Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jack starts the day today, like so many days for the last four years, rinsing half-dry blood out of his mouth in a gas station bathroom nearing noon  — one would think that by now he’d have learned not to get into fights before bed. 

But as he spits into the sink for the however-many-eth time, he can’t bring himself to care. 

That’s another thing, alongside the constant fights, that’s become commonplace in the last handful of years: apathy.  

He finds himself thinking about it while he shoulders his way through the back-alleys of this stupid fucking city that he’d been dragged to almost a decade ago. Though his relocation here had been mostly of his own free will, because he could have said no and stayed where he’d been, he’s grown to resent the decision. More trouble than it’s worth, this city. 

He knows these alleys the same way he knows the back of his own hands. There are no true surprises waiting for him here. Every miserable, damnable piece of work hiding back here knows him as well as he knows them. He’d be safe walking through this cesspit in full heat, so allowing his mind to wander as he makes his way is hardly an issue. 

An alpha or two might lift their head as he passes by them. But, of course, they know him as well as he knows them, and if they don’t his reputation precedes him through word of mouth by others. If they bother to look up, they look away just as quick. 

He can’t bring himself to care about that, either, even as he pokes his tongue against the still-stinging spot on the inside of his cheek that has, thankfully, long-since stopped bleeding. 

Giving his own apathy any thought is an exercise in futility, and wondering when, exactly it stopped bothering him is only more so. Yet, he thinks about it anyway... And often, at that. He recalls a time when he had been told on a not-infrequent basis that he lit up a room, and though the memory might have been fond, once, now it is only a bitter taste in the back of his mouth. 

Bitter or not, though, it does make him pause, metaphorically, for a moment. Though the apathy stopped bothering him quite some time ago, it can still be jarring, at times, to recall that it hadn’t always been his default. To recall that, once, while he hadn’t been the picture of a perfect, idealized omega, he’d certainly been a more approachable sort — the kind who would have sooner excused the disgusting behavior of back-alley alphas and went on his way without a fight through talking instead of through intimidation.   

He snorts, packing the thoughts away and continuing through the streets at an easy, meandering pace. He’s in no hurry, truly, as he has nowhere in particular that he needs to be — all he needs to worry about doing today is eating and drumming up temporary lodgings for tonight. Same as every other day for the last four years. 

It’s tedious, yes, and exhausting, to live this way. 

But it is, unfortunately, the safest and most reliable option currently available to him. 

He isn't paying attention to where he's going, because after all this time he doesn't need to in order to get where he needs to go. He doesn't look up from the sidewalk, merely thinking as he walks. He has nothing at all to worry about from not watching—the people on this side of town know him well enough to get out of his way when he starts walking towards them. 

And he knows well enough to know he only has to keep walking, and everyone with a brain will, invariably, clear the way. Anyone who does happen to bump into him, well... 

Right as he thinks it, he slams full-body into someone's back and finds the rest of the thought vacating his mind. 

"Fuckin' move," He spits, all venom, all annoyance, as he straightens himself out before he can stumble and moves to side-step them. 

"Maybe you ought to watch where you're going," Is the answer he receives from the, now that he's looking, unfairly muscular man he'd run into. 

He looks intimidating, and likely rightfully so, even if Jack can't make heads or tails of what his designation is right at the moment, and his eyes are cold as he turns his head to look down the two-inch height difference between them. He looks as if he’s examining a bug, staring down his nose at Jack like there’s anything that’ll save him if this turns into a fight. 

Jack hates it when people look at him like that. 

"Get stuffed," Jack replies to the comment, scowling at him and fully intent to continue on. 

Until the guy grabs his wrist, that is. 

“Mind your tongue.” The man says, low, so low, and Jack feels the tug of his instincts telling him to lower his head — he’s an alpha, then —, “A simple excuse me would suffice.” 

Rather than bowing his head and offering a genuinely contrite ‘pardon me,’ Jack does what he does best. 

He turns to face him, curls his lips over his teeth with a snarl, hauls off, and punches him right in his stupid, frowning mouth. 

He wrenches his arm out of his hand while he’s distracted and turns to leave, because he just got a new set of bruises on his knuckles and face last night and the last thing he needs is to add onto it. Most alphas are so completely shell-shocked and humiliated by getting decked in the mouth by an omega like him that they leave him be anyway, so he expects nothing will come of this. 

He should know better. 

He should really, really know better. 

He’s grabbed again, and before he can turn on his heel and punch the man again, the man is turning him himself, grabbing his other arm, and pinning them behind his back with a growl. Jack snarls back at him. 

Now, it bears mentioning that there is one emotion that has become normal in the last few years, where he has been otherwise ruled by his apathy. 

And that emotion is anger.  

He feels it now, boiling his blood low and slow, just barely simmering now — but it can, and will, get worse. He’s annoyed now, which is hardly dangerous, but he can get from there to furious very quickly if he needs to. There’s an itch under his skin and it makes the snarl rumble out rougher, lower, into a threatening growl. 

The alpha opens his mouth as if to say something — Jack braces himself to have to bite him right on his stupid face if he says something stupid. Luckily for the idiot alpha, however, he’s cut off before he can say anything by another voice. 

“Oh, Google, dear chap, do leave him be. You were blocking the whole of the sidewalk with the whole of your incredibly charming form, after all.” 

Jack doesn’t move his eyes from the man before him to see who’s speaking. He knows better than that. He keeps his eyes on the man in front of him, keeps his teeth bared, and continues to growl. 

The alpha, though, does turn his gaze off to the side. 

Poor choice. 

It’s only after their eyes are no longer locked that Jack processes the words and decides to hold off on strong-arming his own way out of Google’s clutches. Aside from wanting to snort at the use of ‘old chap’, he nearly barks a disbelieving laugh at the idea this man is going around calling himself ‘Google’. Like the fucking search engine. 

What a goddamned riot.  

“Wilford,” The alpha says, still low and annoyed, “He—” 

“Disrespected you by punching you, I know,” This ‘Wilford’ says, coming in to view at the alpha’s shoulder, and Jack struggles not to recoil at the amount of pink on him, “But you should have expected a good, old-fashioned haymaker from any omega you tried to use your Command on in this neck of the woods chap, really.” 

“Wow,” Jack finds himself saying, flat and unimpressed, “The pink crusader has more sense than you do. I’m impressed. You must be really stupid.” 

Wilford presses his lips into a thin line, but his shoulders jolt and his eyes strafe away like he’s trying not to laugh. 

Google, though, only scowls. 

“May, ah,” Wilford says, after a moment, and his lips are curling into a smile even as he visibly fights it — a fruitless endeavor, given that the smile has already made its way into his voice, “May want to let him go, now, chap, Dames will flay the skin from our very bones if we aren’t back soon.” 

Google growls, but he releases him and steps back. 

Jack rolls his shoulders, finally eyeing Wilford a little closer. He’s similar in build to Google, if a little bit taller. Holds himself with more confidence, too — back ramrod straight like a soldier, but somehow still seeming to be completely relaxed. 

Both of them are handsome, Jack will afford them that much, though between the two of them Wilford would definitely take the prize — he has a bright, easy-looking smile, and all the pink is… 

Disarming. 

Considering he’s dressed, presently, in a bubblegum pink cardigan over a pale pink button-up shirt with a hot pink tie holding his collar closed and a hot pink belt holding up his black pants, there isn’t much else it can be, except disarming. 

Even the shoelaces in his black dress shoes are pink. 

It's a good look on him, but it is so, so disarming and double-take inducing. 

He puts it out of his mind, nods to Wilford, and turns to leave… 

Then, he thinks better (or rather, worse) of it, spins on his heel, and punches Google in the mouth again. 

Wilford is positively cackling, shaking with the force of his laughter, when he grabs him around the waist before he can run off, trapping his arms at his sides, and lifts him off the ground. 

“Alright, alright,” Wilford says, as Google glares at him while clutching a hand to his now bloody mouth, “You’re quite a spirited one, aren’t you?” 

Held tight to the man’s chest and therefore without use of his arms, he wriggles with a low growl — he likes Wilford a good deal better than he likes Google, so far, but he isn’t going to tolerate being picked up just because Wilford has inconvenienced him less. 

“Put me the fuck down,” He hisses. 

“Do please hold still and be quiet.” Wilford replies, voice smooth and warm like whiskey, and Jack feels himself relax, closing his mouth. 

It only lasts a second before he fights it off, writhing and managing to headbutt Wilford right in the face, “Don’t fucking—” 

“Hush,” Wilford cuts him off, sounding unbothered, “Do hush.” 

It washes over him again, and he snarls before it can take effect. 

Wilford only clicks his tongue and begins walking. “Come along, chap, we really do need to be getting back to Damien.” 

He’s still holding Jack, and Jack writhes. “Put me the fuck down,” He hisses again, “Put me the fuck down now.”  

He could take Wilford in a fight if he had to, but he’s short on options for getting loose right at the moment. 

Unfortunately, his arms are strong, and no amount of the struggling he’s doing is dislodging him. 

Wilford actually drops him, though, at the words. 

He gets his feet under him and bolts.  

“Wilford!” Google gasps, angry and surprised. 

“Do catch him for me, chap,” Wilford says, sounding… Winded, and a little bewildered. 

If anything else is said, Jack doesn’t hear it. 

He hears the sound of footsteps gaining on him as he legs it for the end of the block. He skids around the corner, clearing a stack of boxes that lay on the sidewalk in an easy hop. It’s no different than jumping hurdles, and he was excellent in track as a teenager. 

He fumbles his way into the alleyway halfway down this side of the block, hearing what is probably Google knock the whole stack of boxes over behind him. 

Ah, fuck, he thinks, as he takes in the alleyway, east side of Eighth and Broadway.  

He stops and heaves a sigh before turning and dashing back out of the dead-end alley and straight into the street, crossing it in a handful of seconds that will, hopefully, be unmatched by his pursuer. 

He doesn’t actually know what Wilford wants him for, or who this ‘Damien’ he keeps mentioning is, but he can’t imagine it’s anything good, and he’s not eager to be in the presence of alphas who use their Command so casually anyway. 

He hardly likes alphas to begin with. 

Hell, to be honest, he hardly likes anybody.  

He takes off down the alleyway on the opposite side of the road — west side of Eighth and Broadway, alleyway runs the length of the next two blocks. If he’s quick enough, he can turn left on Broadway and Tenth and book it down to the docks without being caught. 

Not that, necessarily, he has that kind of energy available to burn. 

He’s panting already, but that isn’t enough to stop him. What might manage that task is that he’s starting to shake, and it’s occurring to him that he’s coming up on nearly twenty hours since the last time he ate anything. And his last meal had been a handful of jerky. 

Fuck, he thinks, emphatically, throwing his back against the wall of the building framing this side of the alley as he emerges onto Broadway and Ninth. He tries to catch his breath. Okay. 

Okay. 

Yeah, he’s fine. He’s got time. 

He sucks in a breath at the sound of approaching footsteps, wishes for a second they were closer to the city center where there’s an abundance of pedestrians for him to hide amongst, and pushes off the wall to leg it down Ninth Avenue. 

He slips between a group of college students who are probably here trying to bar-hop in one of the many sleazy places that’ll let them day-drink until they black out. He doesn’t bother to excuse himself, because there isn’t any point. Him darting past isn’t deserving of attention — people are like that on this side of town. 

Besides, they’re definitely more bothered by Google, if the thumping and indignant shouts are anything to go by. 

He throws a look, foolishly, over his shoulder, and sees Google gaining on him. 

He curses. 

He doesn’t have it in him to run any faster than he already is, and even if he could it’d only be for a few seconds. Not enough to gain a real advantage, or put enough distance between them that Google won’t see where he’s going. He needs to lead him into a messier part of the slums, somewhere it’s easier to get lost— 

The thought vanishes from his head as he turns back to look where he’s going just in time to see Wilford waiting for him at the end of the block… By which he means two feet in front of him. Because of course Wilford beat him there. 

He runs headlong into him, nearly bowling him over, but Wilford’s arms close around him again before he can make use of it. He snarls, squirming, trying to knee him, but Wilford must have some sort of experience with this sort of thing because he just holds him close enough that he can’t wind up enough for it to do anything. 

“Let me go,” He says, “Goddammit you fucking—” 

Google’s footsteps come to a stop behind him, and he hears a popping sound. He thinks he feels something hit his leg. 

“—you…” He tries again, “You fucking… I—” 

But he’s dizzy, all of a sudden. His mind spins, spins, then grinds to a stop. 

“Shh,” Wilford says, unruffled, “Just relax.” 

He can’t even bristle at the use of the Command. His body bows to the instinct to obey, and he goes limp in Wilford’s arms. 

It’s about the last thing he remembers. 

He comes to with a headache, sitting up in what he assumes is a chair that is soft, so soft, with his hands bound behind his back — somehow, it’s not uncomfortable. Not as uncomfortable as it could be, at least. 

He doesn’t feel sore, so he imagines he hasn’t been here long. 

“—wasn’t supposed to knock him out, Dames,” Says a voice, “Only calm him!” 

“It is not unlikely that he was rendered unconscious through a combination of you commanding him to relax and the sedative I injected him with as well as his own biology,” Says another, calm and measured — when someone makes a displeased sound, the voice continues, “He is clearly a vagrant. The chances that his body is too weak to dispel the sedative prior to unconsciousness even without the addition of an order to calm down are greater than eighty-eight percent.” A slight scoff, “I genuinely cannot believe you thought I meant his designation, Wilford,” 

“I’d not put it past you, old chap,” Wilford replies, because Jack remembers that voice now, and that would mean the other is Google, “Given your distaste for every living creature on this lovely planet.” 

There is a sigh, tight and annoyed. 

“Sorry, Dames.” 

“Apologies, sir.” 

“Why,” Drawls the one Jack assumes to be Damien, “Were you even bringing him here in the first place?” 

“Oh!” Wilford says, with a laugh, “He punched our dear computer tech in the mouth. Twice.” 

Computer tech, Jack thinks, that must be why he’s called Google.  

He cracks his eyes open a tad, just enough to get a look at his surroundings through his lashes. 

He’s seated across a desk from the man he assumes is Damien. He’s… Severe-looking, but just as attractive as the other two, perhaps more. He has deep, deep brown eyes, and he’s dressed sharply in a clean, pressed two piece suit. Black on black on black. His hands are folded on the desk, and his attention seems to be on Wilford and Google for the time being. 

Cool. 

He won’t get caught staring, then. 

“A homeless omega managed to punch you in the face twice?” Damien asks, face and voice void of any particular emotion, save a small bit of disbelief creeping in near the end. 

“It was beautiful,” Wilford sighs, sounding delighted. 

“He is more physically capable than his stature may lead you to believe. He…” Google trails, and Damien raises a brow at him, “With all due respect, sir, I believe he may punch harder than you do.” 

A snort from Damien, whose eyes flick back to him. 

“Real polite,” Jack finds himself sneering, “Talking about me like I can’t hear you.” 

Damien’s brows lift, and he seems more interested than annoyed or anything else. Jack just scowls at him, then turns his head to level the look at Google and Wilford — Damien is, as far as he can tell, the least of his worries, currently. He may be the boss, here, judging by Google calling him sir, but Google was physically capable enough to chase him down and Wilford had beaten him to the corner even though Jack had run as quickly as he could reasonably run. 

“I’m gonna gut you,” He says, meeting Wilford’s eyes, “You ever try to Command me again, I will kill you, you goddamn cotton candy effigy.” 

Wilford has the grace to look sheepish. 

He turns on Google, then. “And you. You should probably stick to computers, Ask Dot Com. Your interpersonal skills are non-existent. It’s pathetic.” 

Google returns his glare with just as much heat and does not, as expected, have the grace to look considering, let alone sheepish.  

Before he can reply, though he certainly opens his mouth to do so, Damien cuts both of them off. 

“As interesting as that is, Wil,” He says, as if they aren’t even there, “What else prompted you?” 

Curious, Jack turns his head to look at Wilford again. What else did prompt him? He’d already been bringing him here when he’d wriggled out of his grasp after punching Google, so what…? 

Ah. Well. Actually, he can think of a reason. 

He hopes he’s wrong. 

“Well, it was the strangest thing,” Wilford says, smiling — he does that most of the time, Jack is beginning to assume, “See, I’d picked him up to carry him back here and, would you believe it, he fought off my Voice and,” A laugh, “Ordered me to put him down! And wouldn’t you know it, Dames, the next thing I knew he was running.” 

God fucking dammit. Jack thinks, because he was worried that was the other reason. 

“Is that so?” Damien asks, turning his gaze on Jack just as Jack looks over at him. 

He has a sinking feeling about that, and he bristles under the look Damien is giving him now. The interest, the… Consideration that is most certainly not going to mean anything good for him. 

“Sure as the sun will rise,” Wilford assures Damien, though Jack barely hears him. “I hardly even remember letting go of him.” 

“I had assumed you simply decided to humor him.” Google says, now sounding just the slightest bit uneasy, “And torment me by having me chase him down.” 

“While not an unfair assumption, my fine ferocious friend, that is most assuredly not what happened.” Wilford says, not at all offended, “The little vagabond you got into a scrap with has—” 

“An incredibly rare ability.” Damien finishes for him, a little forcefully, “That we won’t discuss further at present. More pressing matters are at hand.” 

“You all talk like you’re trying so hard to be the main characters in a shitty mob movie.” Jack spits when Damien’s eyes are on him again, annoyed with still being spoken about like he isn’t there and wanting nothing more than to just go, go elsewhere, anywhere else than here, because anywhere else would be safer than around three sleazy alphas who knew maybe the biggest secret he had, “I mean, really, look at you. We’ve got bossman, comic relief, and emotionally constipated jackass who probably hacks the government for kicks. How fuckin’ original.”  

None of them seems particularly fazed by the outburst, although Damien does seem more annoyed now. He’ll take it as a victory, frankly. 

He sits up straighter in the chair he’s in, noticing as he does that his feet aren’t bound, and his wrists are bound in what seems to be rope — thin, but tightly woven. Given ten minutes, he can break out of it, and then he can make another break for it. 

… Maybe. 

He clenches, then unclenches his fists, staring Damien down because if nothing else his sass has brought the conversation to a halt for now. 

“Let me go.” He says, evenly, or as evenly as he can when he’s starting to feel his blood simmering again, edging quicker towards a boil this time. 

“Or what?” Damien asks in reply, equally even, lifting one brow. “What is it you’ll do if we don’t? You’re outnumbered, dearest.” 

Jack grinds his teeth. “Do not,” He hisses, “Call me dearest.” 

At this, Damien has the gall to smirk. “Or what?” He asks, again, and the annoyance seems to have fled in favor of amusement. 

Conversely, all of the tiny bit of amusement Jack had managed to humor for this interaction has fled in favor of annoyance. 

He takes a breath. 

“Let me go, now.”  

And for a second, just a second, Damien wavers. 

Then, he takes a deep breath in through his nose and says, “If you truly value your freedom so highly, dearest, you’ll not attempt that on me again.” 

He snarls at him in reply, hackles raised. 

His blood is definitely boiling now. 

“Let me go or I’ll kill you.” He says, this time. 

“You’re restrained,” Damien points out, unperturbed. 

“I don’t need my hands to tear your throat out.” Jack replies. 

“You’re still outnumbered.” 

He stands from the chair, slow, measured, “I’d rather die than be held captive.” 

“Truly?” Damien asks, seeming to consider that. Then, smooth like Wilford’s voice, smooth like whiskey , “Sit down, dearest.” 

The compulsion to obey is there, but he only snarls. 

The skin on the back of his neck prickles. 

“If you truly value your life so highly, dearest,” He spits back at him, glowering, “You’ll not attempt that on me again.” 

Damien regards him for a moment, once more seeming to consider his words. He leans forward, folding his arms on the desk and cocking his head. 

For the third time, he asks, smug, “Or what?” 

Jack is halfway across the desk, snapping his teeth at Damien’s unguarded neck, before Damien apparently has the presence of mind to flinch backward. But he flinches in time — Jack misses his throat by a hair. Someone grabs his bindings, tries to haul him back, but he’s no stranger to pain, so he fights it and digs his knees into the surface of the desk and snarls right in Damien’s slightly startled face. 

“Google,” Damien says, voice just a little shaken. 

The grip on his bindings releases. 

Jack remains where he is and growls low in his throat. 

“Go ahead,” Jack tells him, lowly, “Try to order me off the desk. I dare you.” 

Damien opens his mouth, and he says, “Down.” 

It isn’t a Command, and Jack does not get down. But he jolts forward, and Damien flinches back again, back hitting the backrest of his chair. Jack bares his teeth. 

But he can’t help a laugh. 

“Unlike you,” He says, shifting back, sitting up, glaring down at him, “I don’t make idle threats.” 

Once more, Damien regards him. 

Finally, after a long, tense silence, Damien sits forward again, meeting his eyes steadily. Though he seems to have learned to be wary of him, he’s clearly not afraid of him. Jack wonders if he has enough time to change that. Just won’t do to have some tightass alpha like this not scared shitless of him. 

“Tell me, dearest,” Damien says, calm once more, “Are you a transient, or have we been presumptuous?” 

“Just say homeless,” He sighs in return, settling a little but not getting down from the desk, “But yes, I am. Why?” 

Damien hums, “And you’re not currently employed, I would assume?” 

“Shouldn’t assume.” Jack comments, dryly, which earns a snicker from somewhere behind him, before saying, “But no, I’m not. Not a lot of places willing to hire homeless omegas, Dames.”  

Damien’s nose scrunches at that, just a little, and Jack can’t tell if it’s from him using the nickname or from the comment before it. He guesses it ultimately doesn’t matter, because either way, Damien moves past it quickly enough that he doesn’t bother trying to comment on it. 

“Are you interested in a job?” 

He squints. Shifts on the desk to sit cross-legged instead of kneeling, and cocks his head. “Are you offering?” He asks, slowly, suspiciously. 

“My organization is always in need of new talent.” Damien explains, smoothly, “I believe you would make a worthy addition to our team.” 

“Given a meal or two, I’m certain he could outrun and outfight most of our men,” Wilford comments, and Jack glances over his shoulder at him and is unsurprised to see he is, yet again, smiling. 

“Do I get to… Consider this offer?” He asks, turning back to Damien, lifting his brows, “Or are you expecting an immediate answer?” 

“You may take your time.” Damien says, “Now if you would kindly remove yourself from my desk…” 

Jack snorts. 

But Damien didn’t order him, and he does have something to consider, now, so he braces himself on his hands behind him, turns, and hops down. Wilford watches him with interest, and opens his mouth before seeming to decide better of it. He isn’t certain he wants to know what he was about to say. 

“Wilford,” Damien says, “Would you kindly untie our guest?” 

“Of course.” 

And Jack isn’t necessarily in the habit of biting the hand that feeds, so to speak, so he holds still and lets Wilford untie him. 

And he refrains, barely, from punching him in the mouth when his hands are free. 

“How long,” He asks, turning back to Damien while he rubs his wrists. They’re barely sore, but the movement is instinctual, “Do I get to consider this? And what the fuck exactly would this job entail?” 

“Take all the time you need, dearest.” Damien answers, then, “You certainly seem… Overly fond of confrontation, and conveniently, my organization has an opening for an… Enforcer.”  

An Enforcer. 

Somehow, the fact that Damien is one of the local mob leaders doesn’t surprise him, nor bother him — truly, he’d sort of started to expect it already given how little Damien had ultimately cared about him being brought here. 

He doesn’t linger on the thought for long. 

“You’d hire an omega as an Enforcer?” He asks, instead, because it’s a more pressing issue. 

World may have made leaps and bounds away from treating omegas like they were total shit, like they were beneath the other designations, but jobs like ‘Enforcer’ generally go to alphas and betas, because they’re ‘fundamentally stronger’. 

Which is utter horseshit, by the way — Jack has won more fights than he’s lost by pure brute force alone… And he’s been in plenty of fights. 

“My associates appear adequately convinced of your ability,” Is Damien’s answer, “That is all that matters to me.” 

Jack hums. Rubs his wrists again as he looks him over. 

“I’ll mull it over,” He says, finally. 

Damien nods. “Wilford, show him out.” 

Wilford places a hand on his back, grips him carefully by his elbow, and he heaves a sigh as he allows the alpha to coax him toward the door. He wants to bristle, to snarl, but ultimately Wilford has so far been the least annoying. He imagines that will change if he decides to take Damien’s offer — Wilford seems as if he’s probably a lot to deal with, after a while. 

Notably, once they’ve made it out of what he assumes is Damien’s office, Wilford releases him and allows him to simply walk along at his side as he winds through the hallways. 

Wilford only stops him once they’re at the front door, and only through a hand on his shoulder. 

“Say, chum, I don’t think I ever caught your name.” He says, as if he’s just now realized that. 

Jack gets the feeling, though, that he’d only been waiting until they were alone to ask. 

Somehow, he appreciates it. 

“Jack,” He says. 

“Jack,” Wilford repeats, then hums, “It suits you.” 

Jack turns to him, because he doesn’t seem like he’s ready to let him leave just yet. He prepares, mentally, to have to get into a fight with him. He can’t fathom the idea of them letting him leave this easily, though he had been hoping. Wilford’s hand on his shoulder says he was right to be suspicious. 

But Wilford only stares him down for a moment, then smiles, bright and warm, and releases his shoulder, instead reaching down to take his hand. He presses something into his palm, uses his other hand to close his fist before he can look. 

“I won’t keep you,” Wilford chirps, “Off you go, then.” 

Jack turns and walks out before Wilford can change his mind. 

He’s halfway down the block — and he recognizes this block, he knows exactly where he is, and he’d always been half-certain that the building he’d just left was mob related — before it occurs to him to check and see what Wilford gave him. 

A wad of cash, mostly small bills, wrapped around a business card. 

Ego Industries, it says, and it’s followed by an address and a phone number. 

Hm. He imagines he’s meant to call to give his answer when he’s had a chance to think it over, but he’s never been the type to just call when he can show up unannounced. After all, it’d be much, much funnier to stroll back in there like he belongs, wouldn’t it? 

Go big or go home, after all, and if he decides to take the job he certainly won’t be going home.  

Not that he has one, but the point stands. 

(He doesn’t have a phone, either, but that certainly wouldn’t stop him from finding a way to call if he really felt he needed to.) 

He tucks the business card into his pocket, then stops at the end of the block to count the money he’d been given. He’s not going to look gift cash in the mouth, after all. 

“Fucking Christ,” He says, out loud, breathless, when he finds he’s been given about two hundred in small bills. 

That’s enough for a couple of days' worth of meals, which means he can focus on finding places to sleep and jobs to do. 

He shoves the money into his pocket, too, and makes a beeline for the slightly better part of town so he can grab something to eat. He needs it — he’s shaking now that he’s not posturing and focusing too hard on not appearing weak to succumb to his own bodily needs. 

A meal will do him some good. 

And then, only after his hunger is sated, will he actually give the job offer any thought. No use considering it on an empty stomach, because he’s likely to just turn on his heel and go back right now. He refuses to appear too desperate for the work. The pay. He can survive without it, has for years, so he’s not planning to accept right out of the starting gates, if he accepts at all. 

And he’s not even sure he wants to accept. 

He shakes it off. 

No thinking about it until after he’s eaten. 

Chapter Text

After he’s eaten, he decides that there is absolutely no way in any culture’s hell that he will be taking that job offer.  

It would be completely stupid of him, he thinks, because not only does he not know anything about the gang he’s been offered a job working for, but he’s an omega, and even if he’s the kind of omega that most alphas don’t generally bother to mess with because he’s proven himself to be fiercer than any of them, that doesn’t mean that alphas that are in an actual mob won’t still try (and maybe succeed) to do something awful to him. He wasn’t raised to be stupid, so he has no intention of acting stupid.  

He appreciates Wilford’s apparent generosity and Damien’s apparent lack of judgment against omegas, truly he does, but he’s not walking into that trap.  

No thank you.  

Again, he wasn’t raised to be stupid.  

He keeps the business card in his pocket just in case he ever needs it, but he considers the matter closed, aside from that.  

Maybe if he gets into a spot of trouble sometime, he’ll call and then take the job in exchange for Damien helping him. That sounds like a solid plan, if it comes to that. But in the meantime, he will do as he’s done for the last several years — work, sleep, and eat whenever and wherever he can.  

Yep.  

The matter is definitely, inexorably, closed.  

Two months later, he’s on the ground with some stupid alpha, grinding the idiot’s face into the pavement with a snarl, when he hears a familiar voice.  

“In a spot of trouble there, chap?”  

“Nope,” He snorts in reply, giving one final, solid punch to the stupid alpha’s face, “I got it covered, Wil.”  

“If you’re sure,” Wilford says, gracefully.  

When he rises and turns, Wilford is behind them, peacefully waiting with his hands folded behind his back and a serene smile on his face. Jack wonders what kind of person he must be to watch that scene with a smile . He supposes it doesn’t really matter, though, does it?  

“What brings you to this neck of the woods?” He finds himself asking, sending a final glare down at the alpha, who is smart enough to stay where he is when Jack steps away, “Business for Damien?”  

“Indeed,” Is Wilford’s cheery answer, “Though I suppose I could ask you the same, could I not, Jack?”  

He snorts, “I live in this neck of the woods, Wil.”  

“True, true.” The man chuckles, “Might I walk you to your current lodgings, then, chap?”  

He wonders what kind of ulterior motive Wilford might have, but ultimately he can only snort again and say, “Yeah, sure.”  

Wilford offers his arm, like Jack’s some kinda fucking noble lady in a period drama and he’s some kinda gentleman, and Jack rolls his eyes. But he sees no reason not to accept, even if it’s just because walking arm in arm with an alpha will make his day even easier, so he takes Wilford’s arm and endeavors not to laugh when Wilford leads him out of the dirty back alley.  

This guy is completely ridiculous.  

Today’s outfit is a comfortable-looking bubblegum pink knit sweater and pale pink dress pants, which only reinforces that particular assessment.  

They make it halfway down the block in relative silence before Wilford sighs and says, “So, Jack, have you given our offer any thought?”  

He sighs in turn, rolling his eyes and glaring off into the distance. “Oh, I’ve given it some fuckin’ thought.”  

Wilford’s response is, mostly, to lift his free hand in surrender.  

The rest of the block passes, and they cross the street to the next one. Jack has no real intention of leading Wilford to where he’s staying, presently, but he has plenty of places he’s stayed before that he can lead him to, no problem. He’ll take him to the one in the alley on Fourth and Broadway, since they’re on Broadway Avenue anyway.  

“I take it,” Wilford says, as they hit the corner of the next block, “That you’re opposed to the idea?”  

He huffs, but truthfully he doesn’t mind Wilford enough to bother getting bitey with him over this. He’s probably just asking because Damien told him to. That’s not his fault.  

“Not opposed, I guess,” He grumbles, “Just don’t like the idea of crawlin’ back to your mob boss and signin’ my life away just ‘cuz I don’t own a house.”  

Wilford hums, nodding along as if that makes perfect sense to him. And maybe it does – he may very well truly understand why Jack isn’t eager to take up the offer.  

There is another silence.  

“You could, of course, upon agreeing, always just quit later if you don’t like it.” Wilford tells him, “It’s just like any other job.”  

“Except that you apparently don’t require my license, social, phone number, or home address.” Jack snorts in response.  

Wilford snorts right back, “Of course not. You’d be getting a work phone and free relocation, anyhow.”  

That does give Jack some pause. Free housing? Free phone?  

Hm.  

He might have to reconsider his stance. A safe place to sleep and a way to get in contact with people if he needs to are two of the only things he thinks he might be able to be bribed with. He’s been out of contact with everyone he knows since he ended up on the street, and he’s slept in some pretty awful places just trying to stay alive.  

“Mm,” He hums, “That Dames a’yours drives a hard bargain.”  

“Indeed he does,” Snickers Wilford, “But he knows I’m the more convincing of the two of us.”  

“So that’s why you’re here. To try and win me over.”  

The man doesn’t bother denying it, merely giving him a winning smile that crinkles his eyes at the edges.  

Jack snorts, and he considers it over again.  

Sure, he wasn’t raised to be stupid, and there’s always a chance that free room and board and a free work phone are just lies he’s being fed, but can he really afford to take the chance? Is it worth it to say no just because he’s worried how it will turn out?  

He isn’t sure.  

He frowns, leaning into Wilford’s arm a little as he directs them down the alley, now that they’ve reached it.  

“Well, you tell Dames he can send you back to ask again.” He says, as he lets go and settles himself in front of the little alcove he usually hides in when he’s hiding out here, leaning against the wall, “I haven’t decided yet.”  

Wilford gives a graceful, if slightly sarcastic, half-bow, and says, “Alright, how long should I tell him to wait before sending me?”  

“I’ll leave that to your discretion,” He snorts, “Maybe he’ll send you to find me every day until I come see him to punch him in the dick for it.”  

The alpha laughs, loud and, apparently, genuinely amused. He says, “Right, then. We’ll see each other again soon, I imagine.”  

Jack lets himself smile, a little. It certainly won’t hurt him to interact with someone on a semi-regular basis, for a while. He can stand to be friendly.  

He used to be really good at being friendly.  

That was a long time ago, now, though.  

He's not very nice at all, these days, let alone friendly .  

“Yeah,” He says, “See you again soon, Wilford.”  

Wilford leaves, just like that, and Jack thinks, just for a second, that he and Wilford could have been friends, if they’d met about four years ago. They’d really have gotten along swimmingly.  

Even more briefly, he thinks about Damien, and he thinks he probably would have tried to climb that man like a tree back then.  

He snorts at the thought.  

The very idea of being horny for anyone, and especially a sleazy mob alpha, is hilarious now. Truthfully, he hasn’t given any genuine consideration to sex outside of a heat in almost half a decade. And for the first one, even for a second, to be Damien? Ha.  

Well, he won’t deny that the Jack of four years ago would have made a move, if given the chance. He just wouldn’t even seriously consider it now. He knows better than that.  

After all, he thinks, look what happened back then.  

Scowling to himself, good mood gone in an instant, he pushes off the wall and leaves the alley.  

He watches Wilford walking away in one direction, for a second, and then fucks right off in the opposite direction.  

Wilford tracks him down again a week later, and again the week after that, and the week after that.  

After the second week, Wilford starts insisting on taking him to lunch before bothering him about his decision. And Jack’s certainly not gonna turn down a weekly free meal, so Tuesdays become Lunch Date With Wilford Day.  

He keeps telling him, “Ask me again next week,”  

And Wilford keeps on coming back.  

And six months after their first meeting, four months into their weekly lunch date arrangement, Jack stretches in his chair, levels Wilford with a considering look, and decides it’s high time to ask him something. that’s been eating at him for four months.  

“Your boss is awful set on me givin’ him an answer,” He says, casually, “What’s up with that?”  

Wilford hums, lips quirking up, and replies, “Well, chap, truth be told, we’re a bit desperate for an enforcer of your caliber.”  

“Surely you’ve got other options besides me,” He scoffs, in turn.  

“Undoubtedly,” The alpha chuckles, “But Dames was quite taken with you, I must say, so I’m afraid that, until you give him a ‘no’, he’ll just keep sending me to heckle you.” And when Jack squints, at that, he laughs again and says, “He was impress by your... Audacity, shall we say. He’s convinced our organization could greatly benefit from your presence.”  

He hums.  

Frowns at him.  

He can’t deny he’d probably make a wonderful enforcer – he's mean as shit, he’s tougher than the average omega, and he’s decent enough at following orders. It would be good, as far as employment went. Couldn't even really get into trouble for being an asshole, since enforcers were, by and large, supposed to be assholes.  

“So, what?” He asks, crossing his arms, “He’d have offered the job to any ol’ omega who wandered into his office and threatened t’kill him? My, don’t I feel special.”  

A little laugh, once more, but then Wilford is leaning forward, steepling his fingers in front of his face, and he looks more serious than Jack has ever seen him. Not that the bar’s high, exactly, but his mouth his set into a neutral line and his brows are slightly furrowed and, just. Wow, that’s different.  

He isn’t sure he likes it.  

“I’ll level with you, Jack,” Wilford says, voice steady and calm, lower than usual, “Damien wouldn’t have offered that job to anyone else. You are special, because this position has been open for two and a half years, and you are one of only two people to receive the offer, and the only one Dames has pursued at all for it.”  

He swallows, mouth dry all of a sudden.  

“But,” Wilford continues, sitting back again, face cracking back into that usual lazy smile and slightly lifted brow look, voice jumping up an octave, “You know, it’s up to you!”  

“Yeah," He agrees, a little hoarse.  

He’s not sure why it means so much to him that Damien has his heart set on him taking the job.  

Maybe it’s just that it feels good to be wanted.  

“Speaking of,” Wil continues, “I don’t suppose your answer has changed?”  

He forces a smile, but it’s familiar enough by now that he hardly has to force it after the first second or so.  

“Ask me again next week,” He says.  

And Wilford grins, and he says, “Will do, chap. Same time?”  

“Yeah,” He says, “Same time.”