Chapter Text
8. so close to out
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Wade Winston Wilson is a goddamn fucking idiot.
Of course the one time he manages to Maximum Effort himself into disobedience to make an actual choice about his future, of course it ends up being both wildly unnecessary and wholly counterproductive to Wade’s end goal. The potential buyer is Peter. Of everyone in the known universe Wade least wants to see him trussed up and punished for being bad, wrong, a fucking waste of space, it’s Peter. Wade only ever wants to give Peter the best version of himself. Which isn’t saying much, since there isn’t much good about him to begin with, but. Fuck.
If he’d known Peter were coming, he’d have leaned into the blast of cold water washing away the dirt and cum and pus and shit. He’d have dressed up in those wrinkled dress slacks, would have smoothed out the crinkles and stood tall. No, shit, he’d have bowed low and prostrated himself. He’d have been the best boy.
Wade’s going to laugh his ass off about this one day.
(One day very, very far away from today.)
Or cry about it.
Probably both.
Yes, definitely both.
He can’t imagine why Peter still agrees to this, still goes through with it after seeing Wade in the stocks. He can’t imagine what Peter sees in him at all, come to think of it. Or maybe it’s best that Wade never, ever think of it. If he thinks too hard about what Peter just saw, or about what he sees every time he has to look at Wade’s fugly skin or the collar or the muzzle or any of it, that whole trust thing he’s trying to lean into flies straight out the window, so. He’s going to shut his brain off because that’s the only way he’ll be hobbling out of this building anytime soon.
Peter tells him to lean on him.
Wade squeezes his arm around Peter's shoulders and feels so pathetically grateful he might cry.
He feels ridiculous, waddling along with the chains between his ankles.
Peter matches his pace, though.
And then they’re in the same room as the lady that runs this place. She must be frightened, because there aren’t usually this many handlers stationed around her. Wade isn’t proud of the way his heart thunders at the sight of them all, the pathetic fear that has him sucking in air through the gag. His brain can’t help but remember the damage this many handlers could do, would do, have done. They’re like rabid starving wolves cornering a lone rabbit when they gather together like this.
Wade’s the quaking puny rabbit in this imagined scenario, in case it isn’t obvious.
Peter’s arm is solid and steady around his waist, though.
“Please, sit,” the lady tells Peter, gesturing at the chair across from her. “Marley can take 4962 and get him decent while we –”
Handler guy is already stepping forward to grab for Wade, who can’t control his flinch at the motion, can’t stop himself from curling his arm tighter around Peter’s shoulders or hunching into the smaller vamp, his whole body trembling. He wants to be good, but he’s pretty sure they’re going to have to physically pry him off of Peter if they plan on taking him anywhere that isn’t right here. Zap him some to get him away from Peter. Or, or Peter will have to tell him to let go himself. Wade’s sure he’d do it, then. He wouldn’t want to, but –
But Peter pulls Wade out of Handler guy’s reach. “No thanks,” Peter says, in a tone that leaves zero room for debate. Relief hits Wade hard. If Peter weren’t holding him upright, he’d have dropped at the weight of it. He tries to focus on his breathing, on letting Peter handle this. It’s clear that that’s exactly what’s happening here. Peter’s handling this. He’s – he’s getting Wade out. There’s another guy in the room standing beside the table with one of those blind people canes folded in one hand, his perfectly chiseled, handsome face passive behind a pair of round red sunglasses.
Peter addresses him. “Can you sign the rest? We did that whole power of attorney thing –”
His voice sounds as desperate as Wade feels.
Careful, covert, Wade twitches his arm, lets it press a quick squeeze to Peter’s shoulders.
It’s okay, he wants to tell him. Aches to tell him.
Wade’s not worth Peter’s stress.
“I’ll handle it,” Sunglasses guy is quick to reassure, in a voice that’s both placid and strangely reassuring, even to Wade, who literally can’t stand strangers. But it’s obvious that this dude is team Peter, because Wade’s too close to Peter right now to miss the way the words settle him, have him breathing out a soft, relieved exhale.
“I need the keys to these shackles,” Peter tells the nearest handler, firm in a way that makes Wade shiver all over, in the good way this time. It’s probably pathetic that Wade instantly hopes that Peter plans to order him around in that tone of voice, preferably when they’re alone and well away from this fucking hellhouse. Would Peter think he’s disgusting, the way that he wants ? His knees feel swollen and bruised from when he landed on them earlier, but it hardly matters. He wants to go to his knees for Peter right here right now, probably would have if Peter weren’t holding him so steady, if all of his considerable weight weren’t currently pressed up close to the vamp’s cooler body temperature. When Peter talks no-nonsense, it goes straight to Wade’s hindbrain, straight to the thing that’s always been broken inside him.
Peter has no idea what he’s getting himself into, taking Wade home.
Making Wade want.
Peter keeps talking, and it keeps doing things for Wade. “And someone needs to bring out all of his things. Clothes, especially. Unless you want us flashing all your neighbors, you better bring it out fast. We’re waiting on the porch.”
The lady tries to speak up, but Peter’s already moving them toward the entryway, away from the throng of handlers, and Peter’s blind friend – lawyer guy friend? – steps up to the plate and takes over from there. Stepping out of that room and out of eyesight of all those hostiles makes Wade feel weak-limbed all over again. And when they step out onto the stoop of the quaint little row home, Wade almost feels like he can breathe. The chains catch when he tries to take too big a shuffle and almost takes them both down the steps, but Peter’s definitely stronger than he looks because he barely stumbles as he steadies them, a supporting hand on Wade’s chest. His fugly skin feels tenderized at every point of contact between them, Peter’s skin soft and cool to the touch and lovely.
As soon as they manage to plop down on the bottom step with their feet pressing solidly onto the sidewalk that’s going to take Wade the hell away from this awful place, Wade leans his head on Peter’s shoulder and burrows his face into the crook of the man’s neck, breathing hard with his eyes screwed shut. He’s still shaking all over. His chin and neck feel wet from his drool, but Peter somehow doesn’t seem to care that being so close to a homicidal felon is transferring slobber all over his shirt. Wade couldn’t be any closer if he tried, fucked-up skin and all. And he does try, is trying, wants to burrow inside Pete’s skin and hide there forever. He feels too wrung out and split open to worry about how gross he must be to the other man, too vulnerable to care about how bad he looks. Peter’s holding Wade’s weight without complaint, holding back, so surely Wade can’t be screwing things up too badly by clinging like a scared kid.
“Fuck, Wade, that was horrible,” Peter says into the wind, arm squeezed around the small of Wade’s back. His voice is small and wrung dry, harried. Wade lets his voice wash over him, lets that low whisper warm him from the outside in, Peter’s face pressed against the back of Wade’s sweat damp scalp. “I’m sorry it took this long. I’m sorry it’s still taking so long. Who knew buying a person would take so much paperwork?”
Wade grunts out a huff of agreement.
They’re quiet, together on the stoop, as cars pass on the street carrying people this way and that. Wade’s glad he can keep his eyes shut and block out the rest of the world, block out how people taking their dogs for walks or scootering to the nearby corner store must be looking at him as they pass. He knows exactly what they’re seeing, the eyeful they’re getting. It’s obscene. He’s obscene. Boss lady must truly not care about scarring her neighbors, since she’s taking her sweet time bringing clothes out to him. Wade doesn’t feel an ounce of modesty, of course. Can’t, in his lot in life. He’s been paraded naked too often for it to matter too much anymore, except… well, Peter’s here, now. It changes things, having Peter here to witness the way people look at Wade, the distrustful sideyes and the disgust and the straight-up revulsion. Those feelings tend to be – catching. And if Peter catches them? Starts seeing in Wade what everyone else sees?
Wade’s not sure how he’ll come back from that. Not sure he’d want to.
“I’m sorry I bit you like that.” Peter’s whisper cuts through Wade’s current shame spiral.
Wade shakes his head so fast he makes himself dizzy, thunks it down onto Pete’s collarbone.
Peter’s arm squeezes around Wade’s waist.
No, he thinks the word so hard it rattles his damn brain. No sorries, no take backs. He’d beg Peter if he could, if the phallus pressing up hard against the back of his throat weren’t choking the words down. That bite that Peter’s regretting brought Wade home. And to someone who hasn’t had one of those? Pretty much ever? The feeling was so strange and freeing and safe he almost couldn’t comprehend it in the moment. Home. Peter had just – sucked all the bad things away right along with his blood, sucked all the bad out until there was nothing left inside Wade at all, nothing left except for a warm, buzzing sense of home, and right, and safe, so unfamiliar it burned. Please don’t regret me already.
“I’m not sorry about you,” Peter adds, insistent, hopelessly sincere, breath warming the top of Wade’s head. Wade can’t bring himself to move or open his eyes yet, can’t bring himself to leave what feels like safety curled so close to Peter’s side. “I’m not sorry it was you. God, Wade, don’t think like that. I just – I hate that it happened the way that it did. With those assholes watching. I’d have – I’d have made it better for you, our first time. You know what I mean. Right?”
Wade’s not sure how it could have felt any better. What’s better than home?
It gets better? The thought is incredulous.
“Does it get better than a quick, forced feeding on the ground in front of people who’ve tortured you for their own amusement?” Peter asks back. He sounds incredulous, too. “Where I can’t lick every inch of you first? Or tell you how pretty you are when you’re trusting me? Hell yes it gets better. We’re only going up from here, wait and see.”
Wade moans, uselessly, his whole body quaking from more than the after effects of being electrocuted. He can’t get any closer to Peter without literally sitting himself in his lap, so he tightens his arms and settles for pressing himself tighter against his side. Peter sounds serious. He sounds like he means what he says, like what he’s saying will happen. The sun will always rise, the rich elite will always evade taxes, and Peter Parker will lick every inch of Wade Wilson while he tells him how pretty he is before he sucks out every available brain cell Wade has ever had. By sucking his blood, in case that wasn’t clear.
Peter says it like it’s a promise.
“The next time I bite you, you won’t be starving, or injured, or sad,” Peter says, in a voice that leaves no room to argue or misinterpret or question. Wade questions every good thing on principle, because ain’t no good thing ever came that lasted, or that was even real in the first place. But the solid weight of Peter holding him together on this fucking horrible ass stoop, with his firm promises for better, and more, and trust… Wade’s brain feels quiet. Settled, in a way he should probably find alarming. When Peter continues, his voice goes soft and careful, sweetly simple. “You’ll be warm, and full, and comfortable. I’ll surround you with blankets and lick off every last trace of every person who’s ever hurt you.”
Wade’s eyes go wet. He’s hopeless to stop the tears from leaking out his eyeholes, hopeless to quell what feels like a newfound spark flickering to life inside him at what Peter’s offering, here. Here he is, a gross disgusting mess, both inside and out, every square inch of him, pressed up close to a literal angel from heaven, red eyes and all. It’s too overwhelming. Too jarring, to go from hell to here so quickly, to have it all turn around.
Probably for the best, then, that he’s yanked back to reality.
Back down to where he belongs.
The collar doesn’t care that he’s having a moment. It comes to life so unexpectedly that Peter has to feel its sting, what with how wholly Wade’s pressed up against him. The zaps course through Wade’s nerves and fire down his spine, quick pulsing reminders of who he is and who he always will be, in the end. His teeth clamp down on the phallus and he moans out stuttered, hoarse exhalations through the gag, yanking himself away from Peter and throwing himself in the opposite direction is his haste not to have Peter get zapped too. Wade’s head bonks onto the concrete railing and his vision goes all screwy. Blearily, he manages to raise his head up enough to look at Peter, searching through the spots swimming all around to make sure Peter didn’t get hit with too much of it. Just goes to show that getting close to Wade should come with a warning label.
You will get wet on this ride.
Wade – might have hit his head a little too hard. Paired with the flames ziplining through every inch of his body, and the potential heatstroke, and how tenderized he feels, just, all over, Wade struggles to get his eyesight to focus, panics when he can’t see. He can’t talk, can’t breathe, he can’t fucking see , the world’s gone all greyed out and blurry and all wobbly-lined and Wade’s too dizzy to pick himself off the fucking ground.
Peter’s standing, he can tell that much. Crouching toward him.
Don’t touch me, he wants to say, wishes he could say. Can’t even flail his arms in an abort, abort! gesture to warn Peter, can’t get his limbs to work. You will get zapped on this ride, Pete!
Peter reaches out for him anyway.
He lays hands on Wade’s shoulders, grips him tight and tugs him into a more dignified sitting position, teeth gritted against the zaps. There’s still spots swimming ‘round and ‘round his head, but Peter’s face leans close enough that he comes into sudden razor sharp focus, and it ain’t the only thing that’s sharp. Red eyes blazing, he’s got his fangs extended and he’s baring them, looking more furious than Wade’s ever seen. He’d be turned on for sure at the sight if he weren’t so damn close to passing the fuck out.
“I’m turning that thing off,” Peter’s saying, sounding far away, voice a low, low rumble. “Those assholes, you weren’t even – you aren’t even – stay here, okay? I’ll be right back.”
Wade manages a crisp thumbs up from where Peter leaves him leaned up against the railing.
Staying here, sir, he’d say if he could. Can’t do much else but shake through the zaps and close his eyes against the bright midday sun. He wants to stay conscious because – because he’s almost out of here. Should stick around to get to the good stuff. ‘s only going up from here, he thinks to himself. It’s a giddy, far away thought. Pretty Petey with his pretty, pretty words and his ideals and his innocence. Didn’t know a vamp could be innocent, didn’t know vamps came from heaven. The ones in prison definitely hadn’t been. That one guy – hmff, Wade forgets his name. But he’d been a real mean sumbitch, hadn’t he? Chomp chomp with the teeth, and the tearing, and the mean name calling both during and after. He’d called Wade – what? A slut bag? Bag of sluts?
Wade snorts at his own thoughts.
He remembers the pack of smokes thrown down on the floor. He’d been – trading. A trade. Blood for smokes. What else?
Sigh. Petey’s so pretty. All fluffy haired and – and – pretty.
Is it weird he’s getting a boner right now? That’s probably weird.
It’s gotta be the electricity. Thoughts of pretty Petey’s flashing red eyes and snarly exposed teeth don’t hurt, either. Too cute to be scary, or too scary it’s cute. Wade’s body seems to enjoy the idea that Peter might hurt him so nice with those pretty pearly whites, if he’s good. He pictures himself going to his knees for Peter, pictures Peter holding him down with firm hands and those snarly teeth. A hand at his throat, Wade would tilt his head back and offer himself up just right enough to be worth the effort, would beg so pretty to be allowed to touch his dick while Peter rips into his neck and sucks him dry. Maybe Peter would let him, and he’d weakly grab hold of himself and try to stay conscious long enough to rub one out. Or Peter might prefer him hard and aching, muscles straining from the effort to be still and obedient. He’d twitch and pulse through Peter slurping against his neck, arms by his sides, not given permission to touch or be touched.
The currents from his collar cut off at the height of that fantasy, just when Wade imagines himself begging for release. Begging to be touched, to be noticed, to be seen.
On the stoop, Wade slumps, panting and heaving, his dick a pulsing need, exposed for all to see. And there are people watching, he realizes then, eyes half-lidded and vision still blurry, but of course not blurry enough to miss the silhouettes of half a dozen or so people stopped along the sidewalk, staring at him. Regular people living regular lives. Out shopping, or walking their dogs, or heading to a friend’s. Regular people stopped at the grotesque sight of a naked parolee riding out waves of electricity and masochistic pleasure on a seemingly random stoop, muzzled like something too dangerous to exist in polite society.
Christ, Wade’s never felt more disgusting than he does right now.
Shaking, he drags his knees up to his chest and ducks his head, curling into himself.
He’s too big to disappear, which sucks.
Unbidden, a different sort of fantasy fills his head as he waits for Peter to return. One of Peter and him – cuddling. Lounging in comfy pjs, in a warmly cozy apartment, sun a low and shadowy haze from a lone window. On a couch, ratty and worn, Peter would lay his head against Wade’s pecs and they’d tangle their legs together and watch a shitty shark movie, something so dumb it’s hilarious. And Wade would – talk. He’s unmuzzled in the fantasy, unchained. Even the collar feels weightless, throat free and bare. The shark’s so horribly CGI’d it might as well be a puppet on some strings. Wade says as much, laughing when the main actor yells at everybody in the water to run. Nobody’s in the water except for him, though. What a goon for not noticing. His chest vibrates with his laughter and Peter’s there laughing, too. He’s smiling around fangs at the screen and tracing the pattern of Wade’s scars along one arm, idle.
When the memory of the fantasy fades, Wade shudders and grips his knees tighter.
Tears trail down his face. He swipes at them with a shaking hand, feeling stumped. Disarmed.
Because that – hadn’t been his fantasy. He – wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He’s not built for –
He’s too gross to be someone who gets to –
Shhhhh, his thoughts think for him. Wade shudders again.
Tentative, feeling crazier than usual – which is a fucking feat – Wade thinks to himself, maybe to himself, Peter?
It’s the craziest thing. Like hands inside his head, caressing soft trailing fingers against the inside of his skull. Like he said, craziest damn thing. He’s obviously been electrocuted one too many times, bopped his noggin too hard against concrete. He’s concussed. He’s also not alone, sitting by himself on the stoop. Peter tastes like honey, a phantom tingle inside his brain, both there and not there at the same time.
Be out in a sec, Wade’s thoughts say. They’re decidedly not his thoughts.
But they fill up his brain so full that it’s too crowded to keep hating himself.
Wade sucks in a deep breath. He exhales around his muzzle. His heart rate slows, a tangible difference from the panic and despair of moments earlier. People are still watching. Wade lifts his head enough to stare back. A man has his phone in hand, obviously recording the spectacle. Parolees don’t linger in polite society nude very often. What the fuck. Wade raises a hand and waves at the phone, waggling trembling fingers. Peter is warm honey in his cranium.
For the moment, he can breathe.
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Any second now, Peter Parker’s going to vibrate out of his skin.
Everything just takes too long. The paperwork takes too long, and the transfer of funds takes too long, and the lady shamelessly flirting with Matt takes too long, and waiting around for them to gather Wade’s seriously pitifully small amount of belongings takes. Too. Long. And by far the biggest hurdle Peter’s had to jump over today comes in the form of Wade’s horrible collar going off when he’s already weak and trembly and glued like a giant baby koala to Peter’s side. Peter tries to hold onto Wade as soon as it happens, in the hopes that maybe two people sharing the currents might take the sting out of them for Wade, but Wade practically leaps away from him, refusing to share. He hurls himself backward so fast that he knocks his head against the concrete railing, looking dazed and unsteady. All the while, electricity is pulsing down Wade’s spine and he’s drooling around a gag that’s ten times longer than it looks, and Peter’s going to vibrate out of his skin.
The handler that had Wade locked in the stocks has his remote.
He’s a burly fellow, with a graying receding hairline and dark, coarse skin, rough like he’s been a hard laborer in the hot sun once upon a time. He’s a few inches taller than Peter and a few inches shorter than Wade.
Peter’s eyes lock onto Wade’s remote in the man’s meaty hand.
Matty’s still busy at the table with the woman and a few others, murmuring over the stupid paperwork and sipping steaming tea as they have just a grand ol’ chat. They all quiet when Peter storms into the room, though. Matt’s chair scrapes the floor as he stands, head turned in Peter’s direction. At least Matty’s not drinking their stupid tea. “Is everything okay?”
“No,” Peter says, can feel the word like a rumble in his chest. He’s pretty sure he’s baring his teeth at the handler with the remote. He strides over to him and every aching fiber of his being longs to do something. This can’t go on. He can’t do this anymore, just letting things happen over and over again, letting all this horrible shit slide. He can’t.
And this time he doesn’t have to.
Vamps have heightened strength, heightened senses. In general, anyway. Peter’s definitely stronger than he used to be pre-bite. He remembers breaking all sorts of mugs and door handles and cutlery by accident when it was all still new and fresh and strange, before he’d learned how to pull his punches. He’s not pulling any today. Peter’s fast when he wants to be, all limbs and wiry muscle, limber. And the handler certainly isn't expecting violence, so he doesn’t even see it coming. He barely has the chance to part his lips in a useless question before Peter takes an open palm and strikes it square into the man’s pudgy nose, knocking him backward into the wall behind him.
Blood spurts in an arc, splattering across the lady’s cute flowery tablecloth from the man’s nose.
People at the table gasp. Chairs scrape the floor as they all rise in a hurry.
The handler slides down the wall and slumps on the floor, out cold.
Peter rubs his palm on his pants to wipe off the blood. No way is he about to momentarily bond with the asshole on the floor by licking it off, no matter how enticing the smell. Especially not when Wade’s already settled inside him in a cozy little corner of his head. He hones in on their budding new bond, focusing inward, and feels Wade’s thoughts as though they were his own: disgusting, they’re looking at me, look at what they see, gross, fucking waste of space, too big to disappear, fuck
“What are you doing?” the woman is demanding, a dainty hand pressed against her wildly thumping heart. Handlers are converging around her as though to offer protection. She’s gesturing at one of them to call the police, which, yeah, no. He should probably get out of his head long enough to deal with that, but first –
He thinks of the last dumb movie he watched, something to put on as background fuzz while he vegged out on his phone and moped because he still couldn’t leave the house without wanting to snack on his neighbors. He imagines him watching that with Wade instead, imagines how he’d laugh and settle into the couch, a comfortable, warm furnace under Peter’s snuggling head. Sends all this to Wade with an insistent mental shove, hard enough to know he has to see it. Maybe even feel it, a little bit.
Matt moves toward him with a cane tap, face blank. He’s… not happy with Peter.
Might be an understatement.
“Peter?” Matt asks, though it’s not so much a question as it is a demand for him to get out of his own head and rejoin the party he’s caused.
One of the handlers is already on the phone with – crap.
Peter? Wade’s voice is a soft whisper in the air, tentative.
Peter aches at the feeling of Wade’s searching mind brushing against his own. They’ve only shared blood once, officially speaking. They shouldn’t be able to hear each other’s words. It’s too soon, too little blood. If he heard everybody’s thoughts after a bag of donated blood, Peter would have gone nuts by now. But Peter clearly underestimated his desire to comfort Wade, which clearly seems to be magnifying the bond to a degree he’s a little scared he’ll get lost in.
Be out in a sec, Peter sends down the link between them. He’d linger there longer, but unless he wants to be arrested today –
“He electrocuted me,” Peter hurries out, near growling the words. Everybody stops moving, except for Peter, who bends down to collect Wade’s remote. If he steps on the handler’s open palm in the process, nobody mentions it. Dialing the thing off, he waves it at the assembled group of shocked faces, shakes it toward Matt to prove that he wasn’t just being a monumental idiot assaulting someone unprovoked. He didn’t even bite the man, despite every part of him aching to do just that. But vamps who bite get put down, or worse. He’d be no help to Wade going down that road. “I was holding onto Wade so that he wouldn’t fall over and this asshole dialed up his collar with me still attached.”
The woman still has that stupid aghast look on her face. “Mr. Parker, I’m sure Marley didn’t know –”
“And that’s why I told him,” Peter retorts. “With an open palm strike.”
“You can’t just –”
“Ma’am.” Matt Murdock has his lawyer face on. Thank God Peter has someone in his corner with a lawyer face. Before all is said and done, he might be needing his help in a much more personal capacity than just saving Wade. Peter can’t imagine he’ll be able to hold back much longer in this stuffy room with these horrible people, especially not with the endless barrage of self-loathing Wade’s brain is stuck on outside. “You know as well as I do that it’s negligent to activate a parolee’s collar out of sight. You can’t know who else you might hurt in the process. Your employee should have taken proper precautions to prevent my client from being electrocuted, and it’s well within his rights to defend himself.”
“You could have just told Marley –”
“Furthermore,” Matt interrupted, faux casual. “Activating a control collar without just cause on another human being who, by Mr. Parker’s own admission, couldn’t hold himself upright enough to misbehave in the first place, could absolutely constitute unlawful misuse of power. Is this an action your employees frequently take?”
The woman’s eyes are wide and stricken. She clutches at her shawl and stammers, “Of course not, it’s – it’s perfectly lawful to – 4962 misbehaved today, he needed correction –”
“Earlier when 4962 misbehaved, was the control collar activated?”
Nobody says anything for a harried few seconds.
Peter feels a sort of vindictive satisfaction at the way the woman is standing, all defensive and flustered. He knocks his shoe against the unconscious handler’s leg as he steps over him to stand beside Matt. When still nobody answers Matt’s question, Peter says, “It definitely was. He was trembling like someone who’d been electrocuted recently and his eyes kept twitching.”
Matt hums. Mildly, he suggests to the room at large, “We could always subpoena for access to the collar’s usage history.”
“Woah woah woah,” one of the handlers butts in, outraged. “Your vamp’s the one that just knocked out somebody who was only trying to do their job. Don’t come at us like we’re the ones in the wrong when he was the one stupid enough to touch a disobedient parolee –”
Peter raises his eyebrows at the dude.
“This is all unnecessary, I assure you!” The woman says, clearly frazzled. The handler on the phone with the police is explaining what happened, or his version of it anyway. He mentions the control collar and the woman’s whole face drains of all color. She waves her hands toward the man furiously and whispers out a quick, panicked, “For goodness sake, John, tell the police there’s been a misunderstanding and hang up.”
Now why would she do that, Peter wonders through red eyes, if she truly didn’t believe they were doing some things wrong around here?
She insists all the handlers still conscious leave the room immediately. She even tells one of them to go fetch 4962’s effects. The one that spoke up tries to argue against leaving her alone, but she waves him on, near shooing them through the doorway that leads to a long hallway. Before they’re all gone, though, she snags one of them by his sleeve and tugs him back. Her whisper might have been quiet enough for an ordinary human not to pick up, but Peter hears her as though she were speaking directly beside him. He’s sure Matt must hear her, too. “Fetch our physician to look over Marley, please. And I’d like to take a look at our collar histories this evening, if you’d prepare them for me.”
“Ma’am?”
“Just – fetch them. Please.” She shoos him along as well.
Then she turns back to Matt and Peter. Her smile has a plastic sort of look to it. There’s a strain around her eyes that Peter can’t help but revel in. He wants her to worry herself sick that they’ll start asking pesky questions she won’t be able to answer. He wants her to fret about it until she can’t sleep at night. He wants her to think about what they’re all doing under her roof and then change it.
He won’t hold his breath on that last one.
But – hey. Maybe she’ll at least lose a few nights’ sleep.
“I apologize that you were harmed despite our best intentions, Mr. Parker. You’ve made your point and I’ll be sure to take it under advisement. Once Marley wakes up, I’ll remind him of the protocols we have in place for the proper use of our collars. Now if you don’t mind,” here she addresses them both with a glance toward Matt’s passive face and then back to Peter. “Can we conclude our business here together?”
Peter thinks an emphatic yes please so loudly he’s sure Wade must hear it.
Matt’s smile is sharp. “We’d like nothing more.”