living room. He’s expecting the smell to make Peter recoil, to make him even more afraid, maybe. Maybe he’ll run into the bathroom to escape it, to escape Wade.

Wade holds his breath, waiting for it. Braced.

Instead, Peter breathes in a deep inhale and his shoulders relax. His hand plays with his collar, eyes on Wade.

The landlord is ranting. “You’re not being real quiet and I’m not going anywhere until you get your slimy friend to answer his fucking phone! That body’s stinking the whole first floor up!”

“Body?” Peter mouths.

Wade waves a hand in the air like he’s batting away a fly. “Did you use the number I gave? He always answers that one.”

“Yes I fucking well did, and no he fucking well didn’t answer!”

Weasel always answers that line. Even in the early morning hours when he’s grumpy and borderline homicidal.

“… Did you leave him a message?”

The landlord’s response is both colorful and descriptive. He ends his tirade with a definitive, derisive, “If that body’s not gone by tonight, I’m calling the cops.”

He stomps back toward the stairwell, his steps loud enough for Wade to track all the way down the hall. When he’s gone, Wade turns back toward Peter. Wordlessly, he gets the omega another glass of water, moves the boy’s feet so he can sit himself under them and prop them up on his lap, hand on one of Pete’s ankles as they sit in a strange silence. The boxes expect an axe to fall any second. They’re placing bets on how brutal it’ll be. But Peter lets Wade sit beside him, lets him set a scarred hand on his ankle and just rest it there. He makes no move to leave or question or say anything at all.

Wade’s braced, though. He can’t sit still or stay silent for long. “So… I kind of killed an alpha that was trying to get in here when your heat first started? I’m pretty sure the world’s better off though, to be fair.”

Peter’s silent.

Wade can’t make himself look over to see what his face might be saying.

His eyes stay fixed on Peter’s feet, on how bony they are.

[Gotta fatten our boy up, yo.]

[[Have we forgotten all about the groceries out in the hall? Isn’t there milk out there?]]

[Shh, this is more important! Peter knows we kill people!]

[[Speak for yourself. I for one am gonna want a glass of milk to drown myself in when Peter runs for the hills.]]

[Dude, screw the milk. We’re totes gonna eat a bullet.]

[[… point.]]

[Yay!]

[[I still want that fucking milk, though.]]

“He was an asshole,” Wade says, desperate to drown out the boxes. His alpha is a quiet rumbling in the background, too proud of protecting Peter to care about the current conversation, satisfied by the contact of his hand on Pete’s ankle. Such a simpleton. Not that Wade isn’t just as satisfied by it, because he is. But… he’s not exactly looking forward to it going away, is all. Has he ever had somebody he’s needed to explain this to before? Everybody he knows just – knows already. They either hide bodies for him or they pay him to take someone out or they magically luck their way into sneaking Deadpool out of prison. How can he gently break the news that he kills people for money and sometimes for free to an omega who’s relaxed so much around him lately? Peter’s going to fear him all over again.

All their progress, shanked by Dewie.

[[All by myselfffff, don’t wanna be –]]

[All by myselffff!]

His hand wants to grip Peter’s ankle and hold on tight, but he relaxes his hand instead, keeps it loose in case the omega wants to bolt. They’d moved to the living room for a change of scenery and because Wade changed the sheets on the bed, but now he wishes they could be back in that room with its heady, rich scent and its pillows and its comfort. Peter’s heat scent is weaker now, a cooling ember as he comes off it slowly. He’d stopped producing slick earlier this morning, his hole loose and tender but not as sloppy. Turns out it’s a good thing, too, because he’d hate to try having this conversation if Peter were still too out of it to say much more than groaning pleas and panted whines.

Wade sighs out a whooshed exhale and bites the bullet. “I kind of kill people sometimes? It’s a whole – but I mean, I only off bad people. Like, really bad. Shit stains that deserve it. The world is just – it’s a fucking nightmare out there. You – you probably know that better than I do, huh? But I can’t just – I can’t see it happening and not try to do something? I know it doesn’t actually help. Nothing really helps. Kill one sick fuck and two more pop up in their place. Think evil underground organization, only magnify it by six billion and cross out the underground part. But – but it’s all I can do besides wallow in self-pity and get high, so I do it.”

“What kind of –”

Not expecting the voice, Wade’s eyes dart to look at Peter without his permission.

Peter’s biting his lip, looking through his fringe of wild bedhead at him. Wade hurries to look away again, squeezes Pete’s ankle in silent encouragement. Waits.

[[Good dog.]]

[Ruff ruff.]

Finally, Peter tries again. “What kind of people do you – kill?”

He falters over that last word, clearly uncomfortable with it, laying very still. It’s – good though, right? That he’s asking. That he’s brave enough still to ask. “I get paid to take out all sorts of bad guys. Mob bosses who evade jail time, rapists, drug cartels or human traffickers… rough jobs a normal person couldn’t pull off, but I’ve got that pesky healing factor so it’s usually cake for me. Gross chopped-off body parts sort of cake, but when someone’s paying you to eat cake, you can’t complain when it tastes like shit. That’d be rude.”

“Wade?”

“Yeah, baby boy?”

“I get that this is a hard conversation to have, and it’s – we should have it, thanks for – for telling me all this. You don’t have to tell me anything at all, I shouldn’t even have a voice right now, so. Thanks and all. But –”

[There’s always a but.]

[[Butts, ha.]]

“Could we just – go back to the bed now? Deal with all this – later?”

Wade swallows. Everything feels tight and wrong, his skin pulling wrong every time he moves, and his chest feels like there’s a fist inside it squeezing his heart, wringing it out. Peter sounds – tired. But not… but not afraid. Just very, very tired. The heat took a lot out of him, still must be. He finally musters up the courage to look at the boy, and he looks worn down. The bruises that line his face have yellowed, now, into that last gnarly stage before they heal. Wade isn’t sure if this is just a temporary reprieve or if Pete actually means to stay, but he’ll take what he can get for as long as he can get it.

“I like the way you think,” Wade says.

“My heat’s… almost gone, I think.”

Another conversation Wade hopes they can delay. “Yeah, I noticed too.”

“Can I still –” Peter cuts himself off, bites his lip again, turning it rosy in between his teeth.

“You can ask questions, Pete.”

Peter looks down at the blanket, fingertips still running over that collar he never seems to stop playing with. Wade had suggested he take the thing off a few days ago, but it’d been a mistake because Peter took that to mean ‘I don’t want you here anymore’ and had panicked mid-heat, begging to be allowed to stay, please, please, he’d do better, he’s healing, he’ll be healed soon, just a little longer and he can be used again –

Yeah. Mistake.

To be honest, he likes seeing it there anyway. Likes seeing Peter wear it.

Likes seeing Peter like it.

“Can I still – stay?” Peter rushes out with. His foot is tense and unbendy under Wade’s hand. “I know I’ve been horrible the past few days. I was a mess, I’m a needy mess, but – but you were... you’re such a great alpha, I’d want to – I mean, if I do better, could I still stay here? With you? I’ll be quieter, I’m not usually – I swear I don’t usually talk this much. And I’ve – I know I’ve been eating too much, not contributing, but I can – I liked getting you off, during the heat? I’d like to – I mean, if you liked it too, I’d like to do that again? I can. Any time you want, I’ll use my mouth until I’m healed. Or my hands. Both? I can contribute.”

[What the fuck?]

[[What the fuck?]]

Wade doesn’t even know where to start. But White and Yellow have the right idea. “What the fuck?”

Peter’s scent is souring now, his face kind of crumbling. When he blinks, wetness falls out of his eyes and slides down his cheeks. He wipes at his face, quick to apologize. His fingers tremble as he grips the collar around his neck, holds onto it like a lifeline. “’m sorry, sorry, I’m not used to being allowed to talk this much, I’m not saying any of it right –”

“Well yeah, you’re not!”

“Sorry, sorry, alpha please –”

Wade slides out from under Pete’s feet, scoots on his knees on the ground toward Peter, who’s sitting up and wide-eyed, tear tracks trailing down his cheeks. The silent cries are the saddest, Wade thinks. To be taught to keep silent, to be taught that you shouldn’t take up any space, not even space enough for tears. He’s not as careful as he maybe should be as he grabs the hand Peter’s got clutching the blanket and tugs it toward him, pulls Peter off the couch so they’re on the floor together. Peter oofs as he falls, tangled in the blanket. He squishes the omega to his chest, then, wrapping him into a hug that engulfs him. Pressed into him, Wade nuzzles his nose into Peter’s hair, breathing him in. Real, real, he’s here and he’s real and he’s safe. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.

He doesn’t know he’s saying it out loud until Peter’s murmuring a sniffled, muffled, “Is it?”

Wade huffs a little laugh. “Well, no. Nothing’s okay and everything sucks. But you’re awesome, okay? You’ve got a home here forever, literally for fucking ever because I can’t die and Dewie the landlord would if he tried kicking me out.”

“But I’m –”

Peter cuts himself off again, his breath warm against Wade’s gnarly chest as he exhales. He probably doesn’t appreciate being pressed against all this exposed skin. This was a bad idea, horrible idea, Wade should let him go and get something to cover up with, he’s – okay, no. Peter’s got enough problems for the both of them right now, Wade’s not about to add all his issues to the mix. Peter hasn’t minded his alpha stench at all. He’s been quick to touch him during the heat, not shy around Wade’s skin. It’s fine. He’s fine. Everything’s fine.

“You’re what?” Wade says, instead of the millions of insecurities running amok in his broken-down noggin, White and Yellow adamant that he needs to back the fuck up off the omega and run for a shirt. “Adorable? Brave? Tolerant? I could keep going –”

“Broken,” Peter says. His voice is a quiet, tired murmur. “Used up. Worthless. I – I could keep going, too.”

It’s hard to say anything back. There’s a lump in his throat and he’s pretty sure he’s crying too now, because it’s all just – a mirror, isn’t it? Wade knows he’s broken and used up and worthless and no matter what anyone said about it, he’d keep right on believing it. Not that anybody tries telling him he’s not those things… but still. Peter’s brave, but he’s a little broken, too. Nobody goes through the shit he’s gone through and comes out on the other side okay. He’s not okay. Fact. Leaning his back against the couch, he tightens his arms around the omega and holds on, rocking them a bit, the small back and forth motion a soothing rhythm against the tidal wave of emotions. It’s bright outside, but Peter’s head is pressed snug against Wade’s chest so he might not notice. That’s what he needs. Outside. Sunshine. Something other than these four walls to show him that the world’s big. It’s bigger than they are, bigger than their issues. There’s got to be somewhere they could go that’d – feel freeing? Liberating? Put things into perspective? Oh, God. Wade doesn’t know what he’s doing.

They both need so much fucking therapy.

“It’s okay to be broken,” Wade finally lands on, talking into Peter’s hair. “It’s not your fault. And hey, it just means you can’t go anywhere but up from here. Broken people turn into the strongest ones. We just need to apply a little gorilla glue to all the cracked bits.”

“Are you talking about people or pottery?”

“… pottery. But we’ll fix you up too, Pete, dontchu even worry about it.”

-

-

-

Wade cuddles him for what feels like hours on the floor in front of the old yellow couch. His arms should be constraining, big and muscled and holding on tight, but Peter can’t feel anything except grateful for the contact. Grateful for a lot of things. He’s not sure how Wade came to be this way, not sure how the same world churns out horrible alphas like Harry Osborn and good, kind ones like Wade Wilson. The two feel like completely different stratospheres. He’s on the other side of a real heat cycle with an ass that was too damaged to function properly, and he’s alive to tell the tale, for one. That’s – that’s. There are no words for what that is. Peter still can’t wrap his head and heart around the past four days of constant need. He’d been out of his mind with it, begging like a slut. He’d even begged for Wade’s knot at one point, which makes zero sense. Knots hurt.

But in that moment, his omega had craved it.

God, he really is a slut. He’s everything everyone says about him and then some. A mindless whore good for only one thing, put on this earth only to be bred and claimed and filled at both ends. He’s – he feels like he could be sick thinking about it. Has he ever actually wanted to be knotted before? No, no, absolutely not. But he’d begged Wade for it, begged and writhed and ached for it, brain all clouded, every nerve on fire as the need pulled him under. Why is Wade keeping him around? He can’t even be fucked properly. Can’t do anything right at all. Even knowing that Wade kills people for a living feels like a muted background fuzz behind all the self-disgust. Shouldn’t that be the bigger concern right now? What the hell is wrong with him?

What’s wrong is that maybe he’s – relieved.

At least somebody is trying to fix this crap heap of a world.

At least somebody else sees how wrong it is. Finally, finally Peter isn’t alone.

The cursed Parker luck somehow swung right around to Wade Wilson finding him in that alley. An alpha who’s big and scarred and chatty, who takes care of him with sponge baths and rim jobs and who’s never tried to – to use him, not even on slick-damp sheets in the dead of night when anybody else would have. Arms wrapped around Wade’s middle, head on his chest with that heartbeat thumping under his ear, on the scratchy carpet of this broken-down apartment, Peter Parker swears to himself that he’ll hold onto this somehow. That as long as Wade keeps being Wade, Peter’s going to have to find a way to find Peter again. To find himself and fix himself and keep this.

He listens to Wade’s heart beating, hears the alpha’s quiet murmur above his head as he talks about needing to put in another grocery order, where’s his fucking phone, anyway, how’d he manage to lose the thing when they haven’t even gone anywhere, Weasel’s the guy who hides bodies for him and it’s hella suspish that he isn’t answering Dewie’s calls… Peter zones out listening to these things. Hyper focuses on them to block out the loud, horrible world right outside Wade’s doors. The omega below isn’t being used right now, but he’s crying all alone. Chains rattle as he wipes his nose with the back of his hand, sniffles. His owner must be out.

Peter should not be able to hear all that.

His arms tighten around Wade. He listens to his heartbeat, to his soft, soft voice.

There’s at least one good person in the world.

And that?

That means there’s hope.

Chapter Text

8. protect yourself

-

-

-

Weasel’s off the grid.

He’d left a message through a burner phone that Wade finds once he finally digs his dead phone out from under the mattress in Peter’s room. Who knows how it wound up there, but as soon as he plugs the damned thing up, his screen lights up with the messages, unread from an unknown number.

Lay low, it reads, followed by three poop emojis.

And then one more, sent three hours after the first: i’m safe, so don’t do anything stupid

Then one more for good measure: LAY LOW

Wade scrubs a hand down his face and groans. Guess he’s got to get rid of his own bodies for a little while.

-

-

-

He’s in heat.

Peter can’t tell if it’s a forced heat, not with the scent blockers in the walls of the apartment complex, but whether it’s natural or chemically induced, he’s in heat down there, and it’s not going well. Three of his owner’s friends haven’t let him take even a five-minute break between fuckings, using him around the clock for going on eleven hours now. They’re violent when the omega doesn’t beg, too, apparently can’t beg, can’t speak words at all. They demand words from him regardless and hit him with their hands and their belts and with something else that slices through the air with a whoosh, something that cracks against his flesh, makes the omega moan. They’re crowded around him, kicking him, the sound of flesh on flesh and hoarse, breathless moans sometimes the only things that Peter can hear, the angry tones of betas left unsatisfied when the omega doesn’t beg, doesn’t call himself a slut and beg to be taken. One calls him a retard, and then they’re all doing it, bemoaning why anyone would keep something this worthless around in the first place. The owner – a much deeper, raspy voice, easy to pick out from the others – lobs a glob of spit that lands with a smacking sound on the omega, who is whimpering as his chains rattle in a rhythm like he’s being penetrated, even as they talk over him.

“He was cheap,” the man explains, almost defensively.

“They’re all cheap,” one of his friend’s says, laughter echoing through the walls, ringing in Peter’s ears. “Can get one that talks for next to nothing, specially a useless boy. Hell, I got me one of them free ones when that brothel closed, you know the one –”

“He begs so pretty and he didn’t cost a dime –”

A stinging slap echoes, then. The omega whimpers, his chains clinking. More laughter. “He’s fun to punish when he don’t talk,” his owner explains. “Most of ‘em go outa their way to behave themselves, say whatever they need to say, it’s not as fun to punish ‘em, but this one deserves a good walloping all the time. It’s nice.”

He should be exhausted by this point, probably is, but still those chains rattle as he’s penetrated, rhythmic clinking that haunts Peter’s waking moments. If he closes his eyes, it’s almost like he’s the one being raped down there, he’s the needy, whining omega whose violated body needs to be filled even as he hates himself for needing it. It’s a feeling Peter understands well, too well, that aching itch inside, that emptiness when he’s not filled, a deeply rooted disgust with himself for being reduced to nothing more than the hole they want him to be, feverish with it, out of his mind with it.

His own heat ended three days ago.

Peter’s warm and comfortable, now, as he sits in the chair beside the window with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and alpha-rich pheromones calm and content in the air around him. Wade’s sitting on the mustard-yellow couch humming as he works on a puzzle, a fairly difficult one that’ll take the shape of various puppies around a poker table, playing cards. He finished the outline of it, so far, and is starting to fill in some of the left corner, having piled together all the light blues that will make up the top of the puzzle. He invited Peter to join in. Peter can’t focus on a puzzle, though, can’t focus on anything good at all while the muffled, muted sounds of omegas being abused everywhere plays on a loop in his head.

And it is everywhere.

It’s the omega one floor down, of course, in heat and crying wordless whines.

It’s omegas being walked on leashes on the street below, some forced to crawl with bare knees on the asphalt, blistered and bruised.

It’s an omega chained up in the alleyway two blocks over, the same way Peter had been.

There’s a few more omegas in this apartment complex, too.

A girl who’s almost drowned in a bathtub, choking up water as her head is forced under.

Two omegas chained together in a closet, left there without water, without food, for going on two days now. Their bellies are loud as they hold each other’s hands, not daring to speak, not daring even to whisper.

Peter can’t – he can’t bear it.

“Can I sleep?” he asks, but his voice sounds far away even to his own ears.

It’s unreal that he’s even able to ask something like that. Unreal that he can talk.

Unreal that Wade lets him.

The omega in heat cries out, suddenly. Laughter from the betas. Peter’s fists clench into the blanket and his stomach rolls. They’re talking about jamming things up the omega’s hole, now, wondering what they can get to fit up there. The omega cries out again as something thwaps against his ass, the swoosh of a belt loud and clear through the floor. The sound is loud enough that Peter flinches back into the chair, sucks in a startled breath. Can Wade not hear it? Or does he hear it and just – not care?

It isn’t a kind thought. Wade doesn’t deserve that. He probably can’t hear it.

Why can’t he hear it?

Wade’s humming ceases. “Course you can, Peter. You don’t have to ask, you know. Are you… okay? You look a little – um, sickly? I’ll get you some water –”

Peter stands, waves away Wade’s hovering, hopeful tone. “No, I – just sleep. Please?”

“Sure, of course.”

Wade’s wearing a soft, long-sleeved v-neck, but his face and head and hands are exposed, those scars of his rippling in the sunshine that’s spilling in through the window. He stands up as Peter passes by, walking toward the open bedroom, and hovers there at the couch, wringing his hands together and watching. Peter makes it to the open doorway before he stops and turns around to face Wade, white-knuckled grips on the blanket around his shoulders as he listens to the omega below sob and sob and sob as something’s jabbed against his prostate, rough and damaging. He won’t be able to sleep through those noises. He won’t be able to escape them. He shouldn’t, anyway. He should suffer through the sounds because that’s all he can do for the omega. All he can do is listen and ache for him and think about him and endure that.

Still… “Will you – would you…”

Wade’s face is open and earnest, brown eyes shiny in the sunlight. “Anything, baby boy.”

Peter takes a breath. “Will you – hold me? While I fall asleep?”

He needn’t have worried, though, because Wade looks instantly relieved that he asked, skips after him like an overeager kid. Peter shouldn’t accept this comfort, he can’t help but think, as Wade slides into the bed behind him and throws an arm around his waist. Peter burrows into Wade, burrows into the warmth at his back, grabs his rainbow bear off the nightstand and hugs the thing close, hugs it and Wade’s arm and holds on tight. He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t know why he gets to have it while so many others don’t. He feels slimy and gross and wrong, weak… but Wade’s breath is warm against his neck as the man whispers soft crooning shushes. Wade drags a scarred hand over Peter’s arm, petting him, and he doesn’t deserve it, but Peter listens closely to the sound of Wade’s heart, to his whisper-soft voice as he murmurs sweet things. It makes it easier to block out the noises from the apartment below them.

Sleep finds him, somehow.

It’s not kind, however, dreams that morph into nightmares, leering betas and cages and straps. He was just comfortable and warm two seconds ago. There’s an awareness of that in the back of his mind, that this isn’t where he was moments ago, that this cage isn’t where he lives anymore. But he’s back there, now, curled up because the cage isn’t big enough to sit up in, he’s naked, a rope coarse and itchy around his wrists, tied tight and knotted. Knees pressed into cold steel, he whines through a gag, saliva dripping down his chin, tongue flexing against the ball strapped in his mouth. If he were free to speak, he’d be begging, begging to be filled up, begging not to be trapped here alone, chemicals coursing through his veins that send spikes of consuming, hot heat cramping through him. He’s on display, too, on a raised platform with other omegas in similar states of forced heat, caged or chained or tied to posts, moaning and writhing and trying to fuck themselves on cocks that remain just out of reach. He’s leaking slick and wriggles in place, untouched cock bobbing in the air, wet and hard and aching. He’ll always be this, he’s nothing except this, he’ll never be anything more than –

Hands are reaching through the bars, petting his flank, pinching, prodding.

Peter whines through the gag, skin on fire where they touch.

A cheerful voice through a microphone, asking who’d like to take one of these needy boys home.

And he is, he is that, his chest is heaving and the room is spinning and he needs –

Laughter, cheers, leering catcalls.

A beta stench so strong it bears down on him; he can’t take in a full breath. Betas everywhere, omegas sour and scared, the terror in the cages around him palpable, pungent, he’d choke on it if he could open his mouth, if he could breathe. His hole clenches and tingles, drips slick down his thighs. He can feel it pulsing out of him slowly, can’t feel much besides the unbearable ache to be filled, to be used, near mindless because this is all that’s left of him, now, all that’s left of any of them.

-

-

-

Pete isn’t okay.

[[Duh, home skillet.]]

[Would you be okay if you got raped repeatedly for years?]

[[Pete’s more okay than you would be, I guarantee.]]

[He’s stronger than us.]

[[Braver.]]

[Certainly prettier.]

[[That went without saying.]]

[Word.]

The boxes seem to have taken to Peter like white on rice on a paper plate in a snowstorm, which is unusual. They usually don’t have anything good to say about anyone, but here they are, unable to shut up about Peter. Wade feels the same way, though, so he can’t blame them. Peter talks to him like he’s a person. Will he ever get over the novelty of that? But he’s – he’s not okay. He’s zoned out even more now than before his heat, listless and unfocused and quiet and far away. It feels like his body is in the room but his brain and soul and – well, whatever makes him him has left the premises. He sits in that chair and watches the window. He’ll flinch at random times like something’s spooking him. Wade would fight it, whatever it is, but it’s intangible and, Wade suspects, fully inside Peter’s own head. He’s got a bad case of horrible memories. Wade knows enough about horrible memories to know that they don’t just go away, and it’s not like Peter can blow his brains out like Wade can to silence all the noise for a little while. His brain won’t grow back, and Wade likes Peter’s brain hole-free, thanks. His arm tightens around the boy while he sleeps. He leans his face in close to his neck, scenting him, inhaling his rich, sweet smell that’s clean and healthy and alive.

mate, safe, mate, alive, safe

But what else can they do?

Will he be this – listless, zoned out husk… forever?

[So what if he is?]

[[He’s a way cuter zombie than all those zombie movies make it look.]]

[We’ll take care of him either way.] White’s definitive tone leaves no room for discussion.

Wade tries not to respond verbally because Peter’s asleep inches away, with Wade’s nose still pressed against the boy’s warm, solid neck. But he sure wants to stick his tongue out and say ‘duhhh.’ What kind of asshole does White take him for, anyway? Even zoned out and listless, Peter’s better company than the voices in his head.

It’s on that thought, though, that Peter proves himself less-than listless.

There’s no warning, no sign that he was waking or dreaming or – or anything, before Peter twists full-body in his arms and promptly shoves him with both hands in the solar plexus, so hard Wade can feel a few ribs cracking as he’s sent over the edge of the bed, yelping. By the time he’s in a confused, bruised heap on the floor, though, Peter’s somehow found himself on the – he’s on the ceiling, literally on the fucking ceiling, hands and feet sticking there as the boy’s chest heaves in apparent panic.

Wade scrambles to a stand, but he doesn’t know what the protocol is for this.

Can only stare up at the omega and – and marvel.

[[Haaaa, marvel.]]

[What the shit is happening right now?]

[[Peter’s dangling from the ceiling like a light fixture.]]

[No shit, really?]

[[He also broke some rib bones, yeesh.]]

Peter’s eyes are open and wide and frantic as he cranes his neck to look down at the bed, to seek out Wade who’s standing beside the bed with his jaw unhinged and his bright brown eyes wide and shocked. Peter’s hands flex as he tries to yank them away, his toes trying and failing to curl, but he’s stuck to the textured patterns there, stuck with the rough popcorn ceiling itching against his palms and the soles of his feet. He tries to pull himself away from it again, but his hands and feet are just – it’s like they’re glued to the ceiling.

“I’m – I’m stuck,” Peter says, dumbfounded.

Wade swallows, sucks in a sharp breath that’s stopped by the stabbing pain of a rib angled wrong in his chest. “You’re okay,” he says, wheezing a bit, despite thinking that maybe Peter isn’t okay at all. “Lemme try to reach – just hang on, are you – your clothes aren’t sticking to your back, so maybe you aren’t sticky everywhere?”

Standing on the bed, Wade can reach his arms around Peter’s middle, tries to pull him down.

Nothing. He’s just – stuck.

Wade pets Peter’s wild bedhead and says again, “You’re okay.”

Peter’s fingers flex against the ceiling. “No, I don’t think – I think I’m not okay.”

“Okay, so maybe you’re not okay,” Wade concedes.

Peter’s laugh sounds strangled. He tugs and tugs and tugs.

“Has this ever happened to you before?”

Peter shakes his head, wordless.

“Okay, well… honey, you’re probably a mutant.” Wade’s voice is soft and gentle as he runs a big hand through Peter’s hair, trying to soften the blow, but Peter winces like it hurts to hear anyway, eyes squeezing shut as he breathes in a deep, slow inhale. His exhale is shaky when he turns his head to lean into Wade’s touch.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet and skeptical. “A mutant whose power is… sticky hands?”

Wade laughs. “You’d make an excellent thief. Five-finger discount!”

Peter seems less amused. “Mutant omegas aren’t – they don’t get –”

He shakes his head, chest heaving again. Fear sours the room, all sickly and thick.

But his ribs are cracking back into place, little by little.

“Shhh, I know, I know, Pete, but listen.” Wade’s eyes go red, glowing and hard, for all that his voice remains gentle and soft. Peter watches him in his sort-of upside-down angle, neck craned awkwardly to see him, eyes all sad and resigned. But fuck that. “Nothing’s gonna happen to you. The only thing that’s happening is that we’re gonna get you off the ceiling, somehow, and we’ll go eat something and talk about this. Figure it out. I’ve got powers too, you know. They ain’t always easy to hide, but it’s doable. Once we figure all your abilities out, we’ll make sure you can control them. Hide them when you need to. And if anybody we don’t want knowing does find out?” He shrugs like it isn’t a big deal, wouldn’t be a big deal. Because it wouldn’t be. His grin probably looks a little scary and the boxes think he’s going to scare Peter, but he can’t not say it. “Well, you remember our conversation the other day, right? I literally can’t die and I literally can kill people. I’ve got a particular set of skills, okay? You’ll be all right.”

But the boxes are wrong, because Wade’s calm certainty does the opposite of scaring him.

In fact, Peter breathes out a slow exhale and relaxes.

Which turns out must be the ticket, because he’s suddenly dropping from the ceiling, eyes wide as he falls. Wade grunts as he catches him and they both stumble and hit the bed in a tangle of limbs. Wade grabs one of Pete’s hands and sees that his palm has red bumps from being pressed against the textured ceiling. But when he rubs a tentative finger across them, he’s not sticky at all, no slime, no glue, nothing. Just the warmth of Peter’s hand. Before he can think about what he’s doing, the alpha tilts his head forward and presses a quick, chaste kiss to those red marks along Pete’s hand, rubbing at them with the pad of his finger.

[Yo, dumb fuck, I doubt he wants your cooties right now.]

[[Stop being a creep and let go of him.]]

But when he goes to let go, effectively chastised, Peter chases his retreating hand with his own and interlocks their fingers, holding on. Wade swallows around a sudden lump in his throat and squeezes, holding on right back.

“You’re so good,” Peter says, then, and it’s – it’s awed and quiet and breathless.

Wade can feel himself freezing. “Um – no, I’m not –”

“You are,” Peter says. This time his tone is firm and certain. “I keep expecting you to – to do what anyone else would, but you never do. I –” he glances down at their interlocked hands, his eyes darting away and then back to Wade’s wide, startled ones. “I just wanted to say that – that I’m grateful. I know I haven’t been – very good back. But I want to be good for you, because I like you and you deserve it. Even though I’m – you know, kind of a mess. It wasn’t fair of you for me to be scared of you at first, just because you’re an alpha. You’re a good person.”

“Dude, alphas suck, you have every right to fear me –”

“You’re a good person, Wade.”

Wade sucks the words he was saying right back inside himself, can feel his eyes stinging as the world grows watery around him. “Shit, Pete,” he murmurs. He sniffs.

They curl up and lay together for a while. While Wade cries and Peter cries.

There’s a lot of crying.

“… all my abilities?” Peter says a while later, his head pillowed on the warmth of Wade’s chest with that thumping heartbeat close and loud.

“Hmm?”

“You said all my abilities, that we’d figure them all out. You think there’s more than the sticky hands?”

“Well, yeah,” Wade says, a little puzzled. “I mean, super strength, for one. You broke a few ribs when you shoved me off the bed –”

“I did what?” Peter sits up and scoots away on the bed.

Wade reaches for him, groaning. “No, no, it’s not bad, I heal, it’s fine.”

“I broke your ribs?”

“And I healed them in like a minute, it’s not a big deal, Pete. Promise.”

Peter still looks stricken, and it occurs to Wade that maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned the rib thing. But who knew that anybody would care that they very briefly hurt Wade? It literally isn’t a big deal at all, but Peter’s looking like he just shot a puppy in cold blood, his scent all sour and panicked all over again. He’s staring down at his hands like he can’t believe he could have done that, like they betrayed him. He clenches them into fists and looks back up at Wade, tears in his pretty brown eyes all over again. “’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to – ‘m dangerous –”

Wade sits up as well, lets the blanket pool on his lap. He rubs his palms over his swollen eyes, not looking forward to anymore waterworks. Of course, Pete can cry. He’s earned the right to cry any damn time he wants. But not for hurting Wade. Wade can’t even be hurt. This shouldn’t even be a thing, why is this a thing –

“Even if you are dangerous, that’s good.”

Peter rubs at his eyes, too. “… good?”

“Well, yeah,” Wade says. “You’re an omega. It’s great that you can protect yourself.”

“Protect… myself?”

“Yeah,” Wade says, long and slow and drawn out. He tilts his head and watches Peter, his alpha suddenly more present, perking up and taking notice of the conversation. He’s all rumbling and – happy, happy that mate, mate, mate can protect himself. But there’s confusion in Peter’s yellow-bruised face, his scent too sour and scared and flighty, like a skittish rabbit that’s moments away from darting. “You know, if somebody miraculously manages to get past me first, you can throat chop ‘em with those super strong hands of yours. Protect yourself.”

Peter still looks confused. “I can’t – I can’t protect myself.”

“Um, I think my newly mended ribs would disagree.”

“This isn’t a world where the omegas get to defend themselves.” Peter insists, and his fists are still clenched tight. There’s something happening in his head. Wade can’t tell what is it, can’t figure out what’s causing this sudden spike of – of confidence. It’s the first time Wade’s seen that expression on Peter’s face, a stubborn set to his jaw as he holds his head up and speaks all the words, speaks and speaks and speaks without stuttering or stopping or censoring what he wants to say. He’s – getting braver, if that’s possible. Wade sits in awe of him and listens and lets him get it all out, maybe a little attracted, maybe a little smitten. Bad alpha, Peter isn’t emotionally available, this isn’t a good time to catch feelings –

Mate strong, mate safe, strong mate strong.

But oh, his alpha’s done caught ‘em.

[Face it, we’re all a little in love.]

[[This is gonna hurt.]]

[Why are we suddenly agreeing on everything? What the shit?]

But as he listens, he focuses less on his feelings and more on Peter’s, who’s not only strong but a smartie to boot, because he’s right about everything. He’s right about the world. Nowhere is safe for omegas. At no point can an omega defend himself, because there are too many oppressors waiting in the wings, too many people to fight. If he protected himself against one, more would come. More and more and more until they’d capture him, until they’d suss out that he’s stronger than a normal omega should be, and then he’d be sent to a camp where they’d experiment on his mutation, where they’d take and take and take until he’s an empty shell, until he’s dead, and he’d want it, he’d beg for it, he’d – he can’t ever defend himself, omegas don’t get that luxury, they don’t get that right, they don’t get any rights, they don’t –

Wade feels like crying again. “Oh, Pete, ‘m sorry,” he says, swallowing.

“I don’t want to die,” Peter says, and it’s sad and resigned and not right. “But – but living like this is – it’s not – I don’t know if I can do it. Everything hurts too much. Even you being – being kind. It makes me ache, because – because there aren’t many like you, and you make me safe but all those others, all those others are – they’re not okay and I shouldn’t be okay while they’re still suffering and –”

He’s crying again.

Wade shuffles closer and hugs him.

Words fail, sometimes. Pretty lies, the horrible truth… all words fail, sometimes. Wade can and does talk people’s ears off on the regular. He can talk non sequiturs all the live long day. But he can’t bring himself to say anything at all in the face of the defeat in every fiber of Peter’s being. He can’t bring himself to make the world sound better than it is, or to lie and say he could fix anything at all when he knows good and well he can’t. He can’t say pretty lies and Peter already knows the horrible truth. There aren’t any words left. He hugs him, though, and Peter lets him. The omega burrows his face into Wade’s shirt and leans against him as he wraps both of his big arms around Peter and holds on tight. It’s a strange, taxing sort of camaraderie, for both of them to know that there’s no fixing the world, for both of them to understand that there’s no solution in sight. To live in that hopelessness.

Together.

“I think I trust you,” Peter whispers at one point. Wade’s arms tighten around him.

“Won’t hurt you, Peter,” Wade whispers back, like it’s some big secret.

“Yeah… I – I think I know that,” Peter says. “My omega can feel it. You’re – real.”

-

-

-

Peter’s been sleeping.

This whole time, since the moment he was ripped away from Aunt May and Uncle Ben’s warm safety and the pretty little lie they cocooned around him, every moment since he’s just been… sleeping. Going through horrible motions in a painful, faraway fog, swept underneath a current of hopelessness and despair so strong he couldn’t pull his head up, couldn’t reach the surface. Even here with Wade, he’s been zoned out and unfocused, incapable of waking up. Wondering what’s real, dazed and out of body. His heat actually helped a little to jostle him awake, if he can believe it. Having a real heat and having a real alpha take care of him through it, to feel the warmth of that rough skin as it caressed him, to hear Wade’s needy little breaths close to his ear, to feel cared for and safe at his most vulnerable… it helped some.

To realize he’s a mutant of some sort – to wonder what that means –

For Wade to know he’s a mutant of some sort and not immediately sell him off as scrap –

To hear Wade suggest he could protect himself.

To hear that wordless omega through the floor, choking and crying.

Peter’s been sleeping, but he needs to wake up.

Wake up, wake up, wake UP –

-

-

-

Peter’s well enough to be on his feet, so when Wade offers to make them both a smoothie, he asks if he can do it instead. Surprised and pleased, grinning all hopeful, Wade immediately says an enthusiastic ‘of course!’ and lets him at it. Peter goes through the motions of cutting up the fruit, the knife slicing clean through each strawberry something he could very easily lose himself in. The omega has some sort of reprieve, down below, all the betas leaving the apartment. He’s alone down there now, alone and squirming in place, chains rattling as he tries to move, crying and wriggling like he can’t get comfortable. Still in heat, then, and left alone to suffer through that feeling, chained up and unable to relieve himself of the pressure. His next slice through a strawberry cuts into the cutting board under it, a sharp thwack where the blade sticks itself into the wood. He yanks it out and sets it aside, breathing hard through his nose as he drops all the fruits into the blender. Turning it on is – is good, a momentary break from all the noise he can hear everywhere all the time.

He doesn’t want to turn it off.

The blender whirrs, whirrs, whirrs, cold milk turning pink and thick in swirls.

When he finally flicks the switch, the sudden silence is jarring.

Immediately to be replaced by all the noise again.

Wake up, he thinks to himself.

Hands Wade a smoothie, takes his own to the window seat.

Wake up, he thinks again.

The owner’s returning to the apartment alone, keys clanking, the door sliding open and then closed, bolts sliding into place. He’s ignoring the omega, tromps through the apartment, opens the fridge, closes it. Wade’s working on his puzzle again, talking through slurps as he gushes about how delicious the smoothie is, about how cool is it not to have to chew on this all-liquid diet. He’s saying other things, too, and his voice is a comfort Peter can’t afford to lose himself listening to right now, not right now. Wade’s too good. He helps Peter forget about the bad things. But you can’t fix the bad things by forgetting them, and Peter needs to wake up.

The omega’s whining, crying out. If he could beg, he’d be doing it.

His owner yells at him to shut the hell up, and the omega chokes himself trying.

Fails.

The beta stomps, stomps, stomps, whacks the omega with something hard and firm.

His cry cuts off, sniffled, quiet whimpers taking its place.

“Wade?” Peter asks. He tries very hard to focus his eyes on the alpha.

Wade turns his attention to him right away, a puzzle piece loose in his grip, those soft brown eyes looking across the way at Peter like he could hang onto every word Peter utters, like he wants to hear him speak.

“I think I’ve got super hearing, too,” he says. Calm, calm, calm.

The beta is hitting the omega over and over again, now, and Peter can imagine the sight, can see it all so clearly. It’s a wooden spoon, maybe, or a paddle, hard and unforgiving as it heats up the omega’s ass, or whacks across his shoulders. Reddening him up as he cries and tries to muffle his sounds, but he’s in heat, he’s suffering with that all-consuming need to be touched, however his owner wants to touch him. He’s wriggling his ass up to meet the blows. He’s chained to the floor and his hands are bound. Peter can see it because he’s been there. He’s been that omega, and if anything happens to Wade, he might be that omega again someday.

“… super hearing can’t be good,” Wade says, slow and careful.

Peter’s mouth quirks up. Wade gets it.

Wade sets the puzzle piece down and straightens his shoulders. “I don’t hear all the shit that’s happening outside our cozy little escape from the world for several reasons, one of which being I’ve got super pesky voices in my head who usually drown out everything else. But if they shut up for a bit… I’d go crazy. Crazier, anyway. Truth is, I’d rather hear them than anything I’d be hearing outside those doors… to which they both say you’re welcome, the smug assholes.”

“I’m getting stronger,” Peter says, and it feels like a non sequitur, but all his thoughts keep running together and he knows there are connections, just not how they’ll connect. Wade is watching him, patient and quiet, so he lets himself think for a bit, takes another drink of the cold smoothie that’s wet and condensating in his hands. “I think it’s because you feed me real food. I’m getting stronger and my hearing is getting – better, and I think I need to do something that feels stupid but also – if I don’t do it, if I don’t try, then I might as well be dead.”

“Stupid’s my middle name,” Wade says. “So lay it on me and we’ll do it.”

“Yeah?” Peter stares at the alpha. “Just like that?”

“Pretty much.” Wade grins. “Or we could sit around and cry some more, I’m flexible.”

Peter can feel it. His heart’s racing, now, pulse thrumming. He’s waking up from this nightmare thanks to this crazy, insane, beautifully kind alpha who took him into his home and – and let him sleep. But he’s been asleep for years, for years and years and years, and now that it’s safe to rest, now that he can rest, Peter’s ready to wake up.

You can’t fix the bad things by forgetting them.

Wake up, wake up, wake UP –

Wade’s safe, he reminds himself. He can trust Wade.

He sucks in a breath. In the setting sun streaming oranges and yellows in from the window, Peter’s eyes flash gold. He steels himself.

“I want to save omegas,” he says. “And I know which one we need to start with.”

Chapter Text

9. despair

-

-

-

When Wade’s jaw unhinges but no words escape, some of Peter’s bravado leaves him.

Nervous fingers fiddle with the blanket on his lap. He glances away, tense and braced. “It’s the omega in the apartment below us,” he says, words coming out rushed and quick. He can’t bring himself to look at Wade again, certain he won’t like what he sees. If he were speaking to any other alpha or beta, there’d have been a more instantaneous reaction. Mocking laughter, maybe, followed by swift and punishing violence. Omegas shouldn’t ever get these thoughts in their heads. Saving other omegas? Ludicrous. Presumptuous. Inconceivable. But without an instant rejection and return to the status quo, Peter finds himself incapable of shutting up, all filled up with nerves. His heart’s pounding so loudly he can hear the drumming of it in his ears. Eyes on the frayed old carpet, Wade an unmoving statue on the couch in his periphery, Peter swallows and keeps talking. “He’s been used like – like I was in that alley, by his owner and – and lots of others. I think he’s been whored out because people come and use him on a schedule, but – but now he’s in heat and it isn’t – good. He’s been in chains since I got here, I hear them rattling when he moves. The way they talk about him… He – he needs help and I have to help him. I can’t listen to this anymore, he’s suffering and –”

“You’ve been hearing that shit this whole time?”

Peter sucks in a breath, eyes darting to the alpha.

Wade’s eyes are red. Peter’s getting used to the sight, getting used to that unnatural red glow that precedes comfort, protection, comfort. If anybody told him a few weeks ago he’d take comfort from a big muscled alpha with his eyes glowing red, Peter wouldn’t have believed it possible. But here they are anyway, his entire body calming at the sight of Wade’s eyes all red, because some part of him knows what it means. He feels it in his bones, feels in on a physiological level. He’s slumping over and releasing the tension that had him ramrod straight before he can intellectually realize that’s what’s happening, his heartrate slowing and returning to a less frantic baseline.

“What’s going on down there right now?” Wade asks without waiting for him to answer the first question. His tone is casual, faux light like he’s asking about the weather, belied by the glowing red that’s so quick to calm Peter down.

Peter closes his eyes to that calm, lets himself drift to the apartment below.

It’s easy to zero in on the omega in question, to his restless, muffled whines, to the dance of chains as he squirms and squirms.

“The beta’s leaving him alone,” Peter admits. “I think he’s watching tv? But the omega is still in heat, and he’s chained up, can’t – can’t get comfortable or – relieve himself? I think he’s been gagged because his cries sound weird.”

When he reopens his eyes, Wade is up and halfway across the room, headed toward that other bedroom that’s kept closed and undisturbed. Uncertain, Peter leaves the blanket on the chair and trails after him, hovering by the open doorway and peering inside, too curious to stay away, too anxious to let Wade leave his sight. He’s not sure what to do with himself while he stands there, so he just – stands there, hovering, as the alpha putters around the room grabbing up – well, at least he’s grabbing knives instead of – is that a bazooka on the bed –

It is. It’s definitely a bazooka.

Uncle Ben taught him all about the wars, once upon a time. A lifetime ago, now.

This room looks like it could supply weapons to a small army, guns of all sizes along the floor and piled high on the bed, which is less a bed and more an unmade mattress in one corner of the dark, windowless space. More notable than the weapons and the smell of gunpowder and grease, though, is the twang of stale copper that permeates the air, that decaying smell of death that’s faded into the walls. Dried brown spatters along the wall beside the mattress speak of a violence that hurts Peter to think about. It smells like nobody’s been in here except for Wade, the alpha’s rich, fire-strong scent as stale as the bloodstains that pattern the wall like an old macabre cave painting, a tapestry of hopelessness and despair and finality. Peter tries to keep his mind on the here and now to avoid thinking about how those bloodstains came to exist, tries not to picture in vivid technicolor the alpha hurting himself.

Wade follows Peter’s stare to the wall in question. He winces, shrugs, stuffs a knife into a fat black duffel bag. “Those weren’t my finest moments.”

Peter swallows, leaning against the doorframe. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

But Wade waves a lazy hand in the air. “No, no, it’s no big deal. Just – sometimes my brain needs a reset, so.”

“So, you –” Peter cuts himself off, shakes his head.

“You can ask me questions, Pete.” There’s an infinite amount of patience laced in the words, all warmth and reassurance.

Peter shakes his head again, silent as he watches Wade throw a dark hoodie over his head and smooth it down over his stomach, hiding those pink, angry scars that shift under his skin from sight. His eyes aren’t red anymore, either, no longer lighting the way in the dark room. When Wade turns to look at Peter from the center of the warzone that is this horrible little death trap of a bedroom, surrounded by guns, his mouth is curled into a grin, all sharp and manic. Zips up the duffel, throws it over his shoulder, and walks with a lazy sort of confidence back to where Peter is standing in the doorway. Wade stops in front of him with one scarred hand curled around the duffel strap, over a head taller than Peter and broad enough to fill the doorway, muscles clearly visible under the hoodie, built like a solid wall. Unable to resist, Peter lifts a hand and settles it against Wade’s chest, watching for signs to back off. The alpha’s smile softens into something more genuine, though, and he brings his free hand up to pat Peter’s, rough fingertips smoothing over Peter’s hand like he can’t believe it’s there.

“That omega won’t want to come with me,” Wade says then, that grin dropping from his face.

Peter steps out of the doorway, lets him pass, trails after him again to the living room.

“He’ll come with me.” It’s out of his mouth before he can think about it.

Wade looks at him, midway to lacing up a boot.

“I want to come,” Peter says. He’s not sure that’s accurate, exactly, so he adds, “I need to come.”

That, at least, rings true.

-

-

-

There’s hesitation written in every line of the alpha’s body, some long-buried instinct wanting Peter to stay away from abusive beta fucks and stay where it’s safe. His alpha is rumbling in his head like a train thundering down a track, all mate, protect, mate and bloodlust and rage. Wade can agree with the rage and bloodlust part, can feel the urge to hurt somebody like a twitching trigger finger, because damn. It turns out that this whole time Peter’s been quiet and twitchy in his chair, he’s been listening to – to – Wade fights against the urge to let his alpha loose down there in the horrible little hell space below them, fights against the urge to bring guns, or worse, to bring out some of the more inventive instruments of pain.

It sucks to know that an omega’s been so close this whole time.

Abused literally under Wade’s watch.

And that Peter’s been tortured having to listen to it.

But let’s face it. Wade might be a dumb knothead, but even he isn’t idiot enough to think that the betas in his apartment complex are any less violent or any less horrible than the betas everywhere else. No, he’s known all along that betas make up all his neighbors, that he lives in a beta-owned complex, that he’s the outlier here instead of the other way around. He’s just been sticking his head in the sand like the majority of the world, pretending there’s safety in his apartment, in the space he’s carved out of nothing and turned into his own. He’s no better than Weasel turning a blind eye to the chains affixed to the alleyway outside Sister Margaret’s. Sometimes a blind eye is the only way Wade doesn’t blow his brains out on repeat, like a record broken into cracked, bloody pieces.

But – but brave, good Peter can’t do the same.

Staring at the determined set to Peter’s shoulders, to his gaunt, malnourished face with those last yellows of bruising fading down his left cheek… Wade knows this is only the beginning.

It’s got something fluttering deep inside his chest. It feels the exact same way that standing on the edge of a skyscraper feels right before he jumps. The relief of an impending splat, the fun on the way down, the freedom in those stolen moments between life and death, where he’s actually in control of when and how he dies, if only for an instant… only this time, there’s no impending splat. No release of death to make him feel all twitter-patted. There’s only Peter, who stands unafraid. Peter, who might actually be able to save some omegas in a way that Wade never has or ever could. Wade’s always known that a big, brutish alpha like him could never hope to help anybody at all. No, he’s good for the other side of the coin. For the killing part, and the hurting part, and the good ol’ tried and true justice part.

But Peter?

Peter can be good at the part that matters.

“Yeah, okay,” Wade finally agrees, despite his alpha going all growly. It’ll deal. His alpha being uncomfortable is well worth Peter’s relieved smile, well worth what’s about to happen. This is all Peter’s save, anyway. He should be there to see it play out. “I’m gonna try to buy our omega amigo from the beta, but if he says no or if he looks at you funny or probably if he says a word toward you at all, it might get – messy. Would you be – okay, not okay with, exactly, because I know murder is not something most people could be okay with, but would you be –”

Wade hesitates.

Peter’s already putting on his own shoes, though, the comfortable sneakers Wade bought for him all those nights ago during that shopping trip while he was still in the clinic. When Wade’s voice tapers off, uncertain, Peter looks up at him and nods, eyes all serious and somber. “I’ll be okay with however it turns out. Don’t worry about me. I’ll just – I want to stand behind you a little, if that’s cool? Then when – when it’s all over, or when the beta agrees with the – sale, then I can be there for the omega? I can – I mostly just want to help with the omega, I don’t want to talk to the beta, or be around him, or for him to really even notice me –”

“He won’t touch you, Peter.” Wade’s voice is a dark, confident promise.

Peter’s resulting smile about melts Wade’s alpha to goo.

[I’d like to see him try.]

[[I hope that beta down there’s wearing his brown pants.]]

When they’re on the rickety old elevator, Peter reaches over and grabs Wade’s hand into one of his, linking their fingers and squeezing. There’s not much time between floors, though there’s enough for Peter to nudge the alpha with his shoulder until they meet eyes, until Wade looks up from the cover of his hoodie to glance over at him, and say, “Thanks, alpha. For – being you. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. Or – just. Thanks.”

Wade’s hand squeezes his back. “This is not a good time to make me cry, Pete, you naughty minx.” But his smile is wobbly and soft.

The elevator jostles to a halt, dinging on the seventh floor.

There’s a beta lady sitting outside 7C smoking a cigarette, who’s wearing a loose tank top with one strap dangling off a shoulder, her hair matted into a messy bun on her head. Dead eyes trail after them as they pass, Peter gripping Wade’s hand hard enough to bruise a few phalanges and pop a knuckle. He quickly releases his grip when he hears the pop, eyes downcast but not speaking as he hurries to take a step away from Wade. Or, well, he tries, but Wade chases that retreating hand with his own already mended one, grabs and squeezes again, aims a reassuring smile his way. He doesn’t release Peter’s shaking hand until they’re standing in front of the beige, plain door to 7A. Peter takes a step away then so that he’s half hidden behind Wade’s bulk, taking a deep, shaky inhale that’s loud in the stillness of the hallway.

Wade raps a knuckle on the door.

[Finger on the trigger, LOADED BULLLETTT –]

[[I scratched your name on the side of a bullet!]]

Now that a song’s in his head, Wade knocks in rhythm to it, over and over again until there’s an annoyed, loud yell on the other side of the door, a gruff, deep voice saying he was coming, he was coming, shut up already. Wade’s still knocking when the door wrenches open under his hand, a scowling, angry beta holding the door and demanding to know what he wants. A thick, putrid smell hits Wade in the face first thing and he almost recoils at the wave of it, air so full of chemicals and despair and heat and sex that it makes his alpha growl and whine, the omega needs but doesn’t want, beta wants but doesn’t need, blood, kill, blood, death, blood –  

[Down, bessie.]

Wade sucks down all his feelings and stretches his mouth into a smile that tugs at the scars, all teeth. The beta’s angry scowl flattens into something a little scared, a little nervous, and his ugly neutral beta scent morphs into sweet, sweet fear. Well look at that, his good-for-nothing scars might be good for something after all. Behind the beta, somewhere not visible to Wade, huffed, muffled whines of pure sadness trail out from the smell of despair and anguish and pungent, horrible sweat-fear-sex stench. It’s a miracle Peter’s lasted this long listening to this, knowing about this, imagining this. It’s a miracle Peter’s even sane right now, because Wade sure as shit doesn’t feel altogether sane at the noises and the smells and the sight of this uncaring, older beta asshole.

“I’m interested in buying your omega.” Wade wraps his mouth around the words, all smiles, all teeth still. He tugs his hood down to expose his bald head, to expose more of the scars, and the beta’s eyes are big and beady and bug-eyed, his face sweaty, salt in the air.

“Not interested.”

The door tries to close.

Wade moves his boot to stop its trajectory.

“Au contraire,” Wade says. “You’ll find that you’re super interested in my offer. Mind letting us in to discuss business?” He reaches over and unzips the main compartment of the duffel bag to show a peek of the rolls of fat cash inside, grin widening at the greedy gleam that immediately flickers in those beady beta eyes.

“Uh – sure, c’mon in?” The beta holds the door open.

Wade steps over the threshold. When Peter follows at his heel, eyes down, his hands fisted at his sides, the beta finally spots him, sucks in a breath to scent the air, to scent them both. His eyes flicker again, this time in another way altogether. He holds the door and waits for Wade to finish walking through, but Wade stops in front of him and raises his nonexistent eyebrows. “If you think you’re getting close enough to my omega to touch, you’re dumber than I am, and I’m just a worthless knothead, so. Scootch on away, go on, go, go, go.”

He shoos the beta away from the doorway with a scarred hand.

The beta scowls again, but he does back away, retreating to the middle of the living room, but his eyes stray past Wade and lock on Peter, who shuts the door behind them and hovers by the door, still half hidden behind Wade’s broad shoulders. “Is that omega wearing –”

“You’ll want to stop yourself there, bub.” Wade’s eyes flash in warning. The beta chokes on his words and holds up both hands, takes another couple steps away until the back of his legs hit the edge of his coffee table. He stumbles, catches himself, eyes wide. Wade takes a step toward him and lowers his tone, loses his smile. “If you so much as sniff in my omega’s direction, I’m likely to snap, you feel? Best keep your thoughts to yourself and start talking prices.”

“Right – right, you – you want to buy mine? W-why?”

“Does it matter?”

The beta eyes the duffel bag that’s weighing down Wade’s shoulder. His eyes flick to the side, to where the whimpers and muffled whines are coming from, hidden behind a big brown loveseat in the corner beside the TV that’s loud and flickering, commercials playing on a bright, sunny loop. Wade looks to the corner, too, but can’t see anything besides the wide, metal chain that twitches where it trails on the floor beside the loveseat, disappears behind it. The beta sees him looking in that direction and stands up straighter. “Uh, no. I guess it don’t matter. He ain’t worth much, but I got – I got sentimental attachment to him, see, so I ain’t about to let him go for cheap. I’ve had him a long time, you know.”

Wade hums. “How long?”

“A couple years, now. Got him from a – ha, you probably won’t believe it, but I got him from a travelling circus. He was their, you know, he serviced the whole company. They had him trained up to shoot a bow, too, put on a fine show, but then he – well, if you ask me, they shoulda known better than to give an omega a bow and arrows. He shot one of their hired alphas during one of his shows, straight between the eyes! And – well, they coulda put him down for it, but he suffers so pretty, and I reckon they didn’t care much about the alpha, anyway. After they were done with ‘im, they auctioned him off to the audience. See, so I got a whole story that goes with him. How much you willin’ to offer?”

Wade wonders how shitty that alpha had been to the omega to get an arrow between the eyes.

He’s suddenly glad for Peter’s presence, glad the omega won’t be stuck with Wade.

“Got a couple mil,” Wade says, all casual and relaxed.

The beta’s eyes widen and gleam. “A couple – you – that much for a bitch in heat?”

He clearly thinks Wade’s stupid for offering that much.

“I thought you said he’s got sentimental value?” Wade feigns confusion.

The beta backtracks. “Well, yeah, it’s a good, good deal for you – I mean, you’ll get to hurt him real good, he don’t talk, he’s a mute dud, so when you want him to beg and he don’t, makes it nice and fun for you. And he – I mean, I’ve had a few knotheads take him for a ride and they all say he takes a knot real pretty. He don’t tear or nothing, his ass was made for –”

“Oh, god,” Wade bursts, sudden and loud. The beta flinches back.

Wade – Wade can’t do it.

He wanted to do this nice and easy. Wanted to lay low like Weasel suggested. Wanted to prevent Peter from seeing him get – get messy. But shit, this sleazebag doesn’t deserve money or the things it could buy. His alpha is a riled-up mess in the middle of this hell where the stench of despair and sex and misery coats every nook and cranny, so thick he can taste the pungent flavor of it on his tongue, where he can hear this omega from the circus moaning around something that’s muffling his voice, chains rattling while he wriggles behind the loveseat.

Wade’s been living above this torture chamber, none the wiser, for years.

Wade’s tone is low and serious. “Peter, go sit with our omega.”

Peter moves from behind him, shuffles quickly in that direction.

“Hey, don’t you – he ain’t yours yet,” the beta protests.

Peter stops halfway to the loveseat. Glances back at Wade, his expression questioning, nervous, his eyes darting around the room like something might be waiting to strike at any moment.

Wade nods at him. Peter keeps walking until he makes it around the loveseat, where he sucks in a breath, eyes wide and stricken before he disappears from sight, crouching where the omega must be. He hears Peter’s soft, shushing voice, whisper quiet, hard to hear over the sound of the TV. The beta’s protests turn mean, and he stomps toward the loveseat, intent and angry and red in the face. The loud thump of the duffel bag hitting the floor stops the beta in his tracks. He turns angry, outraged eyes on Wade, who’s got a jagged knife in one loose grip. The beta sees the knife and says, “What the hell are you doing?” even as he edges toward his couch, backing up until the back of his knees hit the cushions and he lets himself fall onto it.

“You’re a sick fucking asshole,” Wade says. “Did you know that omega back there’s a person too?”

It happens quickly, so quickly that time slows and he sees it play out as though from a great distance. The beta pulls a gun from the cushions of the couch, pulls and aims it straight at Wade’s head. Peter pops up from behind the loveseat at the same exact moment, or maybe a millisecond beforehand, voice scared and panicked as he yells, “Wade, get down!”

There’s a loud thwip as something white and sticky shoots out from Peter’s wrist.

It wraps itself around the gun in the stunned beta’s hand. Peter jerks on the silly string, jerking the gun away, just as the beta’s finger presses down on the trigger. A bullet zings past Wade’s head, inches to the left, embeds itself into the front door that’s behind him. The string that’s wrapped around the gun is also wrapped around the beta’s hand, because he’s jerked to the floor along with the gun, yelling out a curse word as he’s dragged over to the loveseat with his face eating the rough, coarse carpet.

Peter’s looking down at the white string that’s – that’s literally coming out of his wrist, wide-eyed and scared. The beta starts to scramble to a stand, his face all red and scratched up from being dragged across the carpet, hand tied to the gun as he aims it toward Peter.

Wade’s vision goes red.

He throws the knife into the back of the beta’s skull.

The beta’s body rocks forward until it falls face first onto the loveseat, then slides to the ground in a puddle of red. Peter tugs at the string coming out of his wrist, tugs and tugs and tugs until it apparently runs out and slides out of him, the sticky white gunk falling in a pile to the loveseat. Wade and Peter stare wide-eyed at each other for one heartbeat, two, until Peter’s shaking his head and dropping back down behind the loveseat, makes more of those soft shushing noises, a voice so calm and reassuring that it doesn’t sound at all like he’d just witnessed a man's skull get sliced open right in front of him. Wade turns the TV off and retrieves his knife, the sick squelch as it glides out of the man’s skull loud in the now-quiet living room. The omega is moaning, now, his voice louder and whining and scared, wordless cries that bring tears to Wade’s eyes. He’s not sure this is what Weasel meant by ‘lay low,’ but he’s pretty sure he can disappear a body all by himself like a big boy, so.

He had a feeling it might go this way.

Doesn’t make it any easier to face Peter, but.

[[You did good, scarface.]]

[Yeah, this guy was a total asshole.]

[[Probably scared Peter half to death, though. I mean, is he even gonna want to stick around now that he’s seen you kill someone?]]

[Him and that omega both. They should be running for the hills.]

Wade’s grip on the knife tightens. He wipes it down on the man’s shirt, dark red against a flannel button-up, and look, he was wearing the brown pants after all. Not that it did him much good. He should have sprung for the red shirt instead. Wade thinks the voices are stupid, because of course there’s nowhere the omegas could run, no ‘hills’ to speak of. Oh, sure, there’s hills somewhere, but none on earth that aren’t already inhabited by assholes who’d hurt them like this dead beta did. Even if Peter is scared of him all over again, even if it returns to those frightened flinches when Wade even remotely raises his voice or squeals over something or gets too excited… even then, there’s nowhere else Peter can go. For better or worse, these two omegas are stuck with a violent, big ugly alpha now. For better or worse, they’re his to clothe and feed and house and protect.

And so he will.

“Pete,” his voice sounds detached, a little gruff. He stays away from the loveseat.

“I need a key,” Peter calls back. He doesn’t sound terrified, but… “He’s shackled to a d-ring in the back of the loveseat, it’s got a keyhole on the shackles, could you –”

“Yea, I’ll look around.”

Wade finds a whole set of various keys in a drawer in the kitchen, after poking his head into the bedrooms and promptly turning tail and hoping against all odds that they weren’t in those rooms. One of them was set up like a full-on sex dungeon, whips and chains and a breeding bench and all, and it smelled even worse than the living room, like hope was sucked out of the very fabric of the world, like all hope was just wrung out of the air until a dried-up unbreathable wasteland remained. He tells Peter he found some keys and tosses them onto the loveseat, careful not to tread too close.

Peter pops up to retrieve the keys. Smiles at Wade on his way back down.

Wade turns back to the kitchen to find some cleaning supplies, trash bags to wrap around the beta’s bleeding head and stop the blood from oozing through the floor. That’d be awkward to have to explain to 6A. He’s wrapping that head in a black, thick trash bag when he hears the lilting sweetness of Peter’s voice, all soft and kind and quiet. He stops, rustling bags freezing, heart in his throat as he listens.

“– an alpha, but he’s the best person I’ve ever met,” Peter’s explaining. “He won’t hurt you. He rescued me from dying in an alley. I had a heat last week, a natural one, and he didn’t use me a single time. He just – he took care of me, instead, and when I told him I could hear what you were going through, he immediately said we’d help. He’s given me clothes and food and he’s – he’s just, a good one, okay? It’s okay if you don’t believe it, or me, I just wanted you to know that it’s all going to be okay now. We’re going to help you.”

There’s a soft click, metal clinking to the floor. The omega whines, low in his throat, as Peter shushes him with soft, sweet words and tells him that everything’s going to be alright.

“Wade?”

Wade sniffles, wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his hoodie. “Yeah, baby boy?”

The endearment just – just slips out. “Um, Peter,” he amends.

“He’s got a – there’s a cage? Around his… penis? This one needs a – a smaller key.”

“Shit.” Wade’s mind flashes back to the sex dungeon. “He’s in heat in one of those?”

“It’s keeping him from getting hard, but – but he’s still – leaking? Can we find another key somewhere?” The omega’s voice is hoarse and sad as he whines. Peter tells him they’re going to take care of him, that he’s okay, that he’s going to be okay, while Wade sucks it up and heads back to the sex dungeon and tries not to think about how quick he made the beta’s death. How much slower he could have made it, how he could have drawn it out, made him suffer first, he should have made him suffer – but he’d had the gun aimed at Peter. Wade just – reacted. He’s not sad he’s dead, but he’s a little sad that he doesn’t get to kill him any deader. He holds his breath in the sex dungeon as he rifles through drawers and combs through the closet. He finds more whips and belts and chains, various ropes and giant dildos… a long, flat wooden box in which he finds well-maintained, pristine sounds of various sizes. No little keys.

Escaping back into the hallway, Wade whooshes out a breath and searches the kitchen again, but when that turns up empty, too, he returns to the body, rifles through his jeans pockets, finds some loose change. Wade sticks that into his own pockets. He turns the body around to reach the front pocket on the man’s button-up, but a silver chain around the man’s bagged neck catches his eye where it trails down under his shirt. Wade pulls it from the shirt and finds a tiny silver key at the end of the necklace. He yanks it off his neck and kind of wants to kick the man a few times.

“Found it, Pete!” he says, tossing it onto the loveseat where Peter’s quick to retrieve it.

“Shh, it’s okay, I’m going to unlock it,” Peter’s saying in soft, shushing breaths. “Will you let me?”

He must have given some form of assent, unseen by Wade, because there’s more rattling, a sucked, sharp inhale as something else clangs against the chains that are already pooled on the floor. The omega’s whining veers into moaned whimpers, and Peter’s voice takes on a strained edge to it when he calls out to Wade, “I think we can move him to our place, now. I can’t – I don’t think I can carry him myself, though. Would you – will you be all right to –”

“Course I will,” Wade says. He flips his hood back up, pulls it as low as it’ll go. Then he rummages in his duffel for some black gloves, which he yanks onto his hands to hide the scars. Despite the bravado of his words, his stomach’s in knots, and he’s nervous as fuck to face whoever’s struggling on the other side of the loveseat. Once Peter sees how he scares omegas, he won’t want – he might change his mind about Wade, too. It’s only a matter of time before Peter changes his mind about him, and maybe he could handle Wade killing horrible betas, but scaring an obviously-tortured abuse victim? It’s a low Peter hasn’t witnessed yet. But. But here we go –

He fidgets near the loveseat, wary about getting closer. “I’ve also got some – some toys he can use, to get rid of the heat? We can make your room like his – like an alpha-free zone. I can set him up in there but then stay out forever? If you wanted to – to share your room with him. Or I can just buy another apartment, give you guys this one, you both can have your own rooms, I’ll clean out that other one –”

“You’d – you want to leave?”

Renewed despair wafts through the room, but this time it’s Peter’s. Shit. Shit, fuck, shit –

“Absolutely not!” Wade immediately denies. The other omega whimpers.

“Sorry, I just – I’m fucking up, sorry.” Wade’s shoulders round forward, the voices loud and unceasing and angry. “I just meant – I know it’ll suck for him to have to live with an alpha. I wanted to give you guys – I dunno, options?”

Peter’s scent smooths out into something less stifling. “Wade,” he says, and it’s soft and sad and compassionate. “You’re great, just – just keep being great and he’ll see it too, okay? Don’t leave us.”

“I – I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.”

“I don’t want you to.”

Wade sucks in a deep breath. Whooshes it out. “Okay. Sure. That’s… great.”

“Now will you help me get him home?”

Wade nods in obedience even though Peter can’t currently see him.

“Wade’s gonna come over here and pick you up now,” Peter says, shushing the omega when he whines again. “He’s the sweetest alpha you’ll ever meet, I promise. And I – don’t tell, but I’m a mutant and I’m – I’m still healing from something that happened before I met Wade, so I can’t carry you myself yet, but I’ve got super strength. So even if he did try something, which he won’t, I could protect you. Okay? Okay, Wade, you can come over here now. I’m gonna hold your hand the whole time, we don’t have far to go, we live right upstairs, it’s going to be okay…”

Wade ever-so-slowly edges past the dead guy and around the loveseat, his hoodie drawn low and his hands covered and the only visible part of his body his face, which is impossible to shield without a mask. Peter is cradling the omega with an arm around his shoulders, the omega’s face hidden in Peter’s chest, scenting him through panting, heaving breaths. He’s naked and covered in scars that crisscross over his thighs and legs, wrapped around his stomach and back like red lines of fire. His cock is hard and leaking over his stomach, slick pooled beneath him, and he’s crying into Peter’s shirt, one hand holding onto that shirt for dear life, like a lifeline he refuses to relinquish. Peter’s rubbing a hand over the omega’s shorn head, shushing him, telling him that Wade’s sweet, that Wade’s going to help him, that everything’s going to be all right. Wade is a statue for all of five seconds as he takes in the pitiful sight, his senses reeling from the forced heat that smells of those pungent, horrible chemicals.

Kill, blood, kill, kill –

[Yo, dipshit, we done killed that beta.]

His alpha wishes he’d killed him slower. That wish will haunt him for a good long time.

He crouches beside both of them, adding his own shushing voice to the mix. “Pete’s smarter than me,” he says, watching the omega tremble and shake. “So I’d listen to him. I’m gonna pick you up and get you somewhere safe, okay sweet pea? Peter’s gonna hold your hand the whole time, it’ll be okay, he’s got my full support in tossing me out a window if I hurt you. Which I won’t. You’re gonna be okay. Let’s – there we go, nice and easy, you’re okay, you got his hand, Pete?”

Peter does, gives him a shaky thumbs up.

They walk to the elevator. That beta from earlier isn’t in the hallway anymore, thank fuck. It’s a quick, tense ride up wherein the omega shakes in his arms, head turned toward Peter, eyeing him like he could disappear in a puff of smoke at any moment. His grip on Peter’s hand is strong and fierce, and Peter’s eyes stay locked on the omega’s, his face soft and reassuring and smiling, for all that his eyes are sad. The omega is so light it’s a wonder he’s even alive right now. Peter probably could have carried him on his own, but – but maybe he wanted to show the omega that Wade’s safe. Maybe he wanted the omega to see that Wade would help him. Or shit, maybe his ass really is still injured enough not to want to try lifting people quite yet. It’s probably just that. But Wade can feel it. The knowledge that this omega is coming home with them settles over him, settles over his alpha, who’s watchful and growly and rattling his brain with all his noise. The omega seems a little out of it, eyes glassy as he wriggles in Wade’s arms, hard and aching and scared. As soon as they get him to Peter’s bed, Wade sets him onto the sheets like he’s made of glass, like precious cargo, lets him settle on the pillows before he’s hightailing it out of there and hurrying to find his box of toys hidden away in the other bedroom.

He reenters Peter’s room with the box of toys, slow and careful.

Peter’s still holding the omega’s hand. He looks relieved when Wade returns, smiling at him like he’s welcome, like he’s not intruding upon their safe space with his terrible alpha stench. Wade pulls out a dildo, one of the smaller ones, and a bottle of lube. Not that the omega seems to need it, not with all that slick puddling underneath him. His thighs are wet with it and he spreads his legs wide at the sight of the dildo, whining with his glassy eyes wide and wet.

“You’re okay,” Peter says. “D’you want us to leave you alone with these toys?”

The omega’s wide eyes shift to Peter and he shakes his head, grip on Peter tightening.

“Okay, that’s okay.” Peter’s eyes flick to Wade, who’s hovering at the edge of the bed. “Do you want Wade to leave? I can stay and help you.”

The omegas eyes shift. He closes them, breathes hard through his nose. Nods, tinny and uncertain. Flinches as soon as he does it, eyes squeezed tightly closed.

“Shhh,” Peter rubs a hand down the omega’s arm. “Wade’s fine with it. Can you – can you shut the door on your way out, Wade? I’ll call for you if we need anything else? Or, wait, maybe some water first? He’s probably thirsty.”

Wade’s already halfway out the door, quick to vacate the premises.

He brings back enough drinking water to last them a while, along with a bowl of water and a washcloth in case Peter wants to try cleaning the omega off, cooling him down with the cool water. Then he’s hightailing it out of there again, closing the door with a soft click.

Wade finds that he’s shaking, his heart beating like rapid fire.

He storms out the door and back down to the body downstairs.

Stares at the carnage for a minute. Lashes out with his boot, catching the body in the stomach. Over and over and over again, Yellow and White egging him on, demanding violence. He feels like he’s coming apart, his mind playing the scene out on repeat. That omega’s fear and despair are drenched into these walls, soaked in and going nowhere anytime soon.

Wade picks up some bleach.

Grim and pissed and sad and furious, Wade gets to work.

Chapter Text

10. weasel

-

-

-

He hears the banging at the front door through a haze of need.

It’s heat low in his belly, every nerve on fire with it, skin sensitive to the air, to every stray brush of the carpet underneath him. It’s itchy and scratchy and hard, but still he wiggles against it and rubs himself down on it, whining because someone’s coming in from the hallway. Bright hot fire stench like a building burning down, like sulfur in the air. He sucks in a panicked breath through his nose, saliva wet on his chin from the plastic ball that’s strapped around his head, tight in his mouth. Another scent, too, the sweetness of omega, but it’s – different. Cool against his nostrils and soft like comfort, like fresh air wafting into a dank ugly basement. He’s not sure at first he knows what he’s smelling, not sure at first that it’s omega. It doesn’t have that panicked tinge of defeat, of pain, of sadness that’s become their norm. It doesn’t smell sick or hungry or hopeless. Clint tries to hold himself still and take deep breaths of the scent through his nose, teeth clacking on the gag, tongue pushing at it uselessly.

But it is omega, could only be omega. Betas and alphas smell – never sweet, never like fresh fruit or daisies, never like sunshine. It’s omega but it’s – it’s…

Clint’s chest heaves as he whines around the gag, wiggling renewed, rattles his chains as best he can with his hands over his head, bound to the loveseat. Don’t come in here, leave, please leave. His whole chest aches with the need to scream, to warn whoever’s here to leave, to leave before that scent sours, before that warm-cool day scent twists into something ugly and awful like Clint’s.

The fire-stench smells – scary.

Even if Clint could scream, could warn the omega to run, that fire stench would prevent it.

Omegas can’t run.

Finally, he sags in the chains, tears releasing salt into the mess of scents warring each other in the dank, horrible apartment. It’s not much, but scraps of comfort never are, so he tries to breathe in deeply through his nose and catch that soft-cool-warm scent before it inevitably sours, tries to commit the smell to memory so he can dive into it when things get bad. He’s not sure why there are two strangers in the apartment, especially not sure why one of them’s an omega… Clint cries silent tears, nose clogging as he sniffles and thinks about all the horrible things that are about to happen. He wonders if he’ll have to watch the omega suffer. He wonders what his master plans for them, wonders if he’s hiring the alpha for something awful or whether he’s renting Clint out to him. It wouldn’t be the first time a stranger’s come to use him, certainly not. The alpha’s presence isn’t new or noteworthy. Master likes finding big violent alphas, likes watching them take Clint apart on their knots. But why is that omega here, what will they do to him, what will they –

The alpha’s voice suddenly cuts through Clint’s fog, deep and rumbly and mad.

Before Clint can properly panic about it, though, he sees movement and blinks the tears away as the omega rounds the loveseat and stares down at him. Why is he – he’s wearing clothes, real clothes, that’s not – he can’t make sense of –

The omega’s scent molds around Clint as he immediately crouches down and sits beside him, pulls Clint into his chest as best he can with Clint’s arms shackled above his head. Clint grunts through the gag and squirms because – because he’s being touched and the omega’s soft hand leaves a trail of fire in its wake as it rubs over Clint’s side. His cock twitches, tries and fails to rise through the cage, leaks precum like a tap. The omega’s voice is soft and gentle but Clint’s brain can’t parse through their meaning, can’t grasp what he’s saying. Just that he’s saying it gently, all kind and soft and warm. His face is kind, too. He’s bruised, which might be the only normal thing about him, fading yellow circles down the left side of his face. Clint eyes those bruises and focuses on them, focuses on the thing that makes sense, even while he can see the omega’s lips moving around words he can’t hear through his fog, through the heat cramps that never seem to slow, that just come and come and come.

The omega’s hand moves close to Clint’s face, then. He fiddles with the straps behind his head, radiating warmth that Clint instinctively moves closer toward, tries to rub his head against as he whines. The gag comes away with a trail of saliva. He rotates his jaw, sore and aching, chin all wet from spit, wide-eyed as he grunts at the omega and shakes his head, shakes it, shakes it. He can’t take the gag off, he can’t – it’s not – he’ll get in trouble, please, please, put it back on –

“Shhh,” the omega’s saying. The gag drops to the floor.

But then the omega tenses, eyes all scared. Clint’s scared too, feels sick with the feeling, nausea cramping his empty, cramping stomach. The omega moves away, stands, yells a quick, “Wade, get down!”

Something’s happening.

But after a while the omega drops back down to him and hugs him close, voice still an endless drone of comfort, warmth, comfort. Clint can’t stop himself from rubbing against the omega, from brushing his feverish skin against the soft cloth of his sweatshirt and pants. His dick’s leaking from the small contact, and when the omega rubs a hand over his arm, trails that hand down his side and back up, Clint moans and pants and shakes. Goosebumps rise on his heated flesh and a dollop of slick pulses from his twitching, loose hole. Wrapped into the arms of an omega who’s clothed and clean and smells like sunshine, Clint feels positively wretched in comparison. Gross and ugly and used-up and dirty.

Why are you here? He wants to ask.

You won’t be okay here, he wants to tell him.

Master will turn you into me, he wants to warn him.

The omega rises up after a while. When he crouches back down, keys jangle in his hands.

Clint breathes hard through his nose and cries when the omega uses those keys on him, cries the whole way through it. He’s had a death wish for as long as he can remember, since long before Master. Master’s kept him in chains since those early days with him, since he tried to kill himself with kitchen sheers while the Master slept one night. Obviously, that plan had failed, and instead of sweet, sweet release, he’d just gotten more trapped. Kept on a tighter leash. Bound to the breeding bench or shackled or strung up, ropes sinched around his arms, gagged like a stuck pig. Master liked to keep him on the breeding bench, liked keeping him ass up and ready for visitors, but sometimes the shackles are more convenient when he wants Clint to service him in the living room. He’ll nurse on the man’s cock while he’s watching TV or splay himself out on the coffee table with the chains dangling off one side, ass up on the other. He’s been tied up one way or another for – for years, now. For too long to have even kept track of the time.

So, when the omega unlatches the shackles, when skin-warmed metal unhinges from around him and falls to a puddle on the floor by their feet, Clint immediately falls into him, wraps sore arms around said omega, weeping into his shirt, a shaking hand reaching up to clutch at the omega and hold on tight. He isn’t sure what’s happening and why. Master’s going to make this warm comfort hurt, oh will it hurt, but right now, right now –

The omega smooths a hand over his back, over his scars, over skin recently reddened by that crop Master likes to use when he’s aroused. Clint moans and cries and leaks slick and feels like a whore, like he’s dirtying this kind, clean omega with his fear-stench, all sour and sickly against sunshine-warmth.

But then it gets worse.

Better?

No, worse.

The omega is reaching down to Clint’s cage, soft words and kind eyes, but his dick is sore and swollen up against the bars and it – the omega’s got another key, now, this one attached to a familiar silver chain, telling Clint he’s going to take the cage off, can he please take the cage off… it’s worse, definitely worse. Clint chews on his bottom lip and squirms, but the omega brings a soothing hand up to rub over Clint’s arm, up and down, up and down, shushing him, asking him to try and be still so he can remove the cage. When it’s unlocked, there’s a release of pressure at the base of his balls that aches. He hides his face into the omega’s shirt and tries not to think about how he must look right now, how pathetic and dirty and needy and ugly, all scars and bruises and scratches and – and then the omega’s hands are careful as they pry apart the cage, a soft brush of fingers over his swollen, angry red dick as the cage falls away and clangs against the chains on the floor. His chest heaves and the room spins as he twitches and writhes, dick twitching and bobbing as it instantly hardens and curves toward his belly. He cries into a stranger’s chest, red in the face and sweating, his whole body convulsing in pulses as he rides these overwhelming sensations and tries not to drown.

“You’re gonna be okay,” the omega is saying.

A kind thought, but Clint’s head shakes. He’s never okay. Nothing can ever be okay –

The strong angry fire stench.

Clint whines, cries, heart jackrabbiting against his ribcage.

“– okay sweet pea? Peter’s gonna hold your hand the whole time, it’ll be okay, he’s got my full support in tossing me out a window if I hurt you. Which I won’t. You’re gonna be okay.”

There’s that kind thought again. But – but it’s an alpha saying it, now.

Alphas have power – have – have the ability to back up those kind thoughts. Not that they would or will. Alphas aren’t kind. But Peter – the omega’s name is Peter – he has a name, a real name, a name real people might have – Peter says everything’s going to be okay, and he’s wearing real clothes and smells like sunshine and smells don’t lie, never lie, he’s been surrounded by piss and fear and sour-sweat-sex stench for as long as he can remember, and that’s the truth. The alpha’s voice is quiet and subdued, as earnest as Peter’s, and when he picks Clint up his touch is light despite the hardness of thick biceps supporting him. He carries Clint like it’s effortless, obvious strength like a wall of muscles. Still, he doesn’t touch Clint anywhere he doesn’t have to. No rough hands against his dick, no twisting or punishing force for being unbound. Peter does hold his hand the whole way out of the apartment, into an elevator, down hallways. He’s taken to an apartment that looks just like Master’s, except there’s no fear-stench. It’s not as hard to breathe here, chest able to loosen as he breathes in the mingled smells of fire and sunshine, both bright and clear like crisp fresh air, like the mountains at nighttime when they traveled with the circus, quiet moments stolen in the woods, streaming creeks and soft grass underfoot.

The alpha – Wade, Peter called him Wade, not that he could ever call him by name, not that Clint could ever be like Peter, Peter’s obviously special to Wade, obviously treasured, not Clint, never Clint – but, but Wade (new Master?) lays him down on a soft, springy mattress, cool clean sheets against his raw, beaten back. Clint whimpers and clutches Peter’s hand and pants out heaving breaths, all panicked and confused and feverish. The alpha’s fire recedes as he hurries away, but he comes straight back with a box of – of toys, actual toys, not those giant intimidating ridged plugs that Master liked to stuff him with, but a soft silicone dildo, no bigger than Clint’s own dick. His legs are spreading before he’s even aware it’s happening, slick wetting the bed. He’s getting the whole place dirty already, ruining the sheets, he shouldn’t be allowed on a bed like this, or any other time, either, isn’t good enough for – he isn’t like Peter, could never be, he’s used-up and dirty and when the alpha realizes it, realizes the mess Clint’s making, all this will disappear. All these soft, kind words, and this sweet soft smell, clean dry sheets, the warmth of Peter’s hand –

But then he nods for Wade to leave, that he wants the alpha to leave.

And the alpha…

Leaves?

Gets them both water and just – leaves. No slamming doors or resentments or anger. Just the soft click of the door as it shuts, and Peter’s hand held tight in his sweaty palm.

Clint grunts through a wave of the heat, arching a bit off the bed, hips swaying.

“You can touch yourself,” Peter says.

Clint’s eyes pop open, head turning to the other omega. His fear-piss-sour stench blankets the room. His free hand – he’s got a free hand, he’d forgotten he wasn’t bound – is clenched beside him into a tight fist. He finds himself grunting out a confused, helpless question, no words, but he glances down at his own dick then back up at Peter. Down and back up, down and back up, trying to get his point across. He’d touched himself once, back at the circus. One of his natural heats. He’d reached down and grabbed himself and stroked once, twice, three times, a slow fist wrapped around his aching shaft. Another omega noticed, yelled for the masters, who came stomping over with their whips and their belts and a – a hammer, which slammed against the palm of his hand hard enough to send him to a clinic for three weeks.

Even if he’d been unbound at Master’s, after the circus, he wouldn’t have touched himself.

But Peter doesn’t look like he’s – tricking him. Doesn’t smell like deception.

“It’s okay,” Peter tells him. His hand squeezes him in apparent encouragement, eyes serious and calm as they lock onto Clint’s wet, hazy eyes and stay there. “I’m here to support you, whatever you need. You need relief, yeah? You can touch yourself. Nothing bad is going to happen. It’s okay.”

Clint looks down at his penis, bobbing untouched.

Need curls through him, Peter’s calm-comfort-calm honeydew scent a reassuring, tangible ghost in the air. He’s not sure what to make of this, not sure he can trust anything that’s happening, but at least if he touches himself now, it’ll be a fast way to find out if he can trust Peter’s words, if he can trust the other omega’s judgement about this new, strange place. All the worst-case scenarios have already been done to him. He can endure them again or die trying. Either way, he’ll know what to expect.

He’s panting out quick breaths when his right hand moves off the bed. He uncurls his closed fist, slowly edges it closer, closer. When nothing bad happens, he finally grabs his dick in his hand and moans. His head falls backward onto the pillow, eyes sliding shut as he rocks his hips up off the bed, humping into his own hand, fast jabbing thrusts as his fist pumps up and down. Slick dribbles from his hole and he spreads his legs as far as they’ll spread, thigh muscles stretched and tight and sore.

“Shhh,” Peter hushes him, a warm hand smoothing over Clint’s stomach. “You’re doing so good, sweetie. You’re okay. You want the toy?”

Clint moans again, nodding, breathless.

“You want to put it in yourself?”

Please, please, Peter, please –

Peter’s voice is unbearably gentle when he says, “Do you want me to help you with it?”

Clint’s eyes slit open, need curling his toes. He grunts, nods, head falling backward again as he thrusts up, pulsing and hard and empty. Please, please –

Peter lets go of his hand and moves down the bed. Another cramp wracks through him and Clint whines, arching off the bed as his cock erupts warm fluid spattering across his stomach, across his chest. He writhes and shakes through the abrupt orgasm, overwhelmed and sticky and gross and bad – but, but his hand is still closed around himself, his other clenched into a fist against soft sheets. The other omega is still here, still close. He’s grabbed up that medium-sized silicone dildo and is kneeling in between Clint’s spread legs. He rubs a hand over Clint’s twitching thighs, shushing him, that sweet soft baritone telling him he’s doing so well, he’s so good, he’s okay.

The blunt head of the toy settles against his pulsing hole.

Clint whines, breathing hard through his nose. He rocks himself forward to try and suck the toy in, chasing it, desperate to be filled, unbound and hard and shaking all over from overstimulation after so long without. He just came but he’s still unbearably hard, cock drooling in his hand, in his own hand he’s allowed to use. He squeezes himself and whines again, eyes glassy as they search for Peter’s in the darkness of the quiet bedroom.

Peter says, “Bear down on it, okay? That’s it, nice and slow –”

Peter applies pressure until his hole molds around the dildo, sucks it into wet heat. Clint moans out loud and thrusts forward to meet Peter’s slow movements, to meet the toy, rocking down on it and lost to sensation. His mind flashes back to just hours ago, mere hours, when Master beat him with that crop, over and over across his side and back. He’d flinched and cried but rocked upward to meet the blows, feverish with the need to be touched, panting through the gag for it. Clutching the chains that rattled with each hit, Clint wished he could die even as his hole pulsed out globs of slick, even as he writhed on the floor, ugly coarse carpet reddening his used ass. It feels almost impossible to assimilate this current moment in that one, almost impossible to fathom what’s changed from one moment to the next. Did Master finally sell him? Give him away for free? To an alpha who’s giving Peter free reign to actually… help Clint through this unbearable heat?

Even as his cock erupts all over again, dildo buried to the hilt inside him, Clint Barton fears the future, fears losing this, fears waking up –

Tears trail down his face as he cries, silent and shaking.

The next few hours are strange and uncomfortable, overwhelming and sad. It takes three orgasms before the heat cramps slow, before he's listless and mush in Peter's sunshine-rich arms. Peter discards the dildo on the nightstand and washes him down, soothing cool water rubbing down his torso, over his cock that's twitching and spent on a cum-crusted stomach. Clint's shaking, still, and can't seem to stop, can't seem to control it. Peter makes the rub down quick, and then he's covering Clint with a clean sheet and wrapping his arms around him, relaxing into the bed with Clint cuddled against his chest. Clint can hear Peter's heart beating under his ear, and it's more comforting than he can articulate. He melts into the other omega, boneless and limp.

But both omegas freeze, sucking in twin breaths, when they hear it. Loud, sharp bangs against the front door. A nasally voice yelling for Wade to open up, all fear and panic.

Peter tenses around him. Their eyes meet. Peter raises one finger to his lips, says a near soundless, “Shhh.”

Clint’s good at being quiet, but he’s scared, now, scared because Peter is, and Peter knows more about what’s going on here than Clint does. The banging stops for a few seconds, and they both flinch when it starts up again, that nasally voice getting more frenetic, more panicked.

-

-

-

He’d just trashed the body when his cell chirps.

He scoots off the trash mound on his ass, lands on his feet with his boots crunching loose dry papers into the dirt. Wipes slimy hands down his pants and fishes the phone out of his pocket, answering with a bright, breathless, “You’ve reached Wilson and Wilson’s trash service! I’m only one Wilson, but I guarantee you a good time –”

“Where the hell are you, man?”

“Weas!” Wade squeals. A pecking, dirty pigeon caws at him from a few feet away, tilting its head and staring at him with its beady, hallow eyes. It’s got a stale old fry in its beak. Wade stomps his feet and kicks an empty can at it, clinking it across the dirt while the pigeon jumps away and takes off into the night sky. Damn it all, but he relaxes at the sound of that cracking nasally voice, happy to hear from him after the random bout of radio silence. He passes dark rusted machinery, quiet and sleeping, and says a curious, “Aren’t you the one who’s been off grid? I feel like that should be my question, where the hell have you been, I call dibs on it –”

“No, it’s my question because I’m at your place literally right now and I’ve been pounding on the door like an asshole for like, eight and a half minutes, and your neighbor just came out and he gives betas a bad name, man, he literally threatened to cut my hand off –”

“You’re what?!” He’s at Wade’s apartment?

Oh no.

“– my hand, Wade, my dominant hand!” Weasel’s voice cracks. “Luckily I’ve got a maybe-sort-of-brainwashed bodyguard to protect my very valuable assets or I’d be killing you for getting me into these sort of violent altercations –”

Wade’s already crossed through the dump and is marching back to the car he’d borrowed off a businessman when all these spewed words catch up to him, and he runs the rest of the way to said vehicle and slams the door shut on all the bad sulfur-damp-mildewy trash smells that soak into the atmosphere around the dump. A fly manages to get in along with him, so he stabs the button for the window to roll down and shoos the pesky thing out of the car, even as his voice lowers and he says very clearly and very slowly to his good old pal Weasel, “Listen up, Weas, I’m not sure what the hell you’re talking about, but you need to stay away from my place and find somewhere else to do whatever it is you’re doing.”

Weasel’s always been good at picking up on Wade’s veiled threats.

Probably because they usually aren’t veiled, but whatever.

His nasally voice rises as nerves take hold. “No, see, there’s nowhere else to –”

“I’m driving home now and if you aren’t gone by the time I get there –”

“I need you, Wade,” Weasel admits. Silence.

Wade’s fist clenches around the steering wheel. He takes a sharp turn, heading back toward the city, foot applying more pressure to the gas pedal. White and Yellow insist on kicking Weasel to the curb, and they’re making a shit ton of sense. Weasel’s great for a beta, but he’s still a beta, damn it, and they literally just got that omega and Peter’s not comfortable around betas and it’s just not a good idea, okay, no ifs ands or buts about it. He cuts off a driver going five under the speed limit, gets flipped off for his efforts, weaving in and out of traffic as he races home.

Why the fuck is there this much traffic in the middle of the fucking night?

“I’ve got two omegas in my apartment,” Wade says, finally.

Weasel’s shock is tangible through the phone. “What the shit?”

“There’s the one I rescued out of your alley –”

“Dude, not my alley –”

“His name’s Peter. The other one we literally just saved earlier tonight, I’m on the way back from dumping his old owner’s body –”

“I didn’t hear that.”

“– and I swear to God, Weas, if you’ve scared them –”

“Well obviously I’ve scared them!” Weasel sounds shrill and panicked. “I’ve been pounding on your door for eight and half minutes, in case you missed that part. How was I supposed to know you’d finally found omegas brave enough to take you up on your near-constant rescue attempts? There’s no way I could have known this, they’re probably pissing their pants right now because I’m out here like an asshole yelling for you like an asshole and there’s not been a peep from them, not a fucking peep –”

Wade lets the beta rant a bit, mollified by the man’s seeming horror at the idea that he’d scared his omegas. Weasel isn’t a bad guy. A chicken shit, sometimes, sure, but he’s just as horrified by the world as Wade is. While Wade takes his frustration out on the world by taking hits to wipe out rich betas and murdering a shit ton of higher-ups around the globe, Weasel takes his out by brokering those deals in the first place. He plays the innocent humble barkeep like a fiddle, looks the part with his nerdy round glasses and greasy unkept appearance, but barkeep’s a good front for the role he actually plays in sending out mercs to get their hands dirty. Any one of the mercs in the business would have bent over backwards to help Weas out of his occasional tight spots with the law. He’s protected by the best.

But Wade Wilson’s the big gun. The fact that he’s coming to him… isn’t reassuring.

“I’ll be there in fifteen.” Wade sighs, resigned to his fate.

Weasel sighs, too. “I’ll just – wait out here. Quietly.”

“Yes,” Wade agrees, dark and serious. “You will.”

It’s a tense, fast-paced drive back.

-

-

-

A very strange sight greets him when he arrives at his front door.

He was expecting to see Weasel. Only Weasel, perhaps looking a little haggard, perhaps a little nervous and fidgety. And he does see that, sure. Weasel’s sitting with his back to the door and his legs crisscross applesauce style, leaning forward with his head in his hands and his glasses discarded on the floor beside his feet. He’s got a little, frayed red book open on his lap but he doesn’t seem to be reading it, just sort of staring down at it, listless. That’s not the strange part (well, minus Weas reading a random book in his hallway, that’s a bit strange). The strange part comes in the form of a tall, lean figure standing with his arms crossed in front of Weasel. He’s not anyone Wade recognizes, long stringy hair that veils steel, hard eyes, some kind of black muzzle over the lower half of his face, covering his mouth and chin. He’s wearing leather, too, black and crisscrossed with straps. Both arms fully exposed… one flesh arm, the other a hard gleaming metal with a red star painted near the shoulder.

“What’s with the sex-bot?” Wade says, stopping a good distance away.

The stranger smells neutral, muted. Beta.

Weasel’s head jerks up and he breathes out a relieved, “Oh thank fuck.”

The stranger stares at Wade, who stares back. The beta’s eyes shift.

Wade shrugs off the hood and stands up straighter, showing off his face. And that – that usually intimidates people, gets them standing down or backing off or stumbling into furniture. Instead of doing any of that, though, the stranger’s eyes harden, mechanical whirrs loud in the hallway, plates lifting and moving along that metal arm as he clenches that fake fist. He charges toward Wade with purpose, who stands his ground and raises his eyebrows, unconcerned.

Well, unconcerned until that metal arm knocks him on his ass.

More accurately, it sends him sailing across the hall and knocking into a wall.

Weasel’s on his feet waving the book in the air. “Stand down, soldier!”

But said soldier seems to be intent on Wade, because he’s stalking toward him while Wade picks his broken body off the floor and groans. Light glints off the metal arm as it reaches out toward Wade’s throat, fingers clenching around it as the stranger lifts Wade off the ground by his throat and stares at him. Choking, Wade wraps both of his scrambling hands around the metal hand on his throat and knees the dude as hard as he can in the groin. Good thing the arm seems to be the only metal part on him, because the knee to the groin does the trick, gets him to let go of Wade and stumble back. While he’s staggering, Wade lists forward, still coughing, and throws his shoulder into the dude’s solar plexus. They both fall in a tangle of limbs, which turns out isn’t Wade’s brightest idea because that fucking robot arm is one of those limbs and it’s not playing around.

While he’s wrestling an apparent super soldier, Weasel’s got the book open.

“What the fuck –” Wade says between hits, panting through a broken rib.

His ribs break a lot, lately.

“Желание,” Weasel yells, broken and choppy. Is that – is that Russian?

The word seems to anger the soldier, who flips Wade onto his back and straddles him, eyes fierce and hard and empty as he bears down on him with all his weight and wraps that hand around his throat again.

Weasel’s voice speeds up, panicked and shaky and butchering a foreign language for no apparent reason at all while Wade splutters and strains, trying to buck the crazed dude off him to no avail. His vision’s blacking out around the edges.

“Ржавый, Семнадцать,” Weasel’s saying.

What’ll happen to Peter and that other omega if he dies right now?

Wade stops scrambling for that hand and reaches up, grabs for the muzzle that’s sealed around the man’s mouth. The man’s head jerks away, but he can’t go far, and Wade rears his hand back and jabs his palm into the man’s nose as hard as he can, coughing and wheezing when it knocks the soldier off him.

“Рассвет, Печь, Девять, Добросердечный,” Weasel’s nervous voice drones on. “Возвращение на родину, Один, Товарный вагон!”

Wade moves to punch the soldier but stops inches away from the dude’s suddenly-frozen face. He sits back, stunned by the shift in the hall, the air frozen and stilted as the soldier just freezes and goes still.

“Um… soldier?” Weasel says from behind him, uneasy.

The soldier’s eyes are blank. He picks himself up and steps away from Wade, stands at an eerie parade rest.

“Ready to comply,” the soldier says, quiet and blank voice muffled by that muzzle.

Wade picks himself up, too, popping a shoulder back into place and turning wide eyes to Weasel, who’s holding that book in shaking hands, glasses askew on his face. Weasel meets Wade’s eyes and gulps, shrugs. “Um, meet my maybe-sort-of-brainwashed bodyguard?”

There’s really only one thing to say about that.

“Weasel,” Wade says, faux sweet and slow.

He adjusts his glasses and grips that ugly red book. Glances to the side. “Yes, dear?”

“What the fuck,” he emphasizes the word, still sweet and casual, “is going on?”

“Heh.” Weasel looks a bit like his namesake at the moment. “It’s a funny story. Like, shits and giggles sort of funny, but I’m gonna need about eight liters of alcohol to tell it, and I’m pretty sure the big guy over there’s gonna need restrained before these fun little words wear off and he’s all over you again. So… got any chains lying around, maybe? And alcohol, please for the love of Christ have –”

[Can we strangle Weasel?]

[[What’s a little strangulation between pals –]]

[I feel like we just got to first base with the sex-robot, yeouch.]

Wade turns tail and stomps down to 8A. Turns back when nobody follows. “Well?”

Weas jumps. “Right, yeah, awesome –” He clears his throat. “C’mon, soldier. Um. March?”

Yep, Wade thinks as the soldier dutifully obeys the uncertain command.

This is gonna be swell.

[Spoiler alert… no it is not.]

[[Two traumatized omegas, one in heat, in the same apartment with a murder-happy robot soldier who’s brainwashed and obeying Weasel? And the soldier’s a beta! Not to mention Weas is a beta too. Do we have booze in the fridge? I feel like we don’t. I feel like we’re gonna need some.]]

[Can we door dash booze?]

Mate, mate, protect mate, soldier bad, protect mate –

[[Oh my god I hate all you people.]]

[Kisses and hugs to you, too, bitch.]

Chapter Text

11. we land on our feet

-

-

-

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Weasel’s the one who turns the deadbolt and wriggles the handle to make sure it’s locked. He shoulder checks it too for good measure, jiggles the knob a second time. He raises up on his feet to peep through the peephole. The hallway looks as dismal as it did ten seconds ago when he was stuck in it, not a soul in sight. One of the bulbs flickers in rhythm to the faulty wiring down the corridor, like something straight out of The Shining. If that lunatic of a beta next door comes out with a butcher knife and smiles out a crazed, “Heeeerree’s Johnny!” Weasel wouldn’t be surprised, hand to God. And Wade wonders why he never comes to visit. This place is sadder than little orphan Annie’s moldy old orphanage.

Sighing, he turns back around to the group.

Promptly flails away so his back hits the door and yelps in a higher pitch than he’ll ever admit or recreate, because the soldier’s decided to stick close to Weasel and takes his missions very seriously, his eerie half-concealed face mere inches away from where Weasel turned around. He watches Weasel flinch away without so much as a twitch, those decidedly deadly arms relaxed by his sides.

“Why haven’t I gotten you a bell yet?”

The soldier stares at him.

Weasel pats him on the red star. “Good talk.”

“A little paranoid there Nancy?”

Weasel scowls over the soldier’s shoulder in Wade’s direction and says, “If only you knew.”

“That’s gonna have to wait until I make sure Peter’s okay.” Wade flips his hood up over that bald nut sack of a head, tells them to keep quiet and stay put in that no-nonsense, stern way of his, then he’s walking over to a closed door and knocking almost too quietly to hear. His voice goes all gentle and soft like he’s talking to a stray kitten, sweetly saying everything’s okay and asking if he can come inside or if Peter can come outside, but there’s betas out here so maybe Wade should go inside, but he’ll stay right next to the door, he won’t go near the bed –

Oh, God, Wade’s whipped.

The door opens right away, though, just a sliver, a dark head and dark eyes, a younger man, smaller. He’s wearing clothes that are too big for him and his eyes dart around Wade, catching on Weasel, flickering to the soldier and back again. He’s got a hand up to his neck, fiddling with something that looks a hell of a lot like a real-life collar, for crying out loud, deft fingers tucked under one side of it. Weasel gives a weak little wave and keeps his mouth shut, but for the record it’s not because Wade told him to keep quiet. It’s because he feels fucking awkward, okay, and he’s not sure what to even say besides ‘sorry I terrified you and your traumatized friend and also that I’m beta and also that betas suck and also I’m a little sorry that I come bearing unreasonably dangerous baggage.’

Seems like a mouthful.

The boy lets Wade inside; the door clicks closed all soft behind them.

Leaving Weasel alone with Mr. Terminator.

He nudges the dude over to Wade’s ugly ass couch and has to physically push him into a sitting position. Not that he’d ever be able to push him if he didn’t allow it, so he doesn’t feel too bad about manhandling him. The soldier sits ramrod straight on the edge of the cushion, both hands fisted and resting on his thighs. The thousand-yard stare continues as he keeps his face forward and looks at the black screen of Wade’s big boxy old tv, steely blue eyes vacant through those greasy dark strands of hair. Weasel tells him to stay and heads straight for the fridge, his hope in the chaos, his light in the darkness, his – he stares into the cold shelves full of fresh fruits and green things and could almost weep.

Since when does Wilson not have any fucking alcohol?

He’s forced to return to the couch bearing bottled water, which is just sad.

He holds one out to the soldier, who eyes it like he’s not sure what to do with it. Also sad. Weas shakes the bottle a bit and says, “Don’t worry, Wade’s not storing poisoned water in his fridge. I mean, I don’t think he is? It might actually be something he does, now that I think about it, but I’m noticing a distinct lack of weapons lying around, so he’s probably got all the dangerous shit stored away for the kiddies.”

He has to shake it again before the soldier reaches out with his flesh arm to take it.

“You know you’ll need to take that muzzle off to drink,” Weasel says, probing.

The soldier’s eyes flick to him and hold steady.

“Dude, it’s fine.” Weasel waves a hand, shakes his own bottle in front of him. Those steely dead eyes will never not creep him the fuck out, all blue and sad puppy-like. “You might be super but that means you require super sustenance. Water now, food whenever Wilson gets those buddies of his situated.” He lowers his voice, mutters under his breath, “Looks like he’s got enough rabbit food in there to feed a small army.”

When the soldier just – stares at him some more, Weasel sighs. “Permission to remove the muzzle, soldier.”

It takes a minute, but finally, methodically, the soldier uses his flesh hand to unbuckle the straps behind his head. Weasel might have offered to help, but he’s a little wary of getting that close, a hairsbreadth away from the man’s neck. That hadn’t turned out too nicely the last time he tried. Whatever shit lurks in this dude’s past, there’s something about his neck that’s strictly off limits, something that kicks up a fear response. Which, in the soldier’s case, means violence followed by going to his knees, hands on the back of his head, and stating he’s ready for correction in a bland, robotic baritone, eyes panicked behind that veil of hair. Weasel’s not touching any of that with a ten-foot pole.

Plopping himself down on the opposite end of the couch, he and Soldier Boy sit in silence.

Drink their water.

Sit some more.

After a few, though, he notices the soldier’s face, how his nose sits crooked, dark bruises and dried blood. He gets up after a few minutes against the advice of his body, which aches in places he hasn’t ached in entirely too long, and finds a bag of frozen peas in the freezer. He tosses it to the soldier and tells him to hold it to his nose. The soldier catches it like a reflex in that metal hand and looks at him, his pale sallow face looking unbearably young with his muzzle discarded on the coffee table on top of Wade’s ridiculously giant puzzle that’s only partially completed. His lips are turned down at the corners, pressed into a thin pitiful line. Weasel wonders when he’ll finally convince the dude to keep the muzzle off, wonders if that’s even possible. Good thing he’s never in the sun or he’d have a totally embarrassing tan line going across the center of his face.

Not that anyone would give him crap for it.

“Wilson busted your nose.” Weasel has to spell it out. “That’ll help bring down the swelling.”

“The asset does not require maintenance,” he intones in return, voice a bit nasally through the swollen nose he’s denying exists.

Weasel sinks back into the couch and groans. “The asset requires what I say he requires. Put the damn thing on your nose and just – can you sit back a little? C’mon, do what I’m doing. Just – relax.”

The soldier eyes him. He shuffles backward on the cushion, but he’s stiff and unsure.

He at least holds the peas to his nose, though. Good enough.

It’s frankly annoying how safe this feels, to finally untense and relax after what feels like forever being two steps away from imprisonment and inevitable torture. His neck hurts, all stiff and sore, shoulders sagging into the cushions. Wade Wilson’s a good place to land. Not that he’ll ever tell him that, but there’s security being in his space and under his protection. And even if Wade does wind up dead, the guarantee that he’ll pop back up like a weed through concrete lets Weasel rest back fully into the couch, lets him close his eyes for a minute, half empty bottle in one hand and the book in the other.

There was no such guarantee for Buck, who’s just – dead now.

And Marley.

Dave and Frankie, too.

Christ.

There’s a shit ton of folks winning that dead pool when the Hellhouse opens its doors again.

-

-

-

As soon as Peter’s hand closes around Wade’s wrist and pulls him into the room, door clicking closed behind them, the other omega’s nostrils flair where he’s laying under the sheet on the bed, those glassy eyes a little clearer, pupils blown wide from the heat as his breath quickens and he stares across the room at Wade for one heartbeat, two.

Then, silent, he promptly rolls himself off the bed.

Peter whines in distress beside Wade, releasing his wrist to hurry back to the omega’s side, but the omega doesn’t seem to be hearing Peter’s comforting words or shushes, doesn’t react at all to Peter’s hand on his shoulder, trying to tug him back into the bed, back off the floor. As soon as his knees hit the floor, the omega raises his hips toward the ceiling with his ass presented to them both, face pressed against the carpet with his blistered back arched. He’s breathing hard through his nose as shaking hands reach behind himself, grabbing an ass cheek in each hand and prying his buttocks apart to show off his slick-wet hole that twitches when the cool air kisses it.

“You don’t have to do this,” Peter’s whispering, his own face low to the ground, lips close to the omega’s ear. All the while, he’s running one hand across the omega’s shoulders, back and forth, back and forth.

The omega’s face is turned away from him as he pants.

He’s – presenting.

Blood, kill, blood, death –

“Peter’s right,” Wade says, eyes averted toward the bed, trying not to breathe in the mixture of scents in the room, the bitter tang of chemicals intermixed with sweet omega heat and Peter’s distinctive warmth. He fiddles with his sleeves and rocks back on the balls of his feet. But his words aren’t getting through to the omega, not Peter’s words, either, because his ass is still up and his back arched like artwork, difficult not to see through Wade’s periphery. The column of his spine sticks out from his back, bones prominent through reddened, angry lines across his skin.

“Get up off the floor now, sweet pea,” Wade tries, adding his voice to Peter’s.

But it’s like the omega can’t even hear them, isn’t reacting at all to their words.

He’s shaking, hands holding himself open, lost in his own head.

Wade meant to stay by the door, to keep himself nice and distanced.

[This isn’t a good idea.]

[[We’re gonna scare him, abort, abort –]]

[Big guy is so dumb, Peter’s gonna hate us when we –]

[[– abort abort abort ABORT –]]

His alpha disagrees with them all, and right now? Surrounded by that despairing chemical-laced fear-scent? And Peter, looking all desperate as he kneels beside the omega and tries to coax him off his knees? His alpha comes roaring to the surface, all chuffed breaths and cajoling whines.

In a few long strides, he crosses the room and folds himself low, shuffling until he’s shoulder to shoulder with Peter. His alpha’s a ball of rage in his chest, all instinct and despairing sadness that overpowers the room, his gross ass fire stench engulfing the omega’s fear until it's completely blanketed, until it’s so intertwined it’s hard to pick out the fear from the rage, the rage from the fear. Gentle, big hands grab the omega by the shoulders and force him off the floor, force his face away from the carpet. His body goes lax under Wade’s hands, pliant and compliant, letting the alpha move him wherever the alpha wants to move him as he shakes and trembles and bites his lip to keep in any sounds. Wade sits the omega upright and presses him into Peter’s waiting arms, lets Peter’s arms mold around the boy. Then he’s engulfing them both into the cover of his own arms, until they’re all three sitting there on the floor, the omega held by Peter, them both held by Wade. He can feel the warmth of the omegas under him like a fire lit under his ribcage, can feel how this new omega is quaking, his whole body quaking with his fear, with his dread, with his panic. In this position, one of his hands is close to the boy’s head, and he rubs his ruined skin over the baby fine hairs there, over the rough scratchiness of his shaved head, his alpha to the forefront, there in the red haze of his eyes, there in his voice as his chest rumbles on words that yank out from his very soul, pulled out of him by Peter’s eyes all wide and teary and by the boy they’re both wrapped around.

“Never again.” It’s growled low, all alpha, ground out from a rumbling chest.

The omega shudders, stills, head bowed low.

Peter leans his head on Wade’s shoulder, lets it fall there on a sigh.

“That shit you’ve been surviving,” he says, still in a tone even he barely recognizes. He knows his eyes are red because everything looks off-color, vision a little clearer, everything brighter in the soft glow from the bedside table lamp. He meets Peter’s eyes over their omega’s head and lets his alpha say what the fuck ever it wants to say. “It’s never happening again. You hear me? It’s never happening again. None of it. I’ve been blown up, I’ve been cut in half, I’ve been shot up with bullets and cut into pieces… I can’t die, nobody can kill me, I’m the cockroach that keeps on keeping on, and I’m telling you, I’d kill every beta and alpha in the goddamn world before one of them touches you when you don’t want touched.”

“He’s got a bazooka,” Peter whispers, eyes bright through his tears.

Wade grins over at him. “I’d use it on your owner, except he’s already dead.”

The omega startles, shoulders twitching in the smoosh of their arms, moaning.

Peter’s arms tighten around him, letting off that sweet scent of warmth, of grassy fields and golden rays of sun flickering through trees. Wade breathes it in and some of the rage releases when he exhales, his own scent softening into something less pungent, less prominent. The omega grunts low in his throat, all questioning and sad. He presses his head into Wade’s petting hand, a tiny motion that would have been easy to miss except that Wade’s skin is a sensitive bundle of nerves, rarely ever touched. The small contact has his breath hitching and his heart stuttering in his chest, all achy and painful and bruised. It’s true that nothing can kill him, but this – an omega showing trust, or something like it – this might come close. This could only happen because of Peter, because of Peter’s strange and miraculous faith in him, because of Peter’s words and trust and confidence in him. Not even White or Yellow have any words for how this feels, for the surge of – of something that squeezes his heart.

An alpha hurt this omega, once upon a time. Hurt the boy enough for him to loose an arrow into that alpha’s skull.

[Christ, I would have paid to see that.]

Others must have hurt him, too, if they could trust his dead owner’s words about how pretty the boy takes a knot. All evidence would suggest that Wade should be entirely incapable of calming the boy. Not only is he alpha, with the undercurrent in his scent that could only ever mean alpha, but he’s bigger than most, his scent more pungent than most, all fire and death. White says he smells like roadkill cooked up and charred, which… yeah, not too far from the truth. Not to mention the fact that he looks exactly like he smells, skin all rippling scars and scabs, like he’d played in a meatgrinder for shits and giggles. Nothing about him is or ever has been comforting, unless you count how comforting it is when he leaves.

But Peter’s leaning on him.

And now this other omega is – his shaking has receded, malnourished, damaged body all curled up in between them, tense body reacting to Wade’s alpha, to his voice, and – calming. Somehow, he’s calming between the fold of their arms, that fear-scent smoothing out like warm butter.

They sit in silence this way for good long minutes.

Wade rubbing the baby hairs on the omega’s head, Peter leaning on him.

But then the omega is shuddering, again, and his scent sours with those chemicals as he wriggles in between them, whining. His skin feels damp to the touch, all warm and sticky with sweat, and Wade doesn’t have to look down to know that he’s hard and leaking, that long cock curving up toward his flat stomach. He chuffs against the boy’s head once, his alpha all whining low in the back of his mind, craving this addictive feeling where the alpha finally gets to comfort omegas and have it be received. But the omega’s listening to Peter now, listening to his voice and tilting his head toward it. Wade gives them both one more squeeze before he scoots away, shuffling on his ass back toward the door while Peter helps their boy off the floor with a steady hand on the omega’s heated skin. The omega falls into the bed and is immediately spreading his legs again, but this time his heat’s at the wheel instead of his fear. His eyes meet Wade’s from across the room, pupils blown wide, but he stares at the alpha. His chest heaves on a wave of his heat, the air sweetening with it even as that bitter chemical twang makes Wade’s alpha want to rip somebody apart.

Eyes on Wade, pointed in some sort of challenge, the omega reaches down and wraps a shaking hand around himself. He immediately sucks in a breath and holds it, goes all still with his hand gripping his penis. Eyes watch Wade as though waiting for something horrible to happen.

“You’re okay,” Peter says, smoothing a hand down the boy’s arm. He glances over at Wade too, but when Wade still doesn’t do anything, he gives a gentle, soft, “Isn’t he doing so good, alpha?”

Wade swallows. “Oh, um, of course!”

He takes a deep breath and glances back to the boy, meets his stricken eyes. “You’re doing so great, sweet pea. You do whatever you need to do to feel better, okay?”

The omega groans, guttural and low. His head finally thumps back against the pillows, closed fist moving slow and careful over his penis, thigh muscles spasming as he spreads them wider. Salt fills the air as he cries silent tears that drip down the side of his face, moaning as he wiggles on the sheets and pumps his hips upward and into his own hand. Wade’s eyes meet Peter’s. Waves him over, because the omega seems to be handling himself okay for the moment and they really do need to have a quick chat. In the chaos of the omega’s fear and subsequent heat needs, Wade had almost forgotten all about the betas taking up shelter in their living room. Peter pets a hand over the omega’s head, whispers that he’ll be right back, that the omega is doing so good, he’ll be right over there – then he slides off the bed and meets Wade at the door, hand instantly coming up to wrap around Wade’s wrist, holding on.

Peter’s quick to speak, “Thanks for all that. He’s – struggling.”

“I hope I didn’t scare him too –”

“No,” Peter’s voice is firm, eyes bright, flashing that gold again. “You gave him what he needed. What I needed, too – your voice sometimes – it changes? I’ve never had an alpha do that before, but it’s like that curled up omega in my head goes all limp and relaxed when you use that voice? I think it did that for him, too.”

Wade can hear his heart beating through his ears, loud and pulsing. “Oh.”

Peter quirks a smile at him. “Yeah. You did great, you’re doing great. Alpha.”

“Huh. I – that’s –” Words, shit, what are words –

“But are you okay?” Peter goes on, squeezing his wrist, brow furrowing as he looks Wade over, head to toe and back up again. He looks through his lashes at Wade, eyes all concerned and focused as they rove over Wade’s face, scanning him over. “I heard that fight in the hall? You… have you healed?”

“Oh, heh, I’d almost forgotten all about that,” Wade laughs. It sounds a little shrill. “I’m peachy keen, jelly bean. So – you heard all the rest too? About how that guy pounding on our door is a buddy of mine, kind of? He’s a beta, but –”

“Not all alphas are bad.” Peter’s hand lowers until he threads their fingers together, squeezing again. He takes a shuffling step forward and thunks his forehead onto Wade’s shoulder in a parody of what he’d done on the floor earlier, breathing deeply with his nose buried in Wade’s hoodie. And Wade – well, Wade can’t stop himself from raising an arm and curling it around Peter’s shoulders, bringing him in closer, can’t stop himself from lowering his head into those loose, shaggy dark curls and scenting him back, chuffing into his hair. Behind Peter, the omega on the bed whines, all breathy and moaning as he writhes on the sheets, his fist jerking himself off in an uncoordinated rhythm.

It’s a strange backdrop to their brief little pocket of intimacy.

Because damn it all, but that’s exactly how this feels right now, with Peter. Intimate.

A little [lot] scary.

When Peter speaks again, his voice is muffled but sure, all calm certainty. “Betas can’t all be bad either, yeah? He sounds like he cares about that guy he’s with, the one who attacked you. And he said he needed you, which – I mean, he could get in line for that.”

[[Did he just –?]]

[He DID just –]

[[WHY does he want to break us like this??]] Yellow wails.

[Peter thinks he needs us?] White’s voice trembles.

“You know you could do leagues better than me, right?” Wade has to check, lifts his head away from the warmth of Peter’s head to look down at him. Between the wailing in his head and the whining from the other omega and Peter pressing himself close and saying sweet nothings, he’s near certain he’s done lost his marbles. But the question makes White start wailing right along with Yellow, so loud and shrieking that Wade twitches, has to pull his hand away from Peter’s for a quick palm to the ear action.

Peter’s head moves away from his shoulder to peer up at him, watching.

Wade winces. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you were, like, with me, with me –”

“It’s okay.”

“– no, that was a dick move, I know we’re not –”

“Wade.” It’s still so strange hearing his name that Peter’s serious voice stops his self-destructive rambling in its tracks. He sucks the words back in, holds his breath, as Peter catches his hand and threads their fingers together, all squeezing warmth. With his other hand, he reaches up and tugs Wade’s hood away from the alpha’s eyes so he can see them better, fingertips brushing across the ridges and uneven skin on his forehead without hesitation, maybe even lingering a second or two longer than strictly necessary. It feels like a dream to meet the omega’s eyes and hold them, to see that spark of – of maybe interest there, to see Peter looking at him like he deserves to be looked at. He wants to pinch himself to see if he’ll wake up, but that’s such an unholy cliché, no thanks –

“Most people don’t look at me and see a person,” Peter whispers it like he’s ashamed of it, of how people see him. Wade’s arm tightens around his shoulders, pulling him into his side, letting the embrace release when Peter leans into him for only a moment and then away again. “But the fact that you could even imply that we might – be together? That I might be – with you? Instead of owned by you? That’s – that changes everything. Every day, you do or say something that shifts my whole view of the world and who people are and what they can be, and – and the way you talk about yourself – I want to wrap myself around you and tell the whole world to fuck off with their prejudices about alphas. You keep calling yourself a dumb knothead and that’s – that is so far from the truth. Am I a whore?”

Wade flinches back at the question, at the demanding tone underneath it. “Absolutely not!”

The word from the omega’s mouth makes Wade’s trigger finger awfully twitchy.

How many people need to die for calling Peter that?

How quickly can they be tracked down?

Peter’s lips curl into a smile. He butts his head against Wade’s shoulder, his gaze all soft and certain and unwavering when he meets the alpha’s eyes. “Well then you’re not a knothead. You’re a person, and you’re a pretty awesome person, actually, so – so I hope I get to stick around for a while and help you see that.”

“Stick around forever,” Wade blurts. Chuffs out a nervous breath. “I mean, if you want to.”

Peter ducks and wraps both arms around his middle, hugging with a laughed breath.

When he pulls away, his chest is rumbling, those quiet purrs breaking out. His voice sounds gravelly as he speaks around the purring, and he glances away all shy, face flushed like he’s embarrassed to be making such a noise. It’s the cutest damn sound – focus, Wade, focus –

“You should go see what your friend needs… and maybe chain that other one up like he said you should, until – I mean, just until we know why he attacked you and that he’s not going to do it again. His heart kicks up randomly, like he’s panicking, but he’s just – sitting there like he’s not? There’s something up with him.”

“Good to know.”

“I’ll stay here, for –” He gestures behind them.

Wade darts in for another quick hug. “Yeah.”

The omega is using the toy, plunging it into himself with shaking hands, fucking himself with it as he moans. Slick leaks from around the toy, squelching out of him with every thrust, forehead glistening sweat with his eyes clenched shut, jaw tense, mouth pressed into a thin frowny line. Omega heats don’t usually have much affect on Wade’s alpha, on Wade, except to increase the bloodlust. He figures it’s because all the heats he’s ever smelled have been laced with chemicals, figures that’s why his body reacted so strongly and instantaneously to Peter’s natural heat, rich and unsullied. Seeing the omega writhing on the bed, half-pain half-pleasure, tear tracks down his face, only rouses up the bloodlust, makes him wish he could kill some people and get off to their fear.

There’s a lot to do. Still, both hesitate in separating.

Wade nudges his nose against Peter’s hair and scents him, breathes him in. Ever since they took this other omega home, Peter’s scent has been – so much softer, that honey dew morning smell so much more prominent and present and consistent. He’s talking a shit ton more, too, and isn’t sitting listless like a zombie. The change is – swift and major, a little alarming, but mostly relieving. Peter thrives with a purpose, apparently, and if this – if saving omegas – is all it takes to see Peter thriving, then Wade’s prepared to save them all.

No matter how unrealistic that sounds, because, well –

For one thing, his apartment isn’t big enough.

Peter gives one last squeeze before he’s moving away, toward the bed, his rumbling chest and soft purrs something that has the omega’s eyes opening and seeking him out, raising a slick-soaked hand to Peter, whining through glassy blue eyes.

Wade sucks in one more breath through the chemical shit, seeking Peter’s smell through the mix, before he waves and ducks through the door, quick to shut it behind him. While betas don’t have a strong sense of smell the way that omegas and alphas do, they should still be able to catch heat scents, if even just a whiff of it. It doesn’t affect them physiologically, not by a long shot, but he still doesn’t want the unknown part-robot beta Weasel’s brought along to the party to catch wind of it, doesn’t want it to cause problems.

He’d hate to have to murder Weasel’s new friend.

[[Weasel makes so few friends.]]

[And the ones he does make? Kinda thinking he’s got a type.]

[[Murderers?]]

[… I was thinking more ‘misunderstood sad sacks,’ but that works too.]

[[Murderous misunderstood sad sacks!]]

[Pretty specific type.]

[[It’s no wonder Weasel never gets laid.]]

[… or does he?]

[[EW]]

The murder robot is sitting on the couch closest to the window, holding a bag of frozen peas to his nose and scowling straight ahead, metal hand splayed on his knee, shoulders stiff. His eyes immediately track Wade’s approach, watching him through lanky hair, metal fingers twitching on his lap. Wade keeps his hood up because he wants to reduce the property damage and looks toward Weasel, who’s apparently decided that this is a grand old time to nap. He’s clutching a bottle of water and that red book of Russian magic, eyes closed behind his glasses, his mouth open as he breathes, fully relaxed back into the couch and sinking into the cushions, shoulders rounded up by his ears. Even though he’s sleeping, he looks nearly as uncomfortable as Robot Boy. His isn’t the sleeping kind of couch.

“I’d say sorry about your nose,” Wade says from a good distance away, hands in his hoodie pockets. Weasel startles at the sound of his voice despite the fact that he kept it deliberately low. The beta jerks awake and flails one arm in a half-aborted punch, tossing his water bottle to the floor where it rolls under the table. The dude’s always been squirrely, but this is something else entirely. While Weasel’s orienting himself, clutches that book close, Wade adds to the leather-clad cyborg beside his twitchy friend, “But you were kind of choking me to death with a robot arm, so. Bygones?”

The beta’s steely hard eyes shift. “My nose is mended,” he reports.

Wade’s nonexistent eyebrows arch up. “And the peas?”

The beta’s eyes flick to Weasel.

Weasel throws an arm over his forehead and groans. “You can take the damn peas off your face if it’s fixed, I didn’t mean to keep it there forever – see, this! This is why I’m not cut out to be a handler. I’m not your fucking handler, man. I’m just – I got you away from the handlers. I did not sign on to join their ranks. I know I’m skeevy, but I’m not – I’m not Hydra levels of fucked up, okay, give me a break.”

Wade needs about nine different levels of context to know what Weasel’s rambling on about.

Obediently, the soldier removes the peas from his face. Besides some dried blood and redness from the frozen food, his nose looks normal. Wade isn’t willing to get his alpha stench all over the seat Peter’s claimed as his own by the window, and he doesn’t think their new friend would be comfortable if Wade scooches in between them on the couch, so he plops down crisscross applesauce style on the other side of the coffee table.

“You didn’t have any alcohol, asshole,” Weasel tells him immediately.

Wade shrugs. “I’m not the bartender of the family, now am I? Don’t have any chains, either.”

“Oh, God –”

“And let’s face it,” Wade sweeps an arm out, gesturing toward the leather-clad murder bot. “The chains I could get my grubby hands on at the moment wouldn’t be enough to hold you. Based on your chokehold, I’d say you’ve got enhanced strength?”

“Would you like a list of my abilities?” the soldier asks. From anybody else in the room, those words would have sounded sarcastic. From this guy, they sound earnest and unbearably willing to please.

“Nah, sugarplum, that’s okay.” Wade grins at him. “A name would be nice, though.”

“Target: Wade Wilson, codename Deadpool,” the man intones.

“I meant your name,” Wade clarifies.

He’s called the Asset, or the Soldier, or a small number of other variations. When Wade says he’s got to have a real name, something they can call him, he looks lost and confused as he fiddles with the melting bag of peas in his flesh hand, crinkling the bag with his fingers. Weas shakes his head in the background, but it’s the soldier who explains that he’s a weapon. And weapons don’t have or require names.

The words themselves hurt to hear, but the way he says them –

Monotone, bland. Expressionless.

Wade turns to Weasel, who winces backward into the couch. “See, didn’t I tell you this would be better with alcohol?”

Can anything make any of this better? Since when do betas not have names?

-

-

-

Since fucking Hydra.

It’s a hard organization to trace, roots unknown, origins buried. What the world does know of Hydra, the world supports. They’ve got the market cornered on omega brothels, own at least half the world’s auction houses, make it their business to defame the Resistance and rally people against their cause. Deadpool’s killed plenty of their higher ups, plenty of their more well-known business partners, but when one dies, it feels like eight more of the cockroaches slither their way up the world’s toilet bowl, spreading more of their beta-supremacy bullshit. But Hydra is power, today, with their dumb multi-headed dragon logo emblazoned on cereal boxes, in the corners of most commercials, large and in charge on t-shirts and hats and plastered on billboards. Rich sick bastards with sleazy grins declare Hydra the company that’s shaped the world into the fine institution it’s become, with more small businesses than ever before, an economy thriving off subjugated omegas and marginalized alphas.

“He’s a beta!” Wade protests, waving an arm loosely in said beta’s direction.

Before Weasel can respond, Wade looks at the beta and says, “You are a beta, right?”

The soldier’s response is to look to Weasel for the answer.

Which is fucked up, okay, this whole thing is fucked up.

Now that Wade’s looking, Weasel looks a little rough around the edges, even for him. Dark bags under his eyes, pale, sallow skin, hair almost as greasy as the soldier’s dark stringy locks. His usual beer gut looks squishy through his wrinkled button-up, saggy like he’s lost some weight. Through his coke-bottle glasses, his eyes are bloodshot and red as he blinks them. Weasel sighs in response to both of them looking at him, fingers drumming on the red book he’s kept close since he’s been here. He looks world wearied and haggard. It makes Wade’s alpha feel a little twitchy, like he needs to stand up and pace, to guard, to protect this ragtag group of sad sacks so randomly placed under his watch. There’s something biological about it, for an alpha. Something that sees people close to him and thinks mine, that wants to rip apart anyone who’d try to take or hurt them. He’d felt this way about his parents, once upon a time, even as they beat him and left him out in the cold and fed him scraps from the literal trash too many times to count. Mom liked strawberries, and for the longest time his alpha had gotten it into his head to provide her with them. He’d stolen some from the nearby grocer, three weeks straight until the jig was up, alpha all sated and satisfied watching her eat them, seeing how she’d light up at the sight of them. Of course, she’d wrongly assumed they were from dear old dad, but still. That urge to provide for his people, that shit’s ingrained.

And isn’t that pathetic? To be beaten and insulted and kicked out and starved by someone, and instead of stealing food for himself, which he’d desperately needed, he’d stolen it for the person doing the kicking, doing the starving?

How pathetic –

Blood, death, blood, kill –

[Yes, ladies and gents, those are, in fact, the only words dumbnut here knows.]

Wade feels uncomfortable in his own skin, thinking about it. Feeling these impulses all over again, to provide for and protect these people who probably couldn’t care less. It’d be a good time for a brain reset, but he’s convinced Peter can hear pretty much everything and he can’t stand the thought of hurting him. He’s not sure why hurting himself would hurt Peter, but he knows it would.

“Yeah, you’re a beta alright,” Weasel’s saying. “Near as I can tell, betas have the best success rate for this cocktail of chemicals they’ve cooked up that turn people into super soldiers. Plus, they don’t believe omegas are good for anything other than – well, you know. Gross ass sex dungeon shit. Alphas go a little feral on the juice, it amps up their aggression to levels Hyrda can’t control – you do not want to see the footage I dug up on those little failed experiments. Actually, you don’t want to see any of it. The whole damn thing’s barbaric, I saw some of the shit they did to you, and it’s – it’s bad. They did a lot of bad shit to you, you know? Shit you didn’t deserve.”

“You are known enemies of Hydra,” the beta says.

“Well, yeah, because they’re evil,” Weasel sasses back.

“Was I transferred to you? Sold?”

The lost expression on the beta’s face rouses up almost as much bloodlust as seeing omegas out on the streets, walking naked on leashes or tied to posts like bicycles. Wade channels that anger and turns it on Weasel for not explaining the situation fully to this broken boy he brought to his doorstep, for not clearing everything up right away. But Weasel puts his hands up and protests, claims that he has explained things, three times already, but every time he has to use the trigger words, it’s like the words reset the soldier’s mission parameters and he never remembers the explanations. They’d strap him down into a chair and zap his brain after every mission, taking his memories away, and now, with only those trigger words, Weasel has no idea how to navigate the minefield left behind from their damage. As it is, he can’t be sure he’s not doing more damage every time he uses the words. But talking about the chair, about the words, seems to be taking a toll on Soldier Boy, who’s looking more human by the second, all fast breaths as his flesh hand closes around the bag of peas and grips it hard.

“I will comply,” the soldier says. His hands are shaking, eyes wide and haunted.

Wade swallows down the rage, aims a gamely smile his way. “You’re okay, pumpkin.”

“I’m sorry for attacking you,” he adds, talking quickly now, eyes flitting around the room, not focusing on either one of them. “When I saw you, you looked like the mission. Target: Wade Wilson, codename Deadpool. But those were orders from my previous handler. I will obey the new handler now. I will comply.”

“You’re okay,” Deadpool repeats. He looks to Weasel. “Tell me everything, Weas. From the fucking top.”

Weasel gulps, looking all wide-eyed and squirrely. “Right. Right, so…”

About a month back, Wade killed one of the owners of an auction house in California and a shit ton of his employees, left a sizeable hole in the payroll (and blown through the stage in the auction house itself). Totally normal, just another day in the life. But this dead beta had been more important than any one of them could have assumed – it turns out he was a cousin to one of the Winter Soldier’s handlers, and while most Hydra fucks couldn’t hack their way into a DMV, the Winter Soldier proved more capable. He’d gotten wind of Jack Hammer, codename Weasel. Meanwhile, Weas simultaneously caught wind of him, they’d played cat and mouse for about a week, a long miserable week wherein Weasel hid in a panic room and some of their finest mercs died and died quick… but he’d spent that week stuck in a panic room delving deep into the shitstain that is Hydra and managed to uncover the whereabouts of the Winter Soldier’s trigger words (along with too many video files that made him physically ill to watch) …

“The rest you can put together,” Weasel finishes, weary.

Wade says, “So the Winter Soldier was coming after me, through you, and instead of just telling me about it, you decided to endanger our killable merc friends to protect the unkillable one, and then you rescued said soldier from right under their noses?”

“Basically, yes. Except, did I forget to mention that we’re being hunted by other super soldiers? They kind of want him back. And you dead. And definitely me dead, after that bug I left in their files. And you know, saving this guy, here. They didn’t like that very much.”

“Weasel, I could kiss you!”

Weas scrunches his nose and holds the book up like a shield, but Wade’s already thrown himself over the coffee table and is wrestling a well-puckered kiss onto the man’s sweaty, oily forehead. Weasel hits him in the chest with the book a few times, groaning out token protests, but it’s not even strong enough to tickle, and when Wade steps away and returns to his side of the coffee table, he wipes his lips on the back of his hoodie sleeve and points to the beta accusingly, his mouth stretched into a grin. “That was about as gross for me as it was for you. When was the last time you showered? Both of you, actually. In fact, when was the last time I showered? Definitely before the dumpster diving tonight… yeah no, executive decision time. Every single one of us is showering.”

The soldier is staring between them, gripping that bag of melted peas.

Weasel looks disgruntled, immediately chimes in with, “Okay but not together –”

“And you!” Wade moves his pointed finger to the soldier, who flinches and stares at it like it might strike out at him at any second. Wade lowers his tone and his finger, trying to meet his eyes with the soldier’s, though they keep flicking away. He tries to pretend he didn’t see that metal hand curl into a fist or hear the whirr of those plates as the man tensed his arm. “You need a name, sugar plum. I’m Wade Wilson, obvi, that’s Weasel, and if we’re person enough to get names, you’re definitely person enough for one too. Do you want me to name you?”

“I wouldn’t let him do that,” Weasel offers sage wisdom. “He named his swords after a golden girl.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Wade crosses his arms. “Bea Arthur is a goddess –”

“She’s old and dead and looked like a man.”

Wade can’t hold back an undignified gasp. “You take that back –”

“Face it, she was a sarcastic asshole with funny hair –”

“You’re a sarcastic asshole with funny hair. I can’t believe what I’m hearing right now.”

“– and she wouldn’t accept that lawyer when he wanted to change careers and become a clown. Not to mention her own son who wanted to be a musician or whatever. What does she have against the arts and why do you support her wildly offensive prejudice against fun?”

He’s seriously about to throw down, never mind that Weasel’s got that amused gleam in his beady little eyes like he’s just talking out his ass to rile him up. Color him riled, okay, you don’t insult Bea Arthur to his face and – and especially not with valid points – but then the soldier is clearing his throat, and he’s looking back and forth between them like he’s nervous he’s going to have to break up a fight, or maybe like he’s afraid they’ll take the fight out on him, and Wade remembers that while Weasel’s not traumatized by a shit past and can handle playful jibes, he’s got to be more mindful of how he talks in front of literally everyone else in this shit apartment.

[Yeah, asshole, no sudden fits of excitement around here.]

[[Or arguments about queen Bea –]]

[Or – or pretty much, just stop being yourself and turn into a less horrifying human person.]

[[Yeah right, like that will ever happen.]]

“We’re just playing,” Wade says to the soldier.

Weasel grunts out what appears to be an agreement. “Well, mostly –”

“Shut it, you.” He turns toward the soldier, makes a good show of turning his shoulder to Weasel so that he doesn’t have to look at him anymore, can just focus on their new friend, who’s really not looking very comfortable here at all. He lowers his voice again, speaking almost in a whisper all conspiringly, asks him if he’d like Wade to give him a name or if he has something he’d like to be called, but either way a name is required, okay, it’s part of the new mission parameters, so there’s no refusing a name, it’s non-optional –

“I might have been called James,” he says, uncertain and slow.

Wade perks up. “James! Okay, great, is that what you want to be called now?”

He shrugs one shoulder, looking a lot less enthused than Wade feels. “I will comply.”

And there goes the wind in his sails. Wade glances behind him at Weasel, who shakes his head and sighs, pressing rough fingers to his temples and rubbing, glasses sliding down his nose. It’s going to be a long, bumpy road from here, Wade can’t help but think. Showers first. Then food. Easy stuff. Basic necessities. The shitshow that comes after those basic necessities… it can simmer. Weasel’s obviously in no hurry to duck and cover from the other super soldiers trailing them, so they must have shaken them somewhere along the way. Wade hopes that’s the case, especially with their so-far nameless omega in heat in the next room and James sitting like an escaped POW, confused and lost with a brain twelve levels of fucked sideways.

But even if it’s not, even if Hydra comes knocking right fucking now –

Blood, kill, blood, death –

On the outside, Deadpool rolls his shoulders and starts coordinating showers. He hands Weas the key to the apartment below theirs, tells him to avoid the sex dungeon, but the shower works fine. He ushers Mister I-Will-Comply into his own bathroom, shows him where all the shit is and tells him to wash his hair. Inwardly, however, he’s all manic energy and pacing, prowling alpha, who rumbles his chest with his growls, who’s picturing tearing through flesh and painting the whole damn city red, corpse piles and severed limbs and dripping blood that –

Try me, his alpha seems to say. Or maybe that’s just Wade.

Or maybe it’s them both, coming together in his brain, aligning their interests.

Either way, he’s itching for a fight.

And Hydra? Those motherfuckers? Just the sort of people who can satiate that itch.

Fucking. Try. Me.

Chapter Text

12. a bit of all right

-

-

-

Clint sucks in a breath and holds it, lets his body slip.

His head goes underwater, bubbles in his ears popping until he’s hearing everything through a vacuum, arms out beside him and floating on the surface as he soaks in the sensation of warm water sloshing around every aching muscle. The tub is white porcelain, deep and slanted back, meant for soaking. The shower he’d just finished had scorched along his shoulders, steaming against each lash on his back. A special soap had actually managed to wash the muck off him, but more than that, it’d gotten rid of Master’s scent, of the cum and slick and piss, of all those betas who’d used him during the heat. There’s an unparalleled feeling of weightlessness while Clint floats in the water, dipping his head under to hear the muffled gurgles of the water in his ears, coming up for occasional air. Up and down, under and above the surface. Eyes open, or closed, open or closed. Nothing matters right now except the way the water molds around his body, the cool porcelain against his feet that stick up out of the steam coming off the water.

He waits for the water to cool.

Thinks of nothing.

Hears the water rumbling in his ear drums, feels how his spent dick moves with the tide.

Nothing matters.

His hands are free and Peter’s –

Wade’s –

Nothing matters.

Three quiet taps on the door. He’s lucky his head was above the water, otherwise he wouldn’t have heard it. His heart kicks up at the sound and he’s scrambling to pull his aching body out of the water, to answer that knock, to respond – oh, God – he’s been in here too long, too long, he was given a privilege and immediately took advantage – he’s –

“You don’t have to get out,” it’s the alpha, voice quick and cheery, casual, non-threatening. Clint feels himself tense, uneasy anyway, yanked so thoroughly out of the floating lightness that filled up his headspace moments earlier. The alpha’s voice goes on, light as a breeze, “I just wanted to check on you, make sure you don’t need anything. If you need something, can you knock on the tub for me? Two knocks?”

Clint grips the edge of the tub, poised between standing and sitting.

“If you’re okay, can you knock three times for me, sweet pea?”

He’s not sure he’ll ever be okay, but he’s alive. He taps on the porcelain three times.

The alpha says, “That’s good. If you end up thinking of something you need, just knock on the tub and Pete will hear it.”

He stays frozen until the alpha retreats, holding his breath. But Wade has been – he’s been unreal for days now, doing things normal alphas don’t or can’t do. His voice goes deep, sometimes, in a way Clint can feel in his bones. He hears it and his whole body reacts. He can physically feel his heartrate slowing in response to it, can feel his entire self almost melt into the floor, all boneless and floaty. It untenses muscles he didn’t know could be untensed, and that’s – fucking weird, man. Good weird. Unreal weird.

He doesn’t trust it, but what else is new.

As he relaxes back against the tub and slides down until his head submerges, Clint wonders what he could possibly do to earn his place here. Peter is obviously – special. Confident. He uses the alpha’s name and speaks around him, for one thing. He’s wearing a collar, too, which means he’s here to stay. Given the way the alpha stares at Peter with moonbeams and rainbows, all soft smiles and sweet cooing words… and the way Peter gravitates toward the big guy any time he’s in the room… Clint comes up for air and wriggles in place a bit, reaching up to scratch at his scalp. It itches where the hair’s growing in. Master hadn’t had any other omegas besides him, but there was no shortage of them at the circus. Ten or twelve to a cage, all of them clamoring for favor and recognition and a more stable position, doing whatever it took for a beta to notice them and claim them for themselves. It’s always better to be owned by one than to be used by all with no protection, no one who’d make sure they weren’t damaged too heavily. Omegas threw each other under the bus to claw their way toward being owned. Clint had always been too tired to play the game, though. Besides, who’d take favor to a broken-down mute too scarred up by use to look even remotely appealing? Talk about a waste. He’s always made more sense as a rental.

Trying to curry favor here would be a waste, too.

For one thing, he wouldn’t stand a chance against Peter.

For another, Peter’s actually kind of wonderful. The thought of trying to undermine his place in this bizarro land makes Clint feel sick.

He stays in the tub until the water goes chilly, trying not to think.

When his skin feels pruned and the air cold, Clint drags himself away from the water, away from that floating nonexistence. He stands wet and shivering in front of the sink, kind of wanting to die. It’s a vague concept in his brain though, nothing concrete, nothing that needs to happen right away. For the first time since he could form memories, there’s a slim possibility for a future that isn’t whips and chains and constant misery. It’s almost too novel to wrap his mind around, and he’s not going to try.

Peter set a bundle of clothes on the toilet before he left him here.

Told him they were his. That he could wear them when he gets out.

Reaching out to touch that bundle, he rubs a hand over the fluffy white towel on top, lifts it to see folded pajama pants covered with sleeping cats. The shirt is soft, too, solid black and big. Hands shaking, he holds the shirt up in front of him and stares down at it, pressing it against his chest to see. Just to see.

It feels like an act of defiance.

Peter could be setting him up.

He should rearrange the bundle so it looks like it was never touched.

Then again…

Clint puts the damn clothes on.

Anger rushes through him as he does it, one pants leg at a time, one shirt sleeve at a time. He’s damn near shaking from it. From the idea that this is a trap, that Peter might want him in trouble because Clint’s an unwelcome omega invading his space, his territory, his protection. From the idea that maybe it’s not a trap, that maybe Peter’s right. Maybe omegas can wear clothes here and not immediately get torn out of them and tied across a breeding bench and pissed on by the people in this world who actually get to be people. He’s not sure which prospect pisses him off more. Very suddenly, he’s in a position where he can’t predict one second from the next, can’t make sense of anybody’s behaviors, can’t know what’s coming. It’s infuriating.

He’s not scared when he steels himself with one hand on the doorknob. He stands there for a few beats too long. He’s not scared when he unlocks it and yanks it open, pants hanging low on his hips, shirt practically engulfing his skeletal frame. They’re warm and the feel of them against his skin makes his stomach roll, like he might be sick. But – but he’s not scared. There might be a moment of panic when he realizes he’s not sure where to go now, sure, and he hovers in the hall indecisive. Bedroom again? He’s been kept there ever since they brought him here. It’s probably where he should return, where they want him to stay. Out of sight of the betas, who he’s been told won’t hurt him. But that’s all he’s been told, and why are they even here, anyway, if it’s not to hurt him – He isn’t given long to wonder at it by himself, though, because those murmured voices from the living room are quiet now and Peter’s rounding the tiny corner, smiling at the sight of him.

Clint holds his head up and stands still.

I’m not scared.

Nothing can be as bad as where he’s already been.

I’m not scared.

Peter comes to stand in front of him and stops, looks him over. Clint keeps himself from moving through sheer force of will, even as something twists in his chest, his omega a whining low thing that’s tugging at him to find cover, to hide, to pull off these borrowed clothes that feel wrong on him. But Peter isn’t looking mean or mocking or triumphant. He’s – he smells like comfort. Sun on his face after years in the dark. Can smells lie?

Peter doesn’t even comment on the clothes, it turns out.

“Do you want to eat in the bedroom?” he asks instead. His hands twitch like maybe he wants to reach out, but that can’t be right. Clint isn’t sure how to answer the question, isn’t used to being asked what he wants. He doesn’t want things by general rule.

Peter must see his non-answer because his smiles changes.

“Sorry, I didn’t give you all the options first,” he says, with a rueful little head tilt. “We can eat in the living room or in the bedroom. Wade’s in the living room with the betas, but they’ve been – they’re okay. I’d stay by you the whole time if you wanted to give it a try? I figure you might be sick of the same four walls.”

Peter asks the questions again, yes or no format, do you want the living room, do you want the bedroom. Clint can’t respond. He doesn’t want anything or anywhere or – he just. Doesn’t get what’s expected, doesn’t know how to be a person with opinions that get to be shared by others who seem to be listening to them. Instead of answering, he keeps his head up and his shoulders back and grabs Peter’s hand, tugging a bit until the other omega follows him down the hall and through to the living room. He could turn right and scurry back to the bedroom, shut the door like a wall between him and everyone else. But he’s so damn sick of being scared, fucking sick of it. If there’s even a chance that this world is real and that he gets to feel real, he’s in it. He’s here. He’s doing this, whatever comes of it. These people don’t know to keep him restrained. If this turns out to be nothing more than a calm leading to worse…

Well, Clint knows what went wrong last time, when he tried to kill himself.

He won’t fail again.

Still, smelling those beta neutrals stops him in his tracks.

Wade overpowers much of it, with that strong burnt corpse stench that wafts off him in waves, apparently without trying. It’s not pleasant, but it’s – growing on him. Familiar, at least, and much less terrifying than the betas, who are sitting side by side on the couch, one straight as an arrow perched on the edge of the cushion, the other leaning back with a laptop open on his lap, legs crossed with his feet tucked under his thighs. Wade is behind them in the kitchen, stirring something that’s steaming on the stove and bubbling. Clint turns so he can see the alpha out of the corner of his eyes, and he’s wearing an actual apron over his own pajama set, tiny puppies sprawled out along his pants. Clint’s taller than Peter, closer to Wade’s height, was at one time nearly as filled out. It occurs to Clint that maybe these cat pajamas he’s wearing aren’t Peter’s cast offs but Wade’s, who’s turning from the stove and pointing a wooden spoon at Clint, that hood pulled over his head even now.

Clint flinches back from the spoon before he’s conscious of the movement.

Peter squeezes his hand, presses his shoulder into Clint’s.

“Sweet pea!” Wade’s saying, all waving spoon and excited enthusiasm. Clint grips Peter’s hand and tracks the man as he opens a cabinet, rummages through spices. He’s talking as he plops the spoon back into the pot and gives a few stirs, shaking one of the spices over it. “I’m so glad that shit’s out of your system! ‘m sorry we didn’t have clothes that fit you, exactly, but there should be a box or two getting delivered tomorrow, some with your name on them. Not literally because we don’t know your name yet, but they should be more your size, is what I’m saying. We gotta get James over there set up with a wardrobe, too, not to mention Weasel, who has clothes of his own, but they suck.”

The guy with the laptop must be Weasel, because his head pops up, eyes amused behind his big round glasses. “You know, that coming from a guy who wears crocs and socks? Plus all the other shit I’ve seen you in over the years? Not insulting. I’m good with my flannel, thanks.”

He tugs on the collar of said flannel shirt, smirking.

The alpha chuffs out a breath. “I’m not defending my crocs to you –”

“Oh good.”

“– and I’ll have you know that I only wear them on special occasions.”

“Oh god.” The beta’s voice cracks.

“Special me-time occasions, if you know what I mean –”

“Literally nobody wants to know what you mean.”

It must be commonplace, this apparently playful bickering, because Peter looks unconcerned, and nobody looks angry. The other beta, James, his fists are clenched where they rest on his legs and he’s eyeing their back and forth through watchful, sharp eyes, but he looked uncomfortable even before they started. Now that Clint is looking, really looking, he startles at the gleaming metal of one of the man’s arms, eyes on the red star painted across that artificial bicep. It’s not something he’s ever seen before, a prosthesis like that. He’s seen a few flesh-colored ones, but this beta’s fake hand unclenches, fingers splaying out against his own thigh, and it moves like it’s real, smooth and seamless. Clint’s been stopped in the middle of the room this whole time, standing in clothes like he’s been waiting for someone to laugh at him for thinking he could actually wear them, waiting for someone to tear them off him or tell him to strip. Peter tugs on his hand and directs him to the empty chair beside an open window, tells him he can sit in it if he’d like. There’s a fluffy dark blanket draped over the arm. Waiting, again, for everything to change, Clint presses himself into the chair and pulls that blanket over his lap, another layer he isn’t sure he should be allowed. When Peter goes to sit at his feet on the floor, though, Clint grunts low in his throat, stretching out a hand to lay it on Peter’s shoulder, tugging at him. He feels gross, being the one on the chair. He should be where Peter is.

Peter reaches up to pat his hand, parks himself in between Clint’s legs.

“I’m fine here,” he murmurs it, quiet, while the beta and Wade continue their bickering.

Clint grips his shoulder and tugs again, whining.

“I like it when you’re comfortable,” Peter insists. “I’m comfortable like this. Promise.”

It’s surreal how genuine Peter sounds, how soft and sweet his scent is, how he settles his back against the bottom of the chair and rests his head between Clint’s knees like he trusts that Clint won’t hurt him. It’s a vulnerable position, taking the floor. Being lower than the betas in the room, lower than the alpha. Clint clutches his hands in the blanket to resist the urge to run his fingers through Peter’s hair, resists the urge to reach out for him. Peter said he liked it when he was comfortable, but he’s not comfortable. He can’t let himself get comfortable here in this warm place with this strangely formed pack, these people who seem to fit well enough together without Clint’s mess getting in the way of it.

And then Wade brings Clint a bowl of soup.

The big alpha just – serves it to him, wearing a ridiculous apron.

Clint’s hands are shaking again when he reaches out to accept it, careful not to spill over Peter’s head. Wade’s mouth stretches into a careful grin as he does so, those scars looking enflamed and painful around his lips. Clint averts his eyes to the soup instead of thinking about what might have caused those scars, feeling a strange and completely inappropriate level of kinship with the man. Lord knows Clint’s got scars of his own, though of course no alpha would like to be compared to an omega. Lucky for him, he can’t exactly express any of his thoughts. Weasel also gets up, groaning as he stretches, pops his back, complains about how old he’s getting. But he doesn’t complain about helping to serve the soup, wordlessly ladling some into a bowl and then telling James to take it.

“Super sustenance,” Weasel says to the other beta.

The beta takes it with his flesh hand, lanky hair over his eyes. “I will comply.”

“You make it sound like a horrible chore, but Wilson makes pretty okay food, surprisingly.”

“It’s laced with love!” Wade calls from the kitchen.

Weasel rolls his eyes. “Just give it a try, terminator.”

The beta’s face is pulled into hard lines. The spoon looks small in his metal fist.

Weasel returns to his seat with his own bowl, laptop discarded on the coffee table.

Wade gets a bowl for Peter, too, who takes it with a thank you, fingers brushing over the alpha’s as they pass. Wade gets a bowl for himself and straight-up plops down on the floor in front of Peter, close enough so their feet touch. The whole apartment is rich with the aroma of the food, food apparently made from scratch, vegetables cut up into the broth and boiled until the flavors mixed. Clint’s legs are warm from where Peter’s resting against them, his hands warm from the soup. His lap warm from the blanket. Covered by clothes, most of his scars and bruises hidden underneath them. Sunlight streams in from the window, bright as it warms the space it touches. Was it not only a few days ago when – when –

There’s a spoon in his own bowl.

A spoon.

It’s a small thing, so small compared to the avalanche of everything else. But it’s the spoon that does it. Clint’s fingertips just barely graze the top of the spoon before he realizes he can’t do it. He can’t sit here and be – a person, surrounded by other people who aren’t betas and alphas and omegas but just people, too, just people who talk to each other and eat soup together and – he can’t do this –

He’s not sure what happens, one moment from the next, but he’s crying into the soup, cries that won’t stop, that can’t be stifled, that drag out of his chest like a dam bursting from all this – this kindness, he can’t contain it all or understand any of it and – and Peter’s up, kneeling now, his warm soft scent curling around Clint as he presses his head into Clint’s lap and shushes him, all whispered reassurances, all omega sweet. The alpha’s there, too, taking that bowl of hot soup from him and setting it somewhere else, somewhere away, and there are too many people in the room, too many people looking at him and expecting him to be – to be something other than the used-up whore that he is, he can’t – he has to –

He’s throwing the blanket aside and stumbling to the corner of the room, altogether unaware of doing it, crying as he curls his arms around his head and presses his nose into the wall, into the corner. Sunlight has warmed this spot of the house, too, and he’s sweating through his clothes. Clint’s entirely unable to stop crying, it’s pathetic, he’s – he’s so fucking pathetic, he won’t be allowed to stay, he shouldn’t be allowed to stay, all this over a spoon – don’t do this, don’t do this, don’t give him hope –

“Omega.”

Clint’s omega whines at the voice, his whole body shuddering, going still. He breathes out a hard, slow exhale and his thoughts go quiet, quelled, silenced by that fire stench that’s mixing with the sweet sunshine of Peter’s. It’s then that he can feel the other omega’s arms around his shoulders, Peter’s head burrowed close to his neck, nose against his skin as he scents him. He shudders again, feeling it, turning abruptly away from the wall to fall into Peter’s embrace, to claim it before it’s gone. He buries his own nose into Peter’s shirt, a trembling hand gripping hold of the fabric of it. When the alpha’s hand rubs across Clint’s head, he pushes up into it, tilting toward that rough, scarred palm.

He wants to scream, throat feels choked on one that’s lodged up inside him.

It’s as stuck as everything else.

Later, they all eat their soup. The betas had gone out into the hallway, apparently, giving them space while he fell apart, Weasel to follow James, who said he needed to guard the perimeter as he hightailed it out of the apartment. They’re back, now, sitting just as they were before it happened, only this time Clint’s on the floor in between Peter and Wade, surrounded by them shoulder to shoulder to shoulder. It turns out he’s more comfortable on the floor, more settled. He belongs here, below everyone else, against the coarse carpet that he almost wishes he were naked to feel. It makes less sense for the others to join him down here, but it’s kind. Against everything he’s ever known, Clint leans into them both, taking turns pressing his head to the right against Wade, to the left against Peter. They’re each their own sort of comfort, different, good. Wade’s is strength. There’s comfort in somebody with some power in the world taking time on a nobody like him. There’s comfort knowing Wade could – could prevent somebody from hurting Peter, from using him, from – taking him. It’s a double-edged sword, of course, since he’s also got the power to let others use him. He could rent them out like Master. If his mind changes, or if he’s in rut, or – just, if he wants to, Wade could hurt them.

He swallows around broth, leaning toward Peter.

When night falls quiet around the city, he’s left alone in the bedroom while Peter showers.

The box of toys he’d used during the heat is on the floor beside the bed. He shucks off the cat pants, lets them pool around his ankles, and globs some of the lube on his fingers, spreads his legs on the bed. His hole is sore from the heat and entirely unenthused, lacking slick entirely. Lube helps. He presses some of it into himself with two fingers, scissoring them, hardly feeling how his channel stretches around them, cock soft between his legs. Once he’s lubed up, he fetches the smallest toy from the box and presses it against his hole, breathing out as it pops inside and breeches him. He buries it to the hilt until it bottoms out in him, until the end of the plug fits snug against his ass, holding it in place. There’s a box of tissues on the nightstand, which come in handy for wiping the lube off his fingers. He pulls his pants back up over his dick, over his ass. Closes his legs, feeling a bit stiff from the penetration. It feels like another rebellion to use the toy without permission, but at least this way he’ll still be loose and open when they decide he should be used. It’s got to happen at some point. He wants it not to hurt when it does.

He falls asleep before Peter rejoins the bed.

-

-

-

They’re all a hot mess.

[Speak for yourself, I’m fabulous.]

[[You’re a disembodied voice in the head of a nutcase.]]

[SPEAK FOR YOURSELF.]

Wade waits until he knows Peter and their omega are sleeping, waits until Weasel nods off on the couch, before he pulls on his gloves and boots and heads out into the night. James watches him go with serious, frowny eyebrows, but after days and days around the man, Wade doesn’t imagine he’d hurt any of them. He might hurt Wade at some point, if his brain does that reset thing again, but his mission was never to harm omegas and it doesn’t require him to maim Weasel, so. He feels a little better about James being around the omegas, too, after the whole meltdown earlier in the day. James could have reacted any way at all to an omega freaking out and crying in a corner. Shit, he could have reacted any way at all to both omegas wearing clothing, or to them sitting on furniture, or to Peter speaking. Wade had been waiting for it, too, braced for the truth, waiting for a snide comment or question, something that might reveal the way James feels about omegas in general. Weasel’s abhorrence to their world isn’t exactly common for betas.

But James had just – walked out of the apartment.

When their omega bolted into a corner and cried, James had removed himself.

Wade asked why, later, faux casual, waiting, braced for that ugly truth to come out. Instead, James had looked utterly depressed (for him, anyway), tense and stiff on the edge of the couch nearest where the omegas usually sit. He’d shrugged the flesh shoulder, voice a monotone, emotionless timber, eyes straight ahead, avoiding direct eye contact. “I don’t want to scare people. It’s better if I – make myself scarce.”

“Dude, you think he was scared of you?” Weasel asked beside him.

“I didn’t mean to scare him.”

The beta’s eyes widened and he darted them away, metal hand flexing on his lap.

“You didn’t,” Wade said, watching him. “I think the world is just scary, right now. He’s been through hell, and pretty recently, too. It’s gonna take time and that’s okay. It wasn’t you, buckeroo.”

The man startled, eyes actually meeting Wade’s for a moment, wide blue. “Bucker – I, that sounds familiar.”

“What, my horrible little rhyme?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Never mind.”

“Okie dokie artichokey.”

Wade waited for a similar reaction to that, but the beta had just looked away again, hiding those eyes behind the cover of his hair. Weasel had called his rhymes childish, which made him start talking in nothing but rhyme for the following few hours, of course, much to the annoyance of said Weasel. But he can’t forget the way James had looked, being confronted about his decision to leave the apartment when their omega broke down. James was a little bit of all right. Has to be, since he isn’t hating on alphas or omegas even under the influence of memory loss and brain damage. It’s strange that it’s happened so quickly, but Wade leaves the apartment actually feeling good about James being awake to watch over the household.

His alpha thinks he’s strong. That he’d protect Weasel, the physically weakest of them all.

It’s safe to leave them under his watch.

Still, that doesn’t stop Wade from rushing.

It’s a shit world to hang out in, after all.

-

-

-

Everyone is sitting in the living room with the tv turned real low. Weasel’s channel flipping, but there’s nothing to watch that doesn’t trigger at least one of them. The news sucks, which should go without saying, all depressing bullshit that need not be mentioned, and most sitcoms show an omega or two being used in the background in some way, or else they’re on leashes, or else they serve the main household like unpaid help. Alphas get picked on too, called names and portrayed like dunces who can’t string four words together to the tune of a laugh track behind them the whole time. See, this is why he watches The Golden Girls, or other older shows. Things didn’t always suck quite this bad.

But anyway, television isn’t the topic up for discussion right now.

Wade plops down what he’d acquired last night heavy on the coffee table, sending a few puzzle pieces scattering. The omegas both flinch at the loud thump, sitting with their backs to the chair and their rumps on the floor. The betas turn their attention to the coffee table as well, Weasel letting the tv stop on a news channel as the remote hangs in his loose grip.

“So, here’s the deal.”

It’s about time they all got on the same page. Now that their omega’s heat is over and he’s clean and fed and clothed and as clearheaded as he’s going to get, there’s no reason to keep living with their heads in the sand. He crouches down in front of the omegas and pats the bag on the coffee table, grinning through the sheer suck that’s no doubt about to occur.

“I think you know most of the story, Pete, with your extra special listening ears,” his hand itches to boop Peter on the nose. He resists because the other omega is shoulder to shoulder with Peter, and he doesn’t want to scare him by getting too close. Isn’t it amazing, though, that his brain doesn’t immediately assume he’d scare Peter with the action, too? Peter trusts him. Or at least acts like it. It’s wild. Slightly terrifying. If he screws it up, he’ll have to invent some way to kill himself, some way he won’t come back. “But there’s people out to get us, and by us I mostly mean me with a sprinkling of our dear beta pals over there. You both don’t have to be involved, honestly I’d rather you weren’t, but – I’m not sure where you can go that’d be safe in the meantime –”

“Don’t make us go,” Peter says right away, but his voice doesn’t tremble, isn’t scared. He’s calm, eyes bright as he meets Wade’s. He reaches over to clasp the other omega’s hand in one of his own and squeezes.

Wade smiles, a little. Which probably looks scary, he should stop – but Peter.

“You’re with me as long as you want to be,” he reminds him.

“I want to be,” Peter says, also right away.

“Right. That’s – yeah, so, I guess that means there’s people out to get all of us.” He clears his throat, turns his gaze to the other omega, who’s got to have a name, seriously. “That means you too, sweet pea. Unless you’d rather – geez, I literally have no idea where else you could go. I’d find somewhere, though. If – I mean, so here’s the story.” He recaps the whole Hydra debacle, from James being a brainwashed, unwilling super soldier to Weasel stealing his trigger words, even tells him that Wade’s job involves killing some very bad people and that it put him on Hydra’s radar. He tells him about Weasel, too, how he’s their fence, how he puts mercs on the jobs in the first place.

“Give away all our secrets, why don’t you,” Weasel grumbles, slumped over on the couch.

Wade side eyes him. “He’s one of us, now.” Well – “If you want to be, sweet pea.”

The omega stares at him.

He’s feeling vulnerable, all the sudden, to have asked someone something like that. Wade does what he always does when he’s feeling vulnerable. He babbles. “I mean, I know I’m awful, I’m trying to keep covered as much as possible, but without a mask it’s – and killing people isn’t a good thing, I know that’s probably scary as fuck, but people treat us like – like animals, worse than animals, and it’s normal, so bad people don’t get sent to prison, they get awarded for their asshole behavior. They get cars and cash and power and – it’s not right. So… I make sure they can’t hurt other people the only way I can.” He’s talking faster now, because he doesn’t want it to sound like he’s justifying killing people, and the omega’s face is so carefully frozen he might as well be talking to the wall. “But – but it doesn’t actually help anybody, I know that, not like Peter helped you. I want to – I mean, once we take care of Hydra, it’d be cool to try and make a real difference in the world, like Pete can.” Wade keeps his eyes away from Peter, feeling shy, nervous, twitchy. He scratches at a scab on his chin, says, “I think it’s safe to say I speak for everyone here when I say we want to fix the way people see omegas. Like, that’s the end goal. We just gotta start with Hydra. I think it’s a good place to start, too, because they control so much of the world’s perception. Um.” He glances to the betas, to James in particular. “Well, maybe I can’t speak for James, I dunno if all this is what you want to do, buckeroo…”

The beta’s hair falls into his eyes as his head tilts.

He’s wearing that muzzle thing on the bottom half of his face again. He gives a nod.

“I knew you weren’t just homicidal,” Weasel says, patting James on the shoulder, grinning.

James stares at him with those frowny eyebrows.

“Well okay then!” Wade turns back to the omega. “So… after knowing all this shit. Do you want us to find somewhere else you can stay? Somewhere safe? Maybe I can buy an apartment and you can just – um, live there? Hole up for a while? Either way, it’d be safe. I’ll make sure you’re safe. Is that what you want?”

He’s expecting the omega to nod yes. What omega wouldn’t want safety and seclusion? A place of their own without alphas or betas around to remind them of everything that’s been done to them? Peter only wants to stay because he’s got some strange connection to Wade that can’t be explained or reasoned through.

[Our Pete’s an odd duck.]

[[The best odd duck.]]

[The cutest.]

[[I want to paint his nails and braid his hair.]]

The omega – isn’t nodding yes.

Instead, he scoots out from the cover of Peter, scoots closer to Wade. Maintaining eye contact, he extends a hand. Sets it on Wade’s knee, watching him. Wade holds himself very still because this moment feels – fragile, the voices all telling him he’s going to fuck this up. This little show of – trust, or camaraderie, or – whatever it is, however the omega means it. His hand settles there on Wade’s knee and pats it. If Wade weren’t crouching, elbows on his thighs, he’d be reaching up to set his own hand on top of the omega’s.

“Yeah?” Wade says, voice low, responding to what the omega can’t say.

The omega nods, pats once more before letting his hand fall away and retreating back toward Peter. Clasps hands with Pete again, squeezing, that too-big shirt sliding off one shoulder. He plays with the sleeve with his other hand. Wade’s glad for the long sleeves, glad that it covers those angry red rings around the boy’s wrists, a testament to how long he’d been shackled or otherwise restrained.

“So, we’re doing this?” he clears his throat, asks the room at large.

Weasel perks up. “Taking down The Man?”

Peter quirks a smile at the beta. “More like taking on the entire world. But – yeah. That all sounds – I’m grateful. That you all seem to – care. That this matters at all, even to a small handful of people. It’s more than I ever expected. It’s enough.”

It’s quiet for a few awkward moments.

Then Wade says, a little hopeful about it, “Would this be a good time for a group hug?”

Weasel coughs. “Please no.”

But Peter’s laugh is like music. He scoots toward Wade on the floor and pulls him out of his crouch, into a hug. Wade falls into the embrace like a man starved for it, and maybe he is, but Peter’s arms are warm and comforting, his scent soft and content as it curls around him. He’s chuffing into Pete’s neck when he feels another tentative hand, fingertips just grazing his arm. He pulls his head out from Peter’s neck long enough to see the omega, eyeing them with his hand extended, gnawing on his own lip. His shoulders are back, head held high, sitting like he’s expecting to be laughed out of the room. There all the same. Wade opens an arm to him while Peter tugs the omega into it, and then they’re all three hugging again, their scents mixing.

Wade hopes this turns into a regular thing.

“Well now I feel like an asshole,” Weasel says.

James’s voice is muffled through his face piece as he speaks up, too. “Would it be too scary if I…” his voice trails off. He looks – a little sad, staring down at them.

Peter noses at their omega’s head, questioning. The omega sucks in a breath and turns his face toward James. He extends a hand from their cuddle pile and holds it out toward the bulky beta, defiance sparking in his eyes. Encouraged, Wade lifts an arm toward him, too, and tries very hard not to cry when the beta swallows, adam’s apple bobbing, and he shuffles off the couch, shoulders rounded forward like he’s sure he won’t be welcome but wants to try anyway. They are all hot messes, he thinks again. His alpha doesn’t seem to agree, chuffing and excited like a giant slobbering puppy in his brain, all pack, mate, comfort, protect, blood, protect. It’s a litany that won’t quiet, loud and insistent. It’ll suck when Wade screws this up. Inevitable heartbreak, he can almost taste it for how tangible it is. But right now, as James leans toward their cuddle pile, shuffling on his knees like he’s not sure how hugs work, and it takes both Wade and the omega to tug him into it and curl around him – yeah. Right now is pretty all right.

“Shit guys,” Weasel’s saying. “This is so gay.”

Wade quirks his nonexistent eyebrows at him over James’ lanky dark hair, hand curled around Peter’s shoulder, other hand rubbing the omega’s scalp. The apartment smells so much like home right now that he can’t even muster up the energy to snark at Weasel. Doesn’t want to talk and ruin it, break the magic. Their omega’s being so fucking brave. His scent, underneath that fear and piss and misery that’s clung to him all along, is filtering through all that, a little, an edge of sawdust, of sandalwood and moss, trees in the night. He doesn’t scent scared, not even pressed into James’ side, not even folded between a beta and an alpha. Maybe they aren’t that, here. Wade isn’t feeling like an alpha knothead, for maybe the first time ever. He’s feeling like – just Wade. Who knew he could be something other than an alpha? Who knew there was anything else worth knowing about him? White and Yellow are quiet, struck silent. He feels like he could pass out in this little nest, like he could melt into the floor, eyes closing as he chuffs against them, scents all three of them, one at a time. He’s sapped of every ounce of energy, boneless as he takes in their scents.

“… can I join too?”

He does, however, have the energy to open up the hug to Weas.

Yeah, he thinks again.

Right now is pretty all right.

Chapter Text

13. waves

-

-

-

The omega’s eyeing what’s splayed out on the coffee table through rounded, teary eyes.

Peter gives the omega’s shoulder a squeeze, tries to focus on him, he knows this has to all feel a little – overwhelming, but his eyes keep flicking to Wade. He’s drawn to the alpha more in this moment than he’s ever felt drawn to another living person, everything else all muted, murmured voices his brain isn’t picking up, the tv on low flickering colors in the background. His grip on the other omega grounds him to the here and now, but then he’s moving out from Peter’s side, scrambling toward the coffee table, hand outstretched. It’s a moment the omega will remember very differently from Peter’s version of events, because as soon as the omega moves away from the cover of Peter’s arms and toward the sleek, intricate bow on the table, Peter’s focus slides straight to Wade who’s hovering like a nervous duck beside the weapon. Wade’s mouth moves quickly, he’s talking, babbling, saying something about how he hopes the bow doesn’t remind the omega too much of bad memories, he hopes it’s more – therapeutic, to use it, to practice, to keep it close. Wade’s giving the omega blanket permission to stick as many arrows as he wants into anybody who deserves it, and Peter swallows around a hitched breath, too quiet for anyone to notice.

“– and just in case it needs clarifying,” Wade’s adding, fidgeting with his hands in his sleeves, eyes serious and focused on the omega’s face as he speaks. Peter watches the way his mouth curls around the words in a bit of a trance, homed in on every minute movement of the scars, of those pinkish little pockmarks around his lips. His voice sounds dark with promise, low and earnest, and all Peter can do right now is wonder how Wade turned into the person he is, how anybody could have turned into someone like Wade, how anybody could have grown through concrete into kindness in a world like theirs. He can’t imagine many people would have showed the alpha kindness that he could have used as an example. Yet here he is, setting his own.

“Anybody who tries to get you to do anything you don’t want to do? Deserves it. Anybody who touches you when you don’t want touched? Deserves it.” Wade pauses, thoughtful, then adds a matter of fact, “Almost everybody in the world? Deserves it.”

“A bow and arrows?” Weasel sounds skeptical. “Have guns suddenly gone out of fashion?”

“Says the guy whose weapon of choice is a half empty bottle of tartar sauce.”

“That was one time –”  

“Were you trying to kill the man or season him just right?”

 “I was being resourceful! I’m a resourceful guy.” Weasel rounds on James, the ever-watchful shadow pressed against his side of the couch, and says, “No, you do not want to hear the story behind this wildly exaggerated nonsense. My weapon of choice is a gun. You know, the things that go pew pew and kill people fast.” He turns back to the coffee table and to the omega, who’s got one hand on the grip of the sleek recurve bow and is staring at it in silent wonder. “Is Wade being an idiot right now? Would you rather have a gun? Because you can have a gun. Hydra’s going to have some.”

Not usually one to suffer insults in silence, Wade miraculously says nothing.

Wordless as always, the omega shakes his head, grips the bow and pulls it off the table, cradling it against his chest. There’s some fear there, in his eyes, but then, there usually is. Defiance and fear in equal measure. He reaches for the full quiver of arrows, too, and pulls it into his lap, deft fingers sliding one out and thumbing over the pointed tip of the arrowhead. He fiddles with the bow, focused on it, so Peter slides up from his spot behind the omega and pulls Wade off to the kitchen area with a hand on the alpha’s wrist. Wade comes willingly, tugging his wrist out from Peter’s grip only long enough to grab his hand and link their fingers, squeezing. They stand beside the hum of the refrigerator, heads bent close together.

Peter’s head thunks into the alpha’s shoulder and he inhales. “I think he likes the bow.”

There’s a grin in Wade’s voice. “Yeah, you can tell by how he’s holding it – he’s good.”

“You think so?”

“He’s got that same glint in his eye I get over my swords.” They both turn their heads to glance at the omega, who’s pulled the finger tabs out from the bag Wade brought everything in and has chosen the lefthanded one, is fitting it between his fingers like it’s second nature, all muscle memory. “Now we just gotta find a place where he can practice. Weas probably needs some target practice, too. Lots of target practice. He’s good at lots of things… protecting himself? Not one of them.”

Peter – can see that.

Wade leans forward to rub his nose against Peter’s hair, chuffing against him. “And you! Baby boy, did you see those strings come out of your wrists like magically sticky silly string? Is that something you’ve always done? Because that was badass.”

“No, that was – really weird,” Peter admits, amazed by how easy it is to talk about.

Wade’s chuckle ruffles his hair. “Gunk shooting out of your wrists? Weird? Nah. We’ll figure it out.”

Because he’s close, and kind, and earnest, saying things like we and badass and baby boy, a pet name that might have reminded Peter of things he’d rather not remember, except that nobody’s ever called him something so – sweet, in a tone that’s maybe even a little admiring. But all this added together makes it very difficult not to take a step forward and wrap his arms around the big alpha, so Peter doesn’t bother resisting the urge, feeling bold. It takes less than a second for Wade to reciprocate, curling his own arms around Peter in return, all warmth and heat where their bodies press together and curve around each other. Peter grips the back of Wade’s hoodie with both hands, burrowing his face into the fold between his shoulder and neck, scenting him because he’s tilting his head, opening his neck to Peter willingly, all pliant and still.

“What’s this for?” Wade whispers, but his arms don’t budge from around him.

Peter rubs his nose over Wade’s scent gland, feeling how the alpha shudders in response.

“I just like you,” Peter mumbles it, heart racing at the admission.

But Wade doesn’t poke fun. He tightens his hug, chuffing again. “I like you too, Peter.”

An easy statement, no hesitation or shame behind it.

Smiling, he pulls away, one hand lingering on the alpha’s bicep, filled up by Wade’s scent and the way that rich, overpowering fire has smoothed out under him, smoothed into soft embers and charcoal. Fire isn’t typically a comforting smell, especially with as strong as it is coming from Wade, but there’s something comforting about it now, something about it that makes Peter feel safe. Instead of a fire that’s consuming everything it touches, instead of one that burns, these flames roar up like a smoldering wall between Peter and everyone who’s ever damaged him. It feels like liberation, having that wall around him, burning bright against the world. He knows he’s reading too much into this. Wade would have helped anyone in that alley that night. If it hadn’t been Peter chained there, it would have been someone else, and Wade would have done what Wade does. He’d have helped them, and brought them here, and this whole thing would look exactly the same without Peter in the picture at all.

Still.

It feels good to pretend, even briefly, that he’s – important to Wade. That he has a purpose here.

Not many things have felt good.

He’ll ride this feeling as long as the winding path stretches.

-

-

-

“Okay, pretend I’m about to steal the last pop tart,” Wade suggests, even though they’re shut up alone in the bedroom with no pop tarts in sight. The big alpha is bouncing on the balls of his feet and has his hands splayed out in front of him like he’s about to catch a baseball in an imaginary glove, and when Peter stares at him in silence, he claps those hands and says, “C’mon, Petey, I swear you won’t break me.”

“I don’t really like pop tarts,” Peter admits, because it bears admitting.

Wade comes out of his braced stance and whispers, “Shh, we don’t want to hurt the pop tart’s feelings.”

“This just isn’t working. Nothing’s happening.”

Wade tells him that there’s no pressure, there’s nothing riding on his ability to shoot sticky gunk out of his wrists, they’re just exploring his body and what it can do, that’s all, no biggie. Peter’s standing on one side of the bed, Wade on the other, as alone as they’re going to get in a crowded tiny apartment. Wade tells him that if pop tarts aren’t revving his engines, then he should think of something that does. He wriggles his brow, grinning, voice a low baritone that Peter can feel in his toes. “Just imagine I’m stealing something you want very much, and you’ve got to stick me to the ground to put a stop to my wicked ways.”

The problem is, Peter thinks he might want Wade. Edging into very much territory.

Which is – which is a little terrifying.

Edging into very terrifying.

He holds out his hand, palm up, flexing it at the wrist and pointing it toward Wade. Nothing happens again, of course, because people aren’t supposed to be able to shoot things out of their wrists. Wade reminds him that he should be envisioning something he wants, really wants, and then changes the scenario to, “Maybe pretend I’m that thing, and the only way to get it is to shoot me with gunk and pull me toward you. You know, like you did with that dead guy, only less painfully. I’ll just slide across the bed instead of faceplanting into pokey carpet, easy peasy.”

Peter won’t have to pretend very hard on this one.

He flexes his wrist again, holding it out in front of him like an awkward duck. His head’s not fully in the game though, and maybe that’s the problem. So Peter closes his eyes and tries to imagine it. Wade says, “Um, Petey? You okay?” but Peter shushes him, slants one eye open to tell the alpha that he’s trying to imagine stuff. Wade mimes zipping his mouth closed and throwing away a key, so Peter returns to his head, thinks about something he really wants. It takes no time at all to realize that no things are springing to mind. What material objects could Peter possibly want, anyway? One of the trainsets he and Uncle Ben used to build together? A piece of the past. None of the magic would be there anymore because all the magic came from Ben. Food, sure, but Wade’s been giving him that in spades, almost so much so that Peter isn’t consciously thinking about meals anymore. He feels full, he feels comfortable, warm and safe, confident, now, to try to defend himself if someone tries to – well. If they try anything. Peter is surprisingly confident that Wade would be right there with him, defending him too. No, there aren’t any material things he wants at all.

He wants the world to change.

He wants to see it play out. He wants to live to see it all play out.

He wants their omega to eat, to fill out more, to get healthy. He wants healthy omegas and safety and the right to protect themselves to be the norm, to be more common than the assholes. Words like rape and consent haven’t ever applied to omegas, but they need to. They need to apply to all people. He wants omegas to feel like people too. He wants to feel like a person and that feeling not to be tied to shame, or to guilt, or to uncertainty. It’s easier to apply that concept to another, to look at their omega and think, “You’re definitely a person.” It’s hard to apply to himself. He’s still trying to convince himself that he’s real, that he’s here, that he’s allowed to be. The whole world’s going to have to change, and he’s not sure where that starts or what that looks like, but that’s it. That’s what Peter wants. That’s what Peter really wants.

When he reopens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Wade.

The thought comes unbidden: that’s what it looks like.

The world changing looks like Wade Wilson, big, scarred alpha that he is, reaching out to help someone chained down in an alley, telling orderlies in clinics that Peter’s a person who deserves blankets and pain meds and not to be hit. The world changing looks like the bright rainbow bear Wade gifted to him what feels like ten lifetimes ago, now. It looks like Wade humming at the stove, cooking for omegas and betas alike. It looks like all of them together, Weasel and James and their silent, bravely present omega, who’s already come out of his shell quicker than Peter could have, that spark of defiance in his world-wearied eyes like he’s ready to fight, ready to go head-to-head with anyone who’d hurt him. The world changed looks like Peter, embracing an alpha. Embracing an alpha because he’s a person first, because he should be treated like a person first. Alpha, beta, omega second. Always a person first.

When he flexes his wrist again, a line of white releases into the air, arching over the bed.

Peter grabs hold of the end of it as it exits a tiny hole in the middle of his wrist, a tiny slit he couldn’t see before.

Wade whoops and tries to catch the line, but his hand sticks to it.

“You did it!” Wade cheers, even as he tries and tries to tug his hand off the line. He raises it close to his face and tries to pluck at it with his free hand, pulling the strands away from each other. In the overhead light, the white strands that come apart in between Wade’s hands look translucent, shining. It turns out it’s not just one big string.

It’s a web.

Heart pounding, little hairs on his arms standing on end, Peter reels Wade in, tugging on the webbing gently enough not to jerk the man off his own feet. And anyway, Wade’s grinning as he comes along for the ride, hands effectively stuck together now, stuck and going nowhere. He bellyflops onto the bed and lets Peter reel him in like a fish caught on a line, babbling the whole way about how badass this is and how cool it’ll be and maybe he can even use it to swing into the air like spiders do, don’t spiders use webs for swinging, how sturdy are these things, could they hold up his weight, maybe –

When Wade’s splayed out on the bed, head over the edge, arms over his head and stuck palms together like an over the head prayer, Peter folds himself to the floor on his knees, scoots close into Wade’s space, and ducks in between Wade’s arms, so they’re nose to nose. Wade goes a little cross-eyed to see him so close so abruptly. His hood is down, and Peter likes to imagine he’d lowered it when they entered the bedroom because Wade trusts him, at least a little. He smooths a hand over Wade’s scalp, smiling at the bumps and grooves, and his heart’s beating fast and hard in his chest, but he wants this, whatever this is. He wants this moment, this beat, this second. Who knows what’s coming, who cares, right now all Peter wants is splayed out before him, blinking wide, brown eyes at him.

Wade wriggles a bit on the bed, leans his head into Peter’s caress. His hands flex against the webbing. Peter can feel the vibration of the movement where his own hand is still holding onto the line, though his side feels entirely unsticky. In fact, he doesn’t much need it anymore, so he drops the web and lets it spiral to the floor, sticking instantly to the carpet in a gooey mound.

“Um – Pete?” he says, high-pitched and whispering. “You – you okay?”

“Right now?” Peter whispers back, tilts his head forward to rub his nose against Wade’s. “Yeah, yeah. I’m – I’m okay. I want – could I –”

“Anything, baby boy.” Wade prompts, when it feels like a lump in his throat would stop Peter’s words altogether. This close, now, has the doubts creeping back in. Maybe he shouldn’t say this. Maybe he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be wanting this. Wade’s too good for him, too good for a used-up omega whore he’d found fucked out in a back alley. But Wade strains forward to rub noses with him, again, and says again, more seriously this time, “You can tell me what you want, Peter. Can tell me anything, yeah? What do you want to do? We’ll do it.”

“As easy as that?” Peter smiles, blinks away moisture that’s weighing down his lashes.

This feels familiar.

“Pretty much,” Wade says, echoing a sentiment he’s promised before, grinning.

And maybe it’s not a good time, or a good thing to want. Maybe it proves that this is all omegas are good for, all that’s on their minds. But Peter’s a person, he thinks again, damn near desperate to believe it. He’s a person and he wants – he wants – “Could I kiss you? I want to – if you’d want to, too, I’d want to – could I kiss you?”

Wade’s eyes widen and his lips part as he breathes. “You – you’d want to –”

“Yes,” Peter says, very firmly.

“Are you sure?” Wade whispers, hoarse now, quiet in the bright, bright bedroom.

“Yes,” Peter says again, eyes on Wade’s.

He’s looking for the disgust, waiting for it. Omegas don’t have – wants, or desires, and they definitely don’t deserve kisses. Kisses are things lovers do, or people, not omegas. He feels obscene just to want it, but Wade’s warm and feels like home and he can’t help himself. He thinks maybe he’ll be too scared to do anything – more than kissing. But – but kissing? He wants. Wade bumps his nose again, a little boop of encouragement, uses his voice, even, to reveal that he wants that too, that he’d like it too, and if it were anyone else Peter would have doubted them, but Wade’s open and eager and earnest, wriggling like he wishes he could sit properly. And he’s waiting for Peter to make the first move, to take the first step, those wide brown eyes focused on Peter’s lips, now, he can feel that gaze like a tangible caress on him, alive, sparking in the space between them.

Peter closes that space and presses his lips to Wade’s.

It feels like his first kiss.

They'd kissed during his heat, but that memory is so hazy, he'd been too incoherent to fully grasp what they were doing or how it felt by itself, without heat needs crowding out everything else. But this... this feels like something else altogether. Like some part of Peter waking up after a long, lingering nightmare, coming awake at exactly the right moment. 

He pecks, chaste and quick, first, pulls back to look to Wade for a reaction. But Wade’s wide-eyed and smiling, and he can’t resist leaning forward and tasting that smile, meeting it with a tentative one of his own. Wade makes a small, tinny noise in the back of his throat and moves with him, lets Peter lead the way, mouth pliant and slightly parted, giving Peter access if he wants to take it. And he – Peter can feel this small contact through to his bones, can feel it in waves, crashing and pulling him under. He follows that feeling and deepens the kiss, reaching out with a tentative tongue that licks over Wade’s bottom lip. He’s shaking through it, has to reach around and hold onto the man’s neck so he doesn’t do something embarrassing like stumble. His knees press into the carpet as he kneels and he pushes himself up a bit, moaning into Wade’s open mouth, sharing breaths as they move together, Wade eagerly, Peter messily. He might have been embarrassed by the pulsing between his legs, but Wade seems to be right there with him, hips canting against the bed slow and languid as they make out.

He’s – making out.

He’s kissing someone.

He’s – a person.

Peter breaks away panting, hot all over. He reaches down with a shaking hand to adjust himself, cock curved up toward his belly, now, from just a little kiss. Or, well, a big kiss. Still, just a kiss. He suddenly understands why regular people do this, why they kiss each other. Wade’s eyes are blown wide as he licks his lips, one of his scabs has cracked on his chin, red and open. Peter is drawn into another kiss, pecking those lips again, a shudder going down his spine as Wade bites a gentle nibble onto his lower lip, laughing into his mouth.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmurs, wriggling again, breath warm on Peter’s cheek as he grins a little dopily. “And I – am very much on board with you kissing me whenever you want to kiss me. Anywhere you want. Any time you want. Basically, yes to all kisses, as long as you want them. But – but you know, we don’t have to do anything else, ever, right? If all you wanna do is kiss, all we’ll do is kiss. Any time. Really. Or, we don’t even have to kiss anymore, ever. It was fucking magic, it’s gonna live rent free in my brain for the rest of time, but it’s not required, not ever. Just –”

Peter kisses him again, this time to shut him up.

Huh. Solid strategy.

He breaks away grinning a bit, himself. “Yeah,” he says, watching Wade’s kiss-swollen lips. “I know, Wade. You – but you liked it? The – kissing?”

Wade strains forward to butt their noses against each other again, murmuring, “Understatement of the century, baby boy. I don’t – not many people can stand to kiss me, you know. I’d totally get it if you don’t want to – I mean, if it’s just a one-off, or you just wanted to try it, you know, experiment a little –”

“It might be my favorite thing to do,” Peter admits, hating that dismissive tone, the insecurities it’s hiding. Wade’s mouth opens in a silent ‘o’ and he blinks a few times, hard as he sniffs. It’s a little strange to have this heart to heart with their faces still so close, with Wade’s hands stuck over his head and Peter slotted between his biceps, but Peter’s chest feels tight, like a bruise, and he’s quick to add, “But just you. I don’t think I’d like kissing anybody else. Is that – okay?”

“Gotta admit, Pete,” Wade says immediately. “I’m not sure I’d like you kissing anybody else, either. Not that you can’t. I mean, it’s your body, please do kiss whoever you want to kiss, but it’s – I really, really like that you’re choosing me to kiss in the meantime. Also, can we hug? I feel like we need to hug. Or maybe that’s just me, but –”

“I want to hug you all the time.”

Wade snaps his mouth shut, swallowing words, big-eyed.

Peter means it, too. He moves out from under Wade’s arms and they get into a more comfortable position. It turns out Wade’s hands might be stuck together for a little while because neither of them can pry the webs off of him. They even try the spare knife Wade tells him to fetch out of the sock drawer, but no luck. Peter starts to apologize, flushed red in the face, feeling like a freak because sticky webs literally shoot out of his wrists, if that’s not freakish he’s not sure what is – but Wade seems to be taking it all in stride, still calling it badass, wiggling his fingers in between the sticky white strands and smiling at Peter, all teeth.

Still. “D’you still want –”

Wade holds out his arms as best he can, gesturing for Peter to get inside them. “C’mere, Pete, bring it in.”

Peter does, ducking under those stuck hands and wriggling into the big circle of Wade’s arms, who sighs and rubs one cheek on the top of Peter’s head. The big alpha chuffs into his hair and hums, and Peter relaxes in the embrace, can feel the tension melting out of him. It’s strange to have someone to hug. Even stranger that they can hug like this with matching boners. Peter is intimately aware of his own, pulsing as it twitches in his pants, and he’s even more aware of Wade’s, the long, hard column that’s pressing against Peter’s hip bone. It twitches, too, warm through Wade’s sweats. Peter tries to ignore it because he’s not sure what he could comfortably do about it, but he also can’t help but wriggle against it, leaning his hip into that pulsing penis. Wade breathes out a shaky exhale and presses back, grinding a tiny, tiny thrust against him as Wade moans out loud.

“Shit,” Wade pants, dropping his head against Peter’s. “Sorry, sorry, maybe we should –”

Peter breathes. “Yeah, yeah, I – I don’t think I’m ready for –”

Still, they grind against each other for another minute or so, lost in the sensation, hot and unhurried. Looking back, Peter can’t recall which one of them breaks away first. Maybe they both part at the same time, recognizing that it’s going too far too fast. Wade offers the first shower to Peter, who accepts gratefully, sneaking past the boys in the living room to hurry toward the bathroom, wondering all the while what they can smell and if he’s making them uncomfortable. He’s sure the smell of their arousal follows him as he goes, and he can only move quickly and hope it isn’t scaring their omega, who shouldn’t have to be smelling that. Showering feels nice, warm water against his tacky, sweaty skin. He even – curious, aching, Peter takes a few halted moments under the spray to grip himself and tug. Forehead falling against the tiles, he stands under the water and pulls on himself, biting his lip to hold in any sounds as he masturbates. It takes no time at all before he can feel the pressure building, to increase the pressure of his hand and tug hard until cum pulses out of him in waves, white warmth that drips onto the tiles. He stands there shuddering until it all calms down, then positions the showerhead to hit the tiles, to wash away the evidence.

He feels – a little spent. A little dirty. A little like a slut.

But is it slutty to just – want one person? He only – he only wants the one.

That should be – okay. Right?

Peter doesn’t know. What he knows is that he’s tired of thinking about it, tired of overthinking and worrying about it. By the time he leaves the bathroom, toweling his hair dry, he’s convinced himself to stop thinking about it altogether, to just enjoy feeling warm and clean and fresh from showering. The little pleasures in life are the only ones that are real, anyway. Peter must have been super distracted in the shower, though, because there’s all sorts of commotion in the living room when he steps into it, everybody glued to the TV and talking over each other. Well, Wade and Weasel talking over each other. James and their omega are silent, focused on the man on the screen with rapt, unwavering attention.

“What’s going on?” Peter says, joining Wade shoulder to shoulder.

The man’s wearing a clean pair of pants, a clean hoodie that smells like laundry detergent, flowery and crisp. It masks that undertone of arousal pretty well, but Peter can still smell the traces of it, can still feel Wade’s heat through his hoodie. Wade’s eyes flick to Peter when he arrives, and he’s smiling, smiling with his whole being. His hands are free, no trace of that webbing. Wade sees him looking at his hands and waggles his fingers, winks.

“Rewind, Weas,” Wade demands right away. He bounces in place.

Weasel groans. “We’ve already rewound twice! I’d like to see the rest of –”

“Dude, Peter didn’t see it!” Wade says, gesturing emphatically. “Peter has to see it!”

Weasel does rewind, grumbling under his breath about it, but his face is smiling, too, and doesn’t match his grumpy tone. Peter asks what he’s looking at, because he doesn’t recognize the man on the screen, doesn’t recognize much of anyone on TV, actually. Weasel groans again when Wade tells him to pause it, but he does pause it, slumping backward into the couch. Wade grabs Peter’s hand and squeezes, tells him about a billionaire named Tony Stark who used to build weapons, who used to corner the market on the whole damn weapons industry, actually. He’d inherited the business from his father, though, and turned to clean energy and other environmentally friendly ventures about a year ago, after he’d been captured by terrorists and kept imprisoned in a cave somewhere in the middle east. But he’d built a – suit, in the meantime, a suit of armor he’s calling Iron Man, that’s armed with all sorts of weapons, all sorts of lasers and – and things that sound futuristic, things Peter’s skeptical can be real. Built the thing in that cave, during captivity, and blew the place to smithereens with it when he busted himself out.

“He made his own show, too,” Wade tells him, eagerly.

Weasel’s grinning now, smirking behind his glasses. He taps on the remote and adds, “I thought it was an ego thing. He’s known to have a massive ego, you know, billionaire genius and all. He comes back from being a captive and immediately starts up this show, right, this show all about him. Each episode, he starts it off by saying,” Weasel lowers his voice to mimic the billionaire, says, “How high is my IQ?”

“Yeah, real humble of him, right?” Wade bounces again.

Weasel rolls his eyes. “I figured it was just his way of showing off. He builds shit on the show, goes through the whole thought process behind everything, shows off just enough to make him out to be the next Einstein. His lab is a place of dreams. He even built these sentient robots –”

“Skip the robots, Weas, get to the good stuff!”

“Right, right, can we turn this thing back on now?” Weasel’s actually sitting on the edge of the couch cushion, leaning forward toward the TV with his elbows on his knees, one knee jittering. Peter hasn’t seen him like this before… fully awake, impatient, attentive. He’s usually slumped into the couch with his face buried in his laptop, commenting on the comings and goings of the apartment with some distance between himself.

Even James speaks up.

“Hydra fears Stark,” James confides, voice low and somber.

Everyone turns to look at the beta.

He shrugs, gripping the arm of the couch with his flesh hand. “He’s powerful and well protected. The only reason they never sent me after him is because they thought they could use him down the line. But now that he’s Iron Man... not even I could take him out quietly. There’d be a media frenzy either way.”

Wade bumps Peter’s shoulder. His voice is very, very gentle when he says, “Tony Stark is a brilliant man, Pete. He’s only been in the clean energy business for, what, less than a year? And he’s already blown past everyone else in the field. I don’t usually like billionaires, you know, I kind of sort of kill a lot of them… but he’s never owned anyone. He’s a philanthropist, too, he blows so much money on legit charities. He’s cocky and smart and he’s turned his dear old dad’s business into something – big. Something good. And he’s basically convinced the world over that he’s the genius behind everything his company’s doing. He builds all his own tech and the son of bitch made a whole tv show around proving it.”

“Okay,” Peter says, slowly, unsure why this all matters.

He can tell it does, though.

Wade smiles at him. “Just – remember that. He’s smart. He’s brilliant. He’s a big name in the world, yeah? You know that too, don’t you Pumpkin?”

The omega sitting crisscross applesauce on the floor nods his head, eyes on the frozen face of the billionaire the big alpha’s been gushing about. Peter looks, too, with a raised eyebrow, still not sure where this could be going. The man on the screen is standing behind a podium, sunglasses perched on his nose, tan skin and crisp business suit, facial hair trimmed into a tasteful goatee. To Peter, he looks like any other random businessman… which is to say, a little intimidating and a whole lot scary. Sure, Wade’s saying all these great things about the man, but he can’t know it all for sure. Nobody knows celebrities like they think they know them. More reasonably, Tony Stark probably just has enough cash to make the people he’s inevitably owned over the years disappear.

Weasel presses play.

“… and I’m here today to tell you that not only am I Iron Man,” the man says, voice sure of himself, unwavering. “Not only does my I.Q. surpass Einstein’s on his brightest day, as I’m sure you’ve all witnessed based on my show’s steadily growing fanbase…”

He straightens his tie, steps out from behind the podium.

Head held high, Tony Stark removes his sunglasses and stares into the camera.

He smirks. “Not only am I the leading cause for world peace, not only am I brilliant, not only am I a genius billionaire philanthropist…”

People are murmuring in the audience.

Tony Stark squares himself in front of the camera and says, “But I’m here today to tell you that I’m all of that… and –” He pauses for dramatic effect. Peter didn’t know anything about this guy before two minutes ago, but he can feel the anticipation in the crowd as everyone waits with bated breath for what he’s going to say. He has a way about him that draws attention, and he’s obviously well aware of it.

“I’m an omega.”

Silence descends in the crowd. Wade whoops from beside him.

On the floor, their omega sucks in a breath.

There’s a roaring in Peter’s ears, though, a mad rushing, as that crowd that was clapping along with the man starts yelling, news anchors immediately trying to shut him off, to go on a break, but Tony Stark is apparently everything he claimed because he must have expected it, he looks entirely unbothered as he retrieves a sleek phone from his pocket and tinkers for a moment. He smirks that cocky little smirk once again, facing the camera, and chimes, “Well look at that, I seem to have hijacked your tv. Sorry folks, but we all need to be here for this. Go ahead, try to change the channel. Pretty sure I’m decorating them all. How high is my I.Q.? Huh? How high? Am I still the smartest man alive? Am I still the leading deterrent to nuclear war? Am I still a person?”

His fingers tap, tap, tap against the podium. Someone throws something at him from the crowd, multiple people do, and he ducks, comes up grinning like a shark. He presses something against his chest and red metal slides around him, encasing him in a suit of armor, a sleek red and gold robot. When the faceplate comes down and glowing slanted eyes light up on the helmet, people in the crowd start screaming, chairs pushed out of the way as they stumble and try to run toward the exits. Peter can see why. He looks dangerous where he stands, the faceplate designed to look pissed off and no-nonsense as it stares out into the mass of people like it's entirely removed from them.

“Omegas!” Tony Stark’s voice has a mechanical edge to it, modulated from inside the armor. Peter startles, stands a little taller without realizing it at being so abruptly addressed. Numb, he lets go of Wade’s hand and drops to the ground beside the other omega in the room, who sets that bow on the ground to his right. They link hands without looking away from the TV, both struck silent, bodies strangely aware that something big is happening, that nothing is going to stay the same on the other side of it.

Stark’s voice goes tinny, gentled, earnest. “You’re a person too. Let’s get the rest of the world up to speed, hmm?”

Apparently the armor can fly, because he does. He takes to the air, repulsors firing up at his feet and hands. Midair, he raises the faceplate, looks into the camera again, face somber and serious and eyes set, firm and fierce and wildly alive. “The world’s been bonkers for decades now. My father – let’s face it, the world all agrees that my father was brilliant.” The camera is shaky, now, as the man behind it keeps trying to shut it off, but the picture stills when the man mentions his father. People running or shouting go quiet in the audience. Weasel and Wade hadn’t mentioned Tony Stark’s father much, except that he’d been the owner of his company before him.

Based on the crowd’s reaction, he must have been – important.

Mr. Stark looks unbearably blasé, dismissive, waves a gauntlet in the air and tilts his head to the side, eyebrow cocked. “He was, too. Brilliant, ahead of his time, ambitious, all of that. But he was a monster. Can you picture it, four-year-old kid, visited by dear old daddy at night?” Stark can be seen laughing, then, a bitter little chuckle, as people gasp, and the yelling picks up again, the word liar chanted by what’s turning into an angry mob of pissed off betas. Stark’s face is set in a carefully practiced smile. He ignores the chaos, keeps talking like it’s casual, casual, casual. “Who am I kidding, of course you can picture it. You’re all living it, aren’t you? All of you. You play with your omegas like they’re lawn ornaments, you hitch them to posts naked while you shop. You’re all very comfortable doing this. We’ve gotten a little too comfortable, folks! I’m here today to make some waves. You get to decide if you plan to make some, too, or if you’re drowning in yesterday’s filth.

“Either way… the world’s in for a few changes.”

He raises a gauntlet, grins into the chaos below him. “See you soon.”

A repulsor blasts into the camera, blinding red light.

The screen cuts to static.

Chapter Text

14. an asset's ghosts

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The asset is a weapon void of thought.

There are feelings from that black, formless before, because those aren’t so easily contained or controlled. Phantom spikes of panic, or fear, or dread, unspecific and without any known causes. Brief flickers of rebellion, quickly recognized and squashed. His body is capable of translating pain. The numb chill that burrows deep when he wakes up from cryo, so cold his nerves don’t process the pain as anything other than a brief, inconvenient malfunction. The heavy drag of the metal arm pulling on the tendons and muscles leftover in his flesh shoulder, occasional electric zaps that short circuit what he knows is a human brain inside of him. He knows he’s human in that abstract, distant way he also knows he’s not. Above the superficial evidence to suggest he might have been a human person in the unreachable past, there is Hydra, and the chair, and the indisputable death his body doles out, without thought or alien notions of remorse.

Hydra has a mission. The asset is the gun that carries it out.

That is all.

Jack Hammer – Weasel’s – foot burrows under the asset’s thigh, then, as the man stretches out one leg and murmurs in his sleep, incomprehensible half-words as he smacks his lips mid-snore, glasses skewed on his nose, smooshed against his left cheek. The contact of that socked foot startles the asset into stiffening where he’d almost relaxed back into the couch cushions, eyeing the dark, quiet living room, searching for – he’s not sure. There’s a panic brewing under his rib cage, something cold and messy, and he waits for it to pass by counting his breaths, even and carefully measured. Life made more sense when he was Hydra’s gun. Things were less – noisy. Less messy. The longer he spends out of cryo without a mission or a target, the more confusing this place becomes.

Weapons weren’t meant to feel confusion.

But he’s thinking thoughts, now, and damn near swimming in them. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, take a breath and hold, hold, hold, fifteen, sixteen –

Hold –

– seventeen, eighteen –

The bedroom door creaks.

The asset keeps his head down but watches through his curtain of dark hair as the omega – the silent one – steps out from their room, hand on the door until it closes with a soft, quiet click behind him. The omega stands in the doorway for a few silent minutes, hands by his sides and his shoulders back. One hand sneaks up to scratch at his scalp, but otherwise he’s still. Perhaps he’s listening to Weasel snore, blissfully unaware that someone’s entered the space while he sleeps. His handler trusts too easily, he thinks. Not that the asset thinks thoughts or has opinions. His head is a void, he thinks to himself again, disproving it by thinking it. But he’s more James by the day. Thoughts come whether they’re allowed to exist or not.

Opinions, too.

He’s not too far gone to wonder if he’d had many opinions before Hydra, back when he must have been a person still, back when he must have been allowed to think thoughts. He imagines smirking, cocky grins and the thrum of music, a song he can’t name, lights flashing, and then of course that boy, again, brightly blue-eyed and filled up by nothing but opinions. A small, sickly boy that smelled like a furnace and got himself beat up a lot. Fists and teeth flashing with red glowing eyes, spitting out blood as he bounced on the balls of his feet and claimed, brazen and brave, “I could do this all day.”

He did do it all day, sometimes, if memory serves.

James can’t tell if any of this actually happened, if any of it’s real.

But the boy won’t go away.

He’s a good dream, a wisp, intangible but warm.

“Sure you can, killer,” he imagines himself laughing, imagines a younger, clean shaven James gripping that boy’s shoulder, standing beside him in alleyways, in clubs, on the streets, at the cinemas. Remembers countless ER visits and mean, dismissive faces, there and gone, flashing like forgotten dreams in the spaces between the asset and James. “Don’t have to do it alone, though.”

Somehow, he thinks he must have had a lot of opinions, once upon a time.

The silent omega pads to the kitchen and stands at the counter in the dark. His hands come up to grip at the counter, and he’s eyeing the fridge like it contains the answers to every problem ever to have existed. His shoulders are bunched up to this neck, now, and he’s hunched forward, his gait somehow pained and stiff as he’d walked the length of the living room. He’s uncomfortable here, James knows. Like recognizes like, perhaps. He’s reasonably certain his presence isn’t helping matters at all, but he’s also equally certain there’s nothing he can do about it. It’s selfish, but – the asset doesn’t want to go back. He wants to continue being James, even if it’s just for a few stolen weeks. He wants this safehouse and these people and the room to think treacherous, human thoughts. Even if Weasel has to reprogram him a dozen more times, even if he forgets all of this again and again, he’d take this chance over returning to Hydra, over returning to handlers that make him hurt.

The omega is already uncomfortable.

James raps the knuckles of his flesh hand on the coffee table twice as he stands, alerting the boy to his movements as he lets Weasel’s legs relax and take over his cramped corner of the couch. He takes a second to reach down and remove the beta’s glasses, plucking them off his nose and setting them on top of the man’s laptop on the coffee table, a little amazed that even that doesn’t rouse him from his dead-to-the-world slumber. The omega’s shoulders tense visibly before he sucks in a breath and straightens, turning to stare James down with a stubborn set to his jaw as the beta approaches. James clasps his arms behind him at the elbows, keeping himself still and calm, still and calm, as he steps up beside the omega.

The omega’s face says I don’t care if you hurt me.

James knows that game well.

His throat feels dry and scratchy, hoarse through disuse, but he’s talking more now than he can remember ever talking before, and that’s something. He’s sure the omega won’t want to hear him speak, or have him this close, but he doesn’t want to wake the household and he’s pretty sure Wade’s not as light a sleeper as Weasel. “Are you hungry?”

The omega scowls and says nothing.

James can feel himself hunch inward. Scaring people makes him feel like – like the asset.

“I – can make you something,” James says, though he’s not sure he can. He can’t remember cooking or serving anybody anything, sandwiches or otherwise. But he’s not dumb, he can – probably figure his way around a sandwich. The omega’s scowl doesn’t budge. Which makes sense. James isn’t gentle like Peter or – earnest and genuine like Wade Wilson. He registers as threat even to the most hardened criminals. But he’s not wearing the muzzle right now, isn’t holding any weapons. Except for the fact that he, himself, is one of those. Hesitant, he brings both arms forward, forms a sideways C with his right hand and slides it down the center of his chest. The omega watches the motion, scowl softening into a confused furrowed brow. He scratches at his scalp again, eyes watchful and alert.

The omega isn’t running away.

James tries to remember he has a voice. “This is the – sign for hungry. Do you – know sign language?”

The omega stares at him.

“If you wanted to – talk with your hands.” He feels clumsy and awkward, big and scary under the intense, silent scrutiny of the omega’s bright, sharp eyes. He has a feeling that talking to people used to be a lot easier, that it used to come as naturally as breathing or walking. That boy’s grinning face flashes through his thoughts, then, a phantom imposter. James mimes the sign for hungry again, feeling pretty useless, trying to stick to the present and keep the ghosts inside his head where they belong. The omega’s frowning, face drawn and tired, and James’s brain thinks thoughts that he should give up and sit down and shut up, a statue in the corner where he belongs.

But then the omega raises his own right hand, copies him.

Unbidden, James can feel his mouth twitch. “Hungry,” he says, as he does the motion again.

The omega repeats it, too, with his hand.

“Thirsty,” James says, and he points his index finger to his chin and slides it down his throat.

The omega repeats that one, too.

There’s something like a smile on his gaunt, pale face now. James walks him through all the words he can remember that have anything to do with the kitchen, then when he runs out of those, he’s showing him bathroom words and living room words, things they see around them, doors and commands like open and close, leave, return. The omega takes to the words quickly, repeating them several times with unhurried, careful hand gestures as he studies James through a determined, steady gaze. James can’t remember how or why he learned sign language. It feels like an unstretched muscle to move through the movements, the more he flexes it, the easier they flow out of him, until there’s a flash of red eyes in his mind, hands speaking sharp and fast, a dark-haired girl, just a kid, fierce and tear-streaked, saying… words he can’t parse through, too shadowed in black nothingness. His chest feels tight to think of her, whoever she was, both warm and sad. Phantom flashes of a delicate blue flower, of worn, dirty sandals, of pine cones and braids.

But the ghosts fade the more he talks to the omega.

“My name is James,” James signs as he talks, using the finger spelling of that name that still doesn’t sit right, somewhere in his gut. But it’s familiar enough to feel – close. A passable substitution. Better than asset, which turns off all thoughts and feelings and leaves him empty, ready to comply, a blank slate. As James, he at least gets to feel something, even if it is only an uncomfortable mixture of wrong-footed and out of place. He hesitates over this next part, uncertain, but the omega looks so expectant and waiting that he makes the letter B with his flesh hand and flutters it like the brief wave of a butterfly wing, away from his face. “But this is my name in sign. It’s – I don’t know why, but it’s the letter B, see? I think – people are given sign names by the Deaf community, or by someone in it. Otherwise, we finger spell our full names. My sign name is probably easier to remember than J-A-M-E-S, though, if you want to use it instead.”

The omega’s smile is crooked in the darkness.

James thunks his metal arm down on the kitchen counter, leaning the weight of it there, rolls his shoulders a bit as the tension he’s always carrying recedes like the tide. It’s a strange pocket of twilight they’ve found themselves in, with Weasel snoring like a freight train in the otherwise quiet apartment, silence interrupted only by the noises of the city outside, a cat merrowing in the distance, sirens and the whoosh of passing cars muffled by the closed windows. Wade’s closed up in the second bedroom by himself, Peter sleeping in the room the omegas have been sharing. James ignores the random sounds that filter through the walls, noises of the other tenants, their footsteps and occasional thumps. His eyes feel heavy and slow to blink, but sleep never comes without a fight, and he’s suddenly engrossed in teaching an omega how to speak with his hands, something he never could have dreamed he’d be doing even if he’d tried.

“Do you have a – name?” he asks.

The omega stares at him, body still, motionless.

So James adds, “If you do, I can walk through the alphabet –”

But he shakes his head, turns away. Tucks his head down and scratches behind one ear. He looks small always, but he looks even smaller right now, quiet after speaking so animatedly with both hands mere moments before. Hunched into himself and near cowering, he crouches on the floor and tucks himself under the countertop. He pulls his knees up to his chest and hides his face, and James isn’t sure what he did or where he went wrong, but the sight of the slim omega’s shoulders shaking has panic welling up behind the wall James keeps carefully constructed around himself, around what pieces of himself are left. Peter’s been good at – comforting the omega when this happens. Or Wade will come along and talk him through the tremors, talk him through whatever sorrow’s caught up to him, a barked word even a supposed beta like James can feel as vibrations in the air. James isn’t – he can’t – he’s not built for –

“’m sorry,” James whispers, quick to back up and shuffle away. “I didn’t mean to – sorry.”

The omega’s breath hitches, muffled by his knees.

James sits down, too, several feet away, well out of touching distance, because it feels horrifying and wrong to stand over the man, feels wrong to be big and tall when the omega’s going to such lengths to make himself small. He sits on his knees, hands clasped behind him, the gleam of his metal arm angled out of sight. It’s chilly on the tiles, chilly in the apartment in general. With an omega crying and hiding in front of him, because of him, James feels all at once like the asset again, all at once the unbearable, yearning urge to supplicate himself, to lean into the chill and speak, dog.

His jaw clenches, teeth aching. He should be –

The omega won’t want –

But he needs – the asset doesn’t need –

The asset is a void. The asset is a weapon. The asset will comply.

“Ready to comply.” It’s a whisper, though, rough and unconvincing. But he is ready, he’s been ready, but this place lacks structure and a discernible, communicated hierarchy, and there are hugs, why are there hugs –

Hyper vigilant, he kneels on the cold tiled floor and catalogs their surroundings. Handler Jack Hammer codename Weasel asleep on the couch with slow, steady breaths, snoring from a likely blockage in his nasal passages. Peter in the main bedroom, door closed. Wade Wilson codename Deadpool in the other, door also closed. Male omega, nameless, malnourished and quiet, in some discomfort when he walks, currently trembling under the countertop because the asset talked, because the asset thought thoughts and relayed them. Apartment eight stories high, two known windows, both sealed tight, scent blockers in the walls, standard issue. There’s someone running a bath in the adjacent apartment, perhaps, running water muffled through the drywall, old pipes creaking in the wall behind the fridge. He can’t hear the other neighbors – no, he can, the one directly below theirs has someone knocking, someone banging on the door, muffled yet insistent. There’s some sliver of shame along with that realization, because he can’t recall when that sound first started, wasn’t listening to their surroundings at all, in fact, the way he should have been all along.

The asset feels it when his body heats up, feels his skin grow damp with sweat, heartrate elevated. He wants to tell the omega he’s ready to comply again, ready for correction, knows he needs it, knows it’s coming, but speaking is what got them into this mess in the first place. The asset can be quiet. The muzzle would help, but it’s on the coffee table, well out of reach, and he isn’t sure he’s supposed to move. Somewhere buried deep, too, there’s an unpleasant thrum in his body not to leave the omega sad by himself, to stay, just in case proximity to another body helps fight off whatever’s plaguing the omega’s mind. It’s a silly notion. The asset could hardly be considered a comforting presence.

The omega groans, a soft, frustrated exhale.

The asset keeps himself very still, chews the inside of his cheek to avoid speaking.

To avoid begging.

Speak, dog.

The omega raises his head, finally, face blotchy and red.

The asset wants to press his forehead to the floor, has to fight to remain motionless.

His face is wet, the omega’s, but it’s open and – sad. Unbearably, visibly sad. His legs splay out in front of him as he uncurls, and he raises his left hand and forms a shaky yet clear sign for the letter B, waves it like a butterfly’s wing caressing the air beside his head. Then he lowers it to his chest and presses his palm there, moves it in a circular motion.

James, please.

Before the asset can wonder what he’s asking, the omega waves a hand, gestures him forward, gestures for the asset to come closer. He even pats the floor beside him, where he’s leaning his back against the base of the counter. He repeats his earlier motions, James, please, and drags the sleeve of his dark sweatshirt over his face, against his eyes and nose, unconcerned that it comes away with a damp patch. The clothes Wade had delivered fit better on the omega than the ones he’d borrowed, but not by much, still too much room to fill out the baggy material as he grows less skeletal. The asset – James – the asset – he feels carefully blank as he obeys the command and scoots on his knees to the spot the omega had indicated, sits shoulder to metal shoulder with the man, stiff and uncomfortable, the itch to beg unsatisfied, like bees in his throat. It turns out that the omega doesn’t want to sit in silence, though, and he pats the metal arm, gets the asset’s attention. Not that he didn’t already have it, but ever obedient, the asset angles a bit more toward him, facing him instead of watching through his periphery.

He points to the asset, uses that letter B sign again.

“That’s me,” the asset – James – says, agreeing even though he’s not sure, anymore, that it is him, or that he’s a him in the first place. What use is there in naming a weapon, anyway? The sentiment is lost on the weapon, entirely unnecessary.

The omega points to himself, then, insistently, a rough, hard index finger in the center of his own chest.

“You – have a name?”

A fierce, firm nod, wet eyes near glowing blue in the dark.

It feels a little like whiplash in his brain, human and asset, asset and human, but his mistake must not have been too unforgiveable, not with the look the omega is giving him now, all determined and headstrong as he reaches out to grip his metal wrist with a steady hand. James can’t feel the warmth of that hand, but the weight of the touch is comforting, grounding, real. Some unbidden part of him rises up in response to the omega’s courage, in touching him, in touching the arm. It remembers another boy, small and courageous, blue-eyed like this one, too skinny, newspapers in his shoes. Always too skinny. Steve. Steve Steve Steve –

Steve.

C’mon, doll, eat the damn soup.

It’s not right, none of this is right, you shouldn’t have to –

Yeah, well, I did, and now there’s soup. Gonna let it all be for nothin’, twerp?

… one of these days, I’m gonna take care of you.

You already do.

… c’mere, Buck.

He must have said the name out loud, because the omega is shaking his head, waiting for more guesses. And that’s what this is, too, a guessing game, because it turns out the omega doesn’t know the alphabet, can’t read, doesn’t know his letters at all. He’s sharp, though, can already speak using just the signs James showed him before. Seeing the omega’s face, so determined to have his name be known, to have it out there, mouth set in a grim, flat line… James focuses on that, on the present, on this thing that’s more important than smiling, bright-eyed ghosts. James runs through all the names he can think of that are even remotely male, even throws in the feminine ones when he runs plum out of ideas. The omega finally gets so frustrated that he reaches over James’s lap to his flesh hand, grabs it and pulls it up to his throat. When his lips move, it’s voiceless, not even a stray vibration under his hand. But he can feel when the omega swallows, can feel his pulse, steady and strong.

“Not the best lip reader,” James admits, watching him mouth his name again. Again. Again.

He can tell it’s short.

“I can tell it’s short?” James offers. “John? Ron? Chuck?”

The omega moans, and that, that lets out some vibration. He releases James’s hand and slumps forward, head in his hands again. Vocal chords intact, then? But before he can think any more about that, the bedroom door slides open once more, making them both startle and flick their gazes in that direction. Peter comes padding out, rubbing one eye and still half asleep.

It’s only after stiffening at the other omega’s approach that James realizes how – relaxed his body had been, near comfortable where he’d been leaning against the kitchen counter, pressed in close to the omega’s body heat. Quick and panicked, he scoots away from the counter, away from their silent one, sitting unmoored in the middle of the room. He can feel his heart spike as Peter passes, but it’s old anxiety, easy to mask. He’s mighty tired of the tension, though, that he can’t seem to shake, bone tired of carrying it around. It’s strange and discomfiting to feel suddenly so stiff and unsure, when he’d been – almost okay a moment before, and it’s certainly no fault of Peter’s, it’s entirely his own head’s doing, but he can’t help but long for a return to that brief weightlessness, to the quiet where it’d been just the two of them in that strange late-night peace.

But Peter’s awake for a reason. “You guys hear it too?”

James and the omega both stand.

Glance at each other.

Back to Peter.

“There’s something going on downstairs,” he says, sleep mussed but serious, straight to business. His hair is sticking up in every direction, wild and untamed. There are red indentations on his left cheek, presumably from his pillow or the sheets. He stares in between them both, back and forth, brow furrowed. Steps closer to the other omega, hand coming up automatically to latch onto the omega’s and thread their fingers together. “You okay?” he murmurs, quiet, his face angled to the one he’s asking as he side-eyes James. It’s not accusatory, exactly, but James tenses up anyway. He’d been too close to the omega as they’d talked, close enough to feel his body heat, so close that their legs brushed up against each other. He knew that – well, he kind of knows that – he’s a beta. Knows that the omega doesn’t like betas, knows it’s all warranted, too. Betas haven’t been too great to James, either, come to think of it. Then again, alphas and omegas haven’t either. He still should never have gotten so close, shouldn’t have –

But the omega isn’t using this as an opportunity to kick James out.

Instead, he shuffles forward, reaches out for his flesh hand.

His palm is sweaty, warm. James swallows around emotions he can’t name and grips that hand right back. He stands very still as the omega sidles up into his personal space, presses his nose into James’s chest, rubs his head against his shirt. If he can hear the chaotic, panicked thumping of his heart this close, the omega gives no indication.

Peter tugs the omega backward, a grin in his voice. “Well that’s – good. But, um, I think we should wake up Wade. There’s – you guys can’t hear them? People downstairs? At the – the apartment we found you in?”

The banging.

In all the – emotions of being James, he’d completely forgotten about the banging.

It sounds quiet down there, now. But now that Peter mentions it, James realizes how little of the full picture he has about how these people came together. He’d been okay with the distance, before, an occasionally useful weapon in the corner, keeping watch, obeying the handler. Now that he’s seen glimpses of – of the ghosts, though? Steve, his name, the boy’s name, sickly and fierce. Steve. He isn’t sure the name won’t fade unless he repeats it, a random burst that derails each train of thought. Some part of who he’d been wants to protect that name, the knowledge that he must have been important, that he might be even still. And now that he’s caught glimpses of the omega in front of him, still holding his hand? Now that he feels filled up by the mission set out before him, the mission to determine the man’s name?

He realizes he’d like to – know. Things. About these people.

Where they came from. Why they’re all together.

“You were found… downstairs?” James asks the omega, before he can police the words.

His jaw tenses even as his fist clenches around James’s hand. He nods, once.

“I can tell you about it later, if you both want,” Peter offers. “But we should – figure out what we’re going to do about this, first. I think there’s – three, maybe four people downstairs. They broke down the front door. That’s what woke me, I think. They’re talking about – wondering where their friend is. Your – the beta that owned you. Wade must have cleaned up everything because they aren’t bringing up any blood spatters, so. But they’re – they’re not leaving. Not until their friend gets back. And, well, he’s pretty dead, so I imagine they’re either going to be there a while or they’re going to file a missing person’s report when he never turns up, or –” Peter shrugs.

He steps away, to go wake up Wade.

James finds his voice, left so briefly alone. “We’ll figure out your name, doll.”

The omega squeezes his hand, uses his free one to touch his chin, fingers together, and swipe down and out. He signs that fluttering B again, too.

Thank you, James.

Thank you.

Chapter Text

15. welcome to the team

-

-

-

Weasel’s forehead feels slick, hidden under the swoopy bangs.

He pushes his glasses up his nose.

Takes a deep breath.

Listens, for one sick second, to the voices through the walls.

Light shines from the crack where the door no longer meets the frame, splintered off where the handle might once have locked into place. The hallway looks bleak already. The wiring in the whole damn complex must need tweaking because that same bulb that blinks on Wade’s floor blinks on this one. It looks like the window at the end of the hallway must have leaked water at one point, because the plaster looks like it’s been patched a few dozen times, shoddy and quick and no where near repaired by anybody who’d call themselves a professional. If Weasel didn’t already feel queasy about volunteering to try and reason their way out of this mess, then this creepy ass hallway might have done the job. As it is, his stomach rolls like he’s knocked a few too many good ones back, except he skipped the pleasant buzz and the lowered inhibitions and the fun and shot straight to the horrid morning-after hangover.

Look, he’s not an alcoholic, okay.

He’s just so damn sick of being sober.

They’re in the living room area, based on how clear those voices are, how close they sound. A ding chimes twice and one of them is laughing and talking as he stands up with the creak of old leather, steps loudly through to the kitchen. A microwave opens, he’s laughing again as he pulls something out of it. A rustling bag. Relaxed, cutting up, shooting the shit. He listens to them for a few more sick seconds because he’s not ready to interrupt their – whole thing, and because he kind of wants to know what he’s walking into. Kind of. Mostly he wants to turn tail and run the other way, but the thought of what might happen if anybody else tries tying up this loose end stops him in place. Wade would go straight to the hangman’s noose. James would scowl at the whole lot of them until they tried to remove him from the apartment, and then he’d be going for that hangman’s noose, too. Weasel’s the only one among them who’s both beta and who knows other ways to tie up loose ends. Sometimes.

If his way doesn’t work, Wade and James stand at the ready with Peter’s supersonic bat ears right inside the stairwell.

It’ll be fine.

It’s all – fine.

They’re talking about Tony Stark. Of course, who isn’t? The man kind of lit a fuse and then skedaddled to parts unknown while the world rocked through the resulting boom. Shit, he can’t blame the man for fleeing or hiding out or whatever-the-fuck he’s doing that’s kept him quiet and untraceable in the days since his big reveal. The last thing on earth anybody wants to be is omega, especially after living for-fucking-ever as a big wig notable beta public figure. Weasel isn’t sure what the self-proclaimed genius is planning or how he plans to make waves if he’s hiding out, but the whole world’s imploding on itself waiting for his next move. Nobody can agree on how to handle this or what to do with an omega billionaire whose name is literally bedazzled on the side of skyscrapers and who won most eligible bachelor three years straight. Normally, omegas hidden from the law are apprehended immediately and the people who hid them killed in front of them, a public punishment to deter anybody else from harboring any bright ideas. But Howard and Maria Stark are already dead, and Tony Stark? He’s not just another squirreled away rando who can be trussed up and sold. He’s – rich, for one thing, and there’s all sorts of litigation and nasty implications tied up in arresting or enslaving someone who’s – who’s a someone.

Weasel hopes the poor idiot stays hidden a while longer.

Especially since every beta nutjob in existence seems to think they’d be fully capable of taking Stark down a peg or two, showing him who’s boss. Weasel feels gross even reading the crazy shit people are claiming they want to do to the man on every server on the internet. Betas suck. He feels a little gross now, too, that same vile nausea that has him holding a hand to his stomach, breathing through his mouth to avoid smelling any of the mildew that saturates this piss-stained building. The betas in the apartment spew the same shit about Stark he’s already read countless times from countless nobodies.

– know he’d look so pretty bouncing on my dick –

You’d have to train that ego outa him, first –

Yeah, and we all know you wouldn’t have the patience for –

Oh screw you guys, I’ve trained willful omegas before –

Yeah right! By the time they get to you, they’re all sloppy and loose and fucked-out.

Weasel’s head is a mantra of curse words and little else. It sounds like four people, friendly with each other, familiar with each other, taking turns sharing what all they’d do to Stark if they found him. Three males, one female, by the sound their voices and by the… specifics they offer about their anatomy when they detail shit things they’d make Stark do. He’s not learning anything new here that Peter hadn’t already told him with his bat ears, but still Weasel hesitates, standing like an overgrown baby outside the cracked door. It’s fucking stupid that the first time his backbone shows up was about ten minutes prior, when they were all up there wondering how to handle the people down here waiting for their dead friend to show up. They’d been contemplating murder, which would be fine normally, but in this case it’d be a shit ton more loose ends and trails down rabbit holes to follow, and with Hydra out there looking for James…

It's not a risk Weasel wants to take. Not unless they have to.

But it looks like his backbone only showed up for that one, panicked minute.

Because now?

He’s fucking freaking out, okay, this isn’t his gig –

“Shit,” one of them curses, hard and rough. There’s the sound of a zipper opening and clothes jostling, so loud that Weasel flinches in the hallway, eyes widening in horror because now he’s going to have to walk into nakedness, somebody with their dick out, what the fuck, what, is he pulling out his dick in front of his buddies? Why the fuck –

This isn’t his gig –

The man moans, then, grunting, complaining to one of his friends because talking about Stark’s got him all hot and bothered and there’s no way he’s waiting around for Clitty’s loose hole, he’ll make do with – there’s some initial arguing, they were supposed to wait for their friend to get home with Clitty first, they had the whole night planned out, but they’re all juiced up from the idea of fucking Stark sloppy, so they all – and then they –

Weasel’s heart is going to burst out his chest.

Because there’s another, now, another voice, quiet and whispering, begging because they’re telling them to beg. Weasel shuffles closer to the door and dares to peek into the crack, and of course this is exactly what it sounds like. Of course there’s some super gross non-con orgy of assholes happening, all because he couldn’t interrupt them one minute sooner because it turns out he’s the asshole, here, the giant cowardly asshole who can’t walk through a fucking door – peeking through isn’t a cakewalk in and of itself, because knowing this shit is happening off yonder is one shitty thing, but seeing it play out right in front of him? This is why he avoids a ride in the subway or pretty much all public outings entirely, why he stays behind his bar and sicks mercs on these assholes from afar. He’s not equipped to watch – this. To see violence is nothing compared to watching three men and one woman tower over a dirt-smudged, unkempt naked lady, their leering faces twisted into something ugly, something mean. They’ve told her where to lay, splayed out across a coffee table with her head hanging over one side, veiled by long dark, greasy hair. As he peeks through the door, the woman grabs a fistful of the omega’s hair and yanks her head up, tells her to wiggle for them. Grunting, the woman obeys without a moment’s hesitation, straight-up starts wiggling her ass for the two men standing behind her. They laugh, pants down around their ankles as they –

Okay, okay, no, nope, he’s –

Weasel shoves the door open and stumbles inside.

Like a unit of evil robots, they all turn to look at the doorway, at him. Staring with their dicks out or a handful of omega hair, and Weasel wishes he’d just let his beastly alpha friend fuck these dudes up, okay, he wishes the floor would swallow him whole right fucking now –

“Uh, hey,” he says instead, sweating.

They all look at each other. Back to him. One of the men says, “Hey?”

While another one demands, “Who the hell are you?”

None of them back away from the omega. In fact, one of the men behind the girl drags his dick over the crack of her ass, which is absolutely not something Weasel is looking at, no, nope, he’s staring at the lady beta, the one at the girl’s head, whose grip on that hair tightens and she pulls the girl’s head up as far as it’ll go, pulling it taut. Weasel had a whole thing he’d planned to say to prevent these fuckers from getting murdered by his friends, but now that he’s in front of them, he mostly just wants them to die. Think about the loose ends, he reminds himself. Loose ends, loose ends, Hydra, think about Hydra, worrying about these fuckers’ family or friends looking for them, having to go fix that, think about James, who definitely is never going back to Hydra, it's never going to happen, Weasel has to man the fuck up and –

“Who are you guys?” he says instead, parroting them. “Uh, I’m a neighbor. Did you break into Joe’s house? Do I need to call the cops?” He’s pulled his phone from his pocket before he’s done talking, grips it hard because he’s sweaty and he’s pretty sure if he drops it, he’s not gonna want to bend over in front of this crowd to retrieve it.

The man standing off to the side holds up a hand. The one not gripping his own dick, yikes. “No, no, we – we’re buddies of his.”

“Buddies who broke down his door?”

Pants Down 1 shrugs. “He hasn’t been answering our calls. We were worried.”

“Still worried,” the woman pipes up, squinting over at Weasel. “You seen him anywhere?”

Weasel shrugs, too. “Nah, he took off. Left me his key, asked me to look after the place.”

“Took off?”

“Why didn’t he tell us?”

Weasel keeps everything delightfully vague. Vague is good. Vague is safe. He holds up the key to the apartment as proof that what he’s saying is one hundred percent truth and nothing but the truth, keeping his eyes carefully away from the naked girl on the table. “Yeah, said he needed a vacation? I don’t know, man, but he left me to look after the place and now his door’s broken and I don’t know if I’m trusting what you’re putting down.” He raises his eyebrows at the scene in front of him, gesturing with his phone at what they’re… doing. “You all don’t exactly look like concerned friends?”

One of the guys, pudgy and short with a stubby little stiffy, grunts as he jacks himself, slow and languid movements. “To be honest, I’m mostly annoyed he bailed without saying anything. And a little pissed off he took Clitty with him.”

“His omega,” Pants Down 1 clarifies, when Weasel looks blank. “Mute little thing?”

Weasel swallows around air.

“Oh,” Weasel says. His voice sounds faint, but nobody else seems to notice. “I didn’t know he… had a… name…”

Everybody laughs, chuckling like he said something funny.

Everyone except the naked girl, whose breath comes in short, shallow pants, eyes clenched shut tight as she grips the edge of the coffee table with dirt-smudged fingers, holding onto it like she’s desperate to hold onto something. Her throat’s exposed where the other woman’s pulling her hair taut, head lifted off the table by that tangle of dark knots. The knife he squirreled away up his sleeve feels heavy, his fingers twitching because he can see where this is going and it’s nowhere pretty.

“His hole’s loose like a cunt,” the man behind the omega says, grinning.

“Not only that, but it was his stage name. You know, he used to –”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard this story before.” Weasel can’t stomach listening to them talk about their omega pal this way, could do with never hearing about the horrors he lived through as a circus omega again, thanks.

Shit.

The omega in the room shouldn’t be here. See, if she weren’t here, this shit would be a piece of cake. Tell these assholes their friend’s off vacationing, get them to leave believing it. But now if they leave, they’ll be taking an omega with them, one who isn’t looking too happy to be in their less-than-consensual company. Shit shit shit – he can’t leave her with them, can’t let them leave with her. Not after their whole powwow about wanting to save omegas and create change and – Wade might literally murder Weasel if he lets this girl remain enslaved for the sake of tying up loose ends. Not to mention James, who’s been a slave of his own for – for too long. His brain conjures up the image of his big, quiet beta splayed over this damn coffee table in the girl’s place and Weasel nearly sways on his feet, tunnel visioning into panic. James was once where this girl is now, their omega who’s never being called Clitty again was once where this girl is now… shit, Peter was once where this omega is now.

He takes a deep breath.

Interrupts these guys while they’re still talking about Clitty, things Weasel’s desperate not to hear.

“This would be a good time to come help me,” he says, overly loud.

The omega’s swallow is loud in the sudden quiet.

The betas glance at each other, back to Weasel. The woman drops the omega’s hair. Well, she sort of shoves the omega’s head down as she drops her hair, casual violence against someone who’s powerless here.

“Come help you?” the woman asks, all raised eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Weasel says, damn near yelling as he raises his voice again. “Come help me! This is the signal, you morons! May day, may day – uh.” He glances behind him at the open doorway, at the deafening quiet out in the hallway. Where the fuck is his backup? Where the fuck –

Everyone is looking at him like he’s the idiot here.

Weasel’s face feels hot. He takes a shaky step forward. “… no offence, guys, but I’m gonna take your omega.”

They all glance at each other again.

“Are you stoned?” one of the guys asks, finally.

At least he’s putting his dick away, zipping up in the awkward silence.

God, Weasel wishes he were.

He sighs. “No,” he feels every bit of that answer, too, drooping in place as he sighs again. “I’m entirely too sober. No, look, your friend Joe’s actually very dead.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have led with that, but it gets their attention well enough. Weasel takes a nervous, shuffling step back toward the front door, toward where he’s bound to be getting some backup any fucking time now, c’mon guys, while Joe’s four friends are busy tucking themselves away and spouting out a variety of exclamations and questions and one of them takes what looks like a very threatening step toward Weasel, fists clenched. When Weasel yells for help again instead of answering any of their questions, the other three are quick to follow his lead, rounding on him until they’re within striking distance. One of them goes so far as to grab Weasel’s shirt, shoves him against the wall near the front door hard enough to knock his head into the cheap plaster. His breath gets knocked out of him and he scrambles to get the fucking knife to drop from his sleeve, catches it before it can clatter to the floor.

Before any of them can see it coming, Weasel white knuckles the handle.

He slices it upward, slashing across the man’s wrist, whose grip releases with a holler.

He’s ducking out of way when the others try catching him, stumbling onto his knees and then back up, running for the kitchen which doesn’t exactly give him much in the way of time or space to come up with a plan. None of them have weapons, which is – good, but Weasel isn’t exactly a professional knife thrower, himself. He holds it out in front of him like a shield, adrenaline and fear heavy in his gut, working through him as he yells out for help again, teeth gritted when one of these assholes laughs at him for doing so, tells him nobody’s coming. He thinks maybe they should have come up with a better system than relying on Peter’s bat ears to know when there’s trouble, wonders what could have happened that’s preventing his murder-happy bodyguards from barreling through the wall like deranged Kool-Aid men.

If he can just get out into the hallway, make a run for the stairwell –

The woman exclaims, “You’re crazy!”

“What’d you do to Joe?” the guy with the slash across his wrist demands, holding his other hand around the blood that’s slowly seeping out from under his fingers. They’ve got him cornered against a countertop, the stove mere inches away. Not that that helps at all, since he can’t burn this place down without burning Wade’s apartment down along with it. He’s holding the knife out and stabbing it in their direction when they approach, but he’s outnumbered and suddenly very sure that he should have brought a gun to this knife fight. Several guns. He manages to stab the short man in the shoulder in the ensuing scuffle, but they get the best of him, grabbing him with one guy holding onto each arm, the other wrestling the knife away from his sweaty hands and dropping it to the tiled floor.

The one he originally cut open punches him in the gut while the other two hold him.

Weasel grunts, wheezing as he’s punched a second time, the wind knocked out of him.

Not my fucking gig –

His whole body braces itself for the punch that’s aimed at his jaw, now. He closes his eyes and turns his face to the side, wriggling in their hold even though it’s pointless, muscles tight and stiff as he strains to break free, surrounded by asshole betas who –

thunk

Just as quickly as he was grabbed, the hands fall away from him, wetness splattering across his tense, clenched face. Weasel stumbles, eyes shooting open to the screams of the short guy, who’s suddenly grabbing one of his friends by the arm and yanking him down behind the kitchen island. The other man who’d been in front of him with his fists falls against Weasel with all his weight, slumped forward, and it takes a panicked second to take in the fact that there’s a fucking arrowhead pierced clean through one of the man’s eyes. Weasel might squeak out a shocked yelp, stumbling away from the body with a hand reaching out to grab at the counter behind him, shuffling away like it’s a snake that’ll bite him. The woman beta’s thrown herself back to the living room, grabs the naked lady on the coffee table up by her hair, yanking the shaking omega in front of her like a human shield as another arrow is nocked back, aimed.

Their omega stands in the doorway holding his bow, steady, quiet.

Expressionless.

The short guy behind the counter scrambles on the ground for Weasel’s knife, his friend popping his head up over the island to peek out at the doorway. Weasel goes for the knife, too, but there’s a dead guy in the way and his shoes slip on the dude’s blood pooled red on the tiled floor beneath them. He’s literally slip-sliding across the floor when Legolas lets loose another arrow, this one shooting straight into a glass cookie jar on the counter because the beta manages to duck down behind the counter in the nick of time, narrowly avoiding getting his own brain spattered across Weasel’s stumbling ass.

Their omega is quick to draw another arrow, but as soon as that last one flies through the air, both betas are scrambling from behind the counter and throwing themselves toward the doorway, hoping to tackle the omega to the ground before he can get another shot in. Weasel grabs a piece of that broken cookie jar and lobs it at one of their heads, missing by mere margins and hitting him in the back with it instead. It does little besides piss him off more than he already was, so he grabs up another piece of the chipped porcelain, throws it too. They enter into a weird, panicked minute where Weasel’s throwing bits of shattered cookie jar at one asshole beta while the other one managed to reach their omega and they’re grappling on the ground. The beta’s trying to get the bow out of their omega’s hands. Weasel sees him take an elbow to the face for his efforts in between throws, cheers the omega on from his spot in the chaos, even as he knows that there’s no way their omega is strong enough to take someone in a fight right now.

He's sure giving it his all, though.

He whacks his bow into the dude’s face, wields it like a blunt force instrument, muscles straining as he refuses to let go of the bow, refuses to give it up. The female beta is still holding onto her human shield, trying to shuffle them around the wrestling match taking place in the living room, wide-eyed as she works them toward the doorway. Weasel runs out of pieces of porcelain and starts chucking cookies, yelling at the bitch not to leave like that’ll somehow stop her.

She almost escapes, too. Would have made off with the naked, trembling omega, too, except that she’s met in the doorway by Peter of all people. Peter, who hardly stops to take in the scene before he’s shooting off white gunk from his wrists and straight-up plastering people to the floor. Weasel stops with a chocolate chip cookie in his hand, mid-throw, to gape at the boy as he throws himself into the scuffle on the floor and knocks the beta off their omega, knocks him off and then webs him to the couch, wriggling and writhing as the enraged beta tries and fails to break free.

“Where the hell is –?”

Weasel doesn’t quite get the question out before Peter’s huffing, clearly winded. “Hydra,” is all he says, eyes serious and somber.

Peter eyes the cookie in his hand, then. “Taking a snack break?”

“Oh haha, very funny.” Although now that he mentions it –

Around a bite of the cookie that would have just gone to waste, Weasel asks, “What d’you mean Hydra? They’re here? Now?” Literally at the exact moment Weasel needed them not to be? Jesus Christ on a – okay, this is bad. Right? This can’t be good. Fear settles like dead weight in his gut as he demands, “Where’s James? And why didn’t you mention there was an omega in here with these goons?” Does he sound too accusatory? His face is scowling out his irritation, he can feel it settling there like his default expression, factory reset, but he’s maybe coming down off some serious spikes of adrenaline and he’s maybe not thinking as clearly as he should, still riding the panic of where’s James, they can’t have captured – where’s James – “My plan to get them to leave never would have worked with –”

Peter looks – rumpled, now that Weasel’s taking it all in. “I didn’t know,” he says. He takes a shuffling step away from Weasel, wincing like he’s – maybe scared, a subtle movement where he angles his body slightly away from Weasel, angles it toward their omega who’s picked himself up and has moved to place himself beside the other omega in the room, the girl who looks – uh, not okay. Peter swallows, his hands shaking when he reaches up to fiddle with that collar around his neck. He talks without looking at Weasel, voice hurried and harsh. “I didn’t exactly hear her until they made her start talking, and by that point you were already – maybe this can wait, we should – can we –” Peter gestures toward the naked lady who’s shaking like a leaf, held up by their omega who’s got one arm around her waist, has thrown one of her arms around his twig-thin shoulders.

Weasel’s never claimed to be a good person, but he feels like the worst sort of dick right now, with three omegas giving him various looks of – of uncertainty, maybe, or in the girl’s case, sheer terror.

Peter’s right, of course. Get the girl away from the three betas currently stuck to the floor.

Figure out where James is, what happened with Hydra.

Kill the three betas currently stuck to the floor?

All more important things.

He pushes his glasses up his nose, shoves the rest of the cookie into his piehole.

Maybe that way he’ll stop saying stupid shit.

-

-

-

“Oh thank fuck!” are the first words out of Weasel’s mouth.

Peter and their omega help their new lady friend into Wade’s apartment first, with Weasel taking up the rear, but as soon as he’s inside and makes sure the door’s locked up tight, he’s frantic in his search for James, finds the beta sitting at stiff attention on the couch, right as rain. Or, well, right as he ever looks. Wade’s voice is loud and rambling, muffled through the walls as he talks in the bathroom. Whether he’s talking on the phone or to himself, it’s never a sure bet. Peter and the omegas disappear immediately into the bedroom, shutting it without so much as a backwards glance. Weasel takes long, quick strides over to James and plops down beside him, fingers literally twitching with the want to reach out and feel for himself that James is here, alive, uncaptured. He settles for pressing their legs together, nudging him in that hard, unyielding metal arm with his own much squishier shoulder. James sits quietly and lets the contact continue, maybe even nudges back in the briefest of movements, his own hands in loose fists on his knees. Robocop stares straight ahead, head angled down so that his hair dangles in front of his face, shields his eyes from direct view.

“Peter said Hydra was here, and I thought –”

Weasel isn’t sure he thought much of anything. It’d been all feelings leading instead.

Wade’s a bad fucking influence.

James’ voice is low and monotone. “Five known Hydra agents were descending the stairs and happened to recognize me. I think they were as surprised as we were, but one of them had my – my trigger words and immediately began reciting them.” Weasel winces, can imagine what that must have felt like, can imagine the fear that would have gripped him, and he wasn’t even the one those words would have twisted, captured, taken. James adds a measured, informative, “I grabbed him by the throat and tossed him over the railing, where he fell silent at the bottom of the stairs. Wade and I proceeded to fight the other four while Peter…”

“Came to rescue me?”

“He couldn’t get past the agents in the stairwell, so he – climbed the wall.”

Weasel’s eyebrows do a little climbing, themselves. “Climbed, as in –?”

James shrugs, the motion light against Weasel’s shoulder. “He crawled across it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He never told us you were in danger. He crawled up, presumably to return here and make sure nobody made it all the way to our omega. You needed to be rescued?”

Weasel scoffs, maybe hunches into the couch a bit. “Course not. I had it handled.”

But the look James gives him is part questioning, part accepting, and Weasel sighs, ends up telling him the whole sorry story. How he’d failed at getting those losers to leave because they had an omega with them, how he’d called for backup, how nobody showed. He’d got in a good few swipes before they’d cornered him, and then – Weasel lifts his shirt up, takes in the dark splotchy bruising that’s already blooming across his stomach. He’s quick to hide it, smoothing his shirt back over the expanse of throbbing soreness, spewing nonsense about how he could have handled himself just fine if it’d been one on one, thanks, but James doesn’t seem to be buying his half-assed blustering. The super soldier springs up and promptly returns to Weasel with a bag of frozen peas clutched in his flesh hand. His mouth does this thing where it almost quirks into a little smile, eyes serious and blank through his curtain of hair. “It’ll help with the swelling,” the beta tells him.

Weasel accepts it, grateful and a little – awkward.

Christ, this guy.

“Look who’s on the other side of the pea bag now,” he mutters to himself.

James folds himself back into his spot, his metal arm instantly leeching warmth from Weasel’s arm. It’s quiet for a few minutes, besides the noises coming from the bathroom. It sounds like someone is in there with – no, surely Wade’s just talking to those boxes of his again, surely he doesn’t have –

“Hey, you guys killed all those Hydra assholes, right?”

He’s suddenly got a bad feeling.

James sighs beside him. “All but one.”

“All but – what the shit?” Weasel exclaims, jostling the bag of peas currently soaking into his shirt. He’s ill-equipped for all this shit, completely ill-equipped to handle evil organizations bent on world domination, or people damn near raping a girl right in front of him, or – or, shit, James existing in the same apartment as one of the goons after him, they can’t have him back, finders fucking keepers, Weasel won’t let them get their grubby little hooks back into – “Hydra is here right now? In our – in Wade’s fucking bathroom? Why?”

James doesn’t get the chance to respond.

The bathroom door is opening, Wade’s voice growing louder. The alpha’s got one hand wrapped around a man’s wrist, is dragging him from the bathroom and out into the living room. He’s not wearing a shirt, white bandages wrapped around his torso like a mummy with blood blooming a bright red patch at his side. He’s as tall as Wade, maybe a hair taller, even, and Weasel stands as they approach, tense and angry as he stands between this newcomer and James, makes sure the beta stays behind him. It’s irrational to think that it matters, but at least it makes him feel better about the whole thing. The Hydra agent gives him a weary once-over, bright blue eyes tracking up and down Weasel’s body before they land on his face. He shakes his wrist out of Wade’s grasp, runs it through his wild untamed blond hair that falls across his sweaty forehead, and then he holds it out to Weasel like they’re old buddies, like they’re at a business meeting, like it’s a casual Tuesday luncheon.

“Jack Hammer, right?” he says, and his voice is nasally and nervous, completely at odds with his jock-like appearance. Weasel ignores the hand, ignores Wade, too, who’s waving at him from behind the Hydra agent so casually in their living room and is mouthing a loud ‘be nice!’ to boot. The agent’s smile droops in the face of Weasel’s silence, and he drops his hand back to his side. “You totally wrecked our operating system, which was – pretty funny, actually. It’s cool to meet the man behind that whole big fiasco. I’m Bob.”

Weasel looks over big-blond-Bob’s shoulder and scowls at Wade.

“Who the hell is this guy?” he asks the alpha.

Wade says, “Didn’t you hear him? He’s Bob!”

“He’s Hydra!” Weasel waves a distraught hand at the agent, whose shoulders sag. Has he entered into some bizarro alternate dimension where they’re suddenly friends with Hydra? Where they invite agents over for tea and crumpets? “Are we taking him hostage? Because hostages require restraints, especially hostages we take from the evil organization hunting us. Hunting James! We can’t just let this guy – and why hasn’t he eaten his own cyanide pill and died already? They’re supposed to kill themselves when they get captured, all hail Hydra and shit –”

Bob’s face is sallow, pale. He blanches and visibly hunches his big shoulders.

“You wouldn’t believe how nerve-wracking it is to have a cyanide pill embedded in your own cheekbone,” his mutter sounds half-petulant. “I can’t even eat steak anymore without feeling like I’m gonna accidentally kill myself –”

Wade sidles up beside the agent, pats him on the shoulder. “That’s rough.”

Then he tells Weasel, “Bob here helped us kill those other agents. He’s also the guy who helped me escape that one time Hydra captured me – when was it? Back in the good old Deadpool days – ooh, did you get into too much trouble for that one, Bob?”

“Nah,” Bob’s smile looks a little dopey as he stares back at Wade, near beaming. “They just figured I was incompetent.”

Weasel’s brow furrows. He takes his glasses off, cleans them against his damp shirt.

Puts them back on.

“And so… what? Bob’s… staying?”

Bob looks awfully hopeful. “If you all let me. Hydra sort of sucks, and Deadpool, he’s – so cool.”

Wade cackles, slings an arm over Bob’s shoulders, giggling. “I’m cool! It’s about time someone around here thought that.” Wade squeezes Bob and leans into him like they really are old friends. Weasel swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, scowling. He assumed he knew all of Wade’s buddies… he does vaguely remember the alpha talking about someone in Hydra making sure his restraints were buckled loose after a particularly bloody torture session, about how he’d escaped using that same agent’s guns after wrestling the weapons off the man.

“I also don’t think I’d be allowed back,” Bob adds. “Now that I’ve let myself get captured.”

Weasel glances over his shoulder at James, who’s sitting still and quiet behind him.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?”

“I will comply,” James responds, level.

Weasel groans out loud. “None of that, now, man. Do you want this dude gone?”

James shrugs. It’s impossible to tell what he really thinks about all of this, but what he says is a quiet, measured, “Wade asked me this, too. I’ll tell you the same thing I told him. Anyone who wants to leave Hydra… should have the chance to leave them.”

“Okay, sure, but did Bob here ever hurt you?”

“No, man, I wouldn’t do –” Bob protests, voice edging back into anxiety.

“He did not,” James says.

Weasel takes a moment or two to process this. James, saying this agent never personally hurt him. It doesn’t escape him that James never claimed to be comfortable with this situation, but he’s making an effort despite that. Making an effort because Bob apparently wants to escape Hydra just like James did, and fuck, since when did Weasel surround himself with such mature ass people? If this were up to him, he’d be kicking this jock-like agent of evil straight out the door, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. But Wade’s looking all hopeful, too, and now that Weasel stops to fully wonder why, the answer couldn’t be clearer. Betas might not be able to smell scents as well as the other secondary genders, but it’s always hard to miss the stench of alpha. He’d been figuring the stench belonged only to Wade, but – but no. There’s something less familiar about the fire smell overpowering the room, something new, a hint of it his beta nose could easily miss. Bob’s got all the physical indications of being alpha, too. Plus, Hydra assuming Bob was incompetent? Alphas tend to be the ones to get that assumption.

Wade must already know the answer to this, but Weasel has to ask, “What about omegas? Where do you stand there, Bob?”

“My late wife was omega,” Bob says, quietly.

It takes a second.

But then Weasel’s whole insides freeze up. “Wife?”

“Not legally, of course. But – yeah. For all intents and purposes. We were married. Had a few kids, too. She was – a really great mom.”

No, nope, no. Weasel’s too sober to ask a single damn thing about what must have happened there. Omegas aren’t allowed to be – wives. Spouses with children and a household and – just, no. He’s never heard anyone say what Bob just claimed. Wade turns a bit so he can wrap his other arm around Bob, then, folding the big man into a hug. He whispers something about T.G.I. Friday’s, and Weasel just – sags like he’s a marionette with his strings cut, falls back to the couch with his head in his hands. He’s too tired to fight this fight, but there’s no end in sight. They’ll fight it anyway. That’s all living is, really. One big, exhausting fight.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, and if he sounds awfully lackluster about it, nobody calls him on it. James presses his shoulder into his, then, offering silent support, perhaps. He watches Bob get teary-eyed in their alpha’s embrace and picks up the frozen peas, presses the crinkling bag into his bruises.

“Welcome to the team, Bob.”

Wade’s head pops up off the man’s shoulder. He grins over at Weasel. Gives a thumbs up.

Welcome to the team, indeed.

Christ, they’re going to need a bigger safehouse.

Chapter Text

16. butterfly kisses

-

-

-

“No.”

The girl jerks herself away from them both and bolts for the corner of the bedroom, presses her back against the wall and bares her teeth at them, looking like a half-feral stray with her greasy limp hair lying in matted strings around her blotchy, bruised face. Her hands tremble where she’s got them pressed against the wall, but her eyes are hard. Steely. Clint tugs the bow over his head and sets it on the bed, plops the quiver of arrows on top of it, and grabs Peter by the wrist when the other omega moves toward the girl, tugging on him until he stills. It’s weird that this works. By all accounts, Peter’s on the higher end of this totem pole, shouldn’t be listening to Clint like he's got any sort of power here, yet somehow Peter does listen to him, stops moving toward the girl. He even turns his hand and links their fingers, gives Clint’s palm a squeeze. Nothing about how things work here will ever make sense, but that’s fine. Anything that would have made sense would also have hurt. He’ll take nonsensical over – everything else any day of the week.

“You’re going to be okay,” Peter’s saying beside him.

The girl’s in the corner of the room furthest away from them, pressed in close to a floor lamp that’s leaning from where she bumped it.

“Yeah right.” The girl’s lip curls. “Pull the other one.”

Somehow, Clint gets the sense that she isn’t buying Peter’s reassurances.

Peter’s hand tightens as he sucks in a breath. “You are,” he says, quieter this time. “Things are different here. Nobody’s going to –”

“I’m not listening to a word you say, pet.”

It’s Clint’s turn to tighten his grip when Peter visibly flinches away from the sheer vitriol laced into that last word. It’s also Clint’s turn to take a step forward, tugging Peter slightly behind him because – because of no good reason he can figure, but there’s an instinct in his gut driving his steps, the omega inside him all twisted up and split down the middle. Help the girl, it’s saying, even as it’s determined to shield Peter from what she’s saying, from how she’s saying it. Peter might be a pet, but he’s – kind. Sweet. He hasn’t used his position to negatively impact Clint in any way whatsoever. He hasn’t been trying to get Clint into trouble, hasn’t been trying to curry favor by throwing Clint to the wolves. If anything, Peter’s only ever done the opposite. If that mess downstairs proved anything, it’s that Peter can damn well take care of himself. But he shouldn’t have to. Not here, in his own bedroom that he’s been so easily sharing with Clint, where he’s helped Clint through a heat without thought, without asking anything in return.

This is weird, too, Clint thinks.

Wanting to protect a pet.

There’s no sense of urgency here, no sense of competition, fear, dread. He’s not desperate to climb the ladder, to try to prove himself or win out over Peter. He couldn’t, anyway. But even if he thought he stood even half a chance at earning himself one of those coveted collars, Clint wouldn’t try. Peter deserves it more than he ever would. And he – he’s fine, like this. As long as he’s allowed to stay here with these people, and as long as these people never turn into – normal people who use their whores, he thinks he might even like it here.

“How about you?” The girl’s looking at Clint, now, eyes sparking and angry.

“You’ll tell it to me straight,” she says. “You’re walking bowlegged. Been fucked recently? Knotted by whatever alpha’s stinking up the place? I thought the betas were bad enough, but this is –” Her head shakes, a violent shudder. “This is sick. They’ve got you dressed up like dolls. What’s hiding under all those clothes, anyway? Cuts? Bruises?” Her eyes are the brightest thing about her, glinting blue as sharp as her words. Her head tilts. “Something worse?”

“We’re on your side, here,” Peter tries to say.

But she’s not on theirs.

“Not gonna let the real omega talk, pet?”

“He doesn’t!” Peter exclaims. “And I’m not a pet, Wade isn’t – our alpha isn’t –”

Clint huffs. It’s pointless to talk like this. She’s not about to believe two omegas, not about to take their word for it, not with Peter’s collar, not with the way they’re dressed in clothes and she’s – cornered. Clint doesn’t even trust all their words, yet. Words lie. No, what worked for him was – well. Wade and Peter. Wade’s voice. Peter’s presence. Their scents combined. He tugs on Peter’s hand, pulls him toward the door. Peter follows his lead after telling the girl she can cover up with something if she’s cold, if she wants to, if she – but then Peter’s sighing, giving up at her rumbling growl. He follows Clint out into the living room where everyone’s clustered together in the rapidly shrinking space. James is on his spot on the couch, of course, with Weasel beside him, pressed thigh to thigh. The smaller beta is on his laptop, typing away and muttering to himself, wild-eyed behind his thick-rimmed glasses. As soon as the bedroom door opens, though, James stands, takes a shuffling step toward them.

“I heard about how good you are with that bow,” James says.

Clint tenses, gripping Peter’s hand.

It hadn’t gone so well the last time he shot someone in the head with an arrow.

But nobody looks or smells mad.

Wade was in the kitchen, packing a big black duffle by throwing boxes and cans of food into it, but as soon as Clint and Peter come out to the living room, the alpha is bounding over to them, meeting them in the doorway with an exclaimed, excited, “Pumpkin! I’m so sad I missed your mini boss battle downstairs! I heard Weas was your damsel in distress and you pew pewed those fuckers dead.” Here Wade makes some finger guns, grinning as he mimes shooting people. He pauses, leaning into Peter who rubs his head on the alpha’s shoulder, then adds with his eyes on Clint, “How’re you feeling? Scale of one to ten, one being oh-god-I-just-killed-a-person and ten being yay-I-just-killed-a-fucking-awful-beta-and-made-the-world-marginally-less-shitty-in-the-process?”

After a moment of wary hesitation, Clint releases Peter’s hand to hold up nine fingers.

Wade beams at him, his scars stretching around his smile.

“I was not a damsel, asshole,” Weasel protests from the couch, scowling.

Wade peers around Clint and Peter, stage whispers, “Our damsel looks a little distressed.”

Weasel flips the alpha off.

There’s another alpha in the room, one who smells like blood, nursing an injury to his abdomen that’s tinged red through once-white bandages. He’s almost as big as Wade, but lean, less stocky, and his big frame takes up the window where he’s standing beside it, shirtless. He doesn’t smell as – potent as Wade does, but still the stench grates on Clint’s omega, makes him want to steer clear. Clint side-eyes the newcomer, stares him down.

The alpha waves. “Hi! I’m Bob.”

Wade adds, “He’s Bob.”

“That explains exactly nothing,” Peter says. It says something about the trust Peter has in their alpha that he only tilts his head toward the unexplained newcomer and leans into Wade, says a calm, earnest, “But hi, Bob. I’m – my name is Peter.”

It also says something about his lack of trust in said newcomer that he offers his own name up with clear hesitation, that brief, stilted stutter before he’d said it. To the new alpha’s credit, he doesn’t kick up an argument for why omegas shouldn’t have names, don’t have names, doesn’t even laugh or scoff or react at all, except to ask Clint for his name, too. Clint isn’t sure how to relay it, how to react to being asked, ducks his head a bit to avoid that curious stare.

James comes to his rescue. “We’re working on figuring it out,” he says.

And that’s – something else entirely.

Apparently they’re working on securing a new safehouse, somewhere bigger and further away from the hydra goons who found them here. Wade’s alpha’s going stir crazy being cooped up with no real way to protect everyone, a sort of tension in the air that everyone can feel, tangible and stifling. Clint can’t say he’s ever seen this side to alphas before, can’t say he knows this is normal, but Wade reacts to pressure by pretending it isn’t happening and by moving constantly. He’s pacing and packing and popping by to check on everyone one at a time, one on one, brief interactions where Wade presses in close and noses at each one of their necks. He starts off by talking, of course, fills the space up with his words and his bluster and his fidgeting hands. He gradually shuffles closer while he’s babbling, seemingly without conscious effort. By the time it’s Clint’s turn for the one on one, Clint’s munching on celery sticks under the kitchen counter and watching Weasel, who’s basically bickering with himself out loud as he picks through various safehouse options on his laptop. Oh, sure, he seems to be talking to James, but James isn’t responding or offering any input whatsoever, and Weasel isn’t exactly waiting around for the other beta to speak up.

When Wade plops down beside him, Clint startles, a celery stick hanging from his lips.

“Shit, sorry,” Wade says as he wedges his big frame under the counter beside Clint, wriggling until he practically folds himself into a pretzel to join Clint. Clint scoots over a bit to give the big alpha room, surprised by his own lack of fear to be thigh to thigh with an alpha in a relatively confined space. Wade looks out at the betas on the couch, keeps his gaze off Clint as he says, “Don’t wanna scare you, Pumpkin, but it looks like we’ll be hittin’ the road soon, and I just need to make sure you’re up for it? Or see how you’re doing in a more general sense? Gotta say, our new omega friend in there isn’t exactly happy to be here. Peter mentioned she was a little – ok, maybe a lot angry. Said some things.”

After a second’s pause, Clint unfreezes and crunches through the celery in his mouth.

Wade seems to be waiting for Clint to respond, which is – weird.

Abruptly, the alpha switches gears. His hands tap, tap, tap on his knees. “And I heard from James that you’re learning sign language which is fucking awesome. I know a little, but I figure we can all do with a lesson or twelve. Our resident robocop’s agreed to teach us all so we’ll all be able to chat better! I figure if you’re up to it, you and James can work on figuring out your name while we’re on our epic road trip. Good way to pass the time… um, are you –” Wade cuts himself off, fidgets beside him for a moment, eyes hooded. Clint can feel himself going numb all over at the abrupt change in the alpha, at the sudden stillness and – quiet. He seems serious, all the sudden, like he’s trying to figure out how to say something important. Clint’s mind flashes immediately to how much work he is to deal with, to the sign language and the lessons Wade mentioned and the fact that it’d be so much easier just to – to get another omega, to get one less broken, less used up, less damaged. Nothing good lasts, and Clint’s known all along that he’s not meant for this sort of good. He’s not meant to feel comfortable next to an alpha, not meant to nibble real people food, clothed and unbound, warm. It’s been only a matter of time this whole time, and now, now that this little pack seems to be packing up, moving out… it’d be a good time to cut him loose, wouldn’t it?

A convenient time to leave the broken omega behind.

Or sell him off. They wouldn’t make much off him, a few hundred maybe.

But that’s several tanks of gas, isn’t it?

Plus, one less mouth to feed.

Wade’s been silent too long. This is – this is it. Has to be. Clint’s the weak link here, the burden with nothing to offer. Peter’s favored, kind, useful. Strong. The new omega, too, could serve a purpose. Female. Fertile. One more hole than Clint’s got, and probably less used. Can talk. Can beg. Clint doesn’t realize he’s shaking, half-eaten stalk of celery white-knuckled in one fist, until Wade’s suddenly pressing in close and one big, scarred hand is coming down to fold over Clint’s fist, fingers coaxing the celery out of his grip. His vision’s gone all wonky, too, as he stares unseeing, mind spiraling, convinced this is the moment he’ll be told he’s getting sold off. Wade will tell him to strip because omegas don’t wear clothes. He’ll have already called the auction house. Someone’s probably on the way. He’ll be shackled, wrists to ankles, marched nude to a van full of other omegas being auctioned off.

Clint flinches, then, when a nose rubs over his neck, Wade having folded himself small to press into him.

“Shh, omega, shh, you’re okay,” Wade’s saying, warm breath over Clint’s scent gland.

People don’t – owners don’t – they don’t scent omegas.

Scenting is for – for family. For – not for him. Never for – but then why –

Shuddering, Clint tilts his chin up, exposing more of his neck. He’s not sure why there are tears pooled in his eyes, why they trail down his face when he blinks. Why would Wade scent him when they’re going to auction him off – but then, but then Wade never said that’s what they were doing, Clint had just – he’d just assumed – he’s shaking all over when Wade rubs his nose over Clint’s scent gland and breathes in, scenting him. Wade shushes him again, nosing at his neck, while Clint tries not to cry.

“– ah, Pumpkin, I know this has to be fucking uncomfortable to talk to anybody about, let alone me, but – but that omega in there? Mentioned you were walking bowlegged?”

Clint shudders to have the alpha so close, eyes clenched shut.

Is that – is that what this is about?

Wade leans away, out of his space. When Clint opens his eyes, the alpha is watching him, eyes serious and sad. “I noticed that one of my plugs is missing.”

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Clint whines, then, whines out loud, the sound punched from his throat, from his chest, from his soul. He whines because he can’t beg, he can’t speak, but if he could he’d be begging, pleading, explaining. He didn’t mean to steal, he hadn’t considered that it might be noticed, it’s not stolen, it’s here, it’s still, he can give it back, it was only to keep him open, keep him prepped for when everything went to shit. But if he can’t speak on a normal day then he definitely can’t do it now mid-panic, when everything inside him feels like it’s breaking into pieces so small there isn’t a stitch of him left, isn’t anything at all left except panic and fear and – God, he’s ruined this, he’s ruined it. He knew he would, he’s always known, but – but maybe if he – maybe –

Clint scrambles onto all fours, the bowl of celery knocked over in the process, and Wade’s saying something, but Clint can’t bear to hear it, can’t hear anything at all over the rushing in his ears as trembling hands yank borrowed pants down his hips. He sticks his ass out and fumbles for the plug buried inside, fingers shaking too much for purchase, the plug too slick from stolen lube besides. His forehead presses against the cool tiles underneath him and his knees ache against the hard unforgiving ground. If Wade hadn’t called an auction house before, then he certainly will now, he will now that he knows Clint’s been stealing lube, stealing this fucking plug, stealing from him all along. He hadn’t meant it as stealing, he hadn’t meant it as – but it doesn’t matter what he meant by this, he can’t fucking explain –

“Shit, pumpkin, you’ve had this in you all along?”

A rough hand pets down his back, scratches over his scalp.

Clint whines low in his throat again, eyes clenched shut tight, wet in the corners.

“Why –” the alpha starts, stops.

“Wade, what’s –” Peter’s voice.

It suddenly occurs to Clint that everybody can see just what he’s done, can see exactly what he is and always will be. He keeps his eyes shut and his face pressed to the floor and trembles all over, tries not to think about what the betas must be thinking about him, what James must think. Can’t bear to see what he already knows as true written all over their faces. He’s been pretending at the whole human thing, playing pretend dressed up like a person. But he’ll never be anything but the stuffed hole they’re seeing now, never be anything good like Peter. It’s exhausting to try, to play the game. He’s tired. He’s so fucking tired.

Please, please, no more, please –

Too broken even to beg.

His mind goes all quiet, like it does sometimes. Like it used to, when things got – bad. He feels altogether separate from his body, separated from everything, like the world’s all slow and soft around him, and he’s away. Vacant. Wade’s talking like he does. Babbling, maybe, all crooning soft voice and petting hands. Is it real? How could it be? Clint wants to respond but he’s too far away, isn’t sure what he’d say even if he could. He’s sorry. He’s tired. Please. Peter kneels on Clint’s other side, then, and he wraps his arms around Clint’s back like he’s shielding him from the world, whispering voice close to Clint’s ear. Clint wriggles his ass where it’s presented, hips raised high in the air, shaking hands gripping his own cheeks as he spreads himself open. Peter whispers to him, and there’s a hand on his head, another on his rear, Wade on his other side as the alpha’s fingers slip inside him around the base of the plug and give a gentle, slow tug. He can feel the plug pull out of him as though through a fog, his hole clenching around air as it leaves him open, gaping.

Wade steps away, leaves.

Clint pants in heaving breaths, eyes closed around tears.

Peter’s saying, “Shh, you’re okay, sweetie. Everything’s going to be okay, I promise, it’s okay, you’re okay, we’re all okay,” in a murmured litany, all petting hands even as their alpha walks away. Clint can’t imagine why Peter’s still being so kind, can’t imagine what reason the omega has for pretty lies, doesn’t much want to move and break the quiet pets against his back. But there’s another voice again, quiet and somber. Something inside Clint rouses at the voice, at its questioning tone, like part of him flying back into his own body. His muscles flex, shuddering, and he lifts his head off the floor, finally, blinks open blurry eyes to see James crouched a few feet away, elbows balanced on his knees as he asks Peter if he can come closer, asks if he can help.

He's not – his face is pulled into something like sorrow, but he’s –

He doesn’t look disgusted.

Doesn’t look – James just looks sad.

Grunting, Clint’s hands fall away from his own gaping ass and he – he’s not sure he’s doing it until he can see the evidence of it with his own two eyes, until he follows his own arms and sees that he’s reaching out for James, a whine caught in the back of his throat. James reaches back right away, flesh hand finding his and slotting their fingers together as the super soldier falls out of his crouch and sidles up beside them, takes Clint’s weight as the omega falls out of present position, pants down around his knees. James is a stiff, unbendy wall of muscle, but his arms wrap around Clint’s shoulders and he tugs him into his side, the metal cooling where it touches Clint’s neck.

“’s okay, doll,” James says, once.

Peter grips Clint’s hand on his other side, squeezes. “You’re okay.”

He’s not sure how long they sit, quiet and huddled close, Clint’s head pressed into James’ chest with one hand squeezed into Peter’s and the other squeezing James’ flesh hand. Wade returns at some point with a bowl of warm water and a washcloth, asks Clint if he can help get the crusty lube off his ass or if the omega wants to do the honors. Clint doesn’t much want to move out of his surprisingly safe little nest between a beta and another omega, but he’s also pretty damn sure he doesn’t want anybody else to clean his ass for him. Hand slipping out of Peter’s, he takes the offered washcloth and swipes it in between his cheeks, a quick, sloppy job. What does he care that he’s crusty? When has he ever not been? Uncomfortable, he manages to shimmy his pants back on, hides his face in James’ pecs.

It's – weird. Nothing horrible happens.

Nothing. Happens. At all.

Clint’s ready for it, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for hours and hours he keeps himself braced for impact, braced for a bang on the door when auction house employees come to collect him, or for Wade to tell him he’s worthless, that there’s no way they’re taking Clint with them when they go. He’s braced for pitying glances from Peter. But – but nothing happens. He jumps at every sound, startles every time somebody ventures too close, but Wade and Peter eventually leave Clint with James under the kitchen counter. The new alpha, Bob, he and Weasel emerge from the spare bedroom a few hours later, Bob poking his head out the door first. Weasel’s got his laptop under one arm and he announces to the room at large that he’s secured an old farm house for them to live in for the foreseeable future, somewhere dank and old and out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.

“It’s about a stone’s throw away from being condemned.”

“It’s got three bathtubs though, Mr. Pool!” Bob exclaims.

Wade bursts out into peels of laughter, leaning on Peter to catch his breath.

“Mister… Pool,” Wade whispers between laughs.

“Oh, well, as long as there’s bathtubs.” Peter nudges his head into Wade’s shoulder, huffing. His eyes are fond and soft as he looks sideways at the chortling alpha. “Was that the only thing you asked for? Bathtubs?”

“What else do we need?” Wade wonders out loud.

Weasel collapses backwards into the couch like he’s just run a half marathon, whooshing out a dramatic sigh as he slouches into the cushions and scratches at his stomach. Bob takes the man’s laptop out from under his arm and sets it onto the coffee table. Clint’s still half buried in James’ chest as they listen to the rest of them talk. He’s been pressed against the beta for – for hours, now, like an idiot, monopolizing the beta’s time and space. He’s not even sure why. Historically speaking, betas don’t exactly make for the most comforting of presences. There’s no logic that can explain the way James makes him feel, nothing that can make sense of why he’s seemingly attached himself to the beta. Nothing except the omega that’s curled up, content, in his head, a sleepy, relaxed thing that’s got Clint feeling a little too relaxed, too. Why is it that every time Clint panics and makes an idiot of himself, nothing bad ever happens here?

Wade eventually leaves to secure them transportation. To secure them all transportation.

He makes sure to lock eyes with Clint when he stresses that.

Clint sniffs and hides his face again.

Peter’s been going in and out of the bedroom all day, taking the omega girl food and water or else just trying to communicate with her. Clint’s ashamed to admit that he’s glad he’s not dealing with that right now, glad that he’s able to just – chill with a heavy metal arm curled around his shoulders, with James’ heart beating a loud, thumping rhythm next to his ear. He’s ashamed to leave all the work to everyone else, but – but he’s tired. He’s so tired. They’re moving and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t belong here with them, and he’s tired. What’s even waiting for them outside these walls? Will he have to unclothe? Parade naked to whatever form of transportation Wade acquires? He’ll at least need to be leashed. Who’s going to hold the other end of that? Wade with his slowly growing harem of omegas? One of the betas? James?

“I have an idea,” James murmurs after a while.

Clint nudges his forehead into the man’s chest, his own way of telling him to go on.

Anything to distract from his thoughts.

“I’ll go through the alphabet one letter at a time and tell you what sounds they make,” James says, which – which definitely distracts Clint from all the thoughts, holy fuck. He lifts his head and scoots a little away, lets the beta’s arms fall from around his shoulders. The beta’s shirt is rumpled where Clint leaned into it for so long. Without thinking about it, he smooths those wrinkles out with one hand, presses his palm to James’ sternum.

James sits very, very still.

Finally, Clint grunts, raises his hand to make the sign for please, a flat hand on his chest as he circles it. James’ mouth quirks into a tiny smile. He says, “Okay, just stop me when I get to the first sound of your name. This is an A –” The beta holds up a fist with his thumb straight beside it, makes the sounds for it as he does. Clint shakes his head, impatient for more, so James dives right into B. Another no. But then he’s forming the letter C with his flesh hand and telling Clint the sounds it makes, and Clint reaches out and grabs the beta by the wrist, shaking it back and forth.

Yes, he signs. Yes, yes, yes.

“C!” James exclaims.

Yes, Clint signs again.

“Okay, okay, is it C as in cake?”

Yes, yes, yes.

James smiles and leans forward, blue eyes wide and intent as they continue, both of their worries discarded for the moment, bigger things at hand. Something tangible to focus on, a puzzle they both want to solve. It feels like it takes forever to go through the alphabet letter by letter, piecing the name together one painstaking step at a time. When they get through the C-L-I, James guesses Clive, Cliff, Clinton. Clint stops him on the last one, but there’s no way to explain that it’s close but not. He waves for him to go on, to keep going for the next letter. The closer James gets to saying his name out loud, the faster his heart races. Nobody’s used his real name since – well, best not to think that far into the past. But it’s been a while, with too many years and not quite nice memories in between, so when James finally says it, when his lips wrap around the name that Clint hasn’t vocalized since he lost the ability altogether, when he asks a questioning, innocent, “Clint?” –

Clint grabs James by his shirt, tugs him forward, and kisses him straight on the mouth.

It’s quick. Not so quick that Clint doesn’t immediately notice the stubble, doesn’t feel the way James parts his lips on a surprised inhale. Clint breaks away before he’s tempted to add tongue to that parted mouth, breaks away with a grin, signs sorry, sorry, and then a quick please across his chest. He signs James’ name, the fluttering B, and signs another please for good measure, waits for the beta to say his name again. His name. But James is still, frozen, his eyes very blue at this close distance. His lips are still parted ever so slightly, pink and wet where Clint kissed him. Shit. Shit, Clint kissed him. Omegas don’t kiss betas, not unless they’re kissing dick.

Sorry, Clint signs again, slower this time.

He scoots backwards, adds some distance. He won’t do it again. Please.

James shakes his head. “No,” he says, quiet. Reserved. He licks his lips, lowers his voice to a raspy whisper. “It’s okay – it’s – I was just surprised. Hydra never kissed me, when they – it’s called rape, isn’t it? What people have done to us?” It clenches something in Clint to hear that – to hear that James was – he’s a beta and still they – but it’s almost worse when James straightens his spine against the counter at their backs and tilts his head, his long dark hair shielding much of his face when he adds a contemplative, hesitating, “Or does that word not apply to me? Weapons can’t be raped. Things. At least I served my purpose. And now – it’s strange. I serve no purpose here.” He shakes his head again.

Clint reaches for him. Holds his hand palm up, asking this time, like he should have been all along.

James sighs. “’m sorry, doll, I shouldn’t have said –”

NO, Clint signs, right in James’ face.

Fucking hell, he’s never wanted to talk more than he does right fucking now. He wants to tell the beta that he gets it. He wants to tell him that he – that he’s in that strange place, too. Purposeless. Questioning his place here, always questioning his place here. He wants to nock another arrow into somebody else’s brains, preferably the people who turned James into someone like Clint at all. He will, too. Someday. When they find more Hydra goons. Maybe that can be Clint’s new purpose, for now. While he’s still allowed to be here with these people. While they still somehow think he’s worth keeping around.

Instead of saying any of the things he wants to say, Clint signs what he knows.

Good, he signs, then follows it with James’ hand sign, the fluttering B.

James good, good James. Please.

James quirks another smile at him, smaller now. Mechanical whirrs sound as he flexes his metal hand against his knee. “Okay, okay. I just want to say one more thing about it – about earlier. The plug. I think I know why you had it, why you – it’s to be prepared, right? For everything to turn to hell again.”

Shocked, Clint’s own mouth parts in a silent, sharp inhale.

Wide-eyed, he nods. Slowly. Once, twice.

James nods, too. “I’m waiting for that, too. It’s hard to trust the – peace, here. Hard to trust how sincere Wade seems. An alpha that cares? But – but maybe we can look out for each other, if you want. If it looks like hell’s coming, I’ll do my best to get you outa there, alright? And you can do the same for me. I’ll try like hell to trust you. Somehow – something inside me already does. It looks at you and sees safety.”

The beta looks down as he says the last bit, his hair covering part of his face.

Then he glances up, glances at Clint. Says an even softer, “Clint? Is that right? Clint?”

Clint’s exhale is shaky.

He extends a hand to set it on James’ flesh one. Squeezes the beta’s fingers.

Yes, he signs with his free hand.

Yes, James, yes. Me too.

Me too.

Chapter Text

17. the calm before the-

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-

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Sometimes, Wade’s brain does this thing where he imagines he’s in a movie. Or, rather, the life around him is a movie, and he’s one of the background characters that randomly walks by with a taco hanging out his mouth, disappears off screen while the main characters express themselves with longwinded dialogue and perfectly coifed hair center stage. White and Yellow supply their own subtitles, especially for the most horrible scenes of his life, and it’s just – life’s an invisible, mocking audience that claps only ever on queue and sometimes throws rotten fruit. He walks to laugh tracks and talks to his viewers and/or readers, and it’s easier. It’s easier to imagine it’s all fake news. A story made up by a sick, twisted mind.

So, times like these? Wade really, really wishes there’d be a montage.

Wishes they could all skip ahead to the good stuff (assuming any such good stuff exists). He’s half waiting for the montage to begin at any moment, pauses randomly while they’re packing shit up to check if it’s begun. Not that they can take much shit with them, since they’re hightailing it outa riot town and have a bit of a trek ahead of them. It turns out that without Dopinder around to ferry him this way and that, transportation for a group of seven ain’t easy pickings, especially not with the rioting and crowds blocking traffic for literal miles outside the city. He’d have happily run over most of the dumb fucks lining the streets right now, except he’s pretty sure it’d land him in jail, and then where would any of them be?

[The answer is jail.]

So, no. He can’t drive their newly acquired creepy white van into the city. Too many human-shaped speed bumps. What he CAN do is take his whole entourage on a nice, brisk three-mile walk through crowds of angry omega abusers to their newly acquired white van that’s parked just outside the worst of the rioting, most of which has congested the blocks from here all the way to Stark Tower. What could go wrong?

[[James could go on a murder spree with his cool arm.]]

[Someone could try to touch Peter.]

[[Someone could try to touch Peter and Clint.]]

[And then there’d really be a murder spree, but I’m pretty sure we’d lead the way.]

[[Is there any chance at all of this ending without bloodshed?]]

[Let’s be real here… no.]

While everybody else is getting ready in their own ways (Wade isn’t sure he wants to know what Weasel’s doing on that laptop of his right now), Wade snags onto Peter’s wrist and guides him to the front door, out into the hallway, closes the door behind them. As soon as they’re alone, Wade sags against the wall and groans, scrubs a gloved hand down his face.

“How’re we gonna do this, Pete?” he mumbles the question through his fingers.

He’s not sure why he’s asking Peter, who’s relying on him. They’re all relying on him. Wade the fuck up. Wade with the worst alpha stench. Wade the totally not responsible, not even remotely qualified human person, whose only skills happen to involve explosions and chopped off limbs, neither of which will help any one of them right now. No, right now they need a safe way out of the city. Emphasis on safe. Wade can’t give them that. No way. He’s not equipped for this. Hell, Wade wasn’t even with his omegas out there during the trip for transportation and he’d already almost come to blows over a disgusting piece of shit who wrote ‘SLUT’ in big boxy letters on his omega’s back, who was crawling naked beside the beta with a fucking chain digging into his neck. There’s just – there’s no way Wade can take his omegas out into this mess right now, no way he can safely navigate them out of here. Maybe they should stay until things die down? Surely things are going to die down. The whole world can’t riot forever, right?

[I dunno man, I’m pretty sure stupid don’t die down.]

Peter doesn’t watch him unravel for long before the omega sidles up beside him, curves an arm around Wade’s stomach and noses at Wade’s shoulder. And Wade – Wade’s freaking the fuck out, okay, he can’t be everything these people need him to be, they’re going to be let down, he’s going to fail, he’s – his body doesn’t even think about it. Peter’s so close, now, and he’s calm, his scent smooth and soothing. Shuddering, Wade tilts his head to the side and bares his neck to the omega, eyes squeezed shut, heart in his throat.

His whole body strains from the effort it takes to stay very, very still.

Peter’s arm squeezes around him, flexes. “Wade,” he says, half a question.

“I want – I mean if you’ll – if you’d want –” Wade can’t get a word out past the boxes going crazy in his noggin, can’t stop himself from stuttering. When one of Peter’s hands ghosts feather light fingertips across the skin of his neck, though, Wade flinches backwards, into the wall, bumps his head. He won’t open his eyes. Can’t. If Peter knows what he’s asking for, knows it and – and doesn’t like it, doesn’t want to – if he’s disgusted by it… Wade would much rather skip to the road trip montage now. He feels unbearably vulnerable, though, when Peter raises onto the balls of his feet, noses at Wade’s neck.

“This is okay?” Peter asks, a whisper against Wade’s skin.

Wade’s nod is very emphatic indeed. “Yeah, yep, totally on board if – I mean, if you –”

“Of course, I want to scent you.” And then, like a whispered confession, something sly and smiled against Wade’s throat, Peter nuzzles again and says, “My Wade.”

The vibrations of those words kissed against his skin lights Wade up, sends literal lightning bolts zinging down his spine, and he shudders. He groans out loud, quiet in the hallway, eyes blown wide now because he has to see Peter, can’t look away from the brave little omega with a nose full of alpha stench, scenting him like it’s in anyway normal. If anybody asks, though, Wade couldn’t tell them why this isn’t normal, why this isn’t practiced in every fucking home on every fucking piss poor continent on the globe, because Pete pressed into him with his teeth nipping at Wade’s scent gland feels like every good thing, like every good word in every good language spoken all at once, clouds parting after a good rain, the scent of them combined a flood, a river flowing through the time space continuum.

Peter nips at him, slow and careful, scenting as he tastes.

Wade stills.

In every sense of the word, he stills. The boxes cease to exist, his alpha calm and placid and dopily resting inside his brain, somewhere that feels very close to the surface. His heart calms, pulse slowing, everything going all quiet and relaxed, all the way down into the core of him, wherever that core resides. No, he knows where it resides, and that’s with the omega standing beside him, the smiling omega brave enough to purr with his nose buried in an ugly alpha’s bared throat. There aren’t any problems they can’t fix. Problems? What problems? Wade is mush. Goo. So damn loopy with affection for the adorable human person who so willingly claims Wade as his. He feels big enough to take on the entire shit stain world and come out on top.

Christ, he’s got it bad.

Peter’s scent fills the hallway, the warmth of a summer sun, the hush of a lazy autumn breeze. It occurs to Wade, then, that this doesn’t have to be a clean break out of the city. Sure, not getting tailed by cops would be nice, and sure, the idea of any of their omegas tangoing with aggressive, shit betas or ever being made to feel like property again gets his alpha hackles raised. But this is going to be messy, no question. He can’t montage his way out of the mess, but Wade can damn sure get them all armed for it.

Turning into Peter’s embrace, he curls into him, grabs tight. Chuffs into his hair.

Peter squeezes back. “It’s going to be okay,” he says.

Wade takes a second to breathe in Pete’s scent.

To remember where they started.

That sickly stench of fear, that listless gaze while Peter stared out the window and tracked raindrops. How shaky he’d been at the clinic, gaunt, haunted, noncommunicative. It’s hard to equate that Peter with this one, this one who reassures an alpha that everything’s going to be okay. Fuck everything else, but Wade believes him. Let the whole world burn down around them, who cares. It’s going to be okay because Peter’s brave enough to say so. If Wade can succeed at anything, let it be living up to whatever the fuck Peter sees when he looks at him.

His eyes flicker red. He grins.

“Maximum effort,” he whispers. Another deep breath.

“Let’s get out of this hellhole.”

-

-

-

“M’kay,” he says as he unrolls the hastily drawn city map and stabs the corners with knives to hold it in place across the coffee table. Everybody’s gathered around to hear the plan, or to help develop the plan, except for the hostile, less than collaborative omega who’s still holed away in the bedroom. Wade’s a little worried about that one, and not just because she’s been snapping Peter’s head off every time he ventures inside the room. She’s also been refusing food, which can’t be good for someone who already seems a stone’s throw away from blowing away on a strong breeze. The problem of how they’re going to get through to her can wait a little longer, though, as they first need to get the fuck out of dodge.

“The van’s parked around here,” Wade says, pointing to the crayon drawing of a van with a big red X on it. “If we can make it there, we’re home free. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of shit peeps between here and there, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be killing a few of them along the way. Would murder in the middle of an active riot attract too much attention, d’you think?”

“If you kill people, what’ll happen to their omegas?”

“If they’re not killed by the mobs, they’ll be rounded up and auctioned off, I’m assuming.”

It’s a sobering thought. A brief quiet falls amongst them as they consider the implications. But they can’t possibly help them all. As it is, they can’t even help the omega that’s sequestered in Peter’s bedroom right now. The best they’ll be able to swing is killing off some owners, maybe attracting some media attention for it. Wade’s on the fence about if that’d be a good thing or a colossally not good thing. On the one hand: the world seeing that there’s other people out here fighting for omegas, fighting against the fucked-up norms. On the other: having to go on the lam (again). Peter having to go on the lam. Also, it can’t be good for James’ or Bob’s faces to be splattered across the news for Hydra to find and follow. They’ll have to hide them…

“Oh my God,” Wade exclaims, in the middle of Weasel complaining about the unrealistic dimensions on his carefully constructed crayon map, the dramatic nerd. He pops to his feet and beelines it for the spare bedroom, screeching over his shoulder as he goes, “I just had a brilliant idea! A few at once, actually, it’s a record! Lemme – wait here, keep talking, BRB!”

Peter blinks after him. Shifts on the floor.

Weasel sighs like an old man. “How much you wanna bet his brilliant ideas somehow involve the bazooka?”

“I don’t know,” James says. He’s on the floor, too, shoulder to shoulder with Clint on the opposite side of the table. “A bazooka might not be a bad idea.”

“I know it’d be a lot easier on everyone if we just – blend in,” Peter says, fidgeting with the collar at his throat, eyes on the map spread out before them. He glances up at Weasel through the fringe of his hair, eyes darting around at everyone gathered before returning to the map. It helps to look at the little crayon drawing of Wade on one of the sidewalks, who’s holding guns, and to see how the alpha drew Peter fully clothed beside him. Somehow, it’s never even come up as an option for the omegas of the group to – return to being actual omegas. To get rid of their clothes, to don leashes, to effectively act the part long enough to walk through the chaos outside. And it is chaos, too, has been since Mr. Stark outed himself as omega. The roar of the people, the rush of bodies, stomping feet and angry yelling, chanting… like a hum to his senses, background fuzz that’s impossible to block out. It’s gotten difficult to pick out one voice from all the rest, to focus on any one thing going on at a time, when everything seems to be happening at once. An omega ganged up on a block away, used by many, the throng of heartbeats pulsing in a narrow circle around her. A man stopping to piss on someone else’s omega, laughing. A woman telling her husband to go move their laundry over, the clinking chain of their omega’s leash exchanging hands. It’s all – too close. Overwhelming.

If Peter lets himself think, he’ll do something stupid.

But he can’t – they can’t save them all.

There’s too many betas out there. Too many alphas. Too many, too many –

“Shows what you know,” Weasel’s saying, tugging Peter’s attention away from the sounds outside. “Wade couldn’t blend in to save his life.” Then his face twitches, like he’s thinking through what he just said, and the beta adds, “Or to end it.”

“I think it’d be harder, actually,” Bob pipes up.

Peter feels himself tense, can’t seem to help the gut reaction to cower down. Wade’s in the next room, still, and Bob’s too new to them, too – alpha, his scent grating to Peter’s omega, all curled up and low in Peter’s brain, a whining, simpering thing. He’s not sure if Bob scares him because he’s an alpha, because he was working with Hydra, or because – because he’s not Wade. Either way, Peter tries not to show that he’s nervous, tries to keep himself still and breathe slow, steady breaths. Without thinking, he tries to hone in on Wade in the other room, tries to pick up on the alpha’s heartbeat or scent. It’s nearly impossible through all the other noises, and he can feel his own heartrate kick up when he can’t immediately sense him.

Peter breathes. Calm. He can be – calm. “What do you mean?” His voice decidedly does not waver.

Bob shrugs. “Mr. Pool feels very protective of you. Or, maybe all of us, a little bit? Maybe not me, but – he’s an alpha and he’s feeling protective. I think it’d be much harder for him to expose you guys to that world out there, to all the shitheads, and risk someone grabbing for you than it’ll be to just mow down everyone and make a break for it. Us all going in armed is our best bet no matter how you swing it. You wouldn’t be able to protect yourself if you were leashed.”

“Not to mention the birthday suit’s not tactically advantageous,” Weasel says.

“But you know what is tactically advantageous?”

Everyone turns to see that Wade’s coming out of the bedroom, a thick, full duffle slung over his shoulder. Peter’s up and moving toward him before he’s had a chance to think about it, meeting the alpha in the middle and grabbing hold of his hoodie sleeve, leaning close to press his nose to Wade’s shoulder and breathe him in. It’s amazing that Wade allows this… no, he doesn’t allow it, he full throttle welcomes it, stops midway through the hall to bend his neck down and stick his own nose into Peter’s hair. There’s nothing calm about what’s going on in the world. Peter wants to leave the safety of Wade’s apartment about as much as he wants to return to a life chained up in that alleyway, dreads it like a very real, very tangible nightmare. But as soon as Wade’s wide, broad shoulders fill in the hallway, it’s like relief. Like he can breathe again, if only for the moment.

“Is it the bazooka?” Bob asks from the living room.

Wade chuffs into his hair, nuzzles him. Guides them both back to the coffee table.

Peter settles beside Clint while Wade thunks the duffle on top of their map.

“IT,” Wade says, pausing, presumably, for dramatic effect. When everyone just stares, he makes these exaggerated jazz hands, grins, and continues, “Is not the bazooka. But I think you’ll all really, really love what it is.” For some reason, the big alpha’s excited, now, instead of the dread and the nerves from mere minutes before out in the hallway when it was just the two of them. It makes Peter think that maybe he really has thought of a brilliant plan, one that’ll get them to the other side of the madness intact.

“I’d really, really love a bazooka,” Bob says, hopefully.

Weasel groans. He’s got one hand holding onto his forehead, glasses askew.

“We can add the bazooka to the plan,” Wade assures them all.

“Oh goodie!” Bob beams.

“Please, for the love, put us outa our misery here, Wilson.”

So Wade does. He unzips the duffle and yanks out – clothes. Apparently not just any clothes, though, because as soon as Weasel sees it he groans again and covers his eyes. James tenses, a movement almost imperceptible except that Peter’s looking for it, looking and listening both, while Clint nudges the tense wall of muscle to his right and taps a questioning few clicks to James’ hand, squeezing it. Peter looks back to what Wade’s holding. A rumpled ball of red and black leather that he shakes out and holds up to his own body, grinning with his whole face. It smells like – gunpowder, stale copper, the tang of old blood. The alpha tosses that bundle over the table to Bob, who catches it with wide eyes. Wade pulls out more of the same from his bag, rumpled leather bundles that he hands out to everyone. When he hands one to Peter, he pauses there to nuzzle Peter’s head again, making time for it while everyone else is busy unraveling their stale, apparently coordinated outfits.

“This idea isn’t brilliant,” Weasel says. He’s scowling through his unkempt facial hair.

“Can somebody clue me in?” Peter finally speaks up. “You think we should all wear… this?”

“It’s the Deadpool suit.”

“Pete doesn’t know what that is, duh.” Wade sticks his tongue out at Weasel, but when he looks back at Peter his face instantly softens, smooths out into a quirked smile, lopsided and relaxed. He taps the suit that’s in Peter’s lap and explains, “For a mess of years, I hunted down bad betas and fileted them with swords, or shot ‘em, or otherwise unalived the shit outa them. People paid me to do it, too, and lemme tell you, I was making bank.”

“I remember you – you told me about this,” Peter murmurs. It feels like forever ago, too, when Wade tried to explain all this to him the first go around. He’d been too overwhelmed to respond properly, he remembers. Overwhelmed by too many things. He finds that it’s easier to have this talk now, easier to hear it. “How you sometimes kill bad people for money.”

“You told him that?” Weasel sounds incredulous. “And you’re both still love birding around here like a pair of starstruck newlyweds? How the fuck aren’t you terrified of this fucker, Pete?”

“Wade’s a good person.” The sudden steel in his voice surprises even Peter.

“Well, yeah,” Weasel stammers. “I just – I’m not used to anybody but me knowing that, I guess.”

“I think we all know it, now.” Bob offers a thumbs up.

Wade looks a little misty-eyed, turns his head away and down, sniffs. Clears his throat. Everyone around the table agrees in various ways, agrees that Wade’s good, Clint nodding, stretching an arm across the table to squeeze Wade’s bicep, a reassuring squeeze before he lets go and retreats. James is the only quiet one, still as he stares at the Deadpool suit in his clenched metal fist. Peter focuses in, and the man’s heart is jackrabbiting like it does sometimes, quick and panicked in his chest. His face is carefully blank, though. Peter sees that he’s clenching Clint’s hand, resolves to keep an ear out and leave him be. Wade’s pulling his focus, anyway, the alpha waving a hand in the air like he could somehow bat their words away from him. Peter thinks that Bob was only partially right. Everybody knows Wade’s good except, of course, for Wade.

That’ll change, he finds himself thinking, feeling surprisingly optimistic.

Like he feels – like it’s – like Peter will be around long enough to see it change.

To see Wade start to like himself.

Wade moves the topic away from himself. “It’s a brilliant play, Weas, don’t even lie. Check it, so we all wear the same Deadpool suit, charge through the crowd guns blazing. People can still smell your scent through the suit, but it’s at least muffled a little, can buy us a few minutes before people start to notice clothed omegas, but by that point we’ll be halfway to the van and can fight our way through the rest of it if we have to. The best part is it’ll keep James and Bob from being identified, keep all our faces outa the news, AND the world gets to experience the thrill of there being seven Deadpools. Win win win!”

“Okay, but have you forgotten all the people out to gank Deadpool?”

Bob clicks his tongue. “Hydra definitely wants Deadpool dead.”

“Hydra’s full of idiots,” Weasel scoffs. “Deadpool literally can’t die.”

“… yeah, they dumb.”

“I was more referring to the United States government,” Weasel says.

Wade waves another dismissive hand. “So that’s why we bring the bazooka.”

“What about the mafia?”

“Which one?”

Weasel scrubs a hand down his face. “All of them, Wilson!”

Wade shrugs. “I figure big guns can work on them too.”

“And then after we get to the van and lose anybody tailing us, we can stuff the suits away again and nobody will know we were the ones inside them,” Peter murmurs, thinking it over. He runs his hand over the suit in his lap, unfolds it and finds the mask that’ll cover all of their faces, the white narrow eyes and the little cowlick on top. Deadpool might have assorted enemies, but it’s better than leaving this safe little cocoon naked. At least if they all dress up like Deadpool, at the end of the day it’ll still only be Deadpool who’s a wanted person, not Peter or Clint or James or Wade. Not Weasel or Bob. They’d all still be safe. Anonymous. He takes a deep breath, fingers tight over the red and black mask. Looks around at the people willing to let him feel like a person, too.

“Let’s do it,” he says.

Wade’s the one beaming now. “Fuck yes! That’s the spirit!”

He holds out a fist. After a startled pause, Peter bumps it with one of his own.

It’s not a perfect fit on… any of them. Besides Wade and Bob, anyway, it works pretty good on those two. (And James, who’s currently flexing his metal hand and listening to the way the leather creaks.) In fact, once Wade’s shimmied into his, Peter has to pause and just – look at him. At the corded muscles on full display, hugged tight by leather. His swallow sounds loud to his own ears. Wade tugs his mask over his face, then, too, and that actually helps get Peter’s pulse under control because it’s not nearly as fun when Wade’s eyes disappear from view, when Peter can no longer see the grins that stretch his scars around his lips. Still, Wade Wilson rocks the look. It’s no wonder, since the suit was made for him, but – but still. He’s usually so buried behind baggy hoodies and sweatpants that the sudden barrage of abs, biceps, thighs literally makes Peter’s mouth water. Just a bit. He swallows again.

Wade’s head tilts. He sees Peter looking and winks.

Peter glances down at his own Deadpool mask. “These eyes move?”

“Don’t question the magic.” Wade winks again.

“I look stupid.”

It’s Weasel, of course, who – well. He doesn’t exactly make Peter’s mouth water. The suit sort of hangs off him, a bit, around the shoulders, stretched over the little pudge of his stomach, the legs several inches too long, covering his feet. Clint’s fit is even worse since he’s still so skeletal, not to mention the way it hangs awkwardly over Peter, who feels suddenly like a kid again trying on Uncle Ben’s slacks. Wade’s apparently handy with a sewing needle, though, and goes around the room with a handheld sewing machine. Peter, who didn’t even know handheld sewing machines existed before now, follows him around to watch the little needle bob quickly over fabric, sloppy lines that hold the suits to each person’s unique frame. In the end, it’s not a flawless fit on anyone, but it’s a functional one. They’re not going to get tripped up or exposed by wardrobe malfunctions in the middle of the fight that’s coming. The mask smells funny when Peter fits it over his face, stifling and warm, stale like it needs a good wash. He tests out his ability to stick to stuff through the suit and finds that he’s still good to go on that front, crawls up to the ceiling and across it, testing the stretch of the suit, the strength of his hold.

Then Wade says, “Kay so, now for the second part of my brilliant plan.”

Weasel’s fidgeting in his Deadpool suit, tugging at one of the shoulder straps. “I hope it’s more fun than the first part is.”

“I actually feel really cool right now,” Bob says, hands fisted on his hips.

“The DP suit is the coolest,” Wade agrees, smug.

“We look like we’re in a boy band.” Peter jumps down to land in between Clint and James, tugs them both in with an arm around each of their shoulders. He can hardly smell them through his own mask and theirs, layers of leather that stifles their scents behind gunpowder and blood. He wonders, idly, if anyone else can smell the blood that’s caked into each of these suits, wonders if any of them would care either way. Weasel probably would. “Should we start singing? Are there boy bands as big as seven? I only remember that one with Justin Timberlake, I think they had five, and their hair looked like cooked ramen… wait, we are going to give our other omega a suit, right? The girl? To make us a band of seven?”

Clint’s side-eyeing him like he’s not sure what to make of anything he just said.

“You liked NSYNC, baby boy?”

Peter looks between them all. Blinks. “My… Aunt May. She liked them.”

“You have an aunt?”

“Had.” He clears his throat. Shifts away from James and Clint. “Past tense. She’s – um.”

The memory of it catches him off guard, steals his breath. He can’t speak, suddenly, without getting choked up. Aunt May hadn’t deserved – and Uncle Ben. His resigned acceptance as he stood his ground, stood up to – Peter can still feel the warmth of Ben under his hands, can still see May’s stricken, tear-stained face, the way her hand trembled as she’d reached for him, for them both. The way time had slowed down to a crawl in the moments before her body joined Ben’s on the floor, her arm still outstretched for them, her sweater soaked red. Ben lived a few minutes longer, lingering. He’d told Peter to run, but – but Peter had been frozen there, frozen with his hands holding onto Ben’s, holding pressure over his stomach, slick with blood. Guns trained on his head, a yelled bark for him not to move. Peter pressed down with his hands to staunch the flow of blood, crying, wide-eyed. He remembers begging Ben not to die. Begging him to be okay, please be okay, please.

Hands ripping him away.

Pawing at his clothes.

Shoving him, naked, blood on his hands, into that crate. Ben’s blood.

May’s eyes had still been open. Sightless. Glassy.

Suddenly Wade is there, tugging Peter’s mask up and off his face, telling him to breathe in that alpha-barked voice. Like a tidal wave sweeping him forward, Peter falls against the alpha and obeys, breathing, breathing, breathing. Waking up from the nightmare. He buries his nose into Wade’s chest and breathes in leather and gunpowder, blood that’s stale and old instead of Ben’s under his fingernails. Wade’s arms curl around him, a firm, steady embrace. His voice soothing, cooing, crooning reassurances in his ear. Peter listens to Wade’s heartbeat and lets that voice croon on, lets himself breathe. His omega is a keening, yearning thing, a whimpering bundle curled up in the corner somewhere, wanting May. Wanting Ben. Wishing they’d killed Peter instead.

Wade holds him up.

Rocks with him, sways. Gets him to the couch, curls up beside him while he falls apart. And then suddenly Clint’s there, too, kneeling on the floor beside his legs, his buzzed head nuzzling Peter, arms hugging Peter’s calves. James slides in on Peter’s other side on the couch, not touching except for how he’s pressed against his side, a quiet, calm presence. Wordless, Weasel’s weight dips the couch, too, where he sits on the other side of Wade. Bob’s hovering in the background, his Deadpool mask in his hands as he wrings the fabric between closed fists and watches them, and very suddenly, Peter can’t take it. The nerves. Being guarded. He can’t – sustain it anymore. Enough. Wake up wake up wake UP – Bob will either screw them over or he won’t. He’ll either become like most alphas in Pete’s checkered past or he – won’t. Peter can’t watch the tall alpha hover on the outskirts of them, can’t watch anyone stuck on the outside of something this – good. This good for them all.

“Get over here, Bob,” Peter croaks. He wiggles under Wade’s arm, reaches out a hand.

Bob sucks in a breath, audible over the sound of rioting outside.

“I don’t have to – are you –”

“You heard him,” Wade says. His voice is very soft above Peter’s head.

“They like their group hugs,” Weasel murmurs.

“Pfft, you know you love it too.”

“… we’re all so very, very gay.” But Weasel’s head thunks down onto Wade’s shoulder.

Bob shuffles over, plops himself down on the floor between Weasel and Wade’s knees, wriggles into their space with his shoulders hunched forward and his hands in his lap, still wringing that Deadpool mask to the tune of squeaking leather. And it’s – okay. Or, rather, nothing’s okay, but it doesn’t have to be. Peter can fall apart here. As many times as it happens, he can – fall. Wade will catch him.

Until he can catch himself, Wade’ll catch him.

And that’s okay.

There’s grief in the air, salty and stifling, and it’s okay.

We’ll be okay. Together.

Somehow.

For the very first time since it happened, for the very first time since that dark, airless crate, wood splintering into bare skin as it jostles, for the first time since May’s lifeless eyes and Ben’s tearful, resigned run, Pete, please, run, you don’t know what they’ll do to you – something inside Peter settles, sandwiched so firmly between all of these people who care, all of these people who listen when he talks, who treats him like one of their own, like a person, like – like he matters. Peter matters again, matters like he mattered to May. Matters like he mattered to Ben.

Cocooned in safety, he lets himself mourn them.

Finally, finally, he mourns them.

I miss you. I love you. You could have lived so much longer, you had time, you should have had time.

I’m sorry.

Sorry, sorry, sorry, love you, love you both, ‘m sorry, miss you

Peter finds himself safe enough to cry for a family torn apart, safe enough to let go. He cries. He crumbles. He falls. It’s a storm battering up against every wall he’s ever erected, cracking them to dust. It’s a tidal wave. He’s swept under. He falls.

His pack’s here to catch him.

Chapter Text

18. carnage (no not that one)

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She must have been lying in wait for someone other than Peter to enter the bedroom.

Wade figures she’s been sitting in here scared, too afraid even to eat. And sure, she probably has been. But Wade knows better than most that fear manifests differently for different people, and apparently fear in this chickadee manifests an awful lot like violence. He knocks and chats at her through the door for a few minutes, babbling about shit he can’t remember three seconds after it leaves his mouth, Peter and Clint hovering behind him, there but not there. Peter’s scent fills the room like a dewy sunlit morning, all soft and comforting, thick like pow, without even a hint of the nerves Wade knows must be there somewhere under the surface. He’s projecting calm, calm, calm hard, and Wade could bathe in it if that weren’t an entirely too creepy thing to admit out loud. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that even Weasel has picked up on Peter’s scent, the beta breathing it in and his whole body damn near sinking into the couch. James even looks like he’s not about to murder someone, which is a switch to his usual resting murder face. Bob’s in the bathroom, but Wade bets the other alpha can smell Peter’s forceful calm through the wall.

When he glances over his shoulder at Peter, the omega blinks wide eyes at him.

“Sorry, is it too much?” he mutters. His face looks warm. “It’s too much. She’s just –”

It’s not right, how sad Peter looks. Especially compared to the contentment honey-rich in the air.

Wade leans forward, presses his nose into Pete’s hair. “Not too much. ‘s nice.”

“She’s just scared,” Peter says, miserably. “I wanted to – I don’t know.”

“It helps,” Wade says. “Even my alpha is wagging its tail.”

“Ignoring the disturbing imagery you just released into the world, Wilson, I didn’t even know omegas could smell like this,” Weasel says from the couch. He doesn’t open his eyes, boneless and melted into the cushions. “It’s like I’m playing with puppies and they’re all licking my face. It’s like there’s this big mountain of coke and I’m doing the backstroke through it, swimming around in honeysuckles. What the fuck, why doesn’t anybody know omegas can smell this goddamn good –”

“Oh gee, lemme think.” Wade chuffs into Peter’s hair, ruffles it.

Peter’s little half smile could be weaponized.

With both of the only omegas in existence who can stand to be around Wade at his back, Wade finally opens the door, slow and careful and loudly announcing he’s coming in, but he’ll only open the door, he’ll stand in the doorway, he’s not going to invade her space – but shit, the girl inside still flinches backward, her back pressing into the bed behind her where she’s sitting on the floor. At least she’s put on some clothes – a loose black and purple hoodie that smells like Peter, one of the ones they’d had delivered a while back to fit him better than all the oversized shit of Wade’s. She’s naked otherwise, though, the hoodie trailing down to barely cover her crotch, thighs spattered with bruising and crisscrossed with dark lines. Her hair’s a mess of tangled black, stringy, and there’s a piece of it in her mouth. She’s chewing on it when Wade opens the door, blue eyes very wide for a split second before they narrow and turn hard.

Her lip curls up, dingy teeth bared.

The stringy, saliva-slicked clump of her own hair falls out her mouth, hangs by her face.

The air stills. They stare at each other.

Clutching the seventh DP suit to his chest, Wade waves with his free hand. Tries to keep things light and airy, Peter’s scent in his nose, the warmth of him at his back, Clint silent and alert at Peter’s side. “So, hi! Hello, howdy. I’m Wade and you’re –”

Wade doesn’t get the chance to tell her what she is.

The girl’s mouth opens at the same time as her muscles all tense up, and then she’s throwing herself forward, damn near leaping across the floor. The scream she lets loose sounds positively primal, shrieked from a hoarse, dry throat, pulled up from her core as though chased by devils and heralding the end times. Wade chokes on what he’d been about to say, whatever the fuck that was, and oomfs when she barrels into his legs, tries to kick him off his feet. She knocks her shoulders into his knees, keeping herself close to the ground, growling and shrieking. Wade is sure as shit not falling on her, so he throws his weight to the right and rolls into the room, lands hard on his ass, and then she’s on him, knocking the wind out of him as she throws herself into his lap and grabs a fistful of Wade Jr. and the family jewels. Her hands immediately squeeze until something – yeah, no, something definitely pops that should not be popping down there. Wade squeals out a high-pitched, wheezed, “Fine, ‘s fine, stay outa the – stay back, don’t try – stay outa here, don’t come any, holy fucking shitballs that’s not – ouch.”

Peter’s wide-eyed and panicked at the doorway, held back by Clint’s hand on his arm.

The girl’s still squeezing, nails digging in through Wade’s pants.

Wade might be seeing spots.

He falls backward as her fists slam into his chest.

Over and over, she just – shrieks. Punching him, kicking, knees him in the crotch.

Wade goes lax. Lets it all go. Lets her – do what she needs to do.

“I’ll bite it off!” She’s yelling, over and over again, as she slams her fists down. Wade’s having a bit of an out-of-body experience, teary-eyed as he lays there, hands at his sides, Yellow spewing out obscenities in one ear while White flails and cries in the other, moaning about his smooshed testicles, wheezing while Wade can’t. All the while, the girl’s yelling, “I swear I’ll fucking bite it off! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! ‘m not – fuck – not – never again! I’ll bite you! I’ll kill you!”

There’s tears on her cheeks, trailing down her face. Her hair stringy and matted, wild.

She’s a whirlwind of flailing limbs.

Wade tries not to move.

Wade would have let it go on until she actually did kill him. She needs to break something and he’s not breaking anytime soon. But then Peter’s there, pulling her off him, pulling her off him kicking and screaming and reaching for him with her fists. She twists in Peter’s arms and bites down hard on his arm, growling, teeth gnawing.

Wincing, Peter holds her. Holds on for the ride, keeps her away from Wade.

Wade lays on the floor. His chest whistles, balls throbbing.

White-hot pain. Blurred vision. It’s – this is fine.

Clint’s there, too, with a hand smoothing over the girl’s hair. He pets her head while she keeps her teeth buried in Peter’s arm. They’re all breathing heavy, Wade wheezing, can’t catch his breath. His vision goes out for a bit, maybe for a while, and when he blinks back to awareness, Peter’s rocking the girl on the floor on the other side of the room, Clint at Wade’s side, a hand steady on Wade’s arm, clutching him like a lifeline while he watches the girl and Peter sway together. When Wade coughs, sputters, Clint flinches out of whatever trance he’d been in, eyes wet when they meet Wade’s. Shakily, Clint helps Wade sit up on the floor, skinny arm falling over Wade’s shoulders in a makeshift sort of embrace. The room is heady with the stench of omega pheromones, fear and rage, fear and rage, too intertwined to pick out one emotion from the other.

Peter must hear Wade groaning. His eyes flick up from the girl in his arms.

“You okay, Wade?” His voice is carefully pitched, a low, quiet whisper.

The girl stills, freezes. Head raises to look across the floor at him.

Her eyes reflect the fear that’s stinking the whole place up.

Wade waves a dismissive hand. His voice is still high when he says, “Peachy keen, jellybean! Phew, you – you sure know how to hurt someone, I’m impressed. I’m – that was good, punch could use some work, didja hurt your hands too much? Thumb should be over your middle knuckle next time, gives you more power, less chance you’ll hurt yourself.”

Above him, Clint seems to sag.

His arm tightens around Wade’s shoulders.

Wade reaches up to pat, pat, pat Clint’s hand. “’s okay, pumpkin.”

“You’re not –” Peter starts. Stops. Bites his lip.

Wade cranes his neck, looks over himself. “’m not okay? Am I missing a limb? ‘s always hard to feel –”

“No, you’re – you’re fine. You’ll be fine.” Peter sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. His arms tighten over the girl’s, who suddenly looks seconds away from bolting. He keeps her still in his hold, a steady pressure, and his eyes are very wide when he asks, “I meant – aren’t you – aren’t you mad?”

The girl’s growl fills in the sudden silence.

Now that he’s had the chance to sit up properly, reach down to adjust himself and feel to make sure everything’s in working order down there, unpopped once more (yikes), Wade freezes at the genuine uncertainty in Peter’s voice, at the wobble that shouldn’t be there. Now that he takes it all in, that fear stench isn’t just coming from the girl. No, Clint’s positively ashen above him, a fine tremor in the arm that’s around Wade’s shoulders, and Peter’s – Peter’s looking like he saw a ghost or two, his face pinched into something tense, tight, scared. They’re all tense, all waiting for Wade to – to what? Fly off the handle? Turn into a rage monster? What exactly are they – how could Wade be mad? How could anyone –

Wade exclaims, “What, no! Why would I be – course I’m not mad!”

“You’re not?”

“I told you, I’m impressed. That was hella fucking cool.”

The girl chokes, growl catching in her throat. Peter swallows. “Cool?”

“Hell yes! We should all get outa your way, chicka, letcha at the whole damn world. They could use some cheapshots to the balls, and – look. It’s fine, and not just ‘cuz I heal. It’s fine because I’m part of the problem, I’m an alpha, I’m – we’ve all earned it. You were just taking back your power, and that’s – that makes me feel like maybe the rest of them can, too. If us knotheads can get the hell outa your way, shit, maybe – maybe it’s not all hopeless. Maybe… people can be saved. Or save themselves.”

He's not explaining it well, how this all makes him feel, can tell by their disbelieving, blank stares, by the way Clint’s frozen and tense, arm curled around him. He can’t adequately articulate the hope that’s lit himself up from the inside out at the first shriek this girl let pierce his eardrums. She’s curled into Peter, small in his arms, now, has made herself very small in the time Wade spent on his catnap, but for a minute there, in the moments where she’d weighed the risks, where she’d decided to fuck shit up, that she was already doomed and might as well go down swinging… it feels like the world can recover. For the first time since – since, fuck, since Wade was born, for the first time since ever, Wade thinks that maybe they can actually do something. That omegas aren’t too broken to be saved. That they aren’t too fucked up to get help. Accept help. Shake off the slough of trauma and come out of it fierce. Free.

Wade swallows and tries again. “I’m glad you’re a fighter. The world needs that.”

Peter releases the girl, who’s tugging away from him.

She crawls to the corner of the room, presses her back there. Watches them, eyes darting from one to the other, from Peter to Clint to Wade. Her heart’s jackrabbiting in her chest and she looks like a scared extra from The Ring, black stringy hair a curtain in front of her face. She’s covered in cuts, bruises, scrapes. She’s got bits of Wade’s skin under her nails from where she clawed her way under his hoodie, scratched the hell out of his chest.

Wade beams at her. “You’re a badass,” he says. Tilts his head. “Not that you needed to hear that from me.”

Peter says, “You aren’t part of the problem, Wade.”

“Hm?”

“You said you were part of the problem. You aren’t.”

Wade doesn’t remember saying that. Although, that is something he’d say. Something he thinks, pretty frequently actually. Peter picks himself up. He’s wearing the Deadpool suit, him and Clint both, minus the masks. Wade had taken his off because he didn’t want to scare the girl anymore than he knew he was going to just by being an alpha, but the two smaller, leaner Deadpools are suddenly wrapped around him like octopi, all arms and legs, squeezing warmth. Wade leans into them both and whispers an excited, “Group hug timeeee,” in a singsong breath. The girl watches them from her corner, until she huffs and wraps her arms around her legs, presses her face into her knees. From his unprompted but entirely welcome random puppy pile, Wade tells her their names, tells her the betas names, tells her Bob’s name. Says they’re leaving the city, getting the hell out of dodge. Asks if she wants to come along and fuck people up along the way.

“We want to save omegas,” Peter adds, unhesitating.

Wade presses his nose into Peter’s neck, breathing him in. “’s like our slogan, savin’ omegas since – umh, since now I guess. Wanna help? Join the cause?” His arm flops out of their puppy pile to land on the discarded seventh Deadpool suit, which he scoots toward her. Her head comes out of the huddle of her arms and she stares at it, at the red and black bundle on the floor. “You don’t have to – you can – we can – I’ll buy you an apartment, or you can just stay here and hope for the best. Can’t guarantee you’ll be completely safe, not unless you come with us, but – but you can be alone. I’ll pay the rent remotely and have groceries delivered and – there’s scent blockers in this building. With any luck, you might be – okay, here, on your own.”

Her face is screwed into something angry, all hard lines.

She shuffles forward on hands and knees, picks up the Deadpool suit.

“I can hurt people?” she asks.

“Fuck yes,” Wade assures.

“You can save people, too,” Peter says.

She looks at him. For a long moment, that’s all she does, brow furrowed, hair a wild mess in front of very blue eyes. The hoodie hangs crooked off one shoulder. Without a word, she lifts it over her head, strips down to nothing. Her skin is pale, bruised, all hard lines and protruding bones. They all look like starving waifs, all look skeletal. Before Peter, Wade hasn’t stopped to think about how little omegas eat, hasn’t ever thought about that when there’s so much else to think about, so many other, more violent traumas to obsess over. But it’s – shitty. Seeing her ribcage through the dirt and whip lines, her collarbones, the way she stares at them while she unclothes, shoulders back, defiant.

“Why is he collared?” she asks suddenly, a question that flings itself out of her.

Wade winces. “Ah… that was – when I was still tryin’ to follow the law.”

[That’s us, law abiding citizens.]

[[Whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when they come for you –]]

[Bad boys bad boys!]

“I wear it because I want to,” Peter speaks up. His arms tighten around Wade’s waist. “I wear it because I like Wade. It makes me feel like I belong. He’d – he’d get you both one if you wanted one. It’s not – it doesn’t mean – what you think it means. It’s my choice.” His little smile makes an appearance again, neck craning up to look at Wade, meet his eyes, soft and relaxed. Without looking away from Wade, Peter says, “I have those now. Choices.”

Wade grins back. Like a dopey idiot.

[Dumb knothead.]

“Choices.”

It’s the girl. Her voice a flat monotone.

“You have them too,” Peter says. Insists. “We all do.”

Her hands clench in the fabric of the Deadpool suit. She stares at it the way someone would stare at Wade on the streets, that suspicious, distrustful stare, the varying degrees of disgust etched on the lines of her face. Finally, while the boys cuddle on the floor, pressed into each other, content to stay that way, she pulls on the suit, tugs it up over her twig-thin legs, hides her vast expanse of injuries from view. When the mask is pulled down over her face, she tucks her hair into the suit, stuffs black strands under the collar until they’re mostly hidden. The white mask eyes blink as she does, narrow into slits. The suit hangs off her shoulders, fabric puddled at her ankles. She rolls up the legs, rolls up her sleeves. Flexes her toes into the carpet.

“There’s boots in the living room.” Wade clears his throat.

She side eyes him. “I choose to hurt people.”

“Save people,” Peter says.

“Both works,” Wade says. He wriggles like an excited puppy. “Let’s do both.”

Clint tugs on Wade’s ear until the alpha looks up at him.

Both, he signs. Good Wade. Both.

There’s something entirely too endearing about someone with so few words using them to tell Wade he’s good. He feels a little bit like he’s been kicked in the balls again, only this time with feelings. Instead of talking about it, because Wade’s all tapped out with that shit, he turns and tugs Clint down, stuffs his face into the crook of Clint’s neck. He’s always smelled like fear, a tangible, slimy stench that reads scared, like sweat and salt and sickness. Right now isn’t any different, but Wade scents him all the same, scents him because he’s theirs and he’s brave and he's open to it, accepting, his head tilting to expose more of his throat.

“You guys are all badasses,” Wade murmurs.

Peter’s fiddling with Wade’s hoodie sleeve, plucking at it with his fingers.

“Hey, how’s your arm, baby boy?”

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-

They leave in the morning.

Wade’s been nervous about this, but that shit’s settled. Doneskies. Completely eradicated by their omegas being badass and by a good few hours’ sleep and perhaps especially by having Bea and Arthur strapped to his back once again, the mask a comforting barrier between his fugly skin and the even fuglier world. It’s all excited butterflies instead of skittering scared ants, now. He skips to the elevator, enjoying the way the suit makes Peter stare after him, all appreciative, and the heady swallows, the way Peter’s scent softens when he’s close. When Weasel tells him they should be taking the stairs, Wade raises his eyebrows under his mask and giggles because Weasel raises his back at him, their masks mirroring each other. Ain’t they a sight for sore eyes.

“Okay Dadpool,” Wade says to the whining beta.

“I refuse to respond to that name –”

“Just remember what happened the last time we partied in the stairwell.”

Bob waves from behind Weasel, says, “That’s me! I happened.”

“Right, Bobpool happened.”

“… I am definitely always going to respond to that name.”

“We can’t all fit in the elevator,” Weasel tries to argue.

Peter’s the one who says, “It’ll give us the chance for one last cuddle.”

Wade pulls Weasel into him, smacks a masked kiss to his masked cheek and then squeezes him into an embrace, practically strongarming the wriggly beta into the elevator. The rest of them all hop aboard, too, even the girl, who’s been white-knuckling a knife since she got her hands on it during the passing out of many weapons session they held after breakfast. She’s got a few guns holstered, too, one on her hip and one in her left boot, plus three more knives hidden somewhere squirreled away. Wade’s half convinced she’ll slice his arm off if he ventures too close, so he keeps his distance. Not that it wouldn’t grow back, but regrowing limbs takes an awfully long time, and they’re kind of trying to keep to a schedule. They’re supposed to meet a beta for the keys to the farmhouse tomorrow morning, after all.

[Also, she’d probably skip the arm and go straight for the nads.]

[[Or the penis.]]

[Let’s be real, she’d go for both.]

[[Yeouch, can we please stop talking about this, my nether region hurts just thinking about it.]]

[Brah, you don’t have a nether region.]

[[Your face doesn’t have a nether region.]]

“Yeah well I do and I agree, ix-nay on the enis-pay!” Wade mutters during the elevator ride, one arm slung over Weasel’s shoulder and his other arm gripped tight by Peter, neither of whom look even remotely surprised by him talking to himself. Seven Deadpools crammed like sardines into an elevator… if it weren’t completely inappropriate, Wade might have turned that into a few sex jokes. He should get a medal for resisting such grade-A content. Thinking about what Peter said, Wade insists, “Except it’ll just be one more cuddle in a long line of future cuddles, not the last one ever, because if it’s the last one ever I might cry… no, no, I’ll definitely cry, and it’s not the crying sort of day, no sirree bob. Today’s gonna be the kind of day where nobody cries and everybody dies. Except us. To clarify, we won’t die. I’ve got the itch to tango with anybody who tries, actually. And you might not know what happens when I get the itch –”

“Lots of people die, is what happens.”

“Thanks, Badgerpool –”

“That one doesn’t even make sense.”

“Oh, so you’re saying Dadpool does make sense? Okay, thanks Dadpool –”

The elevator dings onto the ground floor, right in time to stop Wade from pestering the only one of them who’s rocking a dad bod in the DP suit. Weasel’s unamused sigh is drowned out by the muffled voices from the street, and Wade can feel the beta shaking under his arm, fine tremors that give away how he must be feeling about all this. They’ve all got shit to feel nervous about, Weasel being a weakling, James and Bob worried about encountering Hydra, and of course the omegas are worried about every fucking thing else, not the least of which is getting recaptured by assholes or resold or raped. Wade feels hyper focused in a way that’s been dormant for too many years to count, feels the calm of Deadpool overtaking everything else. There’s not a gun big enough or a soul alive strong enough to get through him.

[[Let’s pop in some Cher and DO THIS THING.]]

[Do you believeeeee in life after love love love love love –]

[[… not exactly the song I was going for.]]

James and Bob take point up front, omegas and Weasel in the middle, Deadpool in the rear. The only one with a weapon already drawn is their girl, but Clint’s holding his bow, too, arrows in a quiver slung over his shoulder, and Weasel’s got his gloved hand resting on a desert eagle at his hip. Objective: get them all safely to the van. Ten points per headshot, twelve if it’s between the eyes. ‘Course, the goal isn’t to kill people, but as soon as they step through the front doors to the complex and stop on the stoop, James and Bob both tensed and immediately on guard, it’s obvious that’s exactly what’s about to happen. Deadpool whistles, jauntily humming along to White’s catchy little diddy in his noggin, briefly distracted by the yellow beetle honking its horn three cars away from their position. There’s a man, red-faced, with his whole torso hanging out his driver’s window as he yells at the people in front of him, but it’s actually the little boy in the backseat who catches Deadpool’s attention. Can’t be any older than ten, and he’s yelling too, excitedly chanting along with a bunch of people on the sidewalk.

It's not a chant meant for kiddies.

Fucking hell, none of this shit is meant for kiddies.

But nobody’s noticed them yet, so. Better use their time wisely. They stay huddled close as they maneuver through the stream of people, people chanting and yelling and shaking their signs in the air, the crowd humming as though formed into one horrible little hivemind. Omegas paraded nude, skin blistered, dirty, their eyes trained on the ground in front of them and very, very dead inside. There’s a few pillories set up on the street corner, omegas trussed into them, grunting as they’re used, heads down. Deadpool gets close enough to see one beta’s slimy cock sticking out his undone fly as he waits his turn in the throng of people surrounding the pillories, a few others beating off as they watch. Peter stops in front of him, freezes in the middle of the crowd. When Deadpool sets a hand on Pete’s shoulder, the omega flinches away from him, jerks his shoulder away.

Clint reaches forward for James, stops them from advancing.

The girl’s closed fist on her knife.

An alpha knotting someone who’s pressed up against the glass of the Git N Go.

A hundred voices, a thousand voices.

The sweat of stale fear.

A woman with her chest out, a beta’s fingers tugging at one nipple, her face pinched.

A little girl holding onto her mother’s hand, wide-eyed. Watching.

Someone jostling past Bob, shoulder checking him. The other alpha hunches forward and mutters an apology for being in the way. The beta who bumped him mutters about freaks in leather, stops to eye them. There are others, too, starting to take notice of them, their ragtag group of seven decked out in guns, masked, tense and frozen in the sea of noise. A woman holding onto chains tugs her omega until the crawling female stops. Her breathing is ragged, hands and knees scraped to bits. The woman jerks the chains and tells the girl to go suck her husband off, who’s standing in the throng of people waiting to use a pilloried omega by the crosswalk. Deadpool watches the girl crawl over to him, watches a passing beta step on the omega’s fingers, hiss at her to get out of the way. When she finally reaches the husband, chain trailing behind her like a rattling snake, she kisses the man’s boot, says something. The man gestures to his dick and grabs her by the hair to tug her up and onto it.

But mostly, Peter. Peter watching this. In the middle of it. Peter pulling away from his hand, curling into himself, shoulders rounded forward as he appears to make himself smaller. Clint doing the same, hand gripping his bow so hard the leather on his glove creaks.

“I need to get out of here,” Peter says.

It’s a plea. The first Deadpool’s heard since – since they were alone, since it was only them.

Bob says, “Yeah, let’s – we should keep –”

“Please,” Peter says, his voice thin, strained. “Don’t make us – please.”

“Nobody’s making you do shit.”

Peter turns toward Deadpool, finally. His mask eyes are wide, scent muffled but intense, thick with that same fear that so saturated that clinic what feels like ten lifetimes ago. Deadpool wants to be the sort of alpha who’d respond to that fear and get them all the hell out of this hellscape. Instead, his alpha’s rooted in place, wants to keep them all rooted here, wants to – fuck these people up. He’s used to going into alpha rages in back alleyways, used to cleaning up a few corpses here and there, dropping omegas off at clinics. This is – on a much larger scale. He’s aware enough to realize that. That it’s about to get messy. That there’s no hiding the massacre that’s coming, no neat little clinic drop offs for the sheer volume of omegas being abused and raped right in front of them. His alpha’s a growling, snarling ball of fluff. His eyes take on a familiar red haze, zeroed in on Peter.

Peter, who’s not going to feel small ever again.

Peter, who shouldn’t have to beg anybody for anything. Ever. Again.

mate, protect, kill, blood, kill

blood

blood

blood blOOD BLOOD

The world is red. His brain’s all red, white noise and hollow.

FUCK. THIS.

Someone bumps him from behind, bumps into his katanas, the crowd too packed around them. Deadpool’s got a knife out and has it embedded in that person’s forehead before he’s even aware it’s happened. The body falls backwards into another beta, slumping to the ground. The beta is a petite little thing in a fancy pantsuit, face dolled up with makeup, hair styled in loose curls. She jumps out of the way of the body and screams as she catches sight of the knife sticking out of the dude’s head. Blood immediately pools underneath him, rich in the air, and as others take notice of the dead guy, take notice of all the Deadpools, Deadpool strides forward and tugs the knife free of brains and bone with a squelching, slick crunch. He steps over the body and plucks the frozen, shocked woman’s fancy blouse away from her cleavage to wipe the knife clean. People are screaming, now, yelling about the dead guy who apparently had friends. The woman in front of him stands in terror.

Deadpool grins. Sees through his periphery as James decks someone with his metal fist, slams the thing so hard that the man’s nose jams backwards into his face, caves in, blood spattering out around him. It’s impossible to keep track of things from there, all the Deadpools unfreezing to fly into action instead, as though surged forward by the panicked, screaming assholes all around them, the chaos of the crowd, the rush of betas charging toward them. Someone tries tackling Peter, but he ducks down and thwips out a quick web, catching the man’s legs and pulling them out from under him. Betas who’d had their cocks stuffed in various omegas nearby are frantically pulling out and zipping up, the ones previously crowding the pillories stuffing themselves back into their pants, running as Deadpool pulls out a gun. Ten points, twelve there, ten more down the way – he cocks his head, watching one woman who’s pulling on her omega’s chain, telling the omega to ‘get her ass up and run.’ Ten more points and the chains rattle where they fall, the omega girl a whimpering, shocked ball on the ground. Clint’s launching arrows that zing past Deadpool’s head, lodge into betas who’d been using one of the omegas strapped into one of the pillories.

Deadpool turns and gives Clint some finger guns.

Peter leaps onto someone’s back, uses his body as a launching pad. Deadpool stops in the middle of shooting somebody else to watch the line of Peter’s muscles, the shapely form of his ass as he thwips a web onto the top of the crosswalk sign and swings over to the pillories, lands light on his feet. He’s immediately murmuring to one of the omegas, briefly fiddles with the lock that’s got the omega trapped, his head and wrists latched through holes in two wooden planks. The lock won’t budge, but Peter just – just yanks it off the iron bolt, lifts the wooden plank like it’s a loose sheet of paper. The omega in the pillory sags to the ground, shaking, ass slick with cum that’s trailing down his legs. Peter murmurs to him again, goes to the other pillory to release the other omega, too.

A man with a bat gets Deadpool from behind while he’s too distracted watching Pete do his thang. Deadpool yelps, throws his body forward and tucks and rolls, comes up with Bea and Arthur unsheathed and cuts the man’s knees out from under him. Then he uses the man's own bat to bash his smarmy face in.

Overkill? Possibly.

Does Deadpool make time to slam the bat down, hard, into the corpse’s crotch?

Absolutely.

There’s police, then, who come careening into view, yelling for people to get out the way.

[MOVE, BITCH.]

[[GET OUT THE WAY, GET OUT THE WAY]]

[Much better song!]

They’re wearing bulletproof vests, holding their clear shields. Barrel people over to reach their Deadpool entourage. They see the armed officers coming and they make quick work to gather back together, Weasel wide-eyed and covered in blood in between them, the girl with two bloody knives clutched in her hands and a loose, rumbling growl beside him. Deadpool finds himself back to back with Petey Pie, who’s breathing hard, and when he sees an officer shoot an omega, straight up shoot the naked girl on the ground DEAD, Deadpool charges toward the line of PoPos and then it’s really party time, boyos. Gather ‘round the campfire, we’ll sing our campfire songs, dum dum dum –

They don’t bother warning him to stop. They just start shooting.

Deadpool runs into all their bullets, sidesteps a few times in order to catch some stragglers into his torso because if any of them fly past him, they might hit the much less durable Deadpools behind him and THAT’S NEVER GONNA HAPPEN. Peteypool’s suddenly there flying over Deadpool’s head, arcing through the air on a web, and when an officer aims his gun at Peter Deadpool sees red again, throws a katana so it embeds into the officer’s shield, jostling him into shoddy aim. Then Peter’s there again, landing on Deadpool’s katana with his toes, webbing the officer’s face through his helmet. The officer’s muffled shriek is the bass to this rioting music, betas running and yelling behind the line of officers the chorus. When Pete leaps onto another officer, webs his face, too, the first one’s left on the ground flailing like a fish out of water. His body seizes where he’s slowly suffocating on Pete’s spidey jizz and Deadpool’s alpha might be in serious love.

[Might?]

[[MIGHT??]]

[We worship the ground he walks on!]

[[And the sky he swings in, because apparently he does that!]]

[Lovestruck sigh.]

[[Hearts eyes.]]

“You aren’t supposed to say that, you idiots,” Deadpool exclaims in the middle of chopping off the arm of an oppressor. There’s a news anchor standing just down the way, talking quickly into a microphone, her cameraman angling his lens toward the carnage while she talks. Deadpool thinks about killing them, but it’s best if the world sees this, sees that there’s people trying to fight back, so he stops to strike a pose and then giggles, waves with one hand close to his face.

“What’s the fucking plan here, DP?” Weasel asks, coming up behind him.

The beta is holding his knees and panting. Somehow, one glove’s missing off his left hand.

Deadpool shrugs. Shoots a beta in the back where he’s running a yard or so away.

“IDK, bro, kill everyone?”

“What about the omegas! We can’t – they won’t all fit in the van.”

Deadpool scratches his cheek. “Why do you assume there was ever a plan?”

“Oh my God,” Weasel wheezes. His back creaks as he stands. “What the fuck are we gonna do, leave them all here?” Weasel stumbles at the right moment because a PoPo gets a little too close for comfort, tries to ram him with his shield. Deadpool stops the shield with one hand, not even wincing as his wrist pops, and then he tears it out of the man’s hand and shoots him in the face, in that little spot that’s exposed through his helmet. Weasel whooshes out another breath and he shudders, angles his face away from the dead guy, white mask eyes wide and spattered with brown spots, bespeckled with blood. “They’ll just be executed, man. This was monumentally stupid, this was – we’re not helping anyone outa this, you know that right? You’re always doing this! Trying to help omegas when there’s literally nowhere for them to go, nowhere safe. What are we even doing here?”

Deadpool cocks his head. “We’re making sure our omegas know we support them.”

That shuts Weasel up for a good few seconds.

Deadpool earns another ten points in the meantime, sees Peter soaring by overhead and kicking someone in the face as he flies by.

“Yeah,” Weasel says. He sighs. “Fine, okay. Fine.”

“Glad we’ve cleared up your existential dread, Dadpool.”

Zing, another twelve points this time!

“We’ve cleared up nothing. We’ve cleared up exactly nothing. What’re we – d’you hear that?”

Deadpool can’t hear much over the sound of fire crackling in a storefront across the street, and people screaming, and their girl omega shrieking as she straddles someone and plunges one of her knives in his stomach repeatedly. Clint’s using one of his arrows like a sword as he grapples with someone at least a foot taller than he is, but Pete’s body arcs midair and flips the other way. He throws out another web and catches that man in the head with a foot, sends him sprawling. Clint’s immediately on the man, sticks his arrow into one of his eyes.

There’s a lot of screaming.

Gunfire from Bob.

More screaming.

A bullet aimed at Weasel’s head. Deadpool throws himself in front of it in the nick of time, grabs the straps on Weasel’s suit and tugs him close to Deadpool’s body, shields him from more gunfire. A web thwips behind them, someone grunting as they’re tossed to the ground before Peter pounces on him, webbing him up, suffocating him, too.

Peter throws him a thumbs up and swings away again.

“Oh my God I almost died.” Weasel’s breathing goes erratic. He wheezes again.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Deadpool says, patting Weasel’s chest. His own voice sounds wet, chest rattling when he talks, bullets itching his insides something fierce as his body takes its sweet time ejecting them, but you don’t hear him whining about it. “I’m the one currently bleeding out of multiple neck holes right now.” He pauses, assessing. “And I think one of my ears might have gotten blown up, it’s –” Deadpool reaches up to pat his right ear, or where his right ear would have been. Instead there’s a slight breeze where his ear used to be, a hole shot through his mask and a hole ear-sized on the side of his head. His glove comes away sticky with his own blood. No wonder he can’t hear whatever Weasel was asking if he heard. “Yep, definitely missing an ear right now.”

Weasel’s still wheezing when he huffs out a, “There, right there! That’s – that’s bad, right? Oh God we’re all going to die and I didn’t even hide my porn stash –”

Deadpool turns, finally hears what Weasel claims to have heard earlier, the beating propellers of a helicopter, or – no, that’s definitely not a helicopter. That’s – shiny and shaped like a bird that gives off some serious phallic vibes, its front windows shaped vaguely like the head of a penis. Wind kicks up all around the massacre as the jet – ah, shit, the fucking Quinjet – turbines down to ground level, wheels thudding onto the body of a felled cop and squishing out some innards, skidding on blood. There’s some more screams down the way, but then a tiny, shiny red speck sparkles in the sky, the sound of repulsors firing and more turbines. Iron Man himself – or maybe not, maybe just one of the suits, who knows – but an Iron Man suit flies down, too, lands beside the Quinjet with a thud so hard the ground quivers. Deadpool’s never seen an Iron Man suit in the flesh, never seen the serious, frowning faceplate and the glowing, narrow slants for eyes. It might be time to wet himself. Or shriek in glee. Could go either way.

“That’s Iron Man!” Wade finds himself exclaiming.

Peter lands beside him, stands shoulder to shoulder with him. “That’s – Tony Stark?”

“Stand down, Deadpool…s,” the Iron Man suit says, voice modulated.

There aren’t any betas left alive on this street, and Clint’s killing the last of the cops. Omegas huddle all around, though, covered in blood or just dirtied by life, cum-stained and shaking in their own piss (or other people’s piss – again, hard to tell). Deadpool leans over and whispers, “Can I hold your hand?” because the last time he tried to touch Peter, Peter flinched away from him, plus Deadpool just killed a bunch of people (over 300 points worth, holla!) and that might have scared the omega even more, which is – which would be totally normal of him. Plus just, like, consent. Should probably always get that, folks. Wordlessly, Peter reaches over and takes his hand, gives it a squeeze, unhesitating, and something loosens in Deadpool’s chest at the touch, something that’s been curled up and sad ever since Pete flinched away from him before the massacre.

The rest of the Deadpools join them, stand shoulder to shoulder.

Except for their girl, who’s holding knives and standing behind Deadpool.

[Might get stabbed, might not.]

[[Oooh, gotta love a good mystery.]]

The Quinjet’s butt flaps open to an empty hold.

There’s a moment of pause, where everyone’s still. Tense. Waiting.

[Are we in the wild wild west?]

[[Stick ‘em up!]]

And then –

And THEN –

Iron Man’s faceplate retracts.

Chapter Text

19. walls

-

-

-

“Oh my God it really is Tony Stark!” Wade squeals. He feels a bit like a rabid fangirl. Is he rabid fangirling right now? Stark’s looking gaunt in the face, all pale and skinny, and he’s holding one of his sparkly jazz hands out in front of him in clear threat position, the whirr of that gauntlet pointed straight at Deadpool – the real one. Still, Deadpool kind of wants an autograph. Would it be too rabid fangirl of him to ask for one right now? Is right now a bad time? “D’you think he’d judge me if I peed myself?” he whispers rapid-fire to Pete.

Peter squeezes his hand. His mask eyes look very wide.

“You should have gone before we left,” Weasel hisses at him from his other side.

“I can’t hear you through the hole in my head,” Deadpool singsongs.

What a day. What a motherfucking day.

[Dude it’s not even noon yet.]

[[We’re meeting Tony Stark!!]]

[Or we’re about to get blown up by Tony Stark… and I’m pretty sure only we’d survive it.]

Ah, true. Probably the wrong time to ask for an autograph, then. His ear feels tingly where parts of it are regrowing, and he misses the first thing Stark says. He only knows he misses it because everybody’s suddenly looking at him, like they’re waiting for him to say something, and Wade feels the tension like a tangible weight bearing down on this whole street. There’s an omega off to the right of them who’s crying into her arms, curled up beside the shop window she’d been knotted against before all this started, and it’s distracting his alpha. All the omegas on the street are, actually, the sight of them crumpled or in various states of banged-up, the alarming quiet that’s fallen across most of them, like they’re too terrified even to breathe wrong. It’s almost better to hear them crying… at least that’s normal, understandable, a sign of life. The unnatural quiet from the rest is a grating truth to the true horrors they’ve been facing. It sets Wade’s teeth on edge, fills his head up with all sorts of things he’d like to inflict on the people who’d hurt them.

[Peter used to be one of these omegas.]

[[Could be still, if we hadn’t found him.]]

[If he hadn’t been brave enough to come with us.]

Blood, kill, mate, protect, hate, hate, hate –

Stark’s smart enough to realize that Deadpool has no idea what he must have said, because his voice raises and hardens, edged with the gritted frustration of a person having to repeat himself to a distracted toddler, “Did you even have a plan for what to do with these omegas after you murdered all their owners in the middle of a highly televised riot?”

Well, no.

Deadpool prods a finger into one of the bullet holes in his abdomen, scratching at it. Maybe it’s the stress of everybody looking at him for answers, maybe it’s the fact that he’s meeting Iron Man himself for the first time ever, maybe it’s Peter and Clint and weak little Weas being in the crosshairs of a jazz hand that could pulverize them… whatever it is, Deadpool feels his alpha’s anxiety like his own. His voice comes out a squeaky, high-pitched whine, “Why is everybody looking to me for the plan? Do I look like somebody who has plans?”

Peter’s hand is a vice around Deadpool’s fingers.

Stark’s jaw ticks. “I can’t figure out why anybody would do all this without one.”

“I told you we needed a plan.” Weasel’s words of wisdom.

Deadpool ignores him. He gestures to the open hold of the whirring Quinjet. “Why’re we talking about me not having a plan when it’s obvious you’ve got one? Everybody knows that Stark’s the man with the plan! Deus ex machina levels of yay team! I don’t want to assume shit because you know what happens when you assume shit, but I’m assuming we can borrow this flying dildo to transport these traumatized humans somewhere at least marginally less bloody?”

“… Let’s get ‘em loaded up.”

Stark’s faceplate snicks shut. Without another word, he flies off to start picking up omegas.

“He’s an omega?” Peter asks, quiet and unsure.

Weasel says, “Dunno why he’d claim to be if he wasn’t.”

Clint and Peter both glance at each other, then to that sterile, empty hold. As one, their heads turn to Deadpool. Peter asks, “Can we trust him?”

He doesn’t trust Stark, exactly. But they’re exposed on national television in the middle of a truly bloody mass of bodies, many of them police, with nowhere to take the dozens of shivering, shell-shocked omegas they just “rescued.” This level of fucked kind of warrants that he try to trust the guy with the magical solution of a Quinjet. Stark’s not exactly giving off trustworthy vibes right now, all glaring and stony. Still, he’s better than the alternative – which… doesn’t exist. There is no plan, no place they could take these omegas where they’d be any safer than they were at the start. Hell, their van wouldn’t even hold them all so there’s not even a method of transportation for them besides the one that just so neatly arrived.

“Can we trust anyone?” Deadpool says. It’s a pointless question. “I dunno. What I do know is – we’ll be okay. I can’t die and the whole damn world’s gonna have to go through me to get to any of you. I think these omegas stand a better chance going with Stark than they would staying here on the street, anyway.”

Peter’s agreement feels reluctant.

Still, it’s agreement.

Everybody else takes their cues from him, because it’s through that silent agreement that they all start helping to round up the omegas and get them safely into the Quinjet, all the Deadpools scattering to help omegas up off the ground or, in many cases, straight-up carrying them into the hold. Apparently, none of them had the heart to murder children, because there’s beta kids and alpha kids to gather up, too, crying kids whose parents were killed right in front of them. It’s a mess. It’s all a mess. This one kid tries to run away from Deadpool, screaming for his dad, and Deadpool stops. Feels himself get choked up, the boxes loud and unceasing. He’s a villain. In that kid’s mind, he’ll be the villain forever. It doesn’t matter that this kid’s dad raped girls and boys on the sidewalk and called it normal… just like it didn’t matter that Wade’s dad did. Mom and Pop hated him, starved him, beat him… none of it mattered. They were his parents.

[And then you killed them. The end.]

[[Christ, this shit’s depressing.]]

It gets worse.

Or maybe it gets better, because what Deadpool really needs right now is a distraction, and as though summoned by his existential morality crisis, a distraction flies in on beating propellers, one, two, three, four, five police choppers that crest over the tops of the buildings around them and hover in place. There’s yelling, orders barked over the noise. Shots ring out from above, aimed at the omegas, aimed at the Deadpools, aimed at anything moving. Deadpool throws his whole body on top of the kid who’d been running from him, smooshes him into the ground just in time to avoid a barrage of bullets. Or, well, for the kid to avoid them. Deadpool wraps his arms around the kid and curls over him and shell casings rain down around them like confetti. Kabooms rock the ground underneath them, bullets stopping, and when Deadpool lifts his head out from the cocoon of his arms, Iron Man’s there with his jazz hands, blasting helicopters into next week.

Peteypool swings close to one of the explosions, a web catching onto a smoking tail rotor.

Bracing himself onto the side of a building, Peter yanks.

The copter careens into an empty storefront and goes up in flames.

There’s another copter coming down onto the street where omegas are still huddled. Deadpool sets the shaking, screaming beta kid against the nearest lamppost and dives into the chaos. He manages to grab two omegas and fling them over his shoulders, running toward the Quinjet to get them to safety, sees Bobpool and Jamespool doing the same as the copter’s blades slice through the buildings above them and debris rains down. Petey’s webs latch onto that copter, muscles straining as he tries to pull it off course, manages to slow it down. Iron Man jets into view, too. He charges into the burning husk of the copter and grabs its landing skids in metal fists, strongarming it away from the civilians on the street. He and Peter both toss it skyward, then Iron Man blasts it into dust with what looks like a mini-missile that flips up from a panel embedded in his suit’s shoulder.

It's safe to say none of those coppers survive.

It’s also safe to say that Deadpool is in fucking awe.

[Oh em gee Petey’s got strength like WOW!]

He’s positively mesmerizing, the way his body arcs in the air as he swings.

He doesn’t have time to marvel for long, however, because there’s more helicopters where those came from, and they bring along friends. And by friends he means Hydra jets, plus a few news station choppers whose spotlights blare down on them. Iron Man squares off against the jets in the air that seem to have honing beacons set straight on the robot. He shoots at them with red beams of light and takes to the skies to make them give chase, flying circles around them as he shoots and weaves around incoming projectiles. The DP squad tries to use what little time that affords them wisely and work overtime rounding up the last of the omegas, the last of the surely horrified, terrified children, too, gets them all situated inside the Quinjet’s hold. Deadpool and Weasel end up at the cockpit, dicking around with the controls to try and get the thing moving, but it’s James who finally leans in from behind them and flicks a few nobs here, presses a button or two there. The Quinjet lurches as it lifts off from the ground, hovering while James magics some more, and then the tires fold upward and turbine fans hiss.

Weasel holds onto the seat under him so hard the leather of his Deadpool gloves creak.

He must see Deadpool staring at him. Weasel’s mask eyes narrow. “Shut up.”

“I would never,” Wade protests, but it’s lackluster and mostly for Weasel’s own benefit.

They’re off the ground and lifting into the sky, now, steadily climbing in altitude with James leaning over them and acting as would-be pilot, laser focused on the task at hand, especially when it becomes obvious that they have to start dodging out of the way of the missiles firing this way and that. Deadpool takes that task on himself, more than capable of steering them through and around explosions, heart in his chest because Petey’s somewhere in this damn Quinjet and there’s no way he’s letting it go boom. Weasel’s voice is an octave higher than usual. It cracks when he says through gritted teeth, “I can hear you thinking! Listen, bub, I haven’t been in this many near-death experiences all in the span of a few minutes since that time you tried to filet Marley and Jones over that ridiculous blow job, back when things made sense. I’m not scared to admit I’m fucking scared as fuck right now, okay? This isn’t my gig!”

“Damn I wish I had some cheese to give you for all’a that whine.”

“Turn right,” James says suddenly, a sharp bark.

Deadpool obeys instantly despite the fact that going right has them soaring toward a crashing news chopper. Thank fuck James seems to know his shit, because right when they’re about to collide with the smoking, fiery falling bits of metal, James flicks a switch that has his stomach dropping out from under him. The ground lurches out from under them briefly as they fall. A choked squeal peels out of Weasel’s throat, who latches a hand onto Deadpool’s arm and tells him repeatedly that he’s too young to die. Through the cover of smoke and fire, though, their resident super soldier presses a few unmarked buttons and hits a lever that has the Quinjet leveling out. The missiles stop aiming their way, too, as they fly off into the clouds and leave Iron Man to do his IronManning.

“We’re cloaked,” James says in apparent explanation.

“Fuck you are amazing,” Deadpool admires, giggling the stress out.

In such close proximity, it’s hard to miss how James twitches at the compliment, his shoulder tense where he’s still leaned over them. Meanwhile, Weasel’s breathing hard like he’s the one who’s been working hard for his money. He still has an iron grip on Deadpool’s arm and does not seem to be letting go anytime soon. Not that Deadpool minds. He’ll take casual touch any way he can get it, even laced with terror. While the cityscape shrinks behind them, Weasel’s head thunks onto James’ metal shoulder and he says, “How the fuck do you know how to operate a Quinjet? Isn’t this a – this is a Resistance-only sort of mode of transportation, which means – fuck, I guess it’s kind of obvious Stark’s been working with the Resistance, now that I think about it. I’d bet my entire stamp collection they leapt at the chance to team up with a treasure trove of intel, cash, and resources like Stark. But – but back to the point – this isn’t something Hydra would have been able to teach you.”

James says nothing.

Weasel must have expected that. The beta sighs. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll – figure it out.”

Silence falls between them. Now that his ear’s mostly regrown, he can pick up on the sniffles from the hold as omegas try very hard not to make any noise, to hold in their cries. One kid’s screaming his head off, begging to go home, while several other kids wail in the background. Deadpool wishes he had Pete’s magic bat ears, wishes he could pick out Peter’s voice to make sure he’s okay. There’s a brief commotion nearby, muffled voices, then the cockpit opens up from behind them and Weasel lets loose a manly shriek as he flinches, grip tightening to pain around Deadpool’s bicep. The stench of omega fear, oily and sour, wafts in through the open doorway, the sound of them moaning and kids wailing an absolute reality check, chemically induced heat scents so pungent that Deadpool’s glad for the mask that only slightly muffles everything.

It's only Bob, poking his head in. “Guess there’s not room for – for me in here, huh?”

“Not unless you wanna cuddle,” Deadpool says, almost hopefully.

Bob shuffles forward. “Uhm… that’d be fine. It’s – I’m pretty sure I’m scaring people back here.”

It’s a sorrowful whisper, laced with shame. Deadpool immediately scooches over and tells the lean alpha to sidle on up and join their party. Not that it’s much of a party, with Weasel still wheezing and whining about almost being blown up or shot up or sliced open, and the contacts he’s wearing keep making his eyes feel itchy, he thinks they’re too dry, but glasses wouldn’t have worked under the Deadpool mask and anyway, for the last time, Deadpool’s the one who actually got shot up and blown up (a little) and sliced open a few times. He figures this is just Weasel’s way of coping through stress and cuts him some slack. Bob slides the cockpit door closed behind him and presses in close against James and Deadpool, until all four of them are smooshed shoulder to shoulder to shoulder to shoulder, knees knocking as they huddle.

“Pete’s okay?” Deadpool asks Bob. “Clint? Our girl?”

Bob chuffs. “Yeah, they seem okay. Peter is – he’s been talking to the omegas.”

Deadpool feels something warm curl up inside him. He grins a bit and sighs. “He’s good at that.”

“And Clint?” James repeats the inquiry, staring straight ahead.

“Clint’s got a lapful of omega kids. I think he calms them.”

If that isn’t just the cutest fucking thing Wade’s ever tried to envision, holy fuck. But the city is disappearing behind them and he’s not sure where they’re supposed to be taking these people, so Wade does what Wade does best and compartmentalizes, shelves that particular gem for a later date. They can’t just fly this thing to their newly purchased farmhouse and call it a day – Christ, for so very many reasons. Not only would hiding a bunch of illegally taken omegas not work forever, but they’re all in desperate need of some serious help. Mental, emotional, physical… hot damn, all the help. He’s pretty sure some of them need dropped off at a clinic, and, fuck, some of them are fucking kids. Beta kids! Kids that are probably going to be missed by some very angry mobs sometime sooner rather than later. What the fuck is the plan, here?

“… does anybody have any bright ideas?” Deadpool finally asks. “I’m totes up for suggestions.”

[Surprising no one, you fucked everything up.]

[[You’ve put the whole damn team in some pretty massive danger, is what you did.]]

[Almost like you don’t give a fuck about any of ‘em.]

[[How many fuck ups like today before they drop your sorry ass?]]

[If you don’t get them all killed first.]

[[I swear, if you get pretty Petey killed –]]

“This is a clusterfuck,” Weasel points out, helpful as always. Then again, Bob’s contribution is a hopeless shrug, which might be worse. They’re both almost as useful as White and Yellow. Not that he can blame any of them – no, they’re all pretty spot on, here. It’s all a hopeless clusterfuck much like it’s always been in their shit stain of a broken world, with no wins, no safe places, no answers. Getting them out of the relative safety of their apartment had been a bad idea. Oh, sure, Hydra had gotten pretty close, there, and sure, they left a mess in the apartment below, but they seem to be leaving messes wherever they go, and Hydra seems even closer now that they’ve all effectively been shot at with some of their missiles.

But then James tells Wade to let go of the yoke.

“That word sounds made-up,” Deadpool tells him. “Or like we’re about to make an omelet –”

James grunts. “The control column.”

As soon as his hands release from the yoke… nothing happens. He’d have expected the jet to list to the side or maybe dip, but it’s steady as ever in the sky. Shit, now that he thinks about it, there hadn’t been a pilot in the first place, had there? Stark must be able to operate it remotely. The fact that he’s doing so now must mean he successfully pulverized all the Hydra jets. Either that or he’s fucking aces at multitasking.

Either way, they’re heading somewhere.

Destination unknown, but when has it ever been known?

Never. Right exactly never.

At least this time, there’s a chance their destination might not suck too bad.

Wade leans back and into Bob, into all of them, really. He presses one gloved hand onto James’s shoulder, arm wrapped around Bob’s shoulders, with Weasel still buried somewhere under them all and holding on tightly to his other arm. They all watch the clouds pass by, listen to a crying kid in the back, to the creaks and movement from all their unwitting passengers. There’s a bang from above them sometime later, metal groaning. Deadpool can’t say he’s surprised, although he does snicker when Weasel shrieks again and cowers and ducks his head down at the sound like they’re being shot at. They’re not, bee tee dubs.

Nah, it’s just Iron Man on the roof. That mechanized voice tinnies out from one of the speakers, “Everybody alive in there?”

“I sure hope so,” Deadpool says. Honestly, he can’t be sure. Some of those omegas had been awfully injured, and he’s woefully lacking in the ability to keep people alive. “Although, this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve unknowingly transported corpses – d’you remember, Dadpool, that trip to Belize? Those little ninja stars? The shrimp?”

Weas twitches like he’s not sure he wants to respond.

It’s Iron Man who does. “I can’t tell you how riveting that story sounds, but if you’re not sure if people are alive or dead, maybe we can shelve it. There’s med kits in a storage compartment on top of the left wheel.”

Christ, this guy is the man with just all the plans. Deadpool tells him so as all the Deadpools in the cockpit squeeze around each other so that Wade can reach the door.

“Yeah, not my first rodeo.” Stark’s voice has a bitter, bitter tiredness about it.

Bob’s closest to the door, but Bob needs a break from scaring people and Wade’s always been so good at that. Plus, everything inside him wants to see Peter, to assess with his own eyeballs that the omega is – alive, if not completely okay. It’s almost become a biological need at this point to scent Peter and Clint, to keep them all together and close. His alpha isn’t there with their girl yet, maybe never will be since consent and reciprocation matter and she’s been pretty thoroughly not about that life. Still, it’d be good to check on her, too.

Just, you know, well out of the way of her knives.

-

-

-

None of the Deadpools seem especially receptive to outside assistance. Hardly a surprise, since nobody else is either. Tony’s out of the armor and on the floor crisscross applesauce style with one elbow on his knee, chin in hand. He’s got a hologram opened up in the air between him and the kid, blue and white noiseless fireworks playing on a loop. The kid’s at least stopped wailing, but it’s a near thing, still so close to the surface. Any wrong movement at all and it’s bound to spew out like a geyser all over again, which would likely set off a chain reaction of more crying around the whole little intake room they’ve gotten set up. It’s not especially welcoming, their intake area, all warehouse vibes and sterile emptiness, the Quinjet parked on the grass outside. Nobody cares a lick about lawn maintenance around here.

The kid’s eyes track the fireworks.

Tony pokes one with a prodding finger. The sparks dance in response.

“Where’s my dad?” the kid says.

Tony hums. He keeps his voice level. Steady. Neutral. “I know you want your dad.”

“He says you’re a whore,” the kid says.

Neutral, neutral, neutral. Tony plays around with the fireworks some more and doesn’t answer that one, doesn’t allow the anger and disgust so thick in the kid’s high-pitched voice to register or land. Like water off a duck’s back. It’s all water off a duck’s back. Silence seems like a safe option, here, a solid strategy, but the kid’s been through a lot in the past few hours and silence isn’t going to work for him. His shirt’s stained dark brown. How likely is that to be his dad’s blood? Pretty damn. The kid asks again for his dad, and when Tony fails to respond, he starts calling him a whore again. It’s always so strange to hear hatred so casually spewed out of the mouths of babes. Tony lets the kid vent, lets him get it all out. Sits in stony silence and makes a firework dance around his finger, watches the kid’s eyes track its trajectory. He’s heard all this before from way bigger folks, anyway. How omegas are whores and his dad doesn’t think he should ever talk to them because they’re too dumb to understand anything real people have to say. How Dad likes to fuck slut omegas in all their holes, and if Dad were here right now he’d fuck Tony.

Out of the mouths of babes.

Water off a duck’s back.

Once the kid’s said all he’s going to say to an omega, Tony tries to ask him if he has a mom or another parent, asks if she were in the crowd today too. The kid scoots backward until his back hits the wall behind him, voice a shaky, anger-fueled shout, “You shouldn’t be talking to real people! I want my dad! Give him back! Slut! Whore! Omega trash!”

Christ. And just after he’s spent how long now getting this kid to quiet down with the firework show? Not that he cares what this kid’s saying, personally, but he sure as shit doesn’t think the omegas in the room should be hearing it. Not here, where they should be safe. Not right at the beginning, when they’re just making first impressions and learning what’s normal here. This is not what’s allowed to be normal here. Cold hard experience has taught him, however, that this isn’t a verbal battle he’s going to win. The kid’s learned a lot from his parents, learned even more from the world around him, and no amount of words can fix it. No amount of words can ever fix anything. So, whatever. He spends a few charged seconds changing the fireworks into facial recognition software, then leaves the kid to his crying and searches through footage for what happened to his dad on the street, for the man’s face.

It's not a pretty sight.

Still, it gets results. Conrad Evans. His wife’s a nurse at an omega clinic in Brooklyn and was clocked in at work at the time of the attack.

Thank fuck they didn’t orphan this horrible kid.

Now the messy fun of returning this kid – along with any other betas or alphas mixed up in all this – to their remaining family begins. Tony keeps himself busy with the task well into evening, then into the night. By the time the sun crests over the trees around their little warehouse full of new omegas, Tony’s going on day three? No, no, day four? Of no sleep, and it’s starting to take its toll. He squints at the warehouse, eyesight blurred around the edges. Coffee. He needs coffee. Coffee and then back to it – who knows how many omegas in there need hormone treatments to counteract all that chemical shit pumped into them for years – no, should deal with the strange group of Deadpools, first, get them out of here, send them on their murdering ways. Have they been - yeah, yep, that’s the Resistance for you, bunch of assholes – his thoughts pass in a blur, yeah, he’s going to be feeling this hard after a quick cat nap – He swaggers into the warehouse and passes through to the back, down a narrow hallway until Carter stops him with her eyebrows and her foreboding frown of disapproval. Some people might think her face is glued into this particular position, but Tony’s seen the way she softens around Rogers, sees her shy little head tilts and the way she follows him around like a little eager puppy.

“I can’t believe you brought these people here,” is the first thing she says to him.

Tony’s eyes feel almost too heavy to blink. “Coffee first.”

Carter keeps frowning at him until he’s passed her, then she follows after him with the frown, lecturing all the while. Tony hears maybe every other word, but he doesn’t have to hear it to know exactly what she’s saying. Blah, blah, secret Resistance hideout blah blah. Murdering vigilante groups should not have been allowed admittance blah blah. Never thinking about the bigger picture, acting impulsively, blah blah again. It’s a stale routine, almost as stale as their hours old coffee that he pours into a mug and jams into a greasy old microwave that’s had the same spatters of tomato sauce on the inside of the door for going on six weeks now. When he slams the door with a touch too much force, Carter’s voice trails off. They stand in a stilted silence while the seconds count down on the microwave, mug rotating inside. When it dings, Tony wraps a hand around the heated mug and takes an immediate swallow, never mind the immediate sting of what feels like third-degree burns on his lips and tongue.

“You were reckless,” Carter says.

Tony raises the mug to her. “Don’t tell me you’re surprised.”

“No.” She watches him with her arms crossed over her chest. Her cheeks are blotchy, red, eyes all fierce and scowling, fiery. She looks like she wants to say something, bites her tongue, takes her time. Tony sucks down stale coffee in the meantime, glad for the moment of quiet, knowing it won’t last. And it doesn’t. Finally, as he’s rummaging through their mediocre basket of snacks for a granola bar, she sucks in a purposeful breath and asserts, “I’m getting tired of cleaning up after your messes, though. How many people here have you endangered, showing these lunatics the way in? This is last week all over again –”

“I’m sorry,” Tony says, not meaning it at all. He pulls his sunglasses from where they hang off his shirt and slips them on, looks down his nose at her. Barriers. Walls. Walls and more walls. A different sort of armor, but one he’s always going to need. Even here. Maybe especially here, a supposed safe haven for omegas that’s thus far done nothing except drain him dry and demand more. Safe havens, it turns out, only apply to the actual victimized omegas of the world, a group from which the Stark name itself disqualifies him. He’s being a sarcastic little shit, he knows it, can feel the pettiness rising up, but he’s tired and he’s tired, and looking her disapproval in the face, Tony doesn’t care. In fact, he maybe even takes sadistic glee in chiseling out a few chinks in her own armor, sees her squirm and delights in it when he asks, all faux casual, “Were you the one out dodging missiles? Have you been the one taking heat from every news outlet across the literal globe? Did that kid earlier call you the slut?”

When she stares, says nothing, her jaw clenching like she’s fighting back more words, Tony snorts. Betas. “Right.”

He sets the mug down. Determinedly resists the urge to scrub a hand down his face and rub his eyes, mind already moving along. Carter isn’t the only one he’ll be receiving these words from, not by a long shot, and she’ll probably be the tamest of the bunch. Fact is, she’s not altogether incorrect. Letting Deadpool anywhere near their operation here is a risk, but literally letting the guy pilot the aircraft to get here? Tony might as well have drawn the man a map. Rolled out a welcome mat in the foyer. It settles there in his mind, another hefty weight of a quick choice that might monumentally screw everything up when there really hadn’t been any other choices worth making at the time. They got the omegas out of there safely. Mission accomplished. Everything else had to have taken a back seat to that.

Nothing for it, now. Tony acted. Things happened and he acted. They’ve got a holding cell full of Deadpools because of him, and this could go so many different ways. Deadpool’s a loose cannon. Unpredictable. That’s what they’ve all said, anyway, but Tony’s gotten pretty adept at reading between the lines and seeing through what the world so glaringly wants him believing, and he’s willing to call bullshit where bullshit needs called. Higher ups hate Deadpool because he kills higher ups. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out there’s more to the merc than meets the eye. As far as he’s aware, as high as he climbed on the ladders of society, as big as the name Stark grew… Deadpool’s never tried to take him out. No, his victims fit a certain criterion.

Rich sleezy omega traders. Owners. Only ever owners.

It's something Tony can play ball with.

It’s something he’s risked their entire operation on, in fact.

The Resistance might not want to be associated with a murderous alpha the whole world hates, but Tony’s not the Resistance. He’s here and doing this, sure. But they made their choice when they said Tony Stark, not recommended. He’s going to make his own choices, too. They want him on as a consultant, fine. Let’s consult.

Agent meets them outside the holding cell in a crisp new suit. He’s leaned back with one knee bent so his foot is resting on the wall behind him, arms crossed in front of him. When he sees Tony and Carter coming, he shoves himself away from the wall and meets them with one hand extended, practiced smile in place.

“Welcome back, Stark,” he says, while Tony fails to shake his hand.

“Still don’t like being handed things,” Tony reminds him.

“Even a hand?” Agent asks.

“Especially a hand.”

“Everybody could use a hand now and again,” Agent remarks, ever the boy scout. Carter looks like she’s about to comment on it, so Tony cuts her off at the pass and tells them both that he’s going in there alone, wants to approach this without fanfare. They stuck the Deadpools in a cell, for crying out loud. Talk about a lukewarm welcome. No, if more than one of them enters that cell, ten to one it’ll get ugly fast. The Deadpools will feel threatened. He’d rather go in for a casual chat, figure out whether they can be trusted to keep not-so-insignificant secrets, then let them leave before anyone else has to involve themselves. In and out type deal, easy peasy.

Agent offers a shrug. “Fine by me.”

Carter, however, squares off. “Um, no? Absolutely not?”

“Stark can take care of himself, Sharon,” Agent says with that mild tone of his, calm and unconcerned. He’s okay for an Agent.

“It’s not Stark I’m worried about,” Carter says. Tony’s always loved the way that people can talk about him right in front of his face as though he’s not present. That’s such a great feeling. Such a safe haven for all omegas everywhere, unless their name ends in Stark. Color him effectively bored of this entire needless exchange. Carter looks Agent in the eye and adds, insistent, “We’re not about to let him represent the whole of the Resistance and its interests. I can’t let a group of vigilantes leave here knowing that here exists on Stark’s word alone. Not happening. I have to hear what they say for myself. I’ll represent the Resistance, Stark can represent himself, and they’ll still outnumber us so it shouldn’t matter to them whether there’s two of us or one in the room.”

Agent opens his mouth. Tony waves a lazy hand in the air, dismissing the whole thing.

“Doesn’t matter,” Tony says, tired, tired, tired. There’s way bigger fish he could be frying right now, way too little time to fry them. “Sure. Come along to the fun, Carter. Just so you know, if they managed to squirrel away weapons and try to use them, I plan to use you as my human shield.”

Yep. There’s definitely delight in making her squirm.

She knows she can’t respond, too, because the only possible responses to that would make her sound childish in front of Agent. So she shoulders past him, instead, angry and hard, face set in stone. Tony follows behind her and waits while she gets the reinforced door unlocked, shades perched on his nose, armor a mere button away if they need it. She shoulder checks him on the way inside, a rough bump that presses uncomfortably against a bruise there. When they come face to masked faces with a group of people who are mostly all cuddling each other, scents all intermixed like some sort of – sort of archaic pack, Tony feels his face settle into a grimace before he quickly twitches it into his patented smile for the press. Nice to meet a united front with a united front of his own, Tony can’t help but think, petty and mean as always.

Let’s get this over with.

Chapter Text

20. should i try?

-

-

-

Peter pluck, pluck, plucks at the fingers on one glove. It feels small in here, enclosed; he can’t say it’s the smallest cell he’s ever been tossed into, no, but it’s – still a cell. Meant to contain them. Something bad’s about to happen and there’s panic trying to claw through his chest; he tries not to think about all the ways this whole day turned sideways, but of course it’s looping endlessly through his brain. That omega on the street, whining and choking on cock, the sight that seemed so very normal to everyone else present, the stale stench of piss and fear, soured, stifling, hopeless. And the way his webs vibrated as the men under him suffocated, that wide-eyed, red-faced panic, the muffled pleas barely heard, barely noticed as he swung to someone else and webbed their faces, too. He hadn’t – he hadn’t known he could – that the webs were strong enough to – but they were. He was. Peter could kill a man without breaking a sweat. It happened – he did kill a man without breaking a sweat. Many. Too many terror-stricken betas, alphas, people, left lifeless behind him as he blocked out their dying twitches, swung toward another.

He thinks maybe he should be feeling – something.

Sad?

No, not sad. Something – bigger.

Guilty? Horrified? Terrified of his own ability to – to just –

But he keeps seeing that omega. One in particular, the one whose ratty hair had been clenched tight in the grip of the beta above her, using her, and her eyes – that vacant stare, as though nothing mattered and never would. She’d been dolled up at some point because there were dark black smudges under her eyes where makeup had once been, the remnants of sparkling green eye shadow revealed every time she closed empty eyes. Peter keeps imagining how that must have happened. The wife of the beta with an open eye shadow pallet, telling the omega to close her eyes. Playing dress-up, makeover, just so the husband could enjoy the thrill of smudging it with cum that splattered over a pretty face later. She’d been choking on dick mere feet away from that dick’s son, a boy no older than – than ten? Eleven maybe?

Peter feels nothing.

The faces of the people he killed plays on a loop in his head.

He feels. Nothing.

Truthfully, truthfully, omegas face worse than death every waking moment.

He wonders what it feels like to suffocate.

Thinks, maybe, he already knows.

Weasel’s talking. Babbling. He must be nervous, because Peter can’t think of any other time he’s heard the beta speak so much, his voice like a background hum to all the thoughts cycling round and round and round in the numb parts of Peter’s brain. Through his periphery, he sees Clint and James sitting in one corner of the cell, quiet, their masks still, impassive. James has his flesh arm draped over Clint’s shoulders and Clint has his head thunked onto James’s chest. Bob sits in close to them, not touching, just sitting, one leg up and an arm resting on his knee. He’s looking at Weasel while he talks, coming across as a polite listener.

Peter hasn’t been able to bring himself to sit down, here.

In this cell.

Waiting.

Out of them all, he’s facing the worst of whatever’s coming. He showed the world his mutated abilities, after all. An omega, mutated, swinging on webs, throwing helicopters into buildings, suffocating cops with spider webs. At least he isn’t the only one too anxious to sit. Their girl’s standing at the doorway and staring at the heavy metal door like it’ll open through the power of her mind alone, the white slits for eyes on her mask very narrow. Peter thinks, the thought far away, absently, that he’d probably be able to open it through the power of whatever’s gone wrong in his body, with the same strength that lobbed that helicopter.

He might have tried, except.

Except.

Wade says, “Can I hold your hand?”

Peter startles at his voice, startles at how close the alpha stands behind him. When he turns, the alpha has his mask off as he looks at Peter, brown eyes crinkling in the corners with his little half smile. The lights in here remind Peter of the omega clinics, bracing and bright white, and Wade’s scars stand out under them in stark pinks and writhing reds, one side of his face crusted in dried brown blood. He’s extending one hand out, waiting, head tilted like he’s listening to somebody talk. Somebody besides Weasel, who’s now ranting about gas prices, of all the things.

Instead of answering, Peter asks a question of his own. “Can I hug you?”

He plucks some more at one glove, heart thrumming.

It’s still so novel, asking questions. Wanting contact enough to ask for it.

But – but he does want it. So much so that it’s like his body leans forward without conscious thought, as though some sort of gravitational pull is tugging at his solar plexus. Wade’s smile softens into something more genuine, eyes brightening, and it’s like looking at home. Wade opens his arms to him and tugs him into them, ducking his head down to scent at Peter’s neck and chuff against his covered throat. Peter raises up on his tiptoes for easier access, tilting his head to him, eyes sliding shut as he breathes. They aren’t in a holding cell at a Resistance headquarters that doesn’t exist on any map in the middle of nowhere, anymore. With his eyes closed and Weasel’s voice rambling ever forward in the background, with Wade’s scent fiery and strong and so close, wrapped around him, it’s almost easy for the thoughts to fall away. Almost easy for his omega’s tension to smooth out, relax, unwind from its curled-up ball of anxiety and dread in the back of his mind. Then Wade shifts, pulls away from his neck, but before Peter’s omega can whimper its distress about the loss of contact, the alpha tilts his own head to bare his throat to Peter, to bare those mottled scars that disappear under the neckline of his Deadpool suit. Wade’s throat works, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

Peter swallows, too. It feels like everybody is looking at them, all the sudden.

Weasel’s voice trails off.

At the abrupt quiet, one of Wade’s eyes peek open.

He seems braced. Tense. Eyes wary, now.

Peter closes the distance.

They’ve done this once before. When – when Wade had been – nervous. But they’d been alone, it hadn’t felt as weighty as it does right now, with everybody watching them. Peter’s heart aches, though, at the open vulnerability etched into the lines of Wade’s face, both last time and this one, but there’s something even more wrenching now, when he’s risking showing this level of – trust, want, fragility to their entire group. Peter’s arms fold around Wade’s waist, tugging him close. His mask feels damp. He moves, briefly, to drag it up and over his nose, then presses bare skin into Wade’s neck, nosing at his scent gland. Wade shudders, and it’s – heavy, the scent of alpha fire from the source, the larger man baring this throat for Peter. Wade is so tense, so still, like a stray twitch might scare Peter off, as though Peter doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, who exactly he’s scenting. Peter presses a lingering, slow kiss to the divot in Wade’s skin where his scent gland is, directly on it, and smiles despite himself when a low, rumbling whine squeaks from Wade’s throat, so close, so close, the big alpha’s whole body shivering between Peter’s arms. One of Wade’s hands does move, then, as he brings it up to grip the Deadpool suit against Peter’s back, squeezing him closer.

“Uhm,” Weasel’s voice, cracking. “Stop? Right now? Before I hurl chunks?”

Bob’s sigh sounds longing, yearning. “I think they’re awfully cute.”

“Be awfully cute when we aren’t all locked in the same room forced to watch!” Weasel says. He sounds agitated, but Peter can’t help the lazy sort of contentment that’s rocked through him, with Wade willing to let Peter claim him back in front of anybody around to see. It’s nothing he ever expected an alpha to – accept, let alone suggest, let alone want. But when his head comes up for air and he looks at Wade’s face, searching, Wade’s smile is a little dopey, eyes soft and tinged red around the irises. But then Weasel adds a shrill, nervous, “Of all the shit I’ve had to see lately, your ugly ass getting it on with your omega is not –”

Peter’s head swivels to the beta. “What did you call him?”

Weasel chokes off his words, mask eyes going very wide. Wade sighs, soft and sweet. His hand pats, pats, rubs at Peter’s back. “’s okay, Peter, Petey, he likes to kid –”

“That wasn’t a joke.”

Peter extricates himself from Wade, vision gone all gold, the room brightening with it, hard edges softened and blurred by the change. Vaguely, he can hear Bob wondering if Peter’s eyes are glowing gold through the rolled-up Deadpool mask, asking James if he knew omegas’ eyes could change, but it’s all far away. He can feel his fists clenching, heart racing, Weasel’s beta, he’s dangerous, but – but Peter flies by on adrenaline, his heart in his ears. He strides toward Weasel and stands up straight, shoulders back. Dares to remove the mask altogether, his eyes narrowed gold where they meet Weasel’s wide, scared mask eyes. The beta takes a step back. Peter takes one forward. Behind him, he can hear Wade sigh again, can hear his whispered, awed, “I am in serious love,” then a moment later, another whisper, “Yeah, he totally is,” as though he’s talking to someone. Maybe his alpha. Peter remembers that long ago conversation, that ashamed, reluctant admission that the alpha presents itself as a voice to Wade, sometimes.

Peter says, “Wade isn’t ugly.”

Weasel’s head darts this way and that. He swallows. “Uhm, to be fair, he’s pretty, uh –”

“That’s right,” Peter interjects, steel hardening his voice. “He’s pretty.”

“Serious love,” Wade whispers again. Then his voice raises. “Hate to break it to you, Pete, but I’m not anywhere close to pretty –”

“See, that – that’s a problem.” Peter turns back to Wade. He clenches the discarded mask in a white-knuckled fist, leather creaking, and swallows the anxiety threatening to sideline him from a conversation that so very obviously needs to happen right now. Still, he’s shaking, can feel his body shake with it. It takes work to push through the fear to confront, to talk, to – contradict an alpha, a beta, both at the same time. Somewhere inside him, his omega is cowering. He wants to cower, too. He stands his ground, instead. “You hear you’re ugly from someone who’s supposed to be your friend, and it’s so casual and matter of fact, but you saved me. I’m pretty sure you’ve saved everybody in this room, and all those omegas out there getting taken in by a Resistance, not to mention all the omegas that came before me, ones you tried to save. You aren’t ugly, and if somebody thinks you are,” here he rounds on Weasel, flashes the gold of an intense stare at him, “they can keep their opinions to themselves, because they’re harmful, and unnecessary, and cruel. Are we trying to change the world or aren’t we?”

Everybody seems too – shocked to respond.

A growl lets loose from his throat, a sound he – he never would have associated with himself. But it hangs in the air, suspended by the sheer disbelief he seems to be inspiring. Whether it’s disbelief that an omega can talk like this, or – something else, Peter doesn’t much want to speculate about. “Well?” he demands again. “Are we or aren’t we?”

His glare is pointed at Weasel. Weasel stutters, “Ye-yeah, yes, of course –”

“Then start with yourself and stop being an asshole.”

“… yeah,” Weasel says, sounding a bit strangled. “Okay. Yeah. Uh – sorry.”

Peter sees the guilt, sees it on the covered beta, hears the stuttered, stumbled apology, but he’s still too mad to accept it, doesn’t think it should be him accepting it, anyway. Wade’s the one who was called ugly. But the alpha doesn’t look like he cares a lick about the insult, no. He’s staring straight at Peter with – something in those eyes, something – Peter can’t recognize. It feels – charged. A little hungry, like how people – like how people look at omegas in heat, but not, too. Different. Heavier, more – appreciative, maybe. Soft. Fragile. Gentle. All at once, the sheer magnitude of what he’d just done catches up to him. Peter stumbles to an empty corner away from everybody else and slides his back down the wall, curls up.

He buries his head behind his knees and fights to catch his breath.

When footsteps approach, the sight of heavy boots, Peter mumbles something.

He isn’t sure what.

But the alpha folds himself down beside him, not touching, so careful not to touch. It’s exhausting, how carefully Wade handles him, sometimes. Like Peter might break. He’s – so sick of feeling like he might break. But it’s – good, too, to feel cared for. That’s how – that’s how Wade’s made him feel since the beginning. The thought of losing it now, losing all of it, all of them, because Peter was an idiot, because his sniveling little omega brain had the bright idea to confront a beta, one of Wade’s friends, over something so silly – it’s small in here, small in the holding cell, but right now it feels like the walls are pressing in on him. It feels even smaller, now, like there isn’t enough room for his lungs to expand all the way. He should be in that crate again, stuffed into a crate so he won’t have the chance to ruin everything.

“– shh, Peter, pretty Petey, ‘s okay,” Wade’s saying, quiet, cooing voice.

Peter manages through unbidden tears, “Is it? How – how can it be? I just – I –”

“You defended my honor, is what you did,” Wade says, very firm.

“I – shouldn’t be allowed to talk.”

“Fuck that.”

The alpha bark has Peter’s head raising from his knees, hands clenching and unclenching around his legs. His heart skyrockets right before his pulse levels out, the omega in him turning into goo, into a puppy, into something – unfocused, blurry, floaty. Wade’s voice does the thing that only it can, relaxing parts of Peter that he hadn’t known how to relax. His thoughts settle, still, drop out of the loop, and he whines, reaches out to Wade, stumbles into the alpha’s lap. Wade’s hand rubs over his back, up his neck, scratches along his scalp, his scent twining around Peter’s until he can’t pick them apart at all, wouldn’t want to if he could.

“Love it when you talk,” the alpha’s saying, unhesitating. “Could listen to nothing else for the rest of eternity, you feel me? Listen, listen, you’re so good, baby boy. Yell at Weas anytime, seriously, I’m sure he’ll have earned it. And you – you really don’t think I’m ugly –”

“You aren’t,” he mumbles it, a stubborn set to his jaw.

Wade chuffs. “You – yeah, you’re – ahhh, Pete, you make my heart go boom boom.”

They rest into each other for a while, after that, the whole cell falling into quiet. It’s been a while since they’d been put into this room, hours, maybe, and nobody seems to be coming around any time soon. Peter tries to listen through the walls, but they’re enforced, muffling, stifling. He can hear someone right outside the door humming some sort of tune, but that’s it. The only thing that tells him is that somebody’s out there guarding the door, making sure they stay put. Peter thinks at this point that they probably should, if only to see what this Resistance plans to do with them. A resistance against omega slavery, holding a mutated omega in a cell… doesn’t exactly give him warm vibes. But Iron Man – Tony Stark – he’s an omega too… working for them, possibly. And there’s so many omegas here, so many hidden from the world, brought here and hidden away. The idea of it alone gives Peter hope.

Before they’d been sequestered here, he’d seen – there’d been a whole town.

Just hidden away, behind some strange – magic? A forcefield? Something that messed with human perception? All Peter knew was that one moment the Quinjet had been flying over a mess of trees, a mountain range somewhere south, with nothing at all in sight for miles. Nothing except those trees, anyway, until Stark had – pressed something on the Quinjet that made it shudder, that caused the world around it to ripple. And then there they were, flying straight toward a warehouse on the outskirts of a whole hidden civilization, something unseen until it’d been seen. The idea that people are out here fighting to save omegas, people besides just their tiny little group, people with – with resources. With apparent magic. Maybe a mutant ability? Maybe something technological?

Whatever it is, Peter thinks it’s awesome.

Or, at least, he hopes it’s awesome. He hopes these omegas aren’t being –

Well. He can only imagine what some people might do with hundreds of illegally hidden omegas.

Wade starts carding his gloved fingers through Peter’s hair, so his mind refocuses on the feel of those strong, thick fingers as they rake over his scalp, wishing for Wade’s bare hand, for bare skin. He rests there while Wade starts humming, then singing, a quiet, whispered song that fills up the space. There’s a toilet in the far corner of the cell, luckily, but no food, no water, and he thinks he might have gotten spoiled while he’s been with Wade because his stomach feels like it’s cannibalizing itself from how long it’s been since he’s eaten anything.

He must fall asleep like that, against Wade, because suddenly he’s blinking awake.

Everybody’s all spread out, James and Clint and Bob in one corner, their girl leaned upright by the door, Weasel looking uncomfortable and – and alone, off to the side by himself. Peter rubs the sleep out of his eyes. His voice cracks with the sleep, heavy with it still, when he shuffles off Wade’s lap and reaches out for the beta. Wade’s arm falls away from him as he snores. Weasel eyes him with those narrow mask eyes, his shoulders up by his ears, hunched forward and slumped.

“C’mere,” Peter cajoles, whispering. Most of them are in various states of sleep. “You were sorry and I forgive you. C’mere.”

Weasel shifts. “Eh – ‘m okay here –”

“You’re alone,” Peter says. “And cold. I – can we please? Put this behind us?”

Awkwardly, Weasel heaves a big sigh and then scoots toward them, scoots in close until he’s shoulder to shoulder with Peter and leaned up against the wall. After a tense moment where he is stiff and unresponsive, he seems to sag in place, sag against Peter’s side. He tugs up his own mask, finally, and tosses it to the side. They might should have been keeping them on to retain some semblance of hidden identities, but – but honestly, they’ve been privy to a pretty major secret themselves, being here at all. It feels pointless now, away from public eye. After another tense minute, stiff silence broken only by the soft, even breaths of their sleeping friends, Weasel whispers, “I really am sorry, Peter. He – Wade’s like my brother, you know. Like an annoying, pesky big brother. We tease like brothers, too, but – I recognize I take it too far, on some things. On the things I know he takes to heart. I’ve crossed too many lines with him over the years.”

He sounds – remorseful, eyes red from the contacts, greasy hair sticking up from the mask.

He’s scowling at the floor.

Peter nudges a shoulder into his. “Tell him these things.”

“Y’know, when he first got all scarred and shit, I told him he looked like an avocado hate-fucked the topological map of Utah... or something. I said he should star in his own horror films ‘cuz he looked so gross.”

“What the hell –”

“I know, I know! I was an asshole. He just – Christ, I was scared, okay? I was scared.”

“How do you think he felt?”

“I get it, okay?” Weasel’s scowl deepens and he folds into himself, arms hugging himself around the middle. Wade’s doing a great impression of being asleep, still, but Peter could hear the exact moment his breathing changed, that minute, tiny change in the alpha’s heartrate. Peter let silence speak for him, let Weasel think through whatever had that scowl so firmly in place, until finally the beta whispers, “If anything permanent ever happened to the big lug, I don’t know what I’d do with myself. He came back lookin’ like that and I panicked, okay? I panicked. He looked like he could have died, surviving whatever the fuck happened to make him look like that. He – he does all this reckless shit, thinkin’ nobody’d care if he croaked, but – shit.”

“Aw,” Wade stage whispers to Peter. “Weas loves me.”

Weasel jerks his head up, wide-eyed for a second before the scowl returns full force. He wipes at his eyes, complaining of the contacts again, then mumbles that Wade’s an asshole and of course he’d pretend to be asleep, what a jerk – Wade reaches ‘round Peter and tugs the beta into him, into them both, while Weasel oomfs as he’s tugged into them. Then Wade calls over to James and Clint and Bob and their girl, calls them because they’re waking up or there already, and he suddenly needs them all to be okay. “Guys, I know we’re in, like, this super sterile prison cell, and I know my shit stunk the whole place up a few hours ago when I used that god awful toilet two feet away from where we’re sleepin’, but Weasel’s being cute and Peter’s definitely being cute and you’re all too far away, okay, my alpha wants everybody just a smidge closer, if you’re up to it, if you’d want to – yeah, that, c’mere you absolute dolls, thank fuck you’re all a buncha saps –”

Everybody joins their impromptu cuddle pile, everybody except the girl.

She rips her mask off and starts gnawing on her hair.

Watches them cuddle.

James and Clint hold hands in the pile, gripping tightly onto one another, while Bob presses himself into Weasel’s free side. Wade lets their scents mingle, chuffing against their necks one at a time, anybody within chuffing reach. He scritch-scratches gloved fingertips against Clint’s stubble, who’d unmasked hours earlier along with James and Bob. His alpha is a puddle of mush in his brain, rolling on the ground with its belly up, tongue lolling, filled up by these people, so filled up he could weep. And, sure, Weas didn’t have to say any of that for Wade to know it all. Wade knew how they were with each other, knew how they teased, how it didn’t mean anything, how he’s killed for Weas and would again, how Weas let so many other mercs die in his efforts to protect Wade, of all people.

Still.

Still.

Hearing it is… kinda nice.

-

-

-

They’re still mostly cuddling when the door starts budging.

Nobody bothers moving because, well, they’re pretty comfortable, actually, and it’s nice to be together to face off whoever’s coming, good to be close enough to each other to defend if it comes down to it. Their girl leaps up from her crouch and stands with clenched fists, lip pulled back in a snarl and eyes dark, intent, fierce. She hadn’t liked it much when they took her knives away, doesn’t seem even remotely amused after being stuck in a cell with a group of mismatch miscreant cuddlers. Peter’s in the middle of the cuddle pile, pressed close to Wade with an arm wrapped around Clint’s waist, his head on James’s shoulder. He lifts his head moments before the door moves, murmurs, “Someone’s coming. They’re – Mr. Stark says he should come in alone, but there’s a woman who sounds mad. I don’t think she likes Mr. Stark much.”

“Think she’s with Hydra?”

“A plant, maybe?”

They aren’t given time to consider, because then the door groans as it scoots across the floor, and there he is, Mr. Stark himself. Iron Man, though his armor is nowhere in sight. He’s wearing a pair of sunglasses which is a little weird, looking down at them through them with his eyebrows raised and a little frown furrowing the goatee downward. Peter can’t scent him at all, can’t tell that there’s even a person there, that’s how neutral he is, how beta he scents. But it’s not even a beta smell, it’s like – a void, the air around him just – empty, giving nothing away. It’s unnatural and – unsettling. The woman Peter heard in the hall enters behind him, shoves her shoulder in Mr. Stark’s as she shoulders past him. Peter doesn’t miss the way Mr. Stark tenses at the contact, doesn’t miss the uptick in his heart, that brief twitch. There’s another sound there, too, though, now that he’s homed in on the man’s heartbeat. Something almost – mechanical, like a low, whirring hum, similar to the hum of the fluorescents above their heads but it’s coming from his chest.

He wonders if Mr. Stark could be a robot.

None of them stand on ceremony. Wade keeps his posture entirely too casual, in fact, and Peter tries to keep his own breathing even and relaxed, tries to follow his alpha’s lead. The woman’s hair drapes over one shoulder in a loose, blond braid, face done up with makeup, lips pressed in one hard, thin line. Unlike Mr. Stark, her scent screams beta, all beige neutrals that remind him so much of – of less-than-ideal times. She even looks the part, looks like a beta businesswoman wearing dark heels, dress slacks, a well-pressed light blue button-up with two buttons undone at the collar and an open dark blazer over it. Mr. Stark, by contrast, is dressed in a faded, worn tee and jeans with a hole in one knee, dark smudges under his eyes, what might be oil or grease stains under his nails, that sharp smell of motor oil and the bitter tang of coffee the only smells wafting off him.

Mr. Stark opens his mouth.

The woman cuts him off. “If you want to be released, you’ll answer all my questions.”

She’s looking straight at Weasel as she says it, addressing a beta, most likely. Weasel jabs a thumb in Wade and Peter’s direction and then holds up his hands, squints at her. “I’m just a low-level grunt, lady. You wanna interrogate us, try talking to the big wigs. I don’t get paid enough for this shit –”

“You don’t get paid at all,” Bob mutters.

“Nah,” Wade chimes in, grinning, eyes focused on the beta lady. “He gets paid in gratuitous cuddles.”

“Not gratuitous,” Peter whispers.

“Not the point,” Mr. Stark says, finally speaking up where he’s watching them with rapt attention through the sunglasses perched on the end of his nose. Peter can’t suss out what the man must be thinking of them, can’t read him at all, but the beta beside him looks positively annoyed while Wade looks positively smug. He’d been trying to pull that out of her, of course, which – which doesn’t seem all that difficult. She looks like she’d much rather be keeping them prisoner forever and throwing away the key than having this chat. Peter feels that prickling sensation of being – of being caught in the eyes of a predatory beta, feels himself tensing despite himself. He doesn’t like the way the woman smells, can’t bear how she looks like – like anybody else out there in the world, the way her gaze so easily sizes up Wade and then just as easily dismisses him as unimportant. She looks again at Weasel, looks to James, even, and repeats, “You want to leave this cell alive, you’ll answer our questions.”

Bob’s growl catches Peter off guard, a little. He blinks at the alpha.

Bob’s usually so mild-mannered.

“Um, no,” Mr. Stark says, pulling her annoyed gaze onto himself. He raises an eyebrow at her and his fingers tap, tap, tap against his chest. “They won’t be our questions because I don’t have any questions. And they won’t be killed either way – at least one of them physically can’t be killed, which isn’t the point, either, but it does bear saying. No, see, this isn’t an interrogation. These people might have killed an alarmingly impressive lot of people, but they did it to save omegas from being raped on the streets, omegas that we’re now able to rehabilitate only due to their involvement.” Mr. Stark tilts his head and stares at the beta, who visibly flinches at the word rape, her hands clasped together in front of her. Their omega girl shuffles her feet until she’s a few inches closer to them, eyes on the beta woman all the while. Mr. Stark says, “I imagine their reason behind the killing spree aligns awfully well with the agenda of the Resistance, so, yeah. No interrogation necessary.”

The man turns his sights on the group of unmasked Deadpools.

He meets Peter’s eyes in the crowd. Blinks. “You’re the one with the good throwing arm.”

Peter blinks back. “I – yes, sir, I guess –”

“Ew, no,” Mr. Stark exclaims, effectively making Peter flinch, startled. Wade squeezes his arm, a grounding pressure, as the empty-void-possibly-a-robot-self-proclaimed-omega man adds, “I’m not a sir. No, nope, definitely not a sir.”

“Got that right,” the beta woman mutters beside him.

Mr. Stark ignores her pretty effectively. “I’m Tony. Stark. Iron Man. Not a sir, if you please.”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says, aiming for polite.

The man grimaces at that, too.

“Look,” Mr. Stark says. “They shouldn’t have stuck you all here. You helped a lot of people today – or, yesterday? – whenever, whatever. The point is, I goofed. I let you all see behind the curtain to this whole thing, and now they don’t know you can be trusted not to go blabbing all their secrets to the wrong crowds. But I see that you’ve already unmasked, we’ve got, what – three omegas, two alphas, two betas – one unkillable merc, one omega with a mutation, a beta with a mean right hook – what is that, a prosthesis? Cybernetic arm? Not the point. The point – the point is that we know your identities, now, if not your names. Easy to figure out because I can snoop with the best of them –”

“Stop talking, Stark,” the woman hisses at him.

“Why? You were making a mess of this –”

“You have no authority here, omega –”

Wade stands up.

Everybody does stop talking, then. Mr. Stark is tense, like a bowstring ready to snap, his fingers that’d been tapping against his chest gone still, hand splayed over his heart and poised there, just resting there. He looks unbearably tired from this close up, exhaustion etched into the line of his shoulders, pulling his gaunt face into a deep, guarded frown. Peter stands with Wade, stands up from their pile and follows him until Wade’s standing in front of the woman and Peter in front of Mr. Stark. Iron Man seemed so larger than life out there trading missiles back and forth with jets full of Hydra operatives. Here, he’s – shorter than Peter might have assumed, his presence and scent so vacant he seems much smaller, takes up so little space. Peter keeps himself still while Wade sidles up in front of the woman, who – who immediately yanks a gun out of her waistband and aims it at him, aims the barrel at Wade’s face.

Peter’s fists clench. His senses are quiet, though, if not buzzing in the back of his mind.

Mr. Stark holds up his hands. “Woah, Carter, put that thing –”

Faster than the beta could move, Wade grabs the woman’s wrist in a vice and tugs her forward as he aims the gun away from him, elbowing her with his other arm. She tries to lurch backward to avoid taking the elbow to the nose and he gets her in the ear instead, rocking her off balance. Like a graceful dance, Wade plucks the gun from her immobilized hand and turns the barrel on her. She freezes, wide-eyed, pheromones releasing stale sweat into the air with her fear. Peter releases the breath he’d been holding. Mr. Stark still has his hands raised out in front of him. Eyes on the gun now in Wade’s practiced hand, he slowly lowers them and finishes with an absent, “– away.”

There’s a moment where everything’s tense.

Wade snickers. Empties the clip so that shell casings rain down on the floor.

“You’re really bad at that,” Wade points out. He gets into her face again. Leans forward. “Or am I just really good?”

Abruptly, he rocks back on the balls of his feet and turns toward Mr. Stark. He sticks the emptied gun into a holster at his hip, clearly intending on keeping it. “Since you seem to be the brains of this whole operation, can I just say – Stark weapons are some of the best in the biz, I have loved lovin’ them, totes reliable, also you look like you haven’t slept since the 90’s and if we’re gonna be keeping state secrets, I’ve got conditions, you feel me?”

“Conditions.” Mr. Stark's face rests somewhere between skeptical and expectant. He meets Wade's eyes... so few people do that, Peter's been noticing. They look anywhere else instead, shifting uncomfortably or talking over him or not acknowledging him at all until he's stealing guns out of their hands or dropping bodies like litter around the streets of New York.

So the fact that Mr. Stark actually looks at Wade when he's talking to him... that's something.

He's not sure what, yet.

But it's definitely something.

Peter isn’t sure where Wade’s going with this. Except, except the beta woman is suddenly taking a step forward with one hand outstretched, toward Wade, and before Peter can figure out why, he’s webbed her hand to the wall behind her, effectively pinning her in place. Mr. Stark stops to stare at the webbing, even strides toward her and prods at it with a finger. The woman, Carter, she tries to use her other hand to slap him away from her, but Peter webs that hand to the wall, too, before she can make contact, the webs shooting toward her and past Mr. Stark with a wet schleck sound. The older omega’s face twists into something gleeful, into a cocky little grin, lightening his whole countenance with it, and he prods at the webbing, finger sticking to it and coming away with a string of taut white.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs. “The tensile strength required to have thrown that copter –”

“Isn’t he amazing?” Wade gushes.

Peter can feel his face heating up.

Especially when Mr. Stark glances over at him from behind those glasses and asks, “This stuff comes out of you?” But almost immediately, the man looks back to the trussed-up beta, takes a step away from her and shakes his head at Peter. “Never mind.” He crosses back to the door, leans his back against it. Tap, tap, taps against his chest again, the whirring hum ever-present. “Let’s talk conditions.”

Wade won’t talk with the beta around, though, flat out refuses to say anything else until she’s dismissed from the cell entirely. If Peter suspected Wade’s stubbornness would annoy Mr. Stark, however, he couldn’t have been more mistaken. No, Mr. Stark’s grin widens, if anything. The omega leaves for a moment and talks with someone outside the room. He returns a short while later with the go ahead to have her removed from the negotiation. Carter immediately has something to say about that. She tugs at her bound wrists, tugs, tugs, tugs, her voice dark and edged sharp like serrated steel as she spits, “This sorry group can’t negotiate with you, Stark, you’re nothing but a pampered pet playing like you’ve got any say at all, here –”

Mr. Stark’s eyes roll skyward.

He looks very, very tired.

Peter’s eyes flash gold again.

“I’d web your mouth shut,” Peter finds himself saying, can feel the words spewing forth without permission from the rest of him, but Mr. Stark looks so tense, seems so – alone, here, with the person who’s supposed to be on his team? Just? Being an asshole? He can’t stop himself from stepping out of Wade’s shadow and sliding in between Mr. Stark and the irate beta, can’t help himself from saying, “but I think I might accidentally kill you if I try.” He holds up his hands, with his wrists pointed outward. Quirks an unsure smile, sheepish. “I’ve killed everybody else whose mouths I’ve webbed shut. Ends up covering their noses, too. It’s hard to aim with these things.”

His eyes flash again, vision going all hazy soft with it.

“Should I try?” he asks her.

Her eyes widen. She shakes her head, quick, blond braid flopping over her shoulder as she quakes, frozen at the sight of omega gold eyes narrowed and focused on her. Peter’s never seen another omega’s eyes glow gold like this before, but – but he’s seen Wade’s eyes turn red, so he figures he can’t be too different, can’t be too outside the realm of normal. Other alphas’ eyes go red like that too, he’s seen it – memories best left behind him. But even Mr. Stark is looking at him like he’s never seen anything like it, wide-eyed behind his shades, mouth parted in surprise. The other omega closes the distance between them and claps Peter on the shoulder, a casual touch, a casual gesture, hand warm where it grips him and squeezes.

“Down, tiger,” Mr. Stark murmurs, but there’s laughter in his eyes.

Wade says, “Rawr!”

Weasel snorts, somewhere in the background.

“Is this really the Resistance?” Peter asks, because it can’t not be asked. If this is a super-secret organization trying to free omegas and put a stop to how deeply Hydra’s fucked up the world, then why isn’t it – better? Why does this beta lady sound and act like everyone on the outside? Why would somebody join the Resistance if they looked down on omegas? If they called their omegas pets?

Mr. Stark steps away and puts some distance between them, between all of them. His brow furrows, but there’s a wall there, now, something hardened and closed off, his face morphing into the practiced smile he’d plastered there when he first walked in. Voice level, monotone, he says, “I’m not her omega. I’m not – anybody’s. Definitely a free agent, here.” He shrugs a loose shoulder. “I’m sure she’s very nice to most omegas. Don’t let this little encounter color your opinion of the whole place. It’s –” He stops. Shakes his head. Gestures toward the webbing that has the beta stuck, sticky, to the wall. “Let’s get her out of here, first.”

Wade clicks his tongue. “Heh.”

“Did you ever figure out how to do that?” Weasel asks.

Peter’s grin is very, very sheepish.

“Uh… it dissolves in two to four hours?”

Mr. Stark snorts, chuckles, turns away to hide the grin that suddenly looks more genuine on his face. He tugs his glasses off his nose and hangs them on his shirt, then gestures with a wide sweeping arm to the door. “Let’s get us out of here first, then.”

Carter doesn’t say a word. She’s still staring at Peter and tugging on her wrists.

Wade sticks his tongue out at her on the way out.

Chapter Text

21. the world is a nightmare

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-

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By the time he has all the Deadpools set up in their pithy little break room with the molding microwave, and Agent’s been updated on the Carter-stuck-to-a-wall situation, Tony sees the writing on the wall. Saw the way that Agent looked concerned, saw that twitch as he radioed backup to enter the party, because of course a mere consultant who’s already allowed one of their own to get webbed to a wall by a mutant can no longer be trusted to settle this matter without actual Resistance representation. Luckily, Agent himself disappears for a bit, leaves them, however briefly, to their own devices. Tony takes the opportunity to offer them all a granola bar from their basket of nonperishables. He notices right away how they all seem to defer to the actual Deadpool, and how the actual Deadpool glances immediately toward the omega that smells so much like him, the mutant.

“Trying to fatten us up, Stark?” Deadpool asks, but he’s grinning, those scars stretched taut.

Tony shrugs. “I’m just reasonably sure nobody else here has prioritized feeding you lot.”

The omega mutant’s lips twitch into some semblance of a half-smile. He takes one of the offered granola bars and unwraps it. The others quickly follow his lead, until everybody except the only girl and the actual Deadpool are biting into one. Despite everything, it feels good to feed people who are accepting of it, accepting of something he’s trying to provide, even if it’s something as small and as simple as granola bars. Christ knows none of those kids he’d returned to where they belonged ever accepted anything he’d tried to provide. The Resistance accepts everything Tony provides, of course, but it feels less like acceptance and more like demands, expectant, like he owes them.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” the omega mutant murmurs.

That’s – new.

Tony decides not to acknowledge it, alarmingly uncomfortable with the simple thank you.

He fiddles with his sunglasses.

“What’s up with that, anyway?” Deadpool asks instead of taking food for himself. His head tilts, and he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Why’s everybody here an asshole? I mean, I guess everybody every where’s an asshole, but for a resistance effort actively resisting asshole societal norms… I dee kay, seems a little off brand."

“I think they’re mostly just assholes to me,” Tony says, amused despite himself.

“No, no, they’re definitely assholes to me, too,” Deadpool says, grinning. Grinning back. Tony figures he’s definitely missed too much sleep if he’s feeling – some sort of strange camaraderie with Deadpool of all people. “Always have been. It was a weird phase, but for a while back there I actually tried joining the fuckers. It was always blah blah you’re too violent, blah blah you’d give us a bad name, blah blah. I was expecting the cell. But when they’re assholes to omegas, a boy’s gotta think that something somewhere’s gone to shit.”

Some levity leaves Deadpool’s voice on the last bit, his fidgeting stilled. And, oh. Tony might have expected this. Should have expected this, but it’s not – natural, is it? The level of concern this supposed violent alpha appears to be showing to the omegas he’d helped save. Tony can immediately put those concerns to rest, though, because the Resistance might be a lot of things, but it’s good to the omegas in its care. They work on rehabilitating them, provide all the basic needs, go above and beyond to hook them up with counselors and support groups. Tony won’t mention B.A.R.F. because he’s already given too much away as it is, but it’s easy to chat up other benefits given to omegas here that have nothing to do with Tony’s tech. They’re able to form a community, here, able to connect with other survivors, to form their own bonds. Pack. Tony’s never seen anything like the packs formed here, omegas connecting so thoroughly, so completely, that they’re able to overcome unspeakable horrors. Together.

He's seen them scent each other.

Seen the way they curl around each other. The way they nest.

“That’s all great,” Deadpool says, slowly. “But I was referring to you.”

“To –” Tony stops. Tenses. What does that matter?

“That lady in there was a jerk to you,” the omega mutant says. He looks – it’s strange, but his eyes seem to flash, all light and color, like the brown lightens to gold and back again. He’s seen omegas here flash their eyes like that, of course, as they come into their own as people, as they begin to realize they exist and matter and have others around them worth protecting. No, it’s a normal eye change for them biologically speaking, once they feel safe, once they connect. The strange part here is that an omega would flash their eyes on Tony’s behalf. That’s – not even remotely normal. He can and has damn well protected himself for a very, very long time. Not only is it completely unnecessary, but it just does not compute. This omega doesn’t know him. He wouldn’t be showing his eyes for Tony if he did.

“We have an annoying history,” Tony says, even as something uncomfortable and ugly curls up inside him. He’s pretty sure the last thing he wants to do right now is defend Sharon Carter to a bunch of strangers. He tries to change the subject. “Anyway, we should probably talk conditions before the calvary arrives. I’m not entirely sure who they’ll be getting to represent them, but it’d be easier to have everything neatly packaged for them when they get here, instead of having them field it all and make their own demands. The only thing we’re actually going to need from you is the guarantee that you won’t reveal anything you’ve seen here, including the fact that here exists at all or that I’m involved. Most of the world suspects I’m in hiding, and we need it to stay that way.”

“Why?”

It’s a reasonable question.

Still, Tony feels wound tight, thoroughly unwilling to get into it all, to have to explain himself to yet another group of people, to anyone else, having to feel their judgements like another lash across his back. So he sidesteps the question and asks, again, what their conditions are. Anything that’ll get them out of here sooner rather than later.

“Are you still in hiding?” The omega mutant asks.

More questions.

“What, you mean since I showed up and blew up some helicopters?”

“… yeah, that was a little – overt.”

It’s easy to hide in plain sight. The problem here is, of course, that he did in fact blow some shit up, including people, including police forces and Hydra goons. News coverage will be all over it, this time. He’s managed to avoid outwardly violent behaviors getting seen by any media outlets before now, managed to put a stop to whole omega farming operations and rescue hundreds in the process over the past few months. No news sources will cover any of that, unwilling to offer omegas something silly like hope, so he’s been able to play under the world’s radar. Now that they’ve got something to paint him as the villain, though, they’ll do it.

Tony shrugs. “They’ll suspect I was working alone, which is fine.”

“Or they’ll suspect you were working with us,” Deadpool says.

Tony can’t read the emotions there. Can’t tell if being associated with the Stark name to the rest of the world would be a problem to the Deadpools. Very likely, it would be. Who in their right mind wants to be associated with the Stark name after he’s so thoroughly wrecked it? He flicks his sunglasses onto his face, turns toward the buzzing mini fridge to search for something to nibble on, and says over his shoulder, “It’s possible.”

“Hey, does your really cool suit have stealth capabilities?”

That feels – very random. But this is Deadpool, who’s smarter than the world gives him credit for. Has to be, to have killed so many higher ups without detection for so long, once upon a time. Tony can’t imagine how they could use this information, but he also thinks he might be too tired right now to care. “Of course, it does. Kid I know once suggested retro reflective panels, which turns out has been extra useful getting around without detection these days. Thrusters could use some tweaks to make them truly silent, but it’s a work in progress, and I’m pretty sure most just assume I’m a passing jet too high in the sky to see, so. Should I even ask why you want to know?”

Maria Hill enters the scene before Deadpool has the chance to respond. All the Deadpools that were sitting stand as soon as she jostles the door, snicks it open without fanfare. The room loses what little air of relaxation it might have held moments before, with everyone instantly on the defensive, alpha stench hot and pungent from two alphas, distinct and stifling. Tony makes the introductions, or, well, he introduces Maria to the group, anyway, in between munching on an old bag of squishy blueberries he’d pilfered from the fridge. When it comes to introducing the group to Maria, Tony pauses. “Don’t suppose you’ll tell us your names?”

“Will that get us out of here any quicker?”

“Probably would, actually.”

Tony finds himself taking a backseat to the whole affair shortly after the introductions are made, noting their names and storing them away in the chaotic mess that passes for his brain. He can’t know their individual stories, of course, but it’s easy to fill in the blanks as he watches the way these people move, the way they work off each other, glance at each other, stand. Deadpool sees the hesitation in the omega beside him, responds to it, person to person. He nudges his shoulder against the omega’s and whispers something close to his ear, something that shifts the omega’s expression into something less fearful, something less uncertain. Whatever Deadpool said, it's got the omega straightening. He states his name with the air of somebody who hasn’t always had that privilege, with a posture rigid in defiance, stance squared off, eyes bright. The fact that none of the alphas or betas in the group try to talk over their omegas, or try to speak for them – it’s a tell. Tony catalogs it away, unsure what to make of it. His attention drifts as soon as Maria starts in on protocol. Boring shit, that. Legally, they don’t have a leg to stand on, here. There isn’t a nondisclosure agreement in the world that could hold up in court when it comes to this.

The Resistance has a lot to lose. Being exposed. Located. Obliterated by the combined might of a vast world of enemies who’d like to keep the world just the way it is, thanks.

And what would they gain, letting the Deadpools go?

Anything?

Short of holding these people here eternally or, you know, torture –

“– what, exactly, do you want with Stark?”

Tony drags himself back to the here and now, perhaps a little too late, because Maria Hill looks skeptical as she stares between Tony and Deadpool, back and forth, one eyebrow cocked. Wade Wilson shrugs his big shoulders, tells her it isn’t exactly her business, actually, and her face twitches into something resembling the look of annoyance she frequently levies Tony’s way, arms crossed across her chest, closed off. She tells Deadpool no, to… whatever he’d suggested, an unamused refusal. In the haughty tone of somebody well accustomed to getting what she wants out of life, Hill says, “You’re under the mistaken impression here that there’s room for you to negotiate. There isn’t. You can stay in one of the holding cells –”

“What, like prisoners?” Deadpool guffaws, slaps a hand on his own knee.

Peter – the omega – flashes a golden gleam. His voice has a quiet confidence about it, one that clearly rattles Hill where she stands, when he says, “I thought you people were supposed to protect omegas.” There’s recrimination in his tone.

“We do,” Hill says, aggravated.

“What about the ones that want to leave? Do you hold them here against their will?”

Now Maria holds out a protesting hand. “You’ve got the wrong –”

“Is the Resistance just another prison?”

Yes, Tony wants to answer, yes, yes, but the word is stuck in his throat, stuck behind a swallow that sounds too loud in this stifling, dilapidated room. But that’s the kicker, isn’t it? The whole world’s a prison. It doesn’t matter who the jailor is. The keys to the locks keep changing hands but it’s never mattered who holds them. Tony’s been a prisoner since birth. He’s had dozens of jailors over the years, the not insignificant list of them only beginning with mom and dad, with Obie. There’s not an omega alive that’s been kissed by freedom, wouldn’t know what the touch of it feels like, wouldn’t know to recognize it standing right in front of them. The Resistance is nothing more than a prettier, kinder prison, the omegas here stuck just the same. There’s no where else they could go. And most of them – most of them don’t know enough to want to go anywhere else. Their minds have made them prisoners ignorant to their cages.

Maria Hill recoils at the question. Of course, she does.

Betas – wouldn’t understand.

“We have to make sure you won’t endanger everybody here,” Maria protests, voice edged with stress, revealing her defensiveness. “If there’s even a chance you’ll give away our location, to anyone, you can’t leave. The future of everybody here so far, of everybody we’ll help in the future – it all depends on your silence. I hate to break it to you, but the alpha Deadpool isn’t exactly known for his silence.” Deadpool shrugs like she’s got a point, not helping their case overmuch. Maria senses she’d just made a point, because her stance shifts. She adds a softer, more conciliatory, “Besides, Stark’s been able to round up more omegas for us than we’ve managed in years, there’s no way the Resistance would agree to giving him to you.”

“Excuse me?” Tony says, exclaims, suddenly aghast. What the hell has he missed?

“You’re needed here,” Hill tells him, like she’s paying him a compliment.

“Well obviously,” Tony says, because duh. His chair scrapes the floor as he rises to his feet, for no reason except that he suddenly can’t bear to have all of these people towering over him. Not that standing helps much in that regard, especially in a room with unseemly tall alphas that take up space with their presence alone, not to mention their stenches. He tap, tap, taps a knuckle on the arc reactor, sorely tempted to suit up and dash the hell out of this place. “Great, that’s great, good to know, but I’m still stuck on the part where you thought you even had the ability to give me away in the first place? What am I, a toaster?”

“You’ve been an asset to our mission, Stark –” Hill starts, her jaw twitching.

“No, no, he’s totes right,” Deadpool says.

Peter adds, “You’re not a toaster.” And then a softer, firmer, “You’re not an object.”

“I’d never ask for you like you’re some sort of bargaining chip,” Deadpool insists, before he turns a stony, expressionless stare at Hill and fingers the empty gun in the holster at his waist. Tony knows it’s empty because he’d watched him empty the clip onto the floor in the holding cell. Hill knows no such thing, of course, because she takes a wary step back and brings one hand up to touch at the earpiece that’ll bring in the calvary, hovering over it. Deadpool tilts his head and watches her squirm for one hair-raising moment, for two, in tense silence, before abruptly he draws the gun and scratches his cheek with the barrel. Hill’s hand depresses onto the earpiece, but Deadpool tsks and shakes a finger at her. Swallowing, she lowers her hand.

Coolly, tense like a striking snake, Deadpool tells Hill, “You might want to think before you put words in my mouth, lady. I never asked the Resistance to give Stark to us, are you crazy? He’s a person! You can’t give away a person. Isn’t that the whole point of the Resistance? Aren’t you people supposed to be resisting those sorts of assbackwards assumptions?”

Hill’s shoulders tense. “You literally said you wanted –”

“Nah, ah, ah,” Deadpool shushes her. His finger’s on the trigger, Tony can’t help but notice. Not that it matters, since it’s not loaded – but then again, the first rule of gun safety is never to hold your finger on the trigger until you mean to use it. He’s suddenly doubting the gun’s empty, his brain going back over that scene in the holding cell when Deadpool had supposedly emptied it. Would Deadpool actually fully empty a gun? Stupid, silly assumption he’d made, letting the man keep the gun thinking it was empty – “What’d I say about putting words in my mouth? What I said was that we’ll keep all your fancy secrets as long as Stark comes to visit us on our brand spanking new farm.”

“… you want me to visit your… farm?”

Words. They do not compute.

“It’s actually a fucking old farm, but yeah, absolutely.” Deadpool turns his back to Hill entirely and takes a few steps closer to Tony. The omega Peter follows his lead and approaches, too, just a bit to the left, a few steps away from crowding him. Tony stands his ground because he’s not about to show any fear, even though something inside of him is practically quaking at – at what? At the fact that these strangers want him to visit them? Why the hell would anyone want –

“If you agree to it,” Deadpool adds, “Then yeah, we’d like you to come visit.”

“And if I do,” Tony says, slowly, calculating. “Then you agree to keep our secrets?”

“You can’t be seriously considering –”

“It’s a nuclear deterrent.”

Hill stops. “What?”

Tony shrugs. “A nuclear deterrent. They know our location, but by my visiting, I’ll know theirs. Pretty sure Hydra wants all assorted Deadpool and Deadpool adjacent people captured or taken out on sight, so. We’ll have to agree to keep each other’s secrets.”

“Yep!"

“And what are you expecting me to do during these visits?”

They’re officially chatting as though Maria Hill isn’t in the room, talking over her as though they can’t hear her protests. Tony has quite a bit of practice blocking most people out, anyway, so it’s no hard task doing so now. Deadpool claims he won’t be expecting Tony to do anything during these visits, which is a bold, bold claim indeed. He could at least have made it more believable by making something up. The fact of the matter is that Deadpool could have requested anybody from the Resistance to visit in the spirit of creating a nuclear deterrent. He chose Tony Stark. Tony hasn’t been naïve in a very, very long time, if he ever had been. He knows there’s got to be some reason why these Deadpools chose him of all people for this task. Either they want him to fix something, or pay for something, or supply them with something… or do something else entirely. Expectations hang off the Stark name like tattered strings.

He only hopes these ones aren’t enough to hang himself with.

Or maybe he hopes they are. Could go either way.

He sticks out a hand. “Deal.”

Hill does something stupid, then. She obviously hasn’t enjoyed being ignored. With a scowling frown, she surges toward Tony, one hand on the gun at her side and her other hand grabbing for Tony’s wrist as though to yank him out of the room. Tony might have let her, too, because the negotiations seem to have wrapped up easily enough, except the movement toward him hadn’t been careful, and he isn’t quick enough to stop himself from flinching backwards. Everyone must have seen the way he’s cringed away from her, because Peter – the omega – Peter moves. He places himself between Hill and Tony, a low growl catching in his throat, eyes bright and bold and gold again, flashing a warning to Hill of all people. When Hill immediately draws her weapon and points it toward Peter, Peter takes it as a threat. Of course, he does. It’s clearly a threat. But instead of trying to protect himself, Peter throws himself on top of Tony and curls an arm around his shoulders, flattening him against the table behind them with golden eyes ablaze and a snarl on his lips. Wilson’s moving, too, but he’s on the offensive, manages to disarm the woman with an ease and the swift expertise of a retired mercenary. He’s already got her gun in hand when he decides to elbow her in the nose for good measure, knocks her clean off her feet and stumbling out the door.

Tony shoves at Peter’s arm. “It’s fine, I’m fine, can I get up, please –”

Peter manages to look horrified as he jumps away. He holds out a hand to help Tony up, who doesn’t accept it, pulling himself to his own feet and brushing quick hands down his shirt to smooth it out. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark! Are you okay?”

“No need, short stuff, I’m fine –”

Peter still somehow looks stricken. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Of course you didn’t,” Tony scoffs. “I’m Iron Man, in case you weren’t aware.”

“Heh, I think I hurt her, though,” Wilson says, but he sounds downright gleeful about it as he gestures with Hill’s own gun out the door to where she’s sitting out in the hallway with a hand up to her nose, staunching the flow of blood.

Another fine day at the office this has turned out to be.

Tony imagines he hides his smirk well enough behind a bag of old blueberries he nicks from the table. The rest of the Deadpools aren’t nearly as good at it.

-

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It’s – quiet.

Peter drags himself to the old, peeling windowpane. There’s a rusted locking mechanism holding down the window, so he tries turning it to the unlock position and it flakes off in his hand. Three layers of old paint keep the window stuck shut, tacky and cracking, but it’s easy to strongarm the thing open. He holds one hand up to the screen, pressing bare skin against it, feels the breeze that rattles the trees outside, listening to the creaks of battered shutters and how the hinges squeak on the derelict shed beside the tree line. Snaking vines wind up one side, weighing down the roof on that corner, its structural integrity in serious question. Not that they’ll keep it, not with the stench of terror and loneliness that’s baked into the rotting walls. He tries to imagine himself kept in there for any length of time, and it’s – sickening. His stomach rolls at the thought of them, of the omegas shackled there once upon a time, or else bent over haybales, bruised and used.

Peter closes his eyes.

He breathes.

He counts.

It should feel – good. Right? Should feel freeing to have his own bedroom, to have his own space here in this decrepit old house out in the middle of nowhere, miles away from anybody who’d try to – do anything to him. To them. Miles and miles from even a gas station, secluded in its own forest, in its own acres and acres of unkempt cornfields, overgrown with singing crickets and built upon rolling hills. Instead, Peter can’t sleep. Can’t sit still long enough to feel comfortable. It’s like his insides are rattling, his omega a crying, shaking thing that needs. This quiet place feels too big, everybody’s too far away, and he wants to be normal, wants not to need…

Clint.

Clint, Clint, Clint.

Peter can’t say why, can’t articulate any of the strange unease keeping him awake, but it’s there all the same, and it’s screaming at him to check in with Clint. Without really understanding why, Peter grabs his blanket and the rainbow teddy from off the bed, snicks the rickety bedroom door ajar, and crosses the hall to where Clint’s probably already asleep. They’d been awake too long in impossibly stressful situations for days now – but no. Peter listens at the door, and he hears it. Clint, sniffling, breath hitched. He knocks, and the sniffling stops, cuts off into an uneasy quiet, and then there’s rustling, footsteps. Clint opens the door, and his face is – blotchy, red, eyes teary. He’s scratching at his scalp again, red angry lines across the right side of his head, through the little hairs growing in there. And – oh. This is why. This uneasy, shaking fear that’s settled against his ribcage belongs to Clint. Or maybe to the both of them, here in this new house that still reeks of old omegas, of their fear and their grief and their pain.

Clint reaches out to him, and Peter says, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” even when it isn’t.

He pulls the mattress off Clint’s new bed, thumps it into the corner of the room.

Gathers both their blankets, gets them settled into that corner.

Without thinking about it, he presses his rainbow bear into Clint’s arms, then curls around them both, scenting at the bear that still carries faint whispers of Wade, of the fire that feels warm and protective, like a cocoon, a home. They lay curled together for a while, breathing in the same scents, listening to the crickets harmonizing outside, and it’s better this way, to have Clint close, better to wipe the omega’s tears as they leave silent tracks down his cheeks. Peter finds his nose pressed against Clint’s neck, scenting him in this unfamiliar place, and Clint cranes his neck to allow the contact, hands fisted in Peter’s shirt, pulling him in, holding on.

When the door opens, Peter bares his teeth, eyes flashing gold in the dark.

Wade stands in the doorway.

Only Wade, Peter thinks to himself. Thank God. Only Wade.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Wade whispers, watching them. He rocks back on the balls of his feet, and he’s wearing a pair of low-hanging sweatpants, no shirt at all, scars red and blistered even in the dim light from the hall. “You’re all too far away – couldn’t – uhm, but I’ll go, I can go. You two look cozy, don’t wanna make you uncomfortable. D’you want anything? Need some – water? Toast? Snacks?”

“You,” Peter says, snuffling into Clint’s neck again. “Please.”

Wade points to his own chest. “Me?”

“Help us sleep if we’re all together,” Peter says. It rings true. “This place smells like pain. Like – omegas were used, here. All over. Years and years of it, embedded in the foundation. It doesn’t feel safe.”

Wade’s swallow sounds loud in the quiet. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.”

“C’mere, Wade?”

“You okay with that, Clint?” Wade asks, still in the doorway.

Clint drags one hand off Peter’s shirt long enough to beckon the alpha into the room, to hold out a hand to him. Wade crosses the room in just a few strides, immediately, eagerly grabbing hold of that hand and letting himself get pulled into their cuddle pile. He’d left the bedroom door ajar in his haste to get to them, but Peter won’t let him leave long enough to close it, not now that he has his hands on him. Wade’s warmth envelopes them both on the mattress that still smells too new, like the plastic it came in. But every smell here is bothersome, so it blends right in. Wade feels warm and big, a firm, calming presence. Still holding onto Clint, Peter turns his face so that his nose presses into Wade’s shoulder. He rubs it against Wade’s skin, slow and careful. Wade tightens his hold around them, muscles bunching. He tells them it’ll just take some getting used to, being here, before he mutters something clearly meant for the voices only he can hear. Clint feels very small in between them.

Peter hears James before any of them see him.

And then he’s there in the doorway, just like Wade had been. Hovering, silent, uncertain.

Clint’s head rises from their little puppy pile. He reaches out a hand.

“Can you bring another mattress?” Peter asks before James has the chance to actually join them. And then, when clear, stark relief lightens the lines that weigh down James’ face, and he’s got a second to think about what that relief means, what it means to all of them, he adds, “And maybe ask if anybody else wants to join us, too?”

“Ooh, slumber parties are my favorite.” Wade shifts, does a little excited shimmy and squeezes his arms around both omegas. His voice is soft and absent, a puff of warm air that moves over Peter’s curls. “Think Weas’ll let me braid his hair?”

It’s James who responds from his place at the doorway. “If he doesn’t, I will.”

“Whatttt? No way, seriously?”

“Sure.” James shrugs a loose shoulder, his flesh one.

James is watching them, looking as somber as usual, but there’s a softness to his expression that makes him look years younger. Without saying anything else about it, the supersoldier turns and disappears down the hallway, presumably to retrieve a mattress and anybody else who wants in on this apparent slumber party. Peter can’t remember ever having slumber parties, since his aunt and uncle had been keeping him hidden away illegally for every bit of his childhood that he can recall. But his first owner, that first one… he’d had plenty of slumber parties, sleepovers where Peter served his guests, or was told to serve them, anyway. He’d been pretty unwilling to obey at the time. Most of the scars that line his back and thighs come from that first placement. It’s an uncomfortable memory, the thought of those particular slumber parties, of the jeering, delighted spectators at every whipping he’d ever earned there. One of the bigger scars that wraps around his hip itches and twinges at the thoughts. He squirms to scratch at it.

Wade rears a little away to make room for his squirming.

Clint scratch, scratch, scratches at his scalp again.

“We’re kind of a mess,” Wade observes. He picks at one of his own scabs, a blister on his chin that hadn’t been there just a few hours before. Peter’s hip goes from phantom twinges to actual ache as they sit there. He rubs a palm over where the whip had dug into him a little too hard, a whine caught in the back of his throat. He’s fine. He’s absolutely fine here. Clint’s holding the bear that once gave him so much comfort, Wade’s leaking alpha pheromones that’d drive even the most determined thief away, all warmth that radiates, and Peter is actually more physically fine than he’s ever been allowed to become. If he strains himself, he can hear James and Bob a few rooms away, murmuring to each other. Bob’s wondering if he should change his bandage before he joins them. Weasel’s snoring in his own room. He’s still wearing his glasses because they creak every time his inhales move his face just slightly away from the pillow. He’s warm, and full, and surrounded by good people. He’s fine.

Then why is it so hard to breathe?

Heels click across tiles. He can’t see her, trussed up as he is over the breeding bench and facing the row of assorted whips and canes hanging across the wall. One is suspiciously missing from the assortment. Her heels sound delicate, rhythmic as she passes the threshold and then pauses somewhere behind him. Peter yelled himself hoarse and slobbered through the rope gagging his mouth hours ago, now, but at the addition of a new person, he lifts his head the few inches he’s allowed and gurgles around it again, tries to talk through the coarse, wet rope. Nails scratch on his ass, then, featherlight before abruptly digging in, and he moans out a protest and tries to wriggle out of reach. Impossible, of course, since he’s bound. There’s laughter behind him, an overwhelming snap that cr-rracks across his back. Peter shouts, muffled behind the rope, teeth biting down hard. His lips feel chapped where they’ve been stretched around the rope, and his breaths come out ragged and panting. He can’t breathe around the saliva that’s pooled in his mouth and dripping down his chin, can’t breathe through the rope, through the embarrassment, through the – the thought of Aunt May, of Uncle Ben, oh please –

More laughter. A lady’s voice, amused. “He’s so vocal.”

“’s what happens when they’re untrained. It’s kind of fun, right?”

“Obscene, more like. Can I take a turn?”

“Sure, course. Aim for its ass some, haven’t had the chance –”

They take turns landing blows across his butt, down his back, across the backs of his thighs. He tries to grit his teeth and bear it, tries not to make as many sounds, because – because they want them. Want him to moan out in protest, want him to kick up a fuss and try to talk around their makeshift gag. It’s obscene, an omega trying to talk, begging without being told to beg, making noise without being told to make it. Peter isn’t used to it, though, can’t quell the moans, can’t stop himself from shouting when a particularly violent blow with the whip curls around his hip and licks across the head of his dangling penis. His voice cracks with that one. They laugh. A crack in that same spot, again and again, until they catch on that the whip’s catching across his dick and they start aiming for it. His knees shake, fingers clenching and unclenching, as they whip him.

He's panting and whining, sweat slick and oiled up.

The woman’s nails scrape over an open wound. Peter whines again, tries to hold himself still.

“Think he’ll lick it off?” she asks his – master. His master? Owner?

The man scoffs. “He will if he knows what’s good for him.” They both walk around the breeding bench, until finally Peter can see them, can see the man’s dress slacks and those heels that click, click, click. The man grabs a fistful of Peter’s sweaty hair and pulls his face up, pulls so his neck strains from the hold. With his other hand, he grabs the rope and yanks it away and down until it dangles from Peter’s neck like a noose might. His face is grinning and cruel, eyes unsympathetic, unfeeling, all amused. He crouches down to eye level with Peter, still holding his head up with a fist of his hair, and slaps him on one cheek a few times like he’s patting a horse. “You’re gonna open up that pretty mouth of yours and suck your blood off my lady friend’s fingers. If you bite, we’ll stick a broomstick straight up your ass and leave you hanging on the rack tonight. You get me?”

Peter’s eyes water. Can’t help it. Can’t help anything, can’t understand – why would anyone –

– why –

“Aw, look. He’s lost his voice.”

The man yanks hard on his hair, so hard that Peter strains to swallow.

“Well?” he says, demands, shaking him like a ragdoll. “You want the rack?”

“No, no –” Peter can’t help it, can’t hold it in, can’t – “Why would you – why –”

They don’t like questions. The man doesn’t, anyway. The woman thinks it’s funny, and Peter – Peter opens wide when the lady’s fingers press insistently and she tells him to open up. He does, he does, but – but his whole body won’t stop shaking, his knees would have given out on him long ago if he weren’t tied to the unforgiving leather of the bench that’s sticking to his sweaty stomach. He doesn’t think he means to, but as soon as her invading fingers land on his tongue, Peter’s hearth lurches and he chomps down on her.

She yells, tries to yank her hand away.

He holds onto her skin with his teeth.

The man’s quick. He drops Peter’s head and crosses quickly to the other side of the bench, slaps the meat of a hand down hard against the cuts along Peter’s butt. Again and again, yelling at him to let the lady go, slapping so hard it rocks his body forward and makes the leather on the bench creak. He’s not sure why he won’t let go, not sure why his body won’t obey, can taste blood in his mouth and he hates it, hates it – hates how the lady’s voice takes on a shrill, shrieking tone in her panic. The man spanks him three more times, hard, and when that’s obviously not working, he’s even quicker to stick a finger up Peter’s ass, jabbing at his hole hard and fast.

With a moaning sort of whimper, Peter’s jaw finally unhinges.

The woman throws herself out of his reach, holding her hand up to her chest.

“He bit me!” she yells, aghast, totally and completely shocked.

The man sticks another finger up his rear, twists and curls them until Peter’s pleading with him to stop. Please, please stop, he’s sorry, he’s so sorry, please, he won’t do it again, he didn’t mean to bite her, he’s so sorry – please, please – but they want his pleas, they want him to beg. It’s not something that will ever stop, no matter how much he begs, no matter how much he bleeds. He’s not had anything bigger than two fingers up his ass yet. They don’t care. No, they do care, they love it, love the choked sounds he makes, love the way he begs them to stop, that nothing else can fit in there, it’s too much, please –

The man coughs out a startled, disbelieving laugh. “Won’t fit? Three fingers? Ha! Show you what’ll fit – honey, you good? Can you get that broom by the closet over there?”

Peter’s spent one full week on his knees, hogtied over a bench. He’s been hit, and spat on, and whipped until he’s bled in stripes of red that sting and itch. He’d been stripped bare and shoved into a crate until he couldn’t see anything except glimpses of the outdoors through the holes in the wood, until he couldn’t smell anything except sawdust and his own fear, sour like piss. He watched the only people who’ve ever loved him bleed out on his behalf. Uncle Ben had tried to warn him. He knows now what he’d been trying to say, what his uncle meant when he tugged him close and told him to run, told him that he didn’t know what they’d do to him. You don’t know what they’ll do to you, Pete, run, please, run –

Ben was right. Peter hadn’t known.

Couldn’t have – couldn’t have imagined this in his worst nightmares.

Fear has him clenching around the fingers already slick inside of him. It’s a pitiful attempt to keep them out, and it only encourages them to thrust deeper. The man angles his fingers and presses into him, into something that sends a shudder up his spine, that has Peter choking out another protest. It’s the woman, though, who kneels beside him well out of biting range. She clutches her injured hand to her breast while the other one reaches in between his legs and fondles him. Her manicured hand plays with his balls, tugs on his dick, pumps it with quick strokes until it lengthens and thickens in her curled fist. Peter’s head drops low. He squeezes both legs together, eyes clenched tight, ears ringing. Nothing can block out the pulsing need that’s heavy in his belly, that’s got his balls drawing up, has him twitching in this stranger’s hand. Nothing can block out the solid pressure that suddenly rests against his hole. The man removes his fingers with a sickening squelch.

The pressure against his hole presses forward.

“Please!” Peter cries out, desperate, and then: “I can’t believe you’d do this to someone!”

“See?” The man talks over him completely. A hand slaps down on his left cheek, a sting quick like a bee that has Peter clenching up again. The hand around his penis squeezes at the base, so hard he feels like he’s been sucker punched, has to suck in a quick breath through his nose to keep himself from upchucking as his empty stomach rolls. The man hums. “Told you it can be kind of fun. Talking like he thinks he’s a person, you ever heard anything like it? Wait, wait, lemme just –”

The end of the broom jabs forward. It feels like he’s being stabbed.

A choked whine punches its way from his throat.

He keens.

“– now see that? Ever thought you’d get to see a virgin lose his cherry to a broomstick?”

Peter’s whole body tenses, nerves on fire. The room spins out from under him and he feels like he’s going to be sick. His hole clenches around the intrusion, around the sheer girth of it, and it feels like his guts follow as it recedes, feels like he’s being pulled part as the man tugs on it so that the tip of the broom handle is just kissing his asshole before it’s quickly stabbed back inside of him. Over and over, in and out, in and out, until finally the broom is removed entirely and it feels like he’s just – gaping open. He’s been thrashing back and forth, thrashing in what tiny movements the ropes have allotted him, trying and failing to get away from the broomstick, from their laughter, from all of it, but when the broom is removed he sags against the ropes, the life drained from him as he slumps over the bench and cries. The man takes his time repositioning Peter, then, undoing the ropes that bind his legs together and retying them so that Peter’s legs spread wide, ankles tied in opposite directions to small posts bolted into the floor.

His cheeks are pulled apart by uncaring fingers.

Cool air kisses his twitching, clenching hole.

He wiggles, then, renews his struggles because – because he’s spread open, now, spread open for whatever else they plan to insert inside of him. He can’t – he can’t do this again, please, he won’t do it again – he’s in a nightmare, he’s in a nightmare and there’s no waking up. Peter can’t wake up, the nightmare’s all around him, all around the world, awake or asleep, asleep or awake, there is only the nightmare.

The world’s a nightmare and there’s no waking up –

– wake up wake UP wake up WAKE UP –

And then he – he’s on the ceiling.

Panting, winded, he flexes bare toes and fingers on the stretch of wood underneath them. Dimly, as though hearing it through a very long, very dark tunnel, Wade’s cooing at him, all soft, soft voice and whispered words of – comfort. Promises of protection. Peter opens his jaw and rolls it, forcefully untensing it where he’d been clenching his teeth in his sleep. No ropes in this reality. It’s such a vast, jarring difference that Peter can’t comprehend it, for a bit. He stops trying, just breathes. He can breathe here. He can. The smells get to him first. Alpha rich and calming, the stress of omega, the muted neutrals of beta. They’re all here below him, Clint and James, Bob and Wade. And then the sound of Clint’s – Clint’s purr? He’s rumbling from his chest, deep and low. When Peter manages to glance down from the cover of the ceiling, from the comforting nothingness he’d been staring at before, Clint and Wade are standing directly below him, watching him. An understanding, soft furrow from Clint and wide beckoning eyes from his alpha. From Wade.

With a sigh, Peter lowers himself on one strand of webbing.

“Bad dream, Petey?” Wade asks him, and he stands so stiff and tense, hands fidgeting.

Clint also makes no move toward him. Just stares and rumbles.

“Nightmare,” Peter affirms through a cracking voice. He coughs. Something itches to reach out to them both, itches to gather the other alpha and beta hovering by the door, too, but he stops himself. Stands and faces them, instead. Squares his shoulders. “You’re purring, Clint. I – it’s nice.”

Clint ducks his head. Continues rumbling.

“No, really. It’s – thank you,” Peter murmurs. “It helps.”

“’m sorry this place gives you nightmares,” Wade mumbles, glancing away, too. He fiddles with his hands. “It does reek, huh? Weas said it might have been used as a breeding farm back in the day, it’s really the shittiest safehouse –”

“It’s not the house.”

“No?” Somehow, that makes Wade curl even more into himself.

Peter feels very much out of body when he says, “It’s not you guys either.”

“’s just – bad memories, huh?”

“No.”

“… do you wanna taco ‘bout it? Maybe over some actual tacos?” Wade’s trying so hard to be careful, keeping his body still and slow, slow and still. Even his heartbeat sounds purposefully slowed down, calm, calm, calm. The only thing moving are his hands, which are wringing in front of him. He stands so much taller than Peter, a wall of muscle, but the way he’s hunched forward makes him feel somehow smaller, somehow less alpha. But Peter doesn’t want Wade diminishing himself. The last thing the world needs is one of the good ones to feel small. The other omega must see that too, because even though Peter’s rooted himself to the ground and can’t bring himself to move just yet, Clint leans toward the alpha and grabs hold of one of his twitching hands, gives it a squeeze until Wade whooshes out a long exhale and some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders.

Peter still feels like he’s floating somewhere off center.

“Hey, guys?”

They both look at him like he’s something worthwhile. Faces open and expectant, so eager to listen to him. They don’t see who they’re talking to. Can’t see the stains on him. The scars that hide under borrowed clothes. Which version of him is the real one, he wonders? The person these people see, the one with thoughts and feelings and words and a voice? Or that other one tied to a bench and speared open for the pleasure of real people? Is he the weakness, or is the weakness just a part of him? What is he, if not his trauma? What does Wade see?

“I was having a nightmare,” he says. His voice sounds tinny, small. It’s his turn to fidget with his hands. “But – I think the whole world’s a nightmare, and sometimes I’m not sure anybody can wake up from it.”

Clint rumbles some more, squeezing Wade’s hand.

“Can we wake up?” Peter asks. “… can we all wake up?”

The question hangs over their heads the rest of the night. They all move as one to get comfortable, as comfortable as possible on a bunch of thrown together mattresses in a drafty old house that stinks like despair. James huddles in close to Clint, who rests his head on the man’s flesh shoulder and sighs as he keeps purring. It’s the sound of comfort, a soothing vibration that helps them all settle. Peter wishes he could help, wishes he could purr, too, but it’s stuck in his throat and won’t come. Wade doesn’t appear to notice Peter’s internal struggle about it. The alpha fluffs a bunch of pillows and pats the mattress, says, “Wanna cuddle, Petey? ‘s okay if you don’t. I can set you up somewhere comfy or you can make one of those seriously cool spider hammocks on the ceiling.”

“Can I be the big spoon?”

Wade grins at him from the bed. Leans over and nudges Bob on his shoulder. “Did he really just ask me that or have I died and gone to heaven?”

So Peter – settles in behind Wade, curls an arm around the alpha’s big broad shoulder and spends some time mapping the man’s scars with searching, curious fingers. Bob is a warm presence at his back, Clint and James on Bob’s other side. Their girl’s got herself holed up in another room, and Weasel’s out like a light in the comfort only a beta could have in his own room a few walls away. Everybody else is here. It’s quiet as they all hunker down. Wade holds himself very still under Peter’s hand, until Peter can’t take the stiffness to the alpha’s body anymore and says, “I think I’ll survive if you move a little, Wade. You don’t need to worry so much about me.”

Wade’s sigh releases some of his tension. They lay together in silence after that, falling asleep one at a time, slowly, so slowly. Peter thinks he’s the only one still awake, listening to their deepened breathing as he caresses over the divots and marks along one of Wade’s biceps. An hour passes, maybe two, before Wade turns a bit and murmurs, quiet as a mouse, voice heavy with sleep, “You woke me up, y’know.”

Peter’s hand stills. He swallows. “I –” He doesn’t know what to say.

His eyes burn.

Wade hums, turns his head so he can rub his face into Peter’s chest. “Life was a nightmare b’fore you showed up, pretty Petey. ‘s good now.”

“… it is?”

“Mhm,” Wade murmurs, lazy and sleep-heavy. Then he’s turning back around and wriggling into Peter’s hold, reaching up to grip Peter’s arm and curl it tighter around him. “Like bein’ the little spoon,” the big alpha says as he falls back to sleep, heartrate evening out as his breaths deepen. It must be near dawn now. Peter can feel the approaching sun like a warmth just out of reach. They don’t have any curtains or blinds yet, and the world outside the window looks all hazy blue and lightening, like something from one of Aunt May’s old paintings. He hears the telltale chirp of the earliest bird tweeting somewhere nearby. Maybe it’s nesting in the gutters. Peter keeps his arm curled over Wade and bends forward to scent at his neck, to inhale a deep drag of alpha fire, all warmth and strength. The world is shit, but this moment isn’t.

Peter closes his eyes and rests in that.

Chapter Text

22. deathtrap

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Stark men are made of iron.

It’s funny. A joke. Because even though that never actually applied to Tony – born bitches aren’t men at all, are they? he could hear dear old dad asking in that snide, dismissive tone – he carries around the burden embedded in his family name like chains tethered to the floor. For a motto that never applied to the omega bitch, it’d been expected of him all along, and now he’s too old to loosen himself out from the weight of it. But honestly, if there’s anything Tony Stark knows, in the sense of deep, relentless knowing , the unthinking, unconscious givens, it’s that he’s bound to fall short of expectations.

The dread for what’s coming sits heavy against his ribcage.

Or maybe that’s just the shrapnel. 

When his suit touches down at the tree line, as silent as he’s been able to make the thrusters thus far, it slides back into the housing unit shining on his chest. He breathes in humid, sticky hot air, the smell of honeysuckles thick enough to taste. His mind is already busy cataloging why he must be here, the ramshackle shed with a roof bowing from the weight of overgrown vines, the disrepair of the house itself, wood splintered and rotting from apparent water damage. Could use a French drain to redirect the water that’s obviously pooling along the foundation. What once must have been a stone retaining wall for part of the hillside has caved in along the cellar door, blocking off that back entry point entirely, and the house looks like it’s one good rain away from being swept off into the creek along the western border. 

Good thing it’s not located in a flood zone.

None of this explains, of course, why they’re bothering with Tony of all people. He’s worked nonstop convincing the world that he’s a genius, sure, but he’s not exactly known for stone masonry and assorted home making.

Tony can fix it, of course.

At least – he can fix the house, anyway.

Best take the home part of that equation off the table. He can’t say he’s got the foggiest clue how to make one of those. Not that any of these people will be expecting that of him, or wanting that of him, or even thinking it. He’s not sure why he’s thinking it, except – except for the sense memory of Peter’s arm as it curled around him, shielded him when the other omega expected danger. And sure, Tony doesn’t need protection, wouldn’t have needed the defensive stance the smaller omega had taken over him, those gold eyes flashing on Tony’s behalf, but – but still the memory of it remains, unsettling every layer of armor he’s maintained and built up for years in the space where human connection should have resided instead. It doesn’t feel safe, right now. His head. His focus. Off-kilter, like he’s stepped sideways. Despite every logical thought, some long-neglected instinct is – expecting things. Hoping for things. Almost. A poisonous, intrusive thought, persisting even as Tony tells himself it’s ridiculous: these people might not bleed him dry.

What would they do instead?

Tony – has no frame of reference for knowing.

It’s all ridiculous, anyway, he reminds himself again.

Ridiculous.

Shades on, practiced, polished, wooden, mechanical. He’ll fix their house and get the hell out of these uncomfortable thoughts and weighty, unseemly expectations. So, he circles around the rot, taking note of everything that needs replaced, welded, fixed as he walks around the perimeter a few times, has F.R.I.D.A.Y. take notes and measurements. It feels good to focus on concrete, less emotional matters, like slotting himself back into the right body if only for a moment. But once there’s no notes left to take and no parts left to be ordered, Tony feels himself tensing all over again, hardening, braced for impacts unknown. 

He manages to stride up to their front porch and knock on the door, then steps back to wait by the handrail. But when he leans his weight against it with his hands buried oh so casually in his pockets, the wood cracks, splinters, creaking an ominous tune. Tony stumbles and catches himself right before he can tumble off the porch with the debris of rotting wood. The remains of the railing tilt and sway in the breeze, groaning. It hangs there as though suspended by nothing more than a patchwork hope, leaning to the left, cracked yellow paint chipped off the bars and tiny teeth tracks marking them up as though rodents had been gnawing away at them.

Tony freezes. One wrong movement and this whole thing’s coming down.

He raises one hand, slow, slow, slow, to touch at the arc reactor.

The front door rattles open right as the railing crumbles.

With it, of course, comes the porch roof. 

Tony’s suit slides across his skin just in time to avoid an avalanche of rotten beams and chipped, cracked shingles to the head. He throws himself to the side and then activates his thrusters, flies out of the wreckage as it all comes crashing down, the porch roof caving in with a crash of dust and soggy wood. Debris hits the porch itself, hard, and wood from it must have been squishy with rot, too, because pieces of it cave in from the weight of the roof. By the time the dust settles, Tony’s in the suit on the grass and Wade Wilson stands in the doorway with one hand on a rusted doorknob, wide-eyed and maskless.

Where once stood a porch is now a pile of broken boards in between them.

Peter hovers just behind Wilson. The omega’s scent is soured with adrenaline, Wilson’s alpha stench alarmingly pungent like decay, fire, smoke and sulfur. He’s tempted to keep the suit on and activate its scent blockers, but he just broke their porch and he’s pretty sure that keeping himself locked away in the suit is only going to make matters worse.

“Are you okay?” Peter exclaims, at the same time as Tony says, “I can fix that.”

They stare at each other for a nonplussed second.

“Well, not fix,” Tony amends into the silence. There’s a nervous twitch in his finger. He tap, tap, taps at the arc reactor, helmet snicked down so his face is the only skin showing, shades perched reassuringly on his nose. An apology is stuck in the back of his throat, refusing to dislodge itself, so instead of saying what any normal human person would say when they accidentally demolish a stranger’s porch, Tony feels himself swan diving straight into a project. “Even I couldn’t fix all these rotting bits and pieces. To be honest, I’m surprised a strong breeze didn’t topple it sooner. But I can replace it, throw the whole thing out and start fresh. In fact, if you want something bigger, I could do a whole wrap around to fit the old country backroads vibe you’ve got going on here. It’d match the cornfield. Would you want ceiling fans? Dumb question, everybody wants ceiling fans in the southeast, the humidity alone will steal your life force –”

“Mr. Stark, sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, but –” Peter starts.

“No, please, please do interrupt.” Tony isn’t even being sarcastic. He wants to scrub this meeting from his own hard drive and go back to blowing up brothels and trading missiles with Hydra. At least that’s less nerve-wracking. When Wilson tilts his head at him, and Peter looks like he’s waiting for more, Tony easily admits, “I don’t know if I ever would have stopped talking on my own.”

“You don’t have to stop,” Wilson says, grinning with all his teeth. “Keep tellin’ us how shitty our house is, I mean it did almost bury you. Sorry about that, bee tee dubs. Like, seriously, worst first impression ever, amirite?” He rubs a sheepish hand on the back of his neck. “It’s a good thing you’re Iron Man, otherwise I’d be buried under the rubble myself right about now tryin’ to save you.”

Something loosens from Tony’s tense shoulders. “Do you try to bury all your guests?”

Wilson beams at him. “Nah, you’re just special.”

Tony’s been special all his life, of course. So it’s strange that being called that right now doesn’t dredge up any of the old animosity that usually accompanies the word. Wilson looks entirely too happy to see him even after he destroyed their entryway, and Tony’s on edge about it.

“Do you –” Peter starts. Stops. Swallows. “You can still come in, if you –”

Nervous omegas take priority over his own discomfort. Always have, for some reason. The fake smile that plasters itself across his face feels stiff but comfortable, like well-worn armor sliding over skin. Going for levity, he interrupts the agitated omega and says, “Well I didn’t come all this way to destroy your porch and then bounce, did I?”

Still not sure why he did come all this way. Nuclear deterrent, sure, but he could have gotten their location without the personal visit. In fact, he did, since he couldn’t have arrived here without it.

“Wait’ll you see the living room,” Wilson rushes out with, gesturing him forward with an enthusiastic hand waving him toward them. Tony tells them to back up and then activates the thrusters so he can fly over the wreckage to land in the doorway. As he’s deactivating the Iron Man suit and it’s folding itself back inside its housing unit, Wilson sweeps both arms out to gesture at the nearly empty living space, scars stretched around a grin and stark red in the sunlight from all the open windows. 

One wall is lined with empty or nearly-empty boxes, bubble wrap sticking out from their flaps. No furniture. The musty smell of abandonment and decay hits Tony square in the nose where it’s baked into the walls. Well-accustomed by now to the stench of hopelessness, to the stench of old squatter houses and brothels full of dead-eyed omegas, he’s hardly bothered, and follows Wilson and Peter as they lead him further inside. Wilson points and says, “It’s got a weird moldy black hole in the floor and I’m pretty sure we’re one board away from losing the front hall closet.”

He seems strangely pleased about the whole thing.

“... I could fix those, too,” Tony offers.

Peter quirks a smile at him from his place beside the alpha. His scent’s gone soft, warmer than the honeysuckle-rich aroma outside. Now that a porch isn’t falling on his head, Tony notices that Wilson has on a cooking apron with pink and white frills along the skirt, tied over jeans and a thick hoodie. It must be part boiling in that getup, and there’s sweat beaded along the bald, rough edges of the alpha’s scarred head. 

As if on cue, Wilson flaps a hand in front of his face like he’s fanning himself before he runs his palm down the apron and fluffs the frills of the skirt, the smell of something sugary sweet wafting from the material as he moves it. From behind the big alpha, Peter claims they have breakfast almost ready and that he promises the rest of the house isn’t quite so dangerously close to caving in on their heads.

“In theory,” Wilson adds.

Peter nudges him with an elbow.

Tony doesn’t much want to sit around awkward breakfasts with strangers, no, except he’s not sure when he last ate, and the hopeful, sheepishly wide eyes on the thin omega rattles him. He can’t say he’s accustomed to omegas looking hopeful for – what? Tony’s presence?

They didn’t even acknowledge it when he told them he could fix all their shit.

So Tony follows them to the kitchen, which is every bit as dilapidated as the living room, only it’s twice as big and full of people. Wilson has to duck to fit through the doorway, common for the older model houses. New ones, too, considering they’re designed with betas in mind, and Wilson’s built like an alpha linebacker. Nothing a new bulkhead can’t fix. Friday takes note of it by herself, smart girl. Underneath a rusted, dangling chandelier with two bulbs missing and one blackened on the inside, they’ve set up a big circle of upturned boxes as some sort of makeshift table, paper plates set out atop them and assorted Deadpools sitting in various states of undress around it. Most of them are shirtless, including a skinny omega covered in whip scars striped across his chest, stomach, back. Old wounds, white and pinked over by time. His shorn head is leaning on the big beta’s shoulder beside him, arms interlocked, and he’s nibbling on a strip of crunchy bacon.

Tony isn’t sure why his stomach drops at the sight.

The omega looks – comfortable, hanging off the beta.

Cozy.

“Porch crapped out?” one of the betas, Weasel, is slouched over a laptop, blue light reflected in coke-bottle glasses. He fails even to glance in their direction at their arrival. The other alpha, Bob, has an apron tied around his waist, too, and is staring with intense focus at the batter he’d just poured into a hot, sizzling pan. He’s gripping a spatula in one hand and also fails to look over at them in the doorway. It’s a sticky sort of hot in here, humid. Three windows above the sink are wide open to let in air, but the only air out there is sticky, too. 

Wilson snickers. “Our safehouse is a deathtrap.”

“Which for some reason amuses you.”

“Comedic irony is my middle name, Weas, you know that.”

“Okay, Winston.”

Tony tries to stand off to the side and observe insights about this group’s dynamic, about how they function around each other, or at least how they function when there’s an observer in the room. Wilson’s immediately skipping off to check on the other alpha’s cooking; he tuts and coos over the pancakes, pokes the one in the pan with a quick finger that Bob shoos away with his spatula. Keeping a few solid feet between them, though, Peter hovers, one hand tap, tap, tapping out anxious energy on his own wrist where he’s clasping his hands in front of him. The omega gnaws on his lower lip and fidgets, pretending to look out toward the alphas at the stove, but he glances every few seconds Tony’s way as though he can’t help himself, and it’s clear he’s not going to be left to his own devices long enough to remain a mere observer for this strange little domestic fever dream. The collar on Peter’s neck looks surprisingly soft.

Peter blurts, “We don’t have chairs yet, but you’re welcome to sit in between me and Clint.”

From his cozy snooze on the big beta’s arm, Clint raises a hand to throw a thumbs up.

Bemused, Tony allows himself to be led to the ‘table.’

It feels a little like his old college days, sitting crisscross applesauce in front of a cardboard box, about to eat with plastic forks.

Except, of course, for the exceptionally uncommon mix of people in attendance.

Peter sits beside him with his legs folded underneath him.

“How’s the arm?” Peter says, all soft concern toward the beta at the table.

The long-haired beta grunts. “Functional,” he intones. A long-suffering sigh from Weasel follows immediately. Clint gives the beta’s flesh arm a squeeze and thunks his forehead against his shoulder, moves his hand out from under the beta’s arm to jab both his index fingers toward each other. Tony watches how the beta’s eyes track the motion, watches how the intensity of his stare softens. He grunts, says a quiet, murmured, “I guess so. Nothing unusual.”

Peter mimics the hand motion, index fingers jabbed toward each other in front of him. “What’s this one mean?”

The beta’s eyes flick toward Peter.

But it’s Tony who says, “Pain.”

They all turn toward Tony, who probably shouldn’t have butted in, actually, because the staring and interested attention makes him feel twitchy, and he can’t help but drum anxious fingers across the arc reactor, unwittingly drawing attention to it. He feels like an ass with his sunglasses still on, everybody looking at him, so with practiced ease he reaches up to tug them off his face and tucks them into the collar of his shirt. The beta introduces himself as James and asks how he knows sign language, voice a quiet, gentle thing. Tony shrugs it off like it isn’t important. He knows a lot of languages through necessity, hardly any of them fun stories and absolutely none of them appropriate tales over an impending breakfast.

More interesting to him, however: “Does your prosthetic hurt?”

James’ eyes flick away and back again. “Nothing unusual,” he says again.

Tony hears it for the dismissal it is.

He resists the urge to tell him he could fix it, not sure how much of it is embedded into what remains of his fleshy shoulder or how it’s wired into his nerves.

Before long, the alphas are serving everyone else, literally serving them breakfast by leaning over the table and plating out food . Bob disappears momentarily with a plate and glass, heading upstairs with them, before he comes back down empty-handed. Maybe the girl Deadpool is up there somewhere? Wilson swishes his apron and damn near prances from one side of the cardboard boxes to the next, offering up a carton of orange juice and more salt for Clint’s eggs and an extra helping of bacon for all three of the omegas at the table because they ‘need their protein.’ Tony raises both eyebrows as he’s served those extra slabs of bacon, nonplussed, but Wilson raises nonexistent ones of his own right back at him and insists with none of the derision that tends to accompany these words when other people say them, “You’re skin and bones and look half-dead on your feet, Stark. Eat the bacon.”

A second’s worth of rebellion rises up in him. People don’t tell him what to do. It’s squashed only by the smell of the bacon and by his suddenly vocal stomach.

As he picks up a greasy, crisp slice, Tony suggests, “Coffee would help the half-dead bit.”

Wilson frowns. “Sorry, no coffee maker.”

“No coffee maker?”

These words… they do not compute.

“That’s about as scandalous as no alcohol,” Weasel agrees from behind his laptop.

“Your priorities need work,” Wilson singsongs.

Weasel’s face raises and he’s leveling a scowl at the big alpha. But then Peter is saying he used to drink coffee, sometimes, with lots of sugar to drown out the bitterness. His voice has that far away sorrow to it, low, and he sounds – wistful. Tony’s close enough to see when Wilson reaches for Peter’s hand and slots their fingers together on Peter’s knee, squeezing, and he turns his eyes carefully in the other direction. 

“Coffee maker can be here tomorrow,” Wilson murmurs, low, to Peter.

The breakfast that follows will go down in history as one of the strangest experiences of Tony Stark’s life, which, for someone who flies around the globe in a titanium alloy suit of armor and blows shit up on a regular basis, that’s saying something. It’s a different sort of strange, though, alarming for how comfortable everyone seems together, betas, alphas, and whip-scarred omegas alike. Tony’s much more accustomed to stiff formalities and barely contained hostilities that he can’t bring himself to say much, not sure what he’d even say, and so he stuffs his face with slow bites to draw them out, chewing so he's not asked any questions or coaxed into conversation.

And when breakfast is over, Tony’s not asked to fix shit.

They don’t hint toward the broken porch.

Wilson fetches one of those delivery boxes and uses a knife that he pulls from thin air to cut into the packing tape. He pulls out a brand-new box of plastic Tupperware containers. He rinses one of them off in their sink and then fills it to bursting with a stack of leftover pancakes, another little container of syrup that fits inside the bigger one, and then both snap shut. He returns to the table and thunks the container down in front of Tony, tuts and fluffs his apron and says, “It won’t be as good later, but it’ll at least be better than granola bars.” 

And then, before Tony can make his excuses to leave this strange experience behind him, Wilson tuts again and snatches the takeout container back. He strides over to their humming, yellowed fridge and stuffs it inside.

Tony watches the container disappear with both eyebrows raised.

“This way they’ll stay halfway fresh until you leave,” Wade sees him looking and says around a smile, the implication that he’s expecting Tony to stay longer ringing through the room. 

There’s a lot of shit he should be doing instead, important work back at the resistance, but it’s strangely tempting to take Wilson up on the offer to stick around for a bit, especially when Peter explains that they’ve been wanting to explore the creek that lines the property since it’s been so stuffy and hot in the house. And though none of them prioritized buying a coffee maker in the days since they’ve been here, one or more of them must have been thinking ahead, because another one of those boxes in the living room is cut open to reveal an assortment of swim trunks. Wilson takes the first off the pile and rips off the plastic it was packaged in, then shakes them out and holds them up grinning. This pair is covered by a pattern of big green warty pickles. He waves them like a flag at Weasel, who blinks at them behind his thick glasses. An instant scowl pulls his long face down. 

“That creek’s like a foot deep, if that,” Weasel protests. “We can’t swim in it.”

“If you wanna stay here and sweat your balls off, be my guest,” Wilson says, sniggering.

Weasel seems to think about that for one second, for two, before he’s wiping at his greasy, sweaty bangs that are plastered to his forehead and heaving out a drawn-out sigh. Scratching at his chest hair, he whines, “Did you get giant phallic pickles on all the swim trunks?”

Despite himself, Tony can feel his lips twitching into a smile.

Wilson throws the pickle shorts straight at Weasel’s head.

“What do you take me for, a tacky Kathy?” Wilson sounds offended, a sound which turns out to be entirely faux, since he grins like a shark right after he says it, all teeth. He proceeds to pull out a colorful array of shorts for all the Deadpools, one after the other. A bright red set with crawling black spiders and shimmering, translucent webs in the background for Peter, who accepts them with way more enthusiasm than Weasel had accepted his, darting close to peck a quick, chaste kiss to one of Wilson’s scarred cheeks and murmur a thank you. Wilson freezes with one hand in the box, wide-eyed for all but a second before his whole face relaxes and he leans forward to touch his forehead against Peter’s. It’s surprisingly intimate, the tiny gesture. Tony feels like he needs to look away again, feels all the sudden uncomfortable and out of place, like an interloper. He shouldn't be here interrupting this group’s day.

The other beta and Clint stand from the table, approaching to accept their own pairs of swim trunks.

“I hope you’re not expecting a thank you kiss from me,” Weasel’s muttering down at the gaudy pair of shorts he’d been given.

Silently smiling, Peter shakes his head.

Meanwhile, Wilson drags Bob forward by one of his biceps and smacks a sloppy kiss onto the other alpha’s cheek, who laughs and shoves at him. Settling his chin on Bob’s shoulder, Wilson grins over at Weasel and makes a kissy face, waggling nonexistent eyebrows. “Want me to give you one instead?”

“Been there, done that.” Weasel’s whole face scrunches.

The quiet omega, Clint, strips down to change into the swim trunks, right there in the kitchen. Nobody bats an eye, so Tony carefully doesn’t bat one either. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, anyway, though it’s mildly surprising that an omega who’s so obviously been abused in the past feels comfortable enough changing in front of him. Tony’s scent is – well, it isn’t. The distinct lack of scent, he’s been told, can be disturbing and off putting, especially for fellow omegas. A person shouldn’t exist without one.  

Peter approaches with a solid green pair of trunks in hand, thankfully interrupting Tony’s brain before it could spiral down that particular toilet bowl. He’s smiling, looking downright hopeful when he gestures toward an old door underneath the stairs and says, “Bathroom’s through there, if you want to change and join us?”

Tony’s eyebrows raise. 

“You don’t have to, of course,” Peter rushes to add, no doubt noticing his hesitation. “But you’re welcome here. It might be fun?”

“I can’t remember the last time I swam in a creek,” Tony muses.

“It’ll likely be less swimming and more, you know, standing in ankle deep water, but it’ll at least cool us off…”

There’s something surprisingly endearing about this younger omega and the sheepish grin he’s sporting, the hopeful little head tilt. Wilson, too, pipes up from the pile of boxes he’s digging through to agree that Tony should join them, much louder and less endearingly, but still just as – sincere? The others have already headed outside, utilizing a backdoor from the kitchen to avoid the mess Tony left behind in the front, leaving just the three of them lingering in the house.

It’d be the perfect opportunity to leave.

He could make his escape before he’d even have to say goodbye to any of the others.

But he lied earlier. Tony can remember the last time he swam in a creek. The answer is never. It’s been ages since he’s even swam at all. In fact, it’s been ages since he’s participated in a casual interaction like this, with people who aren’t currently demanding money or housing or tech, and that’s, somehow, inexplicably, more tempting than he expected it to be. When’s the last time he felt this – human?

Stark men are made of iron.

A much younger Tony Stark took that a little too literally and made it his mission to become a robot. For the most part he’s succeeded, as attested by his nonexistent scent and the literal robot that lives inside his chest cavity.

“Screw it, why not. I’m only old once,” Tony says, scratching at his goatee. Peter’s whole face lights up like a Christmas tree, and Tony can’t find it within himself to regret the decision. “Can you set the trunks in the bathroom? I don’t like being handed things.”

Peter’s brow furrows. To his credit, he doesn’t ask. “Um, sure, Mr. Stark –”

Tony follows him toward the bathroom. “Can you call me Tony? Mr. Stark reminds me of my old man.”

Peter turns wide eyes on him. “Shit, sorry, sir –”

“Not a sir either, remember?”

Peter’s setting the trunks down on a closed toilet lid when he slaps a hand over his face and groans. “I swear I’ll get this right one day.” He takes a breath and tries, “Um, To…ny.”

Tony watches him in the open doorway, a little amused but mostly unsettled by how difficult it seems to be for Peter to call him by his first name. Is it because he’s older? An older male who doesn’t smell like anything at all? People can’t trust someone they can’t smell. Shit, they can’t trust most of the people they can smell, but a scentless person is a person who hides intentions, emotions, the core of who they are. It can’t be easy to be around. Or does Tony resemble a past captor? Or maybe it’s something less sinister… perhaps a method Peter’s grown accustomed to using to maintain distance from a stranger?

Grimly, Tony thinks it’s probably one of the more sinister reasons.

He tries to humor the problem away. “You know, until you said my name like that, right at this very moment in time, I somehow never once thought about how it’s just a sad combination of toe and knee.”

Peter winces, though. His shoulders come up a bit like he’s trying to hide. “Yeah, sorry –”

More than accustomed to omega apologies by now, Tony snorts. “Why? You weren’t the one who frankensteined two body parts together to form the shortened version of my name.”

Peter blinks. Blinks again. Slowly, a crooked half smile emerges. He bites his lower lip like he’s thinking, or hesitating, or questioning if he should speak, and Tony lets the silence ride. Until he finally says, somewhat shy and halting, “At least the body parts your name references aren’t, you know, obscene? I’m stuck with peter.”

It startles Tony into a laugh. Peter’s smile broadens at the sound.

“Well you got me there,” Tony says, chortling. He shakes his head. Because the younger omega seems more relaxed now, the tension having been effectively broken, Tony claps Peter on the back and steers him away from the bathroom. “Get outa here and let me dress in peace, shortstack.”

Peter does an about face outside the tiny bathroom and jokingly says, “Aye aye, captain.”

“... well that’s at least better than sir.”

-

-

-

Wade Wilson thinks he might be a genius.

[Pffffft. Knothead alpha say whaaatt??]

happy, mate, pleased, happy

[I wasn’t asking you, knothead alpha!]

Sucking in a deep inhale, Wade pinches the little nozzle thing and blows, cheeks puffed out like a squirrel’s as he inflates the donut float. The unicorn one is already big, beautiful, and glistening in the sweltering summer sun beside him on the grass with Peter lounging across it, toned legs dangling off the side. His feet occasionally brush against Wade’s side. Weasel tried to convince him not to bother with giant floaties, but he’s known the beta long enough to realize that he’s just a big ol’ buzzkill who wouldn’t know fun if it whacked him across the face, so Wade’s not too worried about listening. Besides, sweet Pete’s scent has covered the creekbed in a blanket of contented omega and, for at least this moment in time, nothing at all is wrong in their world. Not even Weasel’s grumpy cat face can stifle the vibe, ya feel?

Everyone just seems so relaxed.

Wade’s a genius.

[[Oh gag me.]]

First piece of evidence: breakfast, so carefully crafted that it fed everyone including Stark, who’s too skinny and gaunt and seems to need someone around reminding him to eat. He’d eaten with them! Wade couldn’t help but watch them all eat around the table and think that maybe, finally, maybe possibly Wade was a part of something – good. Damn good. Nobody yelling or throwing shit or storming away in emotional rages. Nobody eating quiet and broken in the corner, reeking of desolation. Just – just family, talking quietly together like they like each other or something, and Wade’s a part of it. He could have closed his eyes and spun around and pointed to any one of the people in that kitchen, and no matter who his finger landed on, it would have been someone who seemed to like him. Well, except maybe for Tony Stark, but he’s new. He’ll get there.

Because Wade’s a literal genius.

Second piece of evidence: swimgear. So much swimgear. He’d ordered so many trunks and lady bathing suits and scuba masks and inflatables and beach towels you’d have thought they were going on a month-long beach vacay. Spoiler alert: they weren’t. What they were doing was even better though –

[Yeah right.]

[[Spoken like an idiot alpha who’s never gone on a month-long beach vacay.]]

– because it involves lots and lots of water guns.

He keeps that part of the proceedings a secret, of course, until everything else is set up. They need a cute backdrop to the event itself, because Wade’s taken a liking to event planning and online shopping, now that he’s got people he likes and who like him back. It turns out it’s fun spending endless money to give these people something to smile about. Life might suck, but there’s nothing that cannot be made better by an armory of water guns. And Stark’s going to participate, too! Not that he knows it, yet, but Peter got the hard part out of the way by batting his pretty doe eyes at Stark and somehow convincing him to join them on the creekbed. 

He’s opted to keep his shirt on, that glowing blue light barely visible through the fabric in the center of his chest, but he’s wearing one of the pairs of swim trunks and he’s currently standing with bare feet against the rocks in the water, hands in his pockets [look ma, the trunks have pockets! Sparkle emoji, plz]. Clint, James, and Bob are standing with him with their own feetsies in the water, with Clint idly kicking up a splash just for kicks while they all attempt to make awkward conversation. Weasel appears dead where he’s laying spread eagle in the water, face down, but he’ll bring his head up for air every half minute or so, lanky hair unkempt like a wet mop.

Peter doesn’t seem to know what to do here, either. He’s been sitting on the unicorn float in the grass, petting a hand across its neck and marveling at it, ever since Wade blew the thing up.

Nobody seems to know how to have fun, here.

They need some serious help.

They need Wade.

“Psssst,” Wade whispers through the side of his mouth, carefully looking away from Pete.

Peter’s head tilts. “Mm?”

God, they’re like an old married couple speaking entirely in wordless grunts. Wade could swoon.

“I have a good idea.” He says it with a marked emphasis on the last word, still whispering, but he turns his head to glance at Petey and wags his nonexistent eyebrows for added effect. They’re far enough away from the creek and the people in it that he doesn’t actually need to whisper. Most of the group is so focused on being awkward around Stark that they aren’t paying a bit of attention, and Weasel’s head is underwater. But screw it, covert operations are always so exciting.

“Another good idea?” Peter asks. There’s a smile in his voice and on his face. He hangs his head upside down off the side of the floatie, sweat dripping down his forehead and into his hairline, curls so adorably kerfluffled that Wade stretches out a scarred hand to tousle them. They can’t dangle so enticingly in front of him without at least a little tousling. Peter butts his head up into the touch and cautions, “I don’t know if it gets any better than a unicorn inflatable, Wade. You might have already hit the ceiling on good ideas for today.”

“Hit the ceiling?” Wade is so excited he could vibrate. His eyes spark mischievous and his lips stretch around a smirk. He leans forward to smack a kiss on Peter’s wet forehead and declares with reckless abandon, “Baby, I’m about to bust through it.”

“Oh yeah?” Peter sounds like he’s humoring him, but he’ll see. Soon they’ll all see. Mwahahaha. Peter leans himself upright and props his chin on one hand, elbow balancing on the floatie under him. His face reads interested. “And how’s that?”

Wade grins. Holds out a hand. “Come with me and find out?”

Peter grins back. “Oh, always.”

Water gun shenanigans are a go!

-

-

-

Joey Eaglemier is a beta on a mission to change the world.

And get rich in the process.

Mostly that second thing, if he’s being honest with himself. Mom and pops never did think he’d amount to much. His twin brother Morton always came in first for every ol’ little thing. Though born at nearly the same time, Morton couldn’t ever resist bringing up the one minute lead he’s had on Joey since the beginning. Morton tied his shoes first. Had the better arm for hitting at bat. Aced all his tests in school. Was the first twin to score his first kiss, his first girlfriend, then wife. The first twin to try anal. And when their parents finally came into some money through their crippling gambling addictions, it was Morton who got gifted his first omega bitch, something they all knew that Joey had been dreaming about for years. 

God, Morton sucked.

Look at me now, asshole, Joey thinks to himself, vicious and triumphant, right before the elevator door dings and opens to a sleek, prestigious penthouse suite. Hurriedly, Joey snatches his ballcap off his head and wrings it in his hands, sweating despite himself as he steps with some measure of caution onto the gleaming linoleum tiles. His sneakers squeak.

There’s a man lounging on a crisp leather couch, facing the wall full of windows with an arm thrown over the back of the couch and one hand cradling a glass of what might be wine. A soft, squelching slurping sound can be heard, rhythmic and alluring, and the man’s moving slightly, also rhythmically.

“Did you plan to linger in the entryway all day?”

Joey jumps, heart in his throat. “Um, no sir!”

“Well get over here and speak, man.”

Hurrying to round the couch, sneakers squeaking with every step, he clutches his hat in hand and immediately moves it to cover his crotch, because goddamn. A beautiful, thin omega is on her knees with plump, pink lips wrapped around the man’s swollen dick, fellating him with her eyes closed and a tangle of hair framing her features. She’s unclothed, of course, and her pert, red ass is wiggling like she was born to perform. Well hell, she was. What a pretty bitch, Joey thinks to himself, gulping as he listens to her wet mouth work. Morton’s omega pales in comparison, all used up and scarred all over. This one looks like she’s never been whipped, or if she has, it was done with care. Her reddened, bruised asscheeks are the only visible signs of damage, but those will fade and leave no mark behind.

The man raises a singular eyebrow at him. One of his hands moves to grab a fistful of omega hair. With Joey right there watching, he holds her head down to the root of him and waits until she gags on him before letting her rise up a few inches for air.

“Um, hi,” Joey says, quite lamely. His face feels flushed. His own dick feels needy and jealous.

“Enjoying the show?” The man’s voice is amused. His eyes are looking straight at Joey’s awkwardly covered crotch.

“Heh, yeah, sorry. We just don’t have many omegas where I’m… from…”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t, would you? I hear you’re a delivery driver.”

Joey nods vigorously, eyes not leaving the sight of the omega bitch gagging on dick. God, what he wouldn’t give to yank his pants down and stick his own straight up her rear. Maybe one day. Maybe one day he’ll be rich and have a whole barn full of bitches all to himself.

With that lofty goal in mind, he squares his shoulders. “That’s right. I drive for Amazon. Have been for – I guess four years now? It’s good work, but I’m better than it, y’know? I got a future in mind that ain’t got nothing to do with deliverin’ shit to spoiled rich kids. No offence,” he adds in a hurry, considering he’s probably talking to one of those spoiled rich kids right now. God, he’s such an idiot. Idiot, Joey! Get your head in the game.

The man hums but doesn’t seem to care that he was just insulted. “Go on, then. You mentioned to your sponsor that you’ve located someone important to us?”

“The dude with the metal arm, yeah!” Joey says, beaming. This is his chance to be better than stupid fucking Morton, his chance to get his own pretty bitches with tight holes and smooth skin. “That one that got stolen, right? I saw him with my own two eyes and I’ve got his address and everything. I was just deliverin’ a shitton of boxes to this old house out in the backwoods, and poof! There he was!”

The man hums again. Something in Joey deflates at his apparent lack of enthusiasm.

“Leave the address with the secretary on your way out.”

Joey’s hands flex around his ballcap. “Um… but aren’t you gonna –”

“What I’m going to do is cum down this bitch’s throat then make use of her other holes. What you’re going to do is leave the address with the secretary on your way out.”

“But – money, I – I won’t give you the address unless you give me, you know, money.”

The man downs the wine in his glass before discarding it on the couch cushion beside him, then uses both hands to hold the omega’s head down and forcefully buck his hips down her throat. He stares at Joey as he does this, eyes never leaving Joey’s face until his hips seem to stutter and his dick releases its load. The omega gags so prettily, matted hair sticking to her sweatslicked skin. But once the man spills into her mouth, he yanks her by the hair off of his dick and commands her into a corner. On hands and knees, dripping cum in a trail on the floor as she goes, she crawls to a corner where she proceeds to insert a giant rubber phallus into her own mouth. Faces the wall, blank-eyed and silent.

The man stands up.

He’s nude, but that doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. And why would it? The dude is ripped, all lean muscles like an underwear model or something and an impressively long dick to match.

Joey gulps. His shoes squeak as he takes a hasty, unthinking step back as the man approaches.

“You want money?”

Joey feels like he’s walking into a trap, but – crap. What else is there to do? He didn’t come all this way for nothing. “Yea-huh, yes, sir, that’d be – that’s why I’m here. I give you intel and you give me, you know, money?”

The man’s smile is all teeth. He gets in Joey’s face, just a little, just enough to jumpstart Joey’s wildly beating heart and have him taking another step backwards. “This isn’t an action movie, man. You’re a delivery driver for Amazon. We’ve got your name and employee ID and people way higher up on the totem pole in that company than you. You think I can’t call up a friend right now and have every address you’ve ever delivered to in my inbox in five minutes? Is there stupid in the water where you live or something?”

Oh, fuck. Fucking hell. Dammit to all – Joey feels a little unsteady, a little shaky.

His swallow sounds loud in the room. “... oh.”

The man feeds a loose hand through his own hair. The motion of his hand raising has Joey flinching involuntarily, though, and it makes the man snort. “Yeah, ‘oh.’ You gonna get out of here now, dipshit, or are you planning to paint my walls red?”

Joey squeaks. Not his shoes, this time.

Somehow, this mess is all Morton’s fault.