Chapter Text
The thing is, Wade is a reasonable man.
In the right situations.
Sure, he’s pretty zany-face-emoji and gun-emoji and people who know him have a tendency to flinch if they’re not absotively posilutely sure he’s not about to turn it on them. He might be a little cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. In the fun way. And the not-so-fun way.
“I think it’s a pretty sweet deal, Mr. Wilson.”
He also really is cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. In the litch-er-al sense. As in, loooves the cereal. Like, considers it a reasonable reaction to point a gun at someone for taking a bowl while his stash is low kind of cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. He may or may not have actually shot someone for it. Closer to may. Or closer to may not? Who can remember these things, really?
“Anyone would tell you to take it, I can guarantee you that.”
But that, guys, gals, and all other pals, is why he now keeps an unreasonably large stash of Cocoa Puffs in his house. A+++ problem solving! So when someone does steal a bowl of his cereal, he doesn’t have to waste money hiring someone to clean up blood puddles. Bluddles. Blooddles? Bloouddles? How many D’s does Wade use if none of them are his?
What was he talking about?
Right!
Wade is a reasonable man. Sort of. In the right situation. If he’s ✨ feeling it ✨. He’s not usually feeling it. But you don’t get to be Alpha of the capital-f Family by skipping around and drawing blood baths willy-nilly.
So! Wade can be reasonable!
Wade is not feeling reasonable right now.
“Listen, Brock,” he says, rolling out a shoulder. “Brocko. Brocky. Brockoli. Brock cock. Brockzilla. Walk me through this. I’m a li’l slow sometimes, see? And sometimes, see, sometimes, I get the feeling people are tryna, I dunno, walk all over me.” He takes a swig of the whiskey Brock offered him when he arrived, apparently thinking it would keep him in a merciful mood. And maybe it would have, if he hadn't tried to serve it neat. Man, Nazis could not be trusted with anything.
Watching Brock scramble to find ice cubes had been fucking hilarious, at least.
Wade swirls the drink, listening to the clink of the ice cubes against the glass. It’s a better sound than whatever bullshit excuse is spewing out of Brock's mouth.
“You owe me half a mil, Brock ’n roll,” Wade cuts him off. “You tryna walk all over me?”
Brock had looked damn confident at first. He’d brought in a little waif of an omega once everyone had their drinks, unable to keep the cockiness off his face. Like he was certain Wade wouldn’t be able to resist the thing. And sure, Wade likes doe-eyed twinks who could literally climb him like a tree — boy oh boy, is his type a not-at-all-kept secret. Not that he has a type, but he has a favorite. And sure, the little omega fits that bill to a T and pretty much every other letter in the alphabet.
(All the letters, in fact, except P and U because the omega reeked of fear.)
But come on. It’s disrespectful, is what it is. And based on the way he looks about one percent as confident as he had a minute ago, Brock knows it.
“’Course not,” he grunts—ew, cavemen; Wade may not have a strict type but it is not Nazis who speak in prehistoric grumbling—squeezing at the omega’s shoulder. The omega flinches, and Wade doesn’t miss it. “Look, I don’t have it. But I got him. And if you give me your word to not come back, he’s all yours.”
Wade snorts. Is he serious? “Are you serious?”
Brock looks serious. What a baboon. Maybe Wade’ll have to give him a red ass to match.
“Alrighty, Brockaroni.” Not his best one. Too distracted by ass, and not even a good one. “Walk me through why you think I want him instead of five hundred thou. In fact, walk me through why I shouldn’t double it as a tax for even trying something like this. You tryna imply I can’t pick up omegas myself? That I gotta buy one?” Sure, they aren’t exactly banging down his door, what with the visible scarring and all, but hey, he’s an equal opportunist. His anaconda don’t not want none because ya lack buns, hon.
Wait. Too many negatives. And the OG started with a double negative too. Now Wade’s confused all over again.
What he means is, he gets to be turned down by any gender or designation, thank you very much. And he gets turned down less than you’d think. He is head of his Family, after all. Doesn’t matter if they think he’s ugly, because that power? Overrides just about anything, for the right people. (Or the wrong ones.)
Too bad for little Brac ’n cheese (much better!), he doesn’t seem to realize that.
Or that Wade doesn’t deal in human trafficking. Too much trouble. Too messy, too much paperwork.
Too much crying. And don’t even get him started on the other bodily fluids. He’s into wetwork, not gooey business.
“Mr. Wilson,” Brock tries, straightening up to his full height in an obvious attempt to regain some control. “Trust me, he’s worth it. Or at least…part of it and some time. He’s young, he’s pretty, he’s broken in, and…” Now Brock grins confidently again, like whatever his final pitch is is just that good. “He’s a virgin.”
Wade has to physically stop himself from bursting out laughing.
Virgin. Really? Yeesh, what is it with these kinds of douchebags and virginity? Even new cars get a test drive. Flowers get pre-sniffed. Wade gets all his books from the library and all his clothes secondhand. Okay, he doesn’t do that. But Wade is a garage sale fiend, if you get his drift.
His drift being, who wants a virgin?
Slowly and purposefully, Wade relaxes his fingers until the glass slips from them, shattering on the ground forcefully enough to send shards of glass, ice, and whiskey halfway across the room.
“Whoopsie daisy,” he sings. And, oh, he is so enjoying the growing fear on the bitch’s face.
Still slow, still purposeful, Wade steps forward until he’s right in front of the omega, pointedly paying Brock no mind. Wade towers over him — not purposefully, but factually. The little waif is slighter than even an average omega, and Wade is bigger than the average alpha, at 6-foot-3 and bulging.
(With muscles, not in his pants.)
(Well, not in his pants right now.)
(In general, he is bulging in his pants too.)
(Wade is proud of his dick, is what he’s saying.)
(What was he saying again?)
(Oh, yeah!)
Wade pushes the boy’s chin up with his hand, eyes roving over him as if inspecting the cargo. Which he is. Just not for cargo. Wade doesn’t do that shit. What he does do is look over this boy—who could be anywhere from 15 to a baby-faced 20, if Wade’s being generous—with an assessing gaze.
(Sometimes Wade feels like an entirely different person from moment to moment. Wasn’t it only a few minutes ago he was going on about Cocoa Puffs? Who is this calm, threatening motherfucker? It’s hot as hell, Wade would so fuck himself right now if there were two of him. Giddyup, me, we’re goin’ for a ride!)
The thing that really catches his eye is the smattering of injuries on his skin. There’s not too much exposed, but it’s there. A mostly-faded circle of finger marks around his neck. Bruising on his wrists. A cut on his cheekbone, centimeters from blinding him.
“What’s your name?”
The boy’s eyes widen at the question, scent turning almost imperceptibly more frightened, and Wade has the terrible, fleeting thought that maybe Brock didn’t let him have a name. Maybe he’s just Omega. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen it, consensually or not. But after a moment’s hesitation, he says, “P-Peter.”
Good. He’s got that much, at least.
“Nice to meet you, Peter. I’m Wade. Do you know what’s happening right now? You know your alpha’s offering me you to get out of paying back the cash he owes me?”
Peter hesitates again before he gives one slow nod.
“Do you like your alpha?”
More hesitation. Gosh oh golly, Wade would not have the patience for this if he wasn’t so set on sticking it to the bitch next to them, and not in the fun way. Well. Not fun for both of them. Wade always enjoys sticking it to assholes.
(Hehe. Pun intended.)
“Come on, Petey Pie, you can tell me. I’m super duper trustworthy.”
Hesitation, hesitation, hesitation… Aha! Shaking his head. Perfect.
“Okey-dokey!” Wade chirps, letting go of Peter’s chin. He steps back a few feet before turning on Brock (oh yeah, he got tired of the nicknames a while back, oops), gun already pointed, safety off. Oof, that fear on his face is delicious. Wade’s gonna touch himself tonight. “So! Rumlow. My dear transactor. I should put a bullet in your head for this and set your little bird free.”
“Mr. Wilson—”
Bang!
“Aaaaand bye-bye, Nazi. If only it was always this easy. You know, I may be a drug-peddling murderer, but at least I have standards.”
He puts the safety back on and re-holsters the gun.
Bullet in his head: check.
He turns back to the omega, who’s staring at the bloody mess under shit-for-brains’ dead head with impossibly wide eyes. His hands are shaking and his breath comes too fast, and shit fuck shitballs. He forgot this thing’s probably more sheltered than a valley girl’s chihuahua. Probably never seen a dead body before.
God, he’s lucky he’s cute. Wade surrounds himself with hardened strays for a reason.
Okay, fine, the reason is mostly because that’s the only people who can do the job and stand to be around him. But he’s used to hardened motherfuckers. How’s he supposed to remember to act appropriately around fucking Bambi?
This is all Brock’s fault.
Wade repeats: Ugh. Nazis.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, trying to soften his voice. “Peter. Peter, look at me.”
He does, surprisingly. Good start.
“I’m not gonna hurt you, okay? I promise, I only hurt people who try to fuck me over. So unless you’re planning on trying to grab something sharp and then attempting to stab me with it, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
To be honest, little Petey wouldn’t have to worry even if he did get his hands on something sharp. Mostly because Wade wouldn’t be, either.
It takes a bit to get an acknowledgment, but this time it looks less like he’s hesitating and more like he’s thinking. Still terrified, but…weighing his options. Maybe he’s considering the stabbing option now. It would be dumb, and he would fail miserably, but Wade’s a little impressed that he’s even thinking about it.
Maybe thinking about it. Wade’s not a mind reader, although it is fun to pretend to be sometimes. He likes the costumes, okay?
Bambi nods. Slow and wary, like he doesn’t quite believe Wade, but also doesn’t really see any other options. Which is pretty accurate. Poor thing. He doesn’t belong in any of this mess. Ah, well. Can’t take anything back now. Not like it’s Wade’s fault Brock is a shit stain. Well. Blood stain now. That part kind of is his fault. Anyway, Wade might be his own kind of asshole too but, hey, he’s got some standards. Like not using an abused omega as a bargaining chip. Wade may be a monster, but he’s not a monster.
“Good! Good good good, grrrrrrreat!” He claps his hands together once, feeling a bit bad when the omega flinches at the action. Right. Oops. Little thing’s more sensitive than a clap light.
Suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands that won’t frighten the tiny thing even more, Wade flaps them about uselessly a couple times before shoving them in his pockets, rocking back on his heels in an obvious attempt to seem more casual and less terrifying. It’s the best he can do, okay? “Alrighty, Bambi, we’ve got a couple options for you here. I’m not super duper keen on nerfing an honest-to-God innocent victim in all of this for no reason. The world needs cute little does like you out there. So! You can walk out of here, pretend none of this happened, have a life. How old are you?”
Peter, for what it’s worth, seems to be desperately trying to follow the thread of conversation. Wade’s not sure how well he’s succeeding, but he catches enough to answer, so it’s good enough for him. “S-seventeen?”
Wade inhales through his teeth before letting it out in a puff of breath. Shit. He’s total trafficking fodder. Still would be at eighteen, with that face, but at least he wouldn’t be a homeless minor.
“What? Why are you making that face?” Peter asks, and Wade doesn’t think he’s imagining the way the trembling in his voice only grows.
Hm. Hmm. Hmmm. How to do this. How. To. Do. This. Delicate thing. Precious little omega. He probably can’t just tell him the truth. But he kinda sorta definitely has to. Ah, niblets.
“Well, my little sour patch kid, here’s the thing. If you go out there, you’re what they call a homeless youth. Unless you have somewhere to go?”
Peter slowly shakes his head.
“Right. A homeless youth.. Not only are you at all the normal risks of being on the streets, you’ve also got no rights. Not that you’d have ’em anyway, but you can’t even do the shit homeless non-minors can. You’ll be all on your own with none of the benefits—like, buying alcohol , if you scrape the money together—and all the risk. Assault, maybe. Human trafficking if you’re real unlucky. And considering where you are now, it feels safe to say you’re not that lucky.”
Wade’s eyes catch on fingers turning red-and-white with their grip on skinny arms. He’s terrified. Good. The world is awful and terrifying and being scared or even scarier is the only way to survive it.
Still. Wade hates to see it. Damn his big ol’ heart, right?
He takes careful steps toward Peter, who hunches in on himself a little further the closer Wade gets, until he can wrap his own hands—gigantic in comparison, dear Lord almighty, thank you for this blessing, amen—around Peter’s arms, one lifting to tilt his chin up. “How about, instead of all that… You come home with me, hmm? Nice, warm bed, all the food you could want, and, best of all, no Nazis.”
On what looks like instinct, Peter tries to yank himself out of Wade’s grip. Wade lets him, arms dropping to his sides again as Peter stumbles backwards, eyes wide.
“Is this some trick to get me in bed with you!?” he cries, startling when his back hits the wall. “Trying to make me an easy target!? Just because I’m an omega doesn’t mean I’m helpless!”
Wade’s sure he’s trying to sound strong and firm, but it’s cute. How much he’s trying, that is. And instead sounding like a panicked bird, desperately chirping at a predator he knows is about to eat him up. Wade resists the urge to smile at the scene. Wait, no, he’s definitely smirking. Yeah. Much better.
“Aw, Bambi. I don’t need to make you an easy target,” he coos, taking half as many strides—languid, slow, like he’s in no rush—to get to where Peter is as the boy himself had. He rests his arm against the wall above Peter’s head, effectively caging him in. “You already are one.”
Wade gives that a moment to that sink in, not quite basking in the tense form below him, but certainly not looking innocently. Then, he pushes off the wall, falling back a step and shrugging as Peter visibly works to stay standing. God, he’s cute when he’s stumbling.
Wade is a bad, bad man.
“Like I said, I’m not going to hurt you. I am owed money, though, and while I don’t believe in passing debts on to remaining family members, I wouldn’t be averse to letting you putter about my house in exchange for safety.”
There’s a long, boring minute before he says anything, chest heaving with uneven breathing. “…What would I have to do?”
Wade shrugs, large and exaggerated. “Whatever your sweet little heart desires.”
Peter looks disbelieving, which is fair enough. Wade sighs.
“I’m surrounded by career criminals. It’ll be nice to have something cute sitting around to look at.” Someone to scent at the end of the day. Something like lilac instead of gunpowder. “I just want something sweet in my life, you know? And you need a place to go. Seems kind of win-win to me, if you think about it.”
Peter seems unsure. Still fair. Wade’s impatient, though. Right? That’s totally one of his fatal flaws or something. Check his character bio. Anywho.
“How about I promise that if you decide it’s not working out for you, you can walk out of my place at any time. Just tell me you’re leaving so I know you haven’t been kidnapped or something even more Dramatique™️ and it’s all gucci.”
Peter pales further, somehow. Damn, Wade sucks at this. “Kidnapping? That can happen?” he croaks.
Wade shrugs. “I’m the don, baby boy. Everything is a possibility. But I won’t let it happen. And if you want to leave on your own, I’ll let you. Pinkie promise!” He juts his arm out, enticingly wiggling his pinkie finger with a wide grin. Peter, of course, looks very thrown by the childish gesture. So thrown he leaves Wade hanging. So rude! You don’t leave a man’s pinkie hanging out like that! Peter’s lucky he’s so cute. And when he does wrap his itsy bitsy finger around Wade’s own, Wade pumps his fist in the air. As one does.
“Perfect! You’re going to love your new home, Bambi, I can feel it!”
It’s a good thing Wade is watching him so carefully. He catches the boy just as his legs finally give out underneath him, lifting him into a bridal carry with ease. “Aww, shhh. You can rest now. You’ll wake up in a nice, big, warm bed. That sound good?”
Peter doesn’t answer, just hides his face in Wade’s chest, arms curled around his neck for balance. That’s okay. Wade’s just fine chattering alone if he has to.
“Wade, I don’t think this is a good idea,” Nate says as he starts to make his way outside and to the car.
“Aww, Natey-poo, don’t you fret! This’ll be good for us. Whose mood isn’t gonna be boosted with something this cute and sweet-smelling wandering around, hmm?”
What was Wade’s checklist again? Oh, yeah!
Bullet in Brock’s head: check.
Setting the little bird free…
It’s a work in progress.