Chapter Text
---
John doesn't sleep the night before his execution. Everything is too hot, too cold, too tight.
The guard who collects his tray smirks and offers John some liquid refreshment, his nostrils flaring at the thick scent of John's burgeoning heat. He's not crude enough to actually take his dick out but he does palm it through his uniform pants, staring steadily at John.
John smiles and flips him off, pretending that neither of them can see how bad his hands shake as he does it.
The lights go off in John's cell almost as soon as the guard leaves with a snarled curse. It's hours too early for lights out. He doesn't know if it's a punishment for not sucking cock like a good little omega or if it's just what they do the night before they kill you.
It doesn't matter.
He curls around one of the pillows on his bunk and runs Father Reilly's plan through his mind like a rosary, holding on to each word as his body continues to betray him.
By the time morning comes John is exhausted. There are dark circles under his eyes when he gets up to splash cold water over his face. His heat is no longer a disaster on the horizon, but right there, beginning to fill him up. John finds himself dragging his hands down his stomach, reveling in the pressure, the feeling of flesh against flesh.
He stops himself with a groan, and settles onto the edge of his cot to wait. His whole body is practically vibrating with the need to move by the time he hears the first signs of life on the rest of the floor. John flexes his hands, skin stinging where his nails have dug into the meat of his palms.
Time to begin.
When the morning guards' rounds bring him to John's door John is curled up on the cot, jerking off with his back to the door, as if there's any privacy left in his world. John's slick and throbbing when he reaches back, the pajama pants and sheets soaked through and messy. He stops when he hears the click of the observation window behind him, lets out a soft groan as if fighting with himself for that little bit of control.
It scares John how close the pretense is to the truth.
Whichever guard it is laughs and there are a few seconds where John doesn't know if they're going to come in.
Doesn't know if he wants them to or not.
But the window slams shut and John listens as the heavy footsteps move away.
No one else comes to his cell.
There's no breakfast, no lunch. John knows, in a distracted sort of way, when the times for these things come and go. He can hear the cells around him receiving their meals, the chatter muted except for the occasional shout of an inmate offering to help John with his problem.
John laughs quietly to himself and prays that no more guards come to offer him anything at all. He's not sure he'd be able to stop himself from taking them up on it.
He drinks from the tap when he finds his throat getting dry, lays on the damp morass of his cot and imagines Father Reilly's face behind closed eyes. John might sleep, in tiny snatches, but there's no rest. It's late when they come for him, two guards and the doctor. John scents them as they come in, half habit, half helpless wondering interest. All he gets is the sweet pine scent of betas, soothing and cool.
John doesn't fight them, not when they haul him off the cot to strip him out of his sweat soaked and stained clothes. Not when the doctor examines him one last time, declaring him healthy enough for his sentence to be carried out. There's meant to be another shot, the last one, and John just watches the doctor out of the corner of his eye.
The doctor, expression far from detached, nostrils flaring as he rummages thoughtfully around in his bag. John leans drunkenly against the guards grips, body loose and hot with need. He rolls his hips and moans, bare skin dragging over the rough material of the closest guards uniform. His own scent rises up to choke him and the next groan is half-conscious as he leans in closer to the guard to his right, the one whose hands are going to leave vivid bruises all along Johns arm.
“Jesus.” The guard John is almost rutting against loses his cool and beta or not there's an answering flush of arousal filling his face. He lets go of John's arm, one hand coming up to the back of John's neck, grip still hard and punishing as he wrenches John's head back. John grits his teeth through the throb of pain and whimpers, pushing his hips forward into the hand that fumbles between his legs, broad fingers rough and pinching at soft sensitive flesh before thrusting into his slick opening. The guards arm brushes against John's cock as he moves his wrist in harsh, jerky movements.
“The fuck you think you're doing, Frank?” The other guard sounds incredulous but he makes no move to stop his friend.
John peers at the doctor through half closed eyes. He is just watching, needle capped and waiting in one hand loose at his side. John cants his hips more, his legs slipping just a little wider and the doctors dark eyes flick down the length of his body.
“Hell, I don't think he needs any more.” Frank pulls his fingers from John with a grating laugh. He wraps his hand, slick with John's own arousal, around John's cock and squeezes. The cry that escapes is only too real, tears springing to John's eyes. “Bet I could make him come right here.”
“Let's not.” The doctor, his name long lost to John's uncaring memory, walks around behind John, cool hands brushing over his back, down along his ass. “The last thing I need is to explain why we had to drug every alpha in this wing to maintain order.” He comes back around to stare into John's eyes. “I think you're right though. No need to waste the shot.”
“Then let's get this over with.”
They push and pull him into loose, thin prison pants and a shirt, cuff his hands and the cold steel on his wrists is something real to hold onto, to push back even just a little against the rising tide of his own need. John twists his hands a little, presses against the bracelets at slightly different angles, wondering how the chill might feel somewhere else. He wriggles his toes in the thin rubber-soled slippers they jam onto his feet just to feel the scratch of canvas on his skin.
There aren't any shackles when they take him out of his cell. Just the thin metal circles around his wrists and the guards hands, guiding him past the cells of inmates he's never had the chance to see before. Most of the cell doorways are empty, the men in them sitting on their bunks, very obviously not looking at John and his escort as they walk past. There are a few who lean against the bars, leers and crude suggestions the only things John ever hears from them.
They make the trip in the back of a police van. It's full of nothing but the scent of John's heat over a layer of antiseptic that burns every time John takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes, blocking out the blank stare of the guard sitting across from him and drifts. The time passes in a haze, almost unnoticed as John lets the first real waves of the heat rush through him. It's wrong, too strong, the gentle warmth of the first hours of a normal heat supplanted by a rush of need and sensation that threatens to choke the very breath from John's lungs.
He sways on the seat when they stop, doesn't move until the guard makes him. The hard hands on his shoulders help, a dull pain that cuts through the thickness of the air against John's skin. They stand and John stumbles when he climbs out of the van, one of the other guards catching him before he can hit the ground. It's dark out and when John looks up he can't make out the guards face, the people around him reduced to gray outlines.
It's not far to the platform, erected long ago and used only for special offenders, itself nothing more than a dark blot against the blackness of the trees. There are lights above the tree line when John raises his head, the fog smeared sheen of office buildings a welcome respite from the platform that grows closer with every step. Gravel, hard and sharp beneath the slim protection of his shoes, gives way to grass that is long enough to tickle against John's bare ankles as they walk.
John trips again, stumbling over the lip of a cement path he can barely see in the uncertain light. He lets the guards take his weight again, takes every chance he can get to look at the skyline. He can smell the city now, over the warm green life of the park around him, oil and burnt rubber and a flat taste in the back of his throat that always makes him think of metal. John manages to find the sharp edges of the 'L' on top of the LexCorp building and then one of the guards grabs him by the hair, forces his head down to stare at the worn wood of the pillar.
The guards pull him up the steps and John doesn't mean to fight them, means to stagger and whine and be nothing but a helpless omega for them. But as they push and pull him up the steps John finds himself shoving backward against their grips, leaning away from the platform, from the pillar in the middle and the ropes that he can see dangling from it.
“No.” John jerks against the hand in his hair, kicks at nothing to try and get the guards to release him. “No. Please don't.”
They hold him tighter, hands feeling as if they're digging straight through John's flesh into the bones beneath. The guards lift him for the last few steps, drag him across the wooden slats of the platform until they force him to his knees beside the rounded shaft. It doesn't take long for them to secure him, though executions like John's are rare, there's an ease to their movements that makes John shudder. Two men to hold him on his knees, one of them keeping a hard grip on the back of John's neck, making his skin flush, his legs quiver with unfulfilled need.
John can feel panic and need rising and tangling inside of him as the ropes are tightened, rough weave burning around his wrists. One of them undoes the handcuffs and John is jerking hard against the rope without thinking about it, his breath rasping through his body, the sound of his ragged breathing drowning out everything else. The guards are leaving and John can feel that there's no fucking give to the ropes, no way to untie himself. He's fucked, something's gone wrong and he doesn't need to scent the air to know that there are alphas out there, heading his way.
He almost screams, in spite of the little part of him that knows it will do no good, will just attract the alphas faster, but then the retreating steps of the guards stop and there's a distant curse. There're words John can't make out and then a single jogging guard returns, his hurried pace making the platform shake as he takes the steps up two at a time.
John twists as far as he can, watches the shadowed form come for him. The guard is still faceless as he leans over beside John, one hand braced beside John's bound hands as he seems to search the platform. John almost misses it, the way the guards hand slips over the pillar until there's the too warm touch of skin against his own, a brushing contact that raises the hair all over John's body. The man moves quickly, an almost ridiculous sound of victory shouted in the air as the rope around one of John's wrists comes loose and the guard seems to snatch something up from beside John's knees.
“Found it!”
John can't make out the grumbled response but it doesn't matter. He concentrates on grabbing the slipping, falling rope with his free hand, keeping it from swinging loose and giving them away. The guard beside him doesn't say anything, there's only a brush of fingers over John's shoulder and then he's gone, rattling steps down the short stair and then all sounds fade into the distance.
It's not quiet enough for John to be sure when the van leaves. Middle of the night, middle of the park or not, this is still Gotham and there is never silence. John is half sure that even if the world would come to an end the ghosts of Gotham would still be there, filling the void with the muffled beat of Gotham's heart.
He waits and hopes that it's long enough.
The wind is faint, the gusts that cut through Gotham's streets buffered by the massive trees all around John.
John waits, trying to scent the hint of a breeze that reaches him. There are sounds in the woods around him, noises too quiet to be people. The animals of the park slowly creeping our of their holes now that the last of the humans are gone.
“Just us animals.” John's own voice is strange to his ears, low and drawn out. It rumbles in his chest unfamiliarly.
He lets the loose rope fall from his grip and the sound of it slapping against the wooden post is jarring. John jerks and fumbles at the other rope until it begins to come free. There's a crash somewhere in the woods behind John's back, too loud and unnatural to be an animal. John freezes for a second, an instinct to stop and listen and hide taking over.
Something like a howl cuts through the air, followed by the kind of drunk, raucous laughter that would send John hiding in his closet when he was a kid. It sends a different kind of shiver through him now, though the fear is there too, his heart hammering madly in his chest. John jerks his wrist free and the rope is still too tight, friction burning over his wrist and hand as he pulls loose.
John hears more crashing through the trees behind him and there's noise coming from his left too, quieter but still coming closer. He pushes himself to his feet, the pillar the only thing holding him up as blood rushes back into his legs. The noises are getting closer and the hair on the back of John's neck goes up. He's already moving, staggering to the back of the platform, away from the stairs and the loudest of the crashing in the woods.
He jumps off the back of the platform and he lands wrong, all arms and legs and uncoordinated stumbling in the thick grass of the hill. He hits something hard on the way down, a sharp thump that sends a spike of pain through his temple. The world spins and John just needs a minute to make it stop, to get to his feet. He needs time to find the skyline again, find the angular glow of Wayne Tower over the black line of trees.
John can't wait any longer though, there are shouts now in the woods. Voices moving close enough that John can make out the hurled insults and snarls of alphas challenging one another. He has to move.
John struggles to his feet, shoes slipping in the damp grass. He thinks of scent trails and alphas out there in the dark, all looking for him. John curses, his heart trip-hammering in the back of his throat and he ducks down and scurries across the open field to the tree line.
There's almost no light once John gets into the trees, and he's trying to run, to get ahead of the pack that he can swear must be right behind him. He trips every few steps, slips, cursing under his breath and stumbling through the dark. John flings his hands out in front of himself, dodging trees and branches that loom out at him from nowhere, every shift of his weight threatening to take his feet out from under him on the slick leaf litter of the forest floor. Something soft and round slips and slides out from beneath John's rubber-soled shoes and suddenly there's nothing solid beneath his feet, nothing to grab hold of, the thin branches he flails at snapping and slithering through his grasping fingers.
He lands in a ditch, dirt from the edge that had betrayed him raining down in wet clumps. There's water in the bottom, a thin, filthy sludge that soaks through John's shirt in seconds. It's freezing cold and it stinks, rotting plant litter and more noxious scents that turn John's stomach.
John lays there for seconds he knows he can't afford, fighting to get his breathing under control, to feel like he's really getting air. His head is spinning, sparks shooting across the black backdrop of the branches blocking out the night sky. John shifts, twists, trying to roll over and get up but there's a deep trembling in his stomach that threatens to spread to the rest of his body and every time he reaches for the edge of the ditch the dirt crumbles beneath his hands.
“God dammit!” John's own voice seems to echo back to him from the trees, too loud, cracking as it drags out of his dry and broken throat. Something nearby growls, tiny and ferocious and there's a scurrying rustle through the underbrush but nothing else. John waits until the sounds fade, until he's sure that he hasn't brought any of the alphas looking for him down on his head and then he starts to crawl.
This close the stench of whatever is rotting in the ditch is overwhelming and John's stomach clenches on nothingness, a hollow throb that wants to be sick but can't find the energy for it. He tries breathing through his mouth, but that only brings the rot deeper into his lungs and when he puts his hand down into something thick and slimy that gives away beneath him John has to bite back on a scream.
He tries the edge again. It's still wet and crumbling but the ditch has shallowed enough that John manages to pull himself out, fingers slipping and scraping on tangles of roots. John can feel the roots shifting in the loosening soil, threatening to spill him back into the void of the ditch but it's only for a second and then he's up, out.
The pants that they'd given him at the prison are torn up, filthy. He pokes at the holes in the knees, probes the bruised and chewed up skin beneath. Now that he's stopped he can feel minor pains all over his body, bruises and scrapes from his rush through the woods, cuts that sting in the open air. John wants to collapse against the tree behind him, wallow in his own suffering for a few minutes. His skin is itching though, a need that is sinking deeper and deeper into his flesh with every passing second and John knows that soon enough the minor pains will be lost to his heat. Just like his sanity.
John's running out of time.
He needs to find some clear sky, some way to find Wayne Tower again. John doesn't know how long Father Reilly's people will wait for him, doesn't know if he'll be able to make it if he doesn't keep going.
John starts moving, hoping it's in the right direction. He walks slowly, wanting to run but not willing to risk another fall. He knows he's been lucky so far. The woods have gone silent around him, what animals there are in the depths of Gotham falling quiet at his passage. It beats at him, a suffocating thickness that muffles his senses, leaving him alone in an island of nothingness.
He walks into bushes covered in thorns, cuts himself on jagged branches that rear up at him out of nowhere. John's exhausted and shaking and there's only a part of him that can still think of things like scent trails and the blood and sweat that he's leaving behind him. Most of him is focused just on walking, on not dropping where he stands and giving up.
John reminds himself with each step that there's a car out there waiting for him. That he's not alone.
When he stumbles into the clearing it's a shock. He'd almost begun to believe that the woods were unending, that he was trapped in some nightmare he would never escape from. But there's the clearing, tiny and full of dead flowers as fall burns down into winter. The moon is out, a jagged break in what look like storm clouds, and John throws his head back, dragging in a deep breath.
The air is almost still, the buffer of the woods cutting most of the winds that constantly howl through Gotham down to faint breezes. John smells nothing but himself, a sickly sweet mix of sweat and fear and the remnants of whatever had been in that ditch. He's not sure if he can't smell the alphas because they're too far away or just because the winds going the wrong way.
He moves away from the tree line, towards the center of the clearing. There's a statue there on another small hill, overgrown with ivy and some sort of flowering vine. John half remembers it from a trip he and Kori had made to the park a lifetime ago. His memory supplies red flowers that mimicked a womans long hair, the ivy a gorgeous sweep of green dress.
John climbs the hill, his abused knees aching and then up onto the edge of the statues' pedestal, hands seeking the solid stone form beneath the dying plants to steady himself. It's just tall enough to let him see over the top of the trees. The city lights glow cold against the night sky and John turns quickly enough that he makes himself dizzy, looking for the top of Wayne tower.
He finds it, finally, the sharp jut of the tower rising above the rest of Gotham. It looks close, closer than he'd hoped, and John jumps down from beside the statue, relief like a spike of adrenaline in his veins. John rushes forward over the clear ground, a strange sort of hope that he can make it out of the park without encountering any of the alphas, that maybe his luck will for once be good driving him forward.
Hope nearly kills him in the end.
The man comes out of nowhere, a pale blur to John's right that he barely has a chance to register before he's knocked to the ground, breath exploding out of him in a painful rush. John's first gasped breath brings the stench of the alpha to him, charred wood and cigarettes. The alpha laughs and leans in close, pinning John to the ground as he scents him, breath huffing in and out rapidly against John's bared throat.
“Heh. Well look what I found.” The man sits back, leaning all of his weight on John's legs. “I was starting to think the whole thing was a joke. Thought maybe they'd kept you for themselves back at the prison.” He takes hold of John's chin in one hand, the grip rough and dismissive. “Fuckers obviously don't know what to do with an omega who's hot for it. You sure as shit don't let 'em go nowhere.”
“Get off me.” John sits up, hands splayed against the alphas chest and jerks his chin out of the mans grip. The alpha snarls and pulls back, just a fraction and John knows he's gearing up to punch John's face in, but the man is slow and probably more than a little stupid.
John takes hold of the front of the alphas shirt and pulls him forward as hard as he can. In the same second John slams his head forward, ducking, and there's the sickening wet crunch of the hard curve of his skull jamming the alphas nose in the wrong direction.
The man howls and the half-hearted grip he has on John's shoulders falls away as he clutches at the bloody mess of his face. John scrambles back, hands and ass and heels digging into the hard packed dirt. It's undignified and there's a tiny part of him that wants to giggle. Luckily the rest of his brain is far too busy putting some distance between the screeching alpha and himself to take much notice.
John rolls to the side when he thinks he's far enough away, struggles to his feet and the back of his neck is crawling with goosebumps, sure that while his back is turned the alpha will be on him. But the man is still clutching at his face when John whips around, cursing in a voice thick with blood and pain.
“You fucking little fuck I'm going to fucking-”
He's loud, too loud, and John finds himself beside the man without any memory of crossing the distance. The alpha reaches for John with a snarl, still on his knees, and John's growling back as he dodges the clumsy grip. He catches hold of the mans long, greasy hair with both hands, steady and sure now as he slams the ugly, swelling face down into his knee.
The impact is a shock, jolting all the way up to John's hip, higher. He growls through the moan as his stomach twists, not sick, something much worse. It takes another two blows to knock the alpha into a whimpering, half-conscious puddle of blood and drool. John drops to his knees beside the weakly twitching body and rummages through his clothes quick and sure, old habits coming back as though he'd never left the streets behind. The mans shoes are far too large and the stench of the alpha pissing himself is enough to make John give up the thought of stealing his jacket.
John comes away with a switch-blade that is fancier than it needs to be. There are handcuffs too, buried in an inner jacket pocket, light and covered in some sort of faux fur. Ridiculous and nearly useless, unless your target is already beaten and weak.
He kicks the alpha in the head, getting nothing but a convulsive full body twitch for his trouble and cuffs the unconscious mans hands behind his back. There's a bolt of pleasure and disdain that snaps through John's body and he knows he's still grinning, mad and achingly painful on his tired face. He licks his lips as he starts to hurry off, the tang of his blood mixed with the fallen alphas on his tongue.
John spits the foul taste from his mouth and moves on, back into the trees.
He knows he's running out of time, the hush of the woods around him unnatural. The animals are disturbed, hiding. The crunch of his own steps through the underbrush is the only sound, deafening in the otherwise silent evening. Somewhere far behind him John imagines the snarls and thuds of alphas fighting it out, wonders how many have managed to avoid the general brawl and move off into the woods for the actual hunt.
John walks quickly, not quietly, there's no point anymore with the scent of blood rising up around and behind him and there's a hot, curling need at the thought of alphas in the woods with him. Scenting and hunting and John slams his fist into the rough bark of a tree at the thought that they had better be better than the one he's left beaten and bloody behind him.
He can't stop the thoughts though, twisting through his mind and making him stumble, making him slow down. John presses fingers to his bruises to remind himself to keep going, to ignore the parts that the drugs have awoken. There's so much wrong, his brain swimming in a haze of need and blood pounding anger. He hurts himself as he walks until the pain stops fueling his anger, until the next throb is like a pulse of pleasure straight through his chest.
“Damn.” It's a moan, soft and unsure and John finally stops moving forward, moving out. He leans against a tree, his weight shifting it just a bit, hollow and dying at his back. There's wetness trickling down his thighs, heating the cooled, damp fabric of his prison pants. He turns and sniffs at his back trail, faint downwind but strong enough for all that that there's no question he's being followed. John knows he needs to keep walking, he can't be that far from the edge of the park, from salvation. But his legs won't move.
John reaches down into his pants, elastic waist digging at his arm as he fumbles at his cock, soft and shrunken out of the way for the moment. The pleasure is immediate, painful in his need. He fists himself, head back against the softly crumbling bark and whimpers, fights to draw himself back from the edge of desperation.
There's a crack behind him, boots on fallen limbs and John's eyes fall to slits as he scrapes his own nails over his balls, the slickness that continues to leak from him blunting the edge of the pain. The alpha comes around him slowly and John watches him slink into view, barely visible in the haze of light that slips into the trees. This one is taller, broader through the shoulders and waist. Built like a brick shit house and John shifts his stance wider, nearly bites through his own lip as the tips of his fingers tease another pulse of pleasure from him.
“You made a mess back there, darling.”
“I didn't like him.” John's mouth is on automatic, moving without any input from his brain. He forces his hand away, presses it to his stomach where he can feel the pounding of his pulse like a run away horse.
“Might be you'll like me better.” The alpha steps closer, smirking, and there's a scar twisting down from one eye, cutting through his top lip. “I think you're about ripe, aren't you, sweetness?”
“No.” John grinds it out through clenched teeth, hands fisting. “Go away.”
“Awww...you don't really mean that. You're hot for it. I've been smelling you for miles now.” The man reaches up and rubs one hair over his short blond hair, eyes flicking to look at the darkness around them. “There's some rough men out here tonight. Hate to think of you meeting one of them. I'll treat you alright. Give you what you need.”
“No.” John drags a long breath in and the alpha is close enough to smell now, sweet and stomach churning. He pulls his hand out from beneath his shirt, lets it drop to the side. His legs are still shaking, refusing to move. “Don't touch me.”
“Darling, you're just going to make this hurt.” The alpha takes the last couple of steps forward, grabs John's throat with crushing fingers before John can do more than drag in a startled breath. “You say 'no' to me again and I'll fuck you with a baseball bat. Might be you'd like that, slut. Omega's do like it hard and bloody.” He rocks his hips forward and John shudders at the rotten muskiness that wafts up around him. “I'm gonna teach you some fucking manners.”
John's mouth works, soundless, breathless and his vision is starting to spark around the edges, blackness eating away at the darkness of the woods.
“What's that?” The alpha leans in closer, until his ear is pressing against John's lips. His chest presses against John's, rising and falling with ease as he scents John's neck, a delighted chuckle bursting out of him at John's weak struggles in his grip. “Good omegas get to breathe. You gonna be good for me?”
John slumps in his grip and the alpha lets go, as if he expects John to slither to the ground in a submissive heap. John staggers forward instead, and there's surprise in the alpha's widening eyes as he half catches John out of what must be instinct, hands coming up to Johns shoulders for a second. John swings his arm up, fist clenched tight around the knife and there's enough light to shine off the blade in flashes as John stabs it into the unprotected side of the alphas throat.
“No.” John's voice is little more than a whisper, hot pain blooming in his throat as he forces the word out again. He jerks the knife free and there's a hot spay of blood over his hand as he pulls away.
The alpha stares at him, a snarl twisting his face and he's reaching for John again as if nothing has happened, as if he doesn't realize he's been stabbed. John steps back, heart dropping into his stomach. He tries to move around the tree and the alpha follows, a little too slow. John stabs out again, the blade nearly invisible in the darkness of the forest as it slices into the alphas outstretched arm.
“Y-” The word dies in a wet gargle and the alpha trips, eyes wide in confusion as his hands rise to his neck. John stills, watching as hands fumble, finding the slick spill of blood, the raw mouth of the wound John has slashed open. The alphas mouth works, blood bubbling up between pale lips to trickle down over his chin.
“No.” John stays long enough to watch the alpha crumple to the forest floor, hands spasming against the wound in his neck, trying to stem the tide. He kicks helplessly in the dirt and John leaves him there without another word. Adrenaline buzzes through John's body, clears out some of the heat induced fog long enough for John to set himself moving in the right direction.
John loses track of time, loses everything but the feel of trees brushing his shoulders, the crack of branches and leaves beneath his feet. He staggers and stumbles forward, his body begging him to stop, to rest. John moves forward, one aching step at a time, fingers locked tight around the handle of his little knife.
He walks into the fence and at first he doesn't know what's happened. John slumps against it, forehead pressed to the cold wire and stares out at the street, lights bright enough to burn his eyes. His vision swims as he turns his head, looks for a gate, a way out. There's nothing but a small clear space just wide enough for John to lay down in, if he wants to die on his back.
“Climb.” John feels himself speak more than he hears it, tilts his spinning head back to look at the top of the fence, not that high, just a few feet over him and it's fine, he can do this. He's so close.
He climbs, fingers claws around the wire and he pants around the knife he's shoved between his teeth, unwilling to leave his only weapon behind. The drop to the ground on the other side is unplanned, his fingers refusing to answer him on the descent, shoes slipping and dropping from his numb feet. John manages to fumble the knife away from himself before he loses his last tenuous grip, eyes following the arc of its descent in the hopes of finding it again.
The knife lands in a bush.
John lands in broken glass.
If he could think about anything except for escape and filling the gnawing ache between his legs, John's pretty sure he'd take that as a sign. The glass opens up dozens of wounds in his back, his arms and hands when he rolls, shielding his face. The gutter is clean, for Gotham, so close to the high rises and people who can't bear the sight of the trash they live in. John cracks his head on the edge of the sidewalk as he rolls to stop and his ears are ringing, vision flicking in and out of focus as he pushes himself to his knees.
He crawls to the bushes where the knife had landed, and there are thorns, of course there are, but the knife hasn't fallen too far in and John hardly notices the long scratches that join his chorus of aches. He uses the fence to pull himself to his feet, clings to the shadows just out of reach of the nearest pool of streetlight and clenches his eyes shut.
When he opens them again there is only one of everything, rather than three, and the street has stopped swaying like a rope in the breeze. John scans the street, looking for the car that should be there. There's nothing, only a single fat bodied motorcycle in one flickering puddle of light in front of Wayne Tower, gleaming red and vicious looking. He waits, holding his breath, eyes darting up the street again and again, straining to catch the sound of an engine coming his way.
The street is an echoing canyon of distant horns and engines, sirens that make him flinch back into the shadows. But nothing comes closer. Nothing approaches but crackles and shouts from behind John, in the park.
He doesn't understand, doesn't know who would betray the Father like this, make him fight only to leave him dead on the sidewalk. John spits, blood stinging the cuts inside his mouth and focuses on the motorcycle.
There's a howl, more human than animal, too close to John. He steps out from his hiding spot, fights to keep his back straight as he crosses the street. He feels exposed, naked, and his ears pick out grunts and snarls and the stomp of boots growing closer. John hurries, tries to, but he hurts down to his soul, blood cooling on his exposed skin and the street seems to grow wider with each step he takes.
He reaches the bike, bloodied fingers fumbling at the ignition, searching for a key. He knows it's not there, no one is that stupid, but he feels around anyway, mindless in his need for escape.
“Hot wire it.” John presses his hands to his eyes, tries to drown out the shouts from across the street, the rattling of the fencing as alphas start to climb over it. “I don't remember how. I can't. There's no time.” His hands fall and he stares down at the worn leather of the seat. “Then you're going to die.” It startles John, to hear himself say it. He forces himself to look up, to watch the alphas come, six of them, and he nods, lips tightening in a bloody line.
“Okay.” He brings the knife up to his own throat, hands steady again. John knows when the alphas see it, they break into runs but they're not fast enough, too far away and he starts to push.
The first prick blooms into pain and then John's hands are clamped in a vice, immobile. He whines and it turns into a snarl as the knife is plucked from his fingers. John turns and the man beside him is massive, terrifying. John stares up and up, past the motorcycle leathers that cling to a mountainous form into his own face in the mirrored visor of a motorcycle helmet.
“No!” John screams it, his throat tearing and he lunges for the knife held just out of reach.
The man pushes him away, almost gently, and John finds his back against the cold glass of the building, his little knife dropping from leather covered fingers as the motorcyclist steps forward into the street.
“Nice night, friend.” One of the alphas from the park steps a little in front of the pack, all stilled in the middle of the street and staring at the new player. “See you found something of ours. Troublesome little shit, but we hear he's got a nice tight-*glurk*”
John thinks he must have blacked out, must have missed something because the motorcyclist is too huge to have moved so fast, to have crossed the space between himself and the pack to twist the speakers head around with a wet snap. But the alpha is on the pavement, twitching, eyes glassy and dying in the street light and the others are coming up around the silent stranger, knives and fists at the ready.
John slides to the sidewalk, crawls to where his knife has fallen and it feels good to have it in his hands again, sticky and cold from the blood running down the handle. He moves back behind the bike, pries at the ignition with the tip of the blade, torn between watching the fight in the street and trying to remember how to steal the motorcycle.
The stranger is outnumbered, five to one. It shouldn't be a fair fight.
It's not.
The alphas attack separately, or in pairs. Some of them might even know what they're doing, if John's fuzzy and fritzing brain can be trusted. The man hardly seems to move. They stab at him and he breaks their fingers, their arms, knives falling useless and forgotten to the pavement before he falls into stillness again. Waiting. Punches are taken in silence, the mask of the helmet unmoved as blows rain down on the leather clad body. The alphas might as well have been throwing pebbles for all the notice they get.
John stares, unable to look away. He knows, on some level, that his legs have fallen open wide as he kneels beside the bike. That his every breath is a moan of excitement, waiting for the violence to break out. He can feel it when the biker looks back at him, nothing visible but a slight tilt of the shining mask.
“Come.” The biker raises his arms, motions the alphas in with mocking gestures and they move together, but not as one.
John digs his fingers into the leather of the bike's seat and gasps with pleasure at the beauty before him. It's a dance of violence and pain, the street echoes with the screams of alphas as they go flying backwards, to all sides, their limbs shattered, blood pouring from torn flesh and broken lives. The second man dies with his head smashed into the pavement, blood sluggishly puddling beneath him. The third and fourth alphas lose their lives in a splash of blood that fountains from torn throats, fingers clutching briefly at wounds that cannot be staunched.
The fifth alpha makes a break for it then, curling one broken arm against his chest as he rushes at John. The biker has hefted the sixth man above his head, bringing the writhing, screaming form down over an upraised knee and John doesn't need the high pitched scream of despair to know that his back is shattered. The fifth alpha is wiry, eyes mad and desperate as he runs to John, an animal trying to escape.
John doesn't think, hardly knows what he's doing until it's done, his knife buried deep in the mans inner thigh, dragging through the meat there until he slices free in a glistening arc, blood spurting out in the wake of his knife dark and heavy. Unstoppable.
The man stares, staggers and falls to the sidewalk, his leg refusing to hold him up any longer. John licks lips gone dry as he watches the alpha bleed out more quickly than he could have imagined, whimpers falling from the dying mans mouth until the very end.
When John turns away from the bloody corpse the biker is standing, still and silent as a statue on the other side of the bike. John catches a glimpse of his own reflection, eyes wide and needy, covered in blood. He looks away, focuses on the mans chest. The scent of alpha is so strong that it's a fight not to drop to his knees again.
“Give me your keys.” John's hand shakes but he raises the knife anyway. There's nothing else to do.
“You will crash before you can escape.” The voice is weird, echoing, but strong.
“I'll make it. Someone's coming for me.” John can see the knife swaying in his grip, fingers tingling with growing numbness.
“More alphas, perhaps. No friends.” The man moves between one breath and the next and the knife is out of John's hands again, tossed to the middle of the street and lost in the carnage. “Let me help you.”
“No.” John steps back, shaking, hands coming up. The heat is thick in his throat, thrumming through him, drawing out more moisture, slick and sliding down his trembling legs. “Don't touch me.”
“I will not hurt you.” Hands rise, fingers spread in a false flag of harmlessness.
John nods and he intends to step away, to run, but then he's on his knees, head in his hands and he's gasping, pain and raw need driving him there. The biker steps closer and John knows he's lost, the drugs and the heat coursing through his body and he wasn't good enough to get to live.
“Pl- Go fuck yourself.” And then all thought is gone in the scent of leather and blood and John prays not to wake up ever again.
---
Hell is softer than John had expected.
He wakes all at once, eyes snapping open and then slamming shut at the pain of too bright sun cutting into them. John swallows back a groan, his mind sluggish and exhausted. He takes stock with his eyes still screwed tightly shut, trying not to move more than he has to.
The mattress beneath him is firm, the sheets cool and soft where they haven't been heated by his own body. He turns his head and practically suffocates in an avalanche of pillows. There are towels and pads beneath his hips, when John stirs he can hear the crackle of plastic beneath the sheets.
His body aches, cuts still burning when he touches them. John open his eyes and traces the constellations of healing bruises and cuts, struggling to gauge how many days he's lost. The scent of leather and blood is all around him, the scent of the last alpha, the victor, and John chokes on a sob that comes from nowhere, entire body convulsing with it.
John fumbles one hand beneath the sheets, screws his eyes shut tightly again as if that will keep the truth from his mind. He's bleeding, that much is clear, sticky and foul against his thighs, but he doesn't know how bad the tearing is yet, doesn't know when his new owner will be back for more. He searches blindly and finds...nothing.
He's sore, but it's all inside of his body, an ache that ebbs and flows with the pulse of his body, familiar in the aftermath of a heat. John can find no wounds, no evidence that- nothing to show that the alpha has-
John wipes his hands on the sheets, pale blue where they're not now stained with his blood and forces himself to climb out of the bed. The room isn't much, bed and a small dresser with an unplugged tv sitting on top. A little bathroom off to one side, hidden behind a screen covered in brightly painted birds in flight. There's a pair of pajama bottoms hanging over the screen, soft beneath John's questioning fingers. He leaves them there for the moment.
There's enough light coming in from the small window set into the shower that John doesn't need to turn the lights on. He feels worse than he looks, which is something of a surprise. Still, he can see the purple-orange shadowed bruises of hands around his throat and there's a gash on his forehead that's been closed up with a neat line of stitches. John twists, contorting his body through the pains and aches that keep cropping up. There's nothing there that doesn't make sense, nothing that he can't remember getting.
No bites. Which is...which doesn't mean anything, John reminds himself. It's tradition, it's instinct and habit but an alpha doesn't have to bite. They just enjoy it. John leans against the vanity, forehead hot against the cool of the glass and closes his eyes again. He doesn't know what to do, can't find his footing in all the questions circling through his head.
“Good morning, Mr. Blake.”
John startles at the voice, a squeak escaping him as his eyes fly open. He doesn't remember hearing a door, but there is a man in the bed room, close enough to be seen around the screen but far enough away that John doesn't immediately feel trapped in the bathroom. He's tall and lanky with a deep five o'clock shadow and the bearing of a solider at war. He's also very pointedly not looking at John. John sniffs and the man smells of the biker but he's too small, not enough bulk. “I- where am I?”
“A safe house, outside of the Gotham city limits.” The man moves toward the bed. John watches as he starts to strip off the top sheet that he'd bloodied. “We will need to get you further away, of course, but until the drugs had worked their way out of your system and you were stable I didn't want to risk it. How are you feeling?”
“Sore. Confused? There was- where is my- the- alpha?”
“No nausea? My brother Bane is the one who found you. He has some business elsewhere, at the moment.” The man smiles and there's kindness there, not entirely at odds with the hardness in his eyes. “He will return, but I feel I should reassure you that he is not your alpha. You were brought here after you collapsed in the street. I have been caring for you since then.” He bundles up the stained sheets and drops them into a ball near the far door. “Have you had any nausea? Dizziness?”
“Why? Who are you? What-” John winces at the way his voice cracks.
“Barsad. I would say it's a pleasure to meet you, but I think we both know that's a little uncouth. You hit your head, likely a couple of times. Nothing, I think, too damaging, but combined with the drugs that they used on you I have had some concerns. Unfortunately, until you came out of your heat it has been hard to judge the exact effects. So. Nausea?”
“Not...not yet? I just woke up and I haven't. Felt anything. Except sore.” John grabs the pajamas and steps into them, hissing as they drag over still raw bruises.
“That's good.” Barsad sits on the edge of the bed, letting John decide how much distance to keep between them. John leans against the wall beside the bathroom door. “Now that you're awake, I'd like to keep an eye on you for a few more days, at least until you've gotten some food into you and stopped your cycle.”
“Will the alpha...will Bane...” John takes a deep breath. Braces himself. “I won't kneel for him. Just because he killed those guys.”
“No one expects you to. Least of all Bane.” Barsad rubs at his chin, fingers scratching along the bristles there. “You are not a prisoner, Mr. Blake. You are our guest and we will do anything that we must to keep you safe.” He stands, walking slowly around the bed and back toward the door. “This is not locked. It never has been, though of course you may choose to lock it yourself, if you wish. There are necessities under the bathroom sink and I will bring something light up for you to eat, with some more suitable clothing.”
“Why?”
“You're more than welcome to walk around in what you have on, but I thought you might like some options.” Barsad smirks, one hand on the door handle.
“You know what I-” John breaks off, shaking his head. “I don't believe you.”
“I know. Give us time.”