Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Midnighter can't take his eyes off of the omega. It's not just the edge of his rut, looming closer and closer with every passing second. This omega is different.

He's leaning on the wall next to the hotel door, arms crossed, while he waits for the agency's beta and Apollo to finish going over the paperwork. His eyes roam lazily over the hotel room, taking in the details. Mostly, he looks bored.

Midnighter doesn't know what to make of that. An omega in a room with two alphas should be a wreck of need, desire and despair, consumed by his need to submit and please. This omega looks like he could care less.

He isn't afraid. Midnighter has seen countless terrified omegas in his life. The stench of their fear mixed with the biological compulsion to placate and submit cloys their scent, making it almost impossible to breathe. Most alphas are turned on by the smell; Midnighter has always hated it. There's a reason why he doesn't own any omegas, nor does he want to. If his body's biology would let him get away with it, he wouldn't bed omegas at all.

But ruts do exist, and twice a year his body takes over and no amount of self-control or even self-chosen sexuality can erase the biological imperative to mate an omega. Midnighter has tried. And failed.

Twice.

Those are memories he'd rather forget, but he can't let himself do it. He needs to remember the consequences of ignoring the signs of his rut past the point where the biological imperative hijacks his self-control.

He's been diligent to the point of obsession ever since, hiring omega escorts, and fulfilling the demands of his ruts early enough that he doesn't lose control to it. Apollo is the same. It'd be easier if they would cave in to social pressure and buy their own house omega, but neither of them wants the responsibility. Omegas are needy creatures. It's easier to hire an escort whenever the ruts happen than to deal with a house omega 24/7.

He and Apollo have been using escorts for decades now, and in all that time he's never met an omega like this boy. The omega notices Midnighter's scrutiny and instead of lowering his head in deference, he studies Midnighter back. Bored, green eyes travel up and down Midnighter's body assessingly, before they meet Midnighter's gaze dead-on. The boy's lips curl into a half-smirk, and he arches an eyebrow in a silent dare Midnighter is too flabbergasted to even begin to parse.

Midnighter looks away first, not because he can't hold the gaze, but because the incredibly odd behavior has him searching for Apollo to see if he has noticed it, too, but Apollo is engrossed checking the agency's paperwork.

He senses Midnighter's attention and raises his head. A small, warm smile grazes his mouth, and Midnighter's heart skips a beat as it always does whenever Apollo smiles like that. Apollo—the absolute entitled ass—grins wider, knowing exactly the effect he's having on Midnighter.

"The paperwork is in order," Apollo says, and offers a pen for Midnighter to sign.

Escort agencies are known for taking advantage of alphas' lack of control when they're close to ruts to sneak in clauses that might have an alpha agreeing to purchase a damaged omega or have them assume the omega's medical bills, even though it's the agency's legal obligation to care and maintain their property.

This is their first time using Charlotte's Escorts. It's a rather new agency, only on the market for short of a decade now, but growing incredibly fast. Angie recommended it to them, swearing their service and range of omegas was the best she's ever had. Still, it never hurts to be cautious. Apollo checks the paperwork when Midnighter's close to a rut, and Midnighter does the same for Apollo when the roles are reversed.

Signing the rental agreement always feels like a betrayal. Midnighter wishes there was a way to deal with ruts without having to resort to escort agencies. Apollo's hand on his shoulder, warm and strong, is a comfort. Their eyes meet again and it soothes the frayed edges of Midnighter's nerves.

"I'll be back in two days to pick up the omega," the beta representative says, while he gathers the paperwork and tucks it away in his briefcase. "If you wish to extend the rental period, you can call us at any time before then. Standard admin fees will apply as stated in the contract. If you have any issues, don't hesitate to contact our hotline. The phone number is at the top right of the rental contract. Charlotte's Escorts wishes you an excellent time with your omega," he adds, with the same fake customer service smile all agency employees wear like a uniform.

Apollo shakes the beta's hand and Midnighter does the same. The man stops briefly on his way out and nods to the omega. The omega nods back—some sort of silent exchange happening between them. That's another anomaly. A normal omega wouldn't even notice a beta when there are two alphas in the room, and an agency representative waiting for their omega to acknowledge them isn't something Midnighter has ever seen before.

The door closes and the three of them stay still, looking at each other, waiting. The moment stretches uncomfortably. Midnighter is unsure about how to proceed. Usually, the omega would be already on his knees, trying desperately to rub himself against Midnighter, yearning to be used. Midnighter would have to soothe and calm him down, while Apollo gets everything ready.

After a while, the omega rolls his eyes heavenwards and sighs. "How do you want to play this?" he drawls. "Are the two of you going to get involved? The contract does account for that, doesn't it? Also, it'd be great if you could tell me how much of a fight you want me to put on before I let you take me down."

"Let us?" Midnighter asks disbelievingly. This time, when he glances at Apollo, he sees his own flabbergasted expression mirrored on his face. "Are you a real omega?" He blurts the question out before he can think better of it. Of course the boy is an omega. For all that he's tall and muscular in ways omegas seldom are, there's no mistaking that scent.

The boy huffs out a snort. "No, I'm an alpha pretending to be an omega."

Midnighter gawks at him while his brain reanalyzes all inputs, trying to slot the boy into a category that fits.

The boy laughs, amused by the fact that they both seem to be considering it. "Of course I'm an omega." He shakes his head, still chuckling under his breath. "Look, I'm here because the matching algorithm the agency runs said that you were looking for an omega able to think for themself and hold their own in a fight."

He pauses and watches them expectantly. "You do remember that questionnaire they make you fill in, before you're allowed to place your order, don't you?"

"Yes," Midnighter agrees, vaguely remembering it.

"Charlotte's Escorts tries to match omegas to compatible alphas," the boy explains. "If you wanted a simpering escort unable to string two words together when an alpha is in the room, you should have said so. God knows the agency has hundreds of those on offer."

"I don't... want that," Midnighter says slowly. His brain is still running analysis, widening and updating its filing categories to create something able to match the uniqueness of this boy. That had only ever happened to Midnighter once before: with Apollo.

Apollo was and still is an impossibility of perfection that not even the supercomputer in Midnighter's brain can narrow down and parse with its complex analysis routines. Unpredictable in all the best ways. He makes Midnighter's brain glitch whenever it tries to apply binary logic to something that can't be contained and categorized.

An omega like this boy shouldn't exist. "What's your name?" he asks.

"I suppose C-18130128 is a bit of a mouthful," the boy replies. And there's that smirk again, half resigned, half mocking. "How do you feel about Charlotte?"

Apollo snorts, and Midnighter startles. For a moment, he'd almost forgotten that Apollo was in the room. That... that doesn't happen to him. Even this close to his rut, Apollo remains the North to Midnighter's compass.

"I'm sure you can do better than that," Apollo says to the boy.

"Probably." The boy pauses, pretending to think about it. "Lucas, then. Will that do?"

"Really?" Midnighter asks, mildly outraged.

The boy frowns. "What's wrong with Lucas?"

"That's my name," Midnighter says. It's not, not really, not in any way that matters. Lucas Trent is just a name he puts on official paperwork. It's the name on the contract renting this particularly impossible omega.

"Oops." The boy's smirk stretches wider, and amusement pours from him. It's not something Midnighter has ever scented in an agency owned omega before. "For what it's worth," the boy says, unrepentant, "I didn't know that. It's not as though the agency bothers telling us the name of the alphas who'll fuck us, any more than they tell you the name of the hole you rented to knot."

The crudeness of the words—the undeniable reality they paint, bringing into the open a truth few bother to acknowledge—combined with that amused I-could-care-less tone the boy has leaves Midnighter reeling.

The boy defies all logic.

The truth is that Midnighter doesn't know the names of any of the escorts he's rented in the past. He's never bothered to ask, nor does he believe those omegas would have been coherent enough to tell him, too overwhelmed by their own desire to be knotted, deep in the submissive haze triggered by alpha pheromones.

His stomach churns and it takes him a moment to recognize the emotion: shame.

He's always been too consumed by the imperative of his rut, the anger at himself for being unable to master his own biology, and the desire to have the depressingly sad affair over and done with. Who the omega was never mattered to him, nor did those omegas behave as though it mattered to them. They'd barely been able to keep their hands and mouth off Midnighter the moment the agency's representative released their leash.

His running assessment glitches as another inconsistent input jumps to the foreground. The omega isn't leashed. He wears the wide, protective metal collar that covers his neck and the top of his shoulders—a typical agency collar to avoid mating claims—but there's no leash attached to it. The beta handler didn't even bother to do the symbolic transfer of ownership of handing the leash to Midnighter after signing the paperwork.

Midnighter should have noticed that before, but he'd been too busy with the mysterious omega to consciously register the hundred cues that had his brain tag the boy as wrong. The inconsistencies keep popping up now, little glitches in a still ongoing assessment that should have been over within milliseconds, if it weren't for the fact that his brain keeps restarting the process again and again.

"Lucas is fine," Midnighter accepts, just to see how the boy reacts.

"So glad you approve." Sarcasm drips from his words.

Midnighter tenses. His body throbs with the rising need from his approaching rut, and yet... "If you don't want to be here, we can—" His rut is almost there, but there's still time to ask for a different escort. Midnighter has never bedded an escort who wasn't desperate to be knotted, and he's unsure how to proceed with this boy.

Green eyes fix on him, and boredom is the last thing there now. There's a tension in him. It'd be invisible to anyone else, but Midnighter's senses aren't everyone's, and they are on high alert right now, focused completely on the boy.

"Want?" The boy laughs. "Want has nothing to do with this. If it's not you, it'll be somebody else." He sighs. "You really didn't pay any attention to the matching questions, did you? Let me guess, you were too annoyed to bother reading them and just clicked random answers." He seems resigned, almost defeated.

Midnighter had been annoyed by the questions. None of the agencies he'd used in the past had tried to match him. He just wanted a rut escort, not a child-bearing mate. It shames him, but he hadn’t really been looking for personality in his previous encounters. Despite that, Midnighter's answers hadn't been random. For all that he didn't pay attention to the questions—doesn't even remember them—his brain would have processed and answered each and every one correctly without conscious input from him.

"I answered them correctly," Midnighter says.

The boy huffs. "Oh, then this is just a case of be careful what you wish for. Figures." He rolls his eyes. "You asked for a haze-free omega. What did you think would happen? Haze-free omegas don't give a shit about worshiping the ground alphas walk on. If you wanted someone gagging for a knot, you should have said so."

"That's not—" Midnighter protests.

"Mid, shut up," Apollo says, and Midnighter shuts up, annoyed. He wants to defend himself, but is self-aware enough to recognize that the defensiveness is born out of being in the wrong. He never stopped to consider what asking for a haze-free omega might mean. He hadn't even known that omegas could be immune to the pheromone haze.

"Lucas, right?" Apollo asks, addressing the boy. "What will happen if we ask to switch you?"

The boy scrunches his face with displeasure, but his scent doesn't spike with fear, so whatever might happen will not affect him too negatively. "You call the agency, pay the admin fee for an exchange, pay the expedite-premium to be matched with a new omega before your rut starts, and they'll bring you a hazed omega." He parrots back the company's claim, "Charlotte's Escorts' vision is to provide every alpha with an unforgettable and unique mating experience that fulfills their every desire."

Midnighter cringes.

"What happens to you?" Apollo asks softly.

"Nothing," the boy says, waving his hand dismissively. "Haze-free omegas aren't common, and my waiting list is long. I'll get sent to the next customer. This isn't the first time, nor will it be the last. Many alphas like the idea of independent, haze-free omegas on paper. The most palatable ones are just not equipped to deal with the reality of it."

"And the least palatable ones?" Midnighter forces himself to ask, even though he knows the answer.

"Oh, they love it," the boy says, without seeming to care. "True sadists relish to see, smell and feel how much their escorts don't want to be knotted. A hazed omega can't give them that. They're much too gone on their need to obey and submit. You needn't worry; I'll be matched within an hour of you returning me."

"And want doesn't have anything to do with it." Apollo repeats the boy's words.

"I hate to burst your self-delusional bubble, but want never has anything to do with it." The boy's lips stretch into that half-bored, half-mocking smirk that seems to be his resting expression. "Just because you fuck omegas so gone on the haze that the only two words they're able to string together are 'yes, alpha' doesn't mean they'd want it, if biology ever gave them a true choice. Then again, it's not like it matters. Hazing omegas is considered healthy."

Oh, there's the anger. Subtle, barely noticeable, a waft of gun powder mixing with ozone. An alpha with less enhanced senses wouldn't have noticed it, but Midnighter catches the shift immediately.

"What do you want us to do, Lucas?" Midnighter forces himself to say the name out loud, to acknowledge that this omega is more than just a commodity he rented for two nights. "Want isn't the right word, I know," he hurries to amend, "but if you'd rather…" He stops, loathing the whole situation. "I need an escort for my rut. I don't… mind that you aren't hazed."

Midnighter actually prefers it. He might not have been paying attention to those matching questions, but he did answer them correctly. He hadn't known it was possible to have this—an omega able to think for himself and be more than just a mindless wreck of need and despair. It makes the prospect of his looming rut seem less of an ordeal he needs to get through. But just because it's what Midnighter would prefer… "I don't want to force you. If you don't…" he trails off, unable to say want.

The boy won't say no. His only alternative is being sent to someone else. Someone who'll hurt him and take pleasure in it.

"I'm sorry. I wish I could give you better choices." Midnighter rubs his face, all too aware of the ticking clock of his rut. Even now, the smell of the boy is making him want to rip those clothes off of him and rub himself all over him until he smells like Midnighter.

The only reason his rut hasn't taken complete control yet is because the boy isn't hazed. If the omega had thrown himself at Midnighter and begged for his knot, wet and needy, desperate to be bred, Midnighter's thin control would have snapped.

He closes his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts. What can he offer this boy? "I'll send you back, if that's what you choose. But if you stay, I'll try to make it as enjoyable as I can." He gives the boy a self-deprecating smile. "I know want and pleasure have not much to do with it, but… I don't want to hurt you. I don't want you to have to fight."

"And if I want the fight?" the boy asks, more amused than before.

"What?"

The boy laughs. "I enjoy the fights. I might need to let most customers win to not bruise their fragile alpha egos, but for the most part, I enjoy the challenge. It's one of the few things about this whole bullshit I do like. Well, that, and the fact no one expects me to behave like a simpering, needy bitch." The boy watches Midnighter. "What? You thought you'd woo me into liking your knot? I'd much rather you make me take it. If you can, that is." His eyes study Midnighetr again. "I still can't decide if I'd be able to beat you or not. With most customers I can immediately tell, but… There's more to you than meets the eye."

It's Midnighter's turn to snort. "You can't take me, Lucas."

The omega has the gall to wink at him. "That's what she said."

Midnighter laughs despite himself. Fine. They're doing this. The boy hasn't lied to him or pretended to be impressed by Midnighter and Apollo at any point. The least he can do is grant him the courtesy of believing him. If the boy says he enjoys the fight, nobody better than Midnighter to give him that. After all, Midnighter knows a thing or two about enjoying fights.

"All right. A fight then." He doesn't wait for Lucas's reaction before he launches. To the omega's credit, he sees Midnighter coming, which is more than most well-trained alphas are able to do. The boy pivots and ducks, but Midnighter's brain is already anticipating the move, compensating for it.

The fight lasts 22.7 seconds, which is 20.4 seconds more than an untrained alpha would have lasted, and 14.2 seconds more than a trained alpha would have. This boy is wasted as an escort.

Midnighter grins down at him, shark-like. He loves the surprised expression on the boy's face. He sure doesn't seem bored now.

"You can't take me, Lucas," Midnighter repeats, whispering the words against the shell of the boy's ear. The scent of arousal hits him, faint but impossible to ignore. "You do enjoy fighting."

The boy's pupils widen with desire. "Best two out of three?" He offers brazenly, meeting Midnighter's gaze head on, not a single hint of submission.

Midnighter laughs, delighted.

"Well, if you're going to be wrestling as foreplay, you should take off your clothes first," Apollo says. Oh, Midnighter had forgotten him again. That's the second time it's happened. He glances guiltily at his husband, but Apollo is amused by their antics, and aroused, too.

"Sure," the boy agrees easily. He hadn't forgotten Apollo, that much is obvious. Turning his attention back to Midnighter he says, "You know what I'd really want?"

"What?" Midnighter asks eagerly. If there's anything he can give this boy, he will.

"That move there at the end. Can you teach me that? I've never seen it before."

That wasn't what Midnighter was expecting and it delights him. It's so very difficult to find people able to surprise him. This boy is really something else. "Tell you what, Lucas. Best four out of seven and I'll teach you every move you want."

"Deal," the boy agrees.

"Deal, but first things first. Let's get out of these clothes and give Apollo a bit of a show." Midnighter winks at him, standing up and offering the kid a hand. The omega takes it, and the scent of arousal thickens.

This might end up being Midnighter's best rut yet.

Apollo presses his chest against Midnighter and nuzzles at the back of his neck. "You're moping," he whispers into Midnighter's ear. "We can hire him again."

Midnighter leans back against Apollo, letting the taller man carry part of his weight, and closes his eyes, exhaling. "We've never done that before. It's not… We don't need an omega." He's been telling himself that since they returned Lucas to Charlotte's Escorts.

They don't need an omega. They don't want an omega. Whenever he thinks the latter, he hears Lucas's derisive laugh, forever stored in his memory. Want has nothing to do with this.

An omega would complicate everything.

But no matter how often Midnighter tells himself that, he can't deny how well Lucas had fit with them. A puzzle piece slotting perfectly into place between Apollo and himself, one they hadn't known was missing.

"I'm not saying we buy him," Apollo says.

That's gonna be a total nightmare. Everyone knows better than to buy agency omegas; they always come with health and mental issues. Midnighter has never wanted an omega before, but even on the rare occasions he played with the idea, he'd never entertained the possibility of purchasing from an agency.

"It feels wrong," he says. "Hiring him for a rut is one thing, but just for… for our entertainment? I hate it. I hate that we had to return him. I hate that he has to serve all those assholes who enjoy hurting him. He deserves better. Fucking hell," Midnighter snaps, and turns around in Apollo's arms, burying his head into Apollo's collar bone and breathing in his scent. "I want to buy him, don't I?"

Apollo hugs him tighter and exhales. "I've been waiting for you to admit it to yourself. Still… We should hire him first. No, hear me out," Apollo says before Midnighter can protest. "Buying an omega is a huge responsibility, and even if Lucas isn't prone to hazes we don't know if that's always the case. Our lifestyle isn't suited for an omega. We need to make sure we really mean it, Mid.

"It's not the money," Apollo continues. "We have plenty of that and can earn more with the right contracts. It's the logistics of it. I don't want us to buy the boy, only to realize we have to give him back. It wouldn't be fair to him."

"I'm not sending him back to a fucking agency, Apollo," Midnighter hisses angrily. "This is insane. You were supposed to say no. Why aren't you saying no? You're always the voice of reason."

"I'm not saying yes," Apollo protests. "I'm saying that we need to hire him again first. Outside of a rut. We need to be sure that this is what we want, even when the hormones aren't the ones doing the talking."

"You weren't in a rut," Midnighter points out. Thank fuck they've never been the types of alphas to have synced ruts. "Don't you want him?" Apollo had joined their bed after the worst of Midnighter's rut had been over.

Another first.

They only fuck omegas when their rut forces them to, and though Midnighter and Apollo oversee each other's ruts—more for the omega's protection than their own pleasure—they don't share omegas. Mostly, because until they met Lucas they hadn't enjoyed fucking omegas. Another thing Lucas has changed.

"Will you be angry with me if I say yes?" Apollo asks.

Midnighter snorts. "I'm not a fucking hypocrite, Apollo." He pauses, and thinks some more about it. "This isn't a mid-life crisis, is it? I keep thinking that maybe buying a different omega will solve the issue, one who doesn't come from an agency of all stupid things." His shoulders slump in defeat. "But I don't want a different omega. I want him."

"I know, babe." Apollo rubs the back of his fingers over Midnighter's cheek and kisses his forehead. "We'll rent him once more. If he's the one, another night together won't change our opinion. We're already throwing all common sense out of the window by considering this; let us at least avoid the post-rut impulsive purchase."

"Fine, and we probably need to talk to a lawyer, too," Midnighter adds. "Purchasing from agencies is a nightmare."

"Shouldn't we wait to meet him again before we start hiring lawyers?" Apollo asks.

"If it makes you feel better," Midnighter says dismissively. "You know as well as I do that we're buying that kid, but fine… I'll rent him again and afterwards we can start the official paperwork."

Renting the boy turns out to be more difficult than Midnighter anticipated. The agency's website won't let him specify the omega he wishes to rent. It narrows it down to omegas fulfilling his matching criteria, but it won't let him specify the omega.

He wades his way through a useless chat-bot all the way to a customer service operator, who seems competent enough, except for how she keeps trying to convince Midnighter to consider accepting another haze-free omega instead.

"Dalia, I don't want another omega," Midnighter hisses, trying and failing to remain polite. Lucas would mock him to death if he could hear him. "I'd like to rent the same omega I had two weeks ago. Surely, I'm not the only customer you've had with similar requirements."

"It's highly irregular," she insists. "The matching algorithm will find you a suitable candidate and—"

"Dalia," Midnighter beseeches. "Please help me."

She sighs. "All right, do you know his serial number? For privacy reasons, I can only see the category of omega you rented, but not the number of the specific escort. Are you sure you don't want—"

"I'm sure," he snaps, angry at the fact that for the agency his impossible boy is nothing but a serial number. "C-18130128," Midnighter says, compulsively double-checking the rental paperwork, even as his brain provides him with a perfect recall of Lucas's amused smirk saying, I suppose C-18130128 is a bit of a mouthful.

He hears the keyboard as Dalia types the numbers and waits impatiently. "Oh my, he's a popular one. His next available slot is in three months."

"What?" No wonder Lucas had been so confident regarding his ability to be rented again, even if they had canceled the contract.

Three months is an eternity away. "Is it possible to get an earlier appointment? Can you switch the booking? Assign C-18130128 to me and give the other customer one of those other haze-free omegas you were offering me earlier."

"I can't do that."

"Dalia, please, you'll be my savior," he cajoles, saying her name, trying to strengthen their rapport.

"I can't," she answers. "I'm truly sorry. I don't have the admin rights to cancel a set appointment. I can add new ones, but I can't cancel them unless the customer requires it first."

"But you said customers don't know who their omega is," Midnighter insists. "You don't need to cancel their appointment, just assign another omega to them."

"I can't do it. The system won't let me." The firm pitch of her voice, final and determined, tells him that she's telling the truth.

"Can your supervisor—"

"No, I'm sorry. I already violated standard procedure by trying to assign a specific omega to you. I'm not calling my supervisor to tell him that. I want to keep this job," she says waspishly, the friendly customer-service tone sliding away. "I can either book you an appointment with your desired omega in three months or an earlier appointment with another omega who fulfills your matching criteria. Your choice."

"I'll wait the three months," Midnighter growls. He breathes in slowly and tries to channel Apollo's easy charm—the one which fools everyone into thinking Apollo is the nicer one between the two of them. "Thank you, Dalia." At least he doesn't sound like he wants to snap her neck in two any more. "You've been a great help. I'm disappointed that I have to wait so long, but I know it's not your fault and I appreciate what you've done." There, very Apollo of him.

It seems to work, because she sounds warmer when she adds, "You're welcome. I wish I could have helped more. I have all the information I need to finish the booking. You'll receive a confirmation email within a minute or two. Is there anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Trent?"

"That'd be all, thanks," he says and hangs up.

Seconds later his phone dings and the booking confirmation email appears on his screen. Midnighter scrolls through the details despondently.

Three months to wait. With some luck, he'll forget about Lucas and come back to his senses, but he doesn't think so. Lucas is the one. Midnighter knows it, the same way he knew it when he met Apollo. They fit. All three of them fit.

"The Justice League contacted me. They want our help with a case," Apollo says off-handedly, while he traces lazy circles over Midnighter's back with his fingers.

It takes way more effort than it should for his brain to restart the cognitive processes that make speech possible. The muscles in his body ache pleasantly, and some of the bruises Apollo made will take his enhanced healing 2.34 hours to erase.

Determining his favorite thing about Apollo has always been distressingly unreliable. The results vary too widely depending on the timestamp of the query for reasons Midnighter's brain—despite its unprecedentedly powerful CPU—has never been able to narrow down enough to generate a useful pattern. The best he's been able to do is narrow down the list to fifty-three items, conditional to a 6.754% margin of error he has been forced to accept.

Currently, Apollo's ability to completely shut down Midnighter's analytical functions is hovering among the top three list items.

He breathes in Apollo's scent—warm summer breeze with sandalwood and notes of steel deep underneath. Perfect. Maybe Apollo's scent tops the list now? Or is it the steady thrum of Apollo's heartbeat underneath Midnighter?

Of course, those things might shift down the list, if Midnighter catches a glimpse of the self-satisfied smile he's 95.678% sure Apollo is sporting right now. Apollo's smiles have a way to jump to the top of Midnighter's uselessly unreliable list at any given moment for reasons Midnighter has stopped trying to analyze.

"I thought you might do well with a distraction. Interested?" Apollo says.

"Huh?" Sluggishly, his brain provides him with a replay of Apollo's earlier words. "The Justice League?" They aren't prone to ask for help and they're way too squeamish to truly appreciate Apollo's and Midnighter's methods. "What do they want?"

"To capture and neutralize Red Hood," Apollo tells him.

Midnighter shifts to the side, away from Apollo's very distracting scent, and hefts his head, resting it on his bent elbow. "Red Hood? Isn't he a Gotham thug? Batman is usually very territorial about those."

Just because Midnighter doesn't work with the Justice League often doesn't mean his intel isn't up to date. Reliable intel is important. The more data he has to work with, the more effective he is when he fights.

"He's been expanding his reach beyond Gotham. He already controls Bludhaven and has been making moves on Metropolis. Green Arrow has had three encounters with him in Star City as well," Apollo explains. "The Justice League is worried about how powerful he's growing. Superman tried to stop one of his attacks, and Red Hood neutralized him with kryptonite, finished stealing the weapons and research he wanted, and then tipped Luthor and Batman about where to find Superman."

Midnighter snorts, imagining the outcome of that. "Clever."

"Very," Apollo agrees, sounding amused, too.

"And they want our help because?"

"Superman wants metas who aren't susceptible to kryptonite as back up."

"And Batman agreed?" Midnighter asks with disbelief.

"He wasn't too keen on involving us," Apollo admits with a small smirk.

"Color me surprised." It's a miracle Batman's able to move at all with how large the stick up his ass is. "What about Wonder Women and all the others? We aren't their go-to address when they need help." Something about this whole thing smells fishy.

"They got a hint that Red Hood is going to make a move on one of Luthor's larger research facilities in Metropolis. They want to capture him when he attacks, and use that as an excuse to check Luthor's research lab and find evidence on Luthor to neutralize him, too. The chances of kryptonite being used are high."

"Hmm, it still doesn't explain why they want us," Midnighter points out. These are the kind of missions the Justice League is perfectly equipped to deal with on their own.

"I might have volunteered us," Apollo adds bashfully. "We could do with the distraction."

"Uh-huh," Midnighter hums dubiously. He supposes he's been in a bit of a mood lately, and though Apollo has been delightfully wicked in providing distractions, an opportunity to play outside of the bedroom wouldn't go amiss. Then again, this is the Justice League. "Do we get to kill anyone?" he asks, dreading the answer.

Apollo flashes his perfect teeth at him. "Absolutely no one," he says.

"Boring." Midnighter sighs. Running subroutines to stop himself from killing enemies in the heat of combat is such a pain. His brain was not programmed for the gentle approach.

Apollo nuzzles closer to Midnighter and whispers enticingly, "I thought the challenge could do you some good."

"Fine, but you'll have to make it worth my while," Midnighter says, draping himself over Apollo, enjoying the feel of him underneath Midnighter's body.

They don't have any other plans for the day, and he wouldn't mind going for a fourth round. With some effort, they might be able to extend the lifespan of Midnighter's bruises until late afternoon. It's surely worth a try.

Apollo's eyes darken and his face ripples with hunger. Hmmm, yes, Midnighter is going to get exactly what he wants. More even, if Apollo's cruel grin is something to judge by.

"I might have an idea or two about how to reward good behavior," Apollo deadpans.

A rush of air, just a mili-second faster than Midnighter could anticipate and he's on his back with Apollo on top of him, long, white-blond hair falling around his face like a curtain.

Midnighter's body thrums with anticipation. In the back of his mind, his computer starts running and dismissing counterattack strategies. Apollo will win this one—because he's that good but also because deep down Midnighter wants him to win—but that doesn't mean Midnighter has to make it easier for him. The battle is half the fun.

"What if I don't want to be good?" He arches his hips up, pressing his growing hard-on against Apollo's hips.

Apollo slides down Midnghter's body, keeping the eye contact until his mouth is hovering over Midnighter's groin. "Then be bad for me, Mid," Apollo says easily, before he swallows Midnighter's cock.

Midnighter moans and clutches Apollo's hair. His last coherent thought, before his brain shuts down again, is an updated input to his forever shifting list: Apollo's hot mouth on his cock is his favorite thing in the world by far.

The Justice League makes everything unnecessarily complicated. The plan has Batman written all over itself. Contingency plans upon contingency plans, half of which wouldn't be necessary if they were willing to use lethal force.

Their contingency plans go to hell when instead of Red Hood, Luthor's men attack them first. The Justice League set up their stakeout outpost to wait for Red Hood a mile away from Luthor's labs, in an abandoned building, which surprise, surprise also belongs to LexCorp.

Things start to look up—for Midngther and Apollo at least—when the rear guard duty Batman gave them suddenly shifts up in importance.

"I lost connection to all the security cameras in the complex," Oracle says through the comms.

Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman and Green Arrow are too busy fighting Luthor's guards, which include a couple of very strong Amazons, to go check if Red Hood has made his move on the complex at last.

"On it," Midnighter answers, and cuts off the comm before anyone can tell them to hold position or such similar nonsense.

He opens one of his portals. "Last one to the labs is on dish duty for a week," he tells Apollo, before he lets himself fall through the door.

Apollo launches himself through the air, but really, they both know he's not going to make it in time.

Midnighter is still chuckling as he steps through the portal into the interior of the labs. Lights are out, but his night vision kicks in.

He picks up a heartbeat two rooms away. Immediately his brain starts calculating potential trajectories, tracking peripheral inputs: stairs, exits, furniture, anything and everything that could be used during a fight.

Possibilities are analyzed and dismissed within milliseconds. He narrows them down to two initial approaches for him to choose from. Frontal charging or stealth?

Midnighter's veins sing with anticipation as he strolls forward and kicks the first door open. The alarms of the lab start blearing.

Why bother with stealth when you can have a proper fight?

He kicks the second door open, ducks and rolls, easily avoiding two bullets. Jackpot!

"Gotta work on that aim," he says to Red Hood as he stands up.

"Nothing wrong with my aim," Red Hood says, mechanical voice filtered through his helmet. "What do you want?"

Red Hood isn't afraid. Nothing in his body language speaks of fear. His guns are aimed at Midnighter but he hasn't fired again after the initial shots failed. Most people would have continued shooting until they ran out of ammunition under the misguided impression that at least one bullet would hit the mark. Red Hood had stopped.

The automatic threat assessment Midnighter's processors are always running updates Red Hood's profile. Combat skill estimations go up by 18.497% to 35.432%. What a fun night this is turning out to be. It's seldom to find anyone who manages to score beyond the 33rd percentile.

"I'm here to capture you. Preferably alive, but things do tend to happen in these fights." Midnighter shrugs, nonchalant. His curiosity spikes while he waits for Red Hood's reaction.

"Hmm, the Justice League's membership requirements have improved tremendously if they're willing to accept things happening in these fights," Red Hood replies, not moving from his spot. "Maybe I should reconsider applying." His guns are still trained on Midnighter, but he's waiting.

For what?

"I'm afraid that being a crime lord is an automatic disqualification," Midnighter says with false regret.

"Too bad, maybe a post-retirement project then," Red Hood replies casually. Too casually.

All immediate combat predictions based on Red Hood's current body language show that he won't attack first. He's playing for time. Midnighter so hates to give opponents what they want.

He charges ahead.

Two more shots are fired the instant he moves. Midnighter crouches and jumps, avoiding the bullets' trajectory with 15.3 milliseconds to spare. Red Hood knows how to fight metas, that much is obvious. He aims at two different places at once, anticipating faster than average movements. He's not prepared to fight Midnighter, though. No one truly is.

Midnighter avoids the fifth and sixth bullet by 10.3 milliseconds. Someone learns fast, but not fast enough. Midnighter laughs out loud, pivots and fires his own shot.

Red Hood doesn't duck. He barely moves at all. Midnighter's bullet hits its intended mark and yet misses, deflected by Red Hood's armor.

Well, that makes things more interesting. The suit isn't made of a material Midnighter recognized as bullet-proof and yet it is. He hadn't predicted that outcome.

Red Hood's combat assessment jumps another 11.936 percentage points all the way up to 47.368%.

"Seems like the Justice League hasn't changed their recruiting standards that much," Red Hood comments. "You didn't aim to kill at all."

"Killing is too easy." Midnighter shrugs dismissively, even as his estimation of the man rises another notch. It took him no time to realize that Midnighter is fighting on a leash. "I'd rather capture you."

Midnighter discards his gun. Red Hood's armor doesn't even have that convenient jaw and upper neck opening most other face masks offer. Bullets won't harm him. Besides, Midnighter's body has always been a much more effective weapon than guns.

"I've won this fight already," he tells Red Hood. "I've fought you in my head a million different ways and know all you can do. I can hit you before you even notice I've moved."

"Hit me then," Red Hood says, discarding his own weapons and beckoning him with lazy fingers. "You won't be the first one to land a blow. Make it fatal if you can. It never stopped me before."

Overconfident after all. Such a pity.

Midnighter lurches, pivots and kicks. Red Hood deflects the kick using Midnighter's own momentum to send him crashing against the opposite wall with a move Midnighter had never encountered before and failed to anticipate.

"Oh, this is gonna be so much fun," Midnighter chuckles, dancing back to his feet. His brain analyzes 154 new potential outcomes for the fight, dismissing the unwanted ones, until Midnighter can narrow down Red Hood's potential attacks down to eleven. Red Hood's combat threat assessment flies past 50 to a mouth-watering 59.784%.

When was the last time Midnighter couldn't narrow down a successful attack plan to less than three outcomes? Usually, Midnighter can settle on one path to win a battle. The number of paths he has to keep track on is directly correlated to how difficult it is to predict reliable outcomes. Eleven is enough to make this a fight worth paying attention to.

To think Midnighter hadn't wanted to come. Apollo has the best ideas.

Midnighter doesn't recognize Red Hood's fighting style. It's an amalgamation of different teachers and countries. Different Asian styles blended together with an interestingly large share of Muay Thai, which shouldn't work for someone so large and yet does. There's Aikido there and even more surprisingly Capoeira—not common in those parts of the world.

Red Hood also spent a large portion of time with the League of Assassins, something the Justice League conveniently forgot to mention. Their unique fighting style is glaringly obvious, and Batman had to have recognized it.

Yet, there's something else there, too. Some other style Midnighter has never encountered before and which keeps taking him by surprise when he least expects it. Unpredictable. Gorgeous.

For someone who isn't a meta—and he isn't; Midnighter would have noticed by now—Red Hood fights beautifully. He dances away from strikes and kicks that should've rendered him unconscious, avoiding or redirecting the impact with a grace that takes away Midnighter's breath. His computer keeps upping the assessment threat one reluctant percentage point at a time.

Midnighter could kill Red Hood easily. He wasn't lying when he said that killing always comes easier to him. It's not the Justice League's leash holding him back from going for the final strike, but his own curiosity. He stores away the variations in Red Hood's blocks and counters and files away movement sequences, trying to pinpoint that elusive style that builds the core around which Red Hood has interwoven all other martial arts.

The man moves like water, giving in when he should fight, retreating when Midnighter expects him to charge forward, only to push forward when Midnighter least expects it.

Midnighter's fighting algorithm learns and adapts—it was built for that—but Midnighter doesn't remember the last time he had to actually pay attention to win a fight. He relishes every single moment of it, almost regretting the inevitable moment when he will learn all Red Hood has to teach and their bloody, brutal dance will come to its inevitable end.

"Download completed," an artificial voice says from across the lab.

"Fucking finally," Red Hood grumbles.

One millisecond later, Midnighter's world blacks out.

Chapter Text

He wakes up in a bed with the disconcerting realization that he doesn't know where he is. There's a man sitting next to him, tall and gorgeous. The worried frown on his face doesn't take away anything from his beauty. He wants to kiss that frown away and tangle his fingers through the long blond hair. He wants to pepper kisses along that chiseled jaw, down the man's muscled neck, and bite down on the mating gland to stake a claim.

His.

Strange to feel so much possessiveness over someone he doesn't remember.

"Mid?" The man asks. "How do you feel?"

The voice sounds so familiar; it sparks something in the back of his brain. Recognition.

"Apollo," he croaks out, sure that he has the name right. "Hi, handsome," he adds, even though the words hurt on his too dry throat.

Relief cleanses the worry off of Apollo's face. Much better. Something in him eases, too, mirroring Apollo's relief and making it his own.

"What happened?" he asks.

His own name comes back to him—Midnighter—as more and more data begins to trickle in with increasing speed as his internal CPU restarts disrupted processes.

He takes a second to relish the fact that he remembered Apollo before he remembered himself. It should terrify him, but it feels right instead.

"Red Hood detonated a high-powered EMP device in the labs. It destroyed all computers and erased the local servers," Apollo explains. "Luthor builds his labs with specs designed to withstand Superman and it shows. It took me much too long to get in," he admits with a small smile that has too much guilt in it. "The EMP affected you, too. By the time I made it in, you were already unconscious and Red Hood was gone."

Midnighter hates the guilt in Apollo's voice. It's not Apollo's duty to babysit Midnighter. However, he has the perfect solution to kick Apollo out of his funk.

"Awesome," Midnighter says, amping the glee in his words as much as he can. "That means you're on dish duties for a month." Now that his memory is coming back, it's coming back fast.

Apollo startles and then narrows his eyes down at Midnighter. "The bet was for a week," he protests. The affronted look fits him much better than the guilt.

"That was when I thought you'd make it into the lab within minutes. You just admitted it took you forever. Hmm," Midnighter pretends to think. "Maybe you should be on dish duties forever too."

Apollo rolls his eyes and snorts. "You wish. Two weeks, and only because I'm taking pity on your fragile constitution."

"I'll show you fragile," Midnighter teases him back. The scent of guilt is completely gone and Midnighter got an extra week free of dish duties out of the deal. Sweet.

"EMP attacks have never affected me before," he says, addressing the more serious matter.

Midnighter has a supercomputer in his brain, but it's seamlessly integrated with his neurological tissue. He isn't powered by batteries or electricity. He's not a cyborg, just a highly, highly enhanced human. Biological matter isn't affected by EMP, and the attack shouldn't have affected him either.

"The Justice League is still trying to identify how Red Hood did it. It's a technology neither them nor Luthor's people have ever seen before," Apollo explains. "Luthor had his labs protected against EMP attacks as well. Whatever Red Hood used bypassed all of Luthor's state-of-the-art protections and your own natural defenses. We're calling it EMP because the effects are the same. Luthor's lab equipment can't be restored. I feared that—" He stops. "I'm glad you're alright." He clutches Midnighter's hand with his and Midnighter squeezes back reassuringly.

The whole special EMP weapon thing sucks. Someone out there can shut him down for good within seconds. That vulnerability is terrifying. "We need to know how he did it and find a counter," Midnighter says.

Despite how much Midnighter hated to have been experimented on as a child, at least Bendix didn't program weaknesses into them. He doesn't like how it makes him feel to know that he now has his own version of kryptonite.

"I've been looking into Red Hood's activities for the past days. We're making him a priority." Apollo seems to loathe this newfound vulnerability of his just as much. "Do you have all your memories? The computers in that lab are all useless; the data is gone."

"Yes," Midnighter says. Data is currently being restored at high speed in the back of his mind. It feels a bit as though his brain was forcefully rebooted, but all the information is still there. "Nothing is gone."

"Good." Apollo caresses Midnigher's temple with soft fingers, as though reassuring himself with his hands that Midnighter is there. Unharmed.

Midnighter sighs and closes his eyes, enjoying the myriad of sensations that simple touch ignites.

"Mid," Apollo says, demanding his attention again. "What happened in the lab? The security tapes were wiped, but whoever launched that attack has to have been inside. No matter what technology they were using, they must have been very close to you for the EMP to have affected you at all."

Oh, range might have played a key role. He was barely a foot apart from Red Hood when the man detonated his device. A potential silver lining? It'd be a boon if the device can't affect him from a longer distance. Too bad they can't test it.

"How come you have so much information?" Midnighter asks, instead of answering Apollo's question. He doesn't want to admit that he played a bit too long with his food, and the mouse got away from him.

Midnighter should have killed Red Hood and finished the fight before it had time to unfold. Stupid mistake.

"Luthor and the Justice League are reluctantly cooperating," Apollo says. "They realized they were set up against each other. Someone leaked information to Luthor that a competitor had hired meta mercenaries to launch an attack on his lab. The lab in question is completely legal. With the data gone it's hard to know if Luthor is lying or not, but the paperwork is in order and everything is above board. Luthor isn't happy with the Justice League, but they've come to a temporary agreement to work together to neutralize Red Hood."

"Nothing like the enemy of your enemy to create strange bedfellows," Midnighter points out.

Those two forces working against him are gonna make Red Hood's life hard. Still, Midnighter believes the man will be able to evade them. Red Hood's easy confidence as he’d said, 'You won't be the first one to land a blow. Make it fatal if you can. It never stopped me before,' was more than justified.

For all of Midnighter's skill and the fact that stopping Red Hood should have been easy, he had failed to do it. He'd been the overconfident one, not Red Hood.

"Red Hood is good, better than the Justice League's file implied," Midnighter tells Apollo. "We fought." Admitting the next bit will be such a blow to his ego, but Apollo needs to know. "He isn't a meta, but he's been trained to fight against them, and trained well. I've never encountered his specific fighting style before. Something Asian. I was trying to pinpoint it when the EMP hit."

"You couldn't take him down?" Apollo asks, surprised.

"Not without killing him," Midnighter says. Would killing him really be as easy as Midnighter thinks? Probably yes. Maybe yes? Red Hood did manage to outsmart Midnighter's predictive algorithm a couple of times. That only happens when metas are faster than Midnighter's brain can predict. In other words, almost never.

"You were playing with him, and the EMP took you by surprise," Apollo concludes.

"Maybe I was playing a bit," Midnighter admits with a bit of chagrin. "He's a very skilled fighter, though," Midnighter defends himself.

Apollo chuckles. "Of course he is. You only play with the ones that make you work for it, otherwise you get bored and finish the fight immediately."

"Next time, I won't play," he reassures Apollo.

"Next time, I'll be there with you," Apollo promises.

"I don't need you to be there," Midnighter protests.

"I know, but if he impressed you that much, I want to fight with him, too."

Midnighter narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Didn't we just agree to not playing?"

"You agreed to not playing, and I'll hold you to that," Apollo says smugly. "I, on the other hand, did not agree to anything."

"Oh, you underhanded traitor," Midnighter hisses, and pulls Apollo closer to give him the kiss he'd been wanting to give him since he woke up.

"Always," Apollo whispers against Midnighter's lips, and they get distracted by other, more important things than a wannabe crime lord.

Investigating Red Hood is an exercise in frustration. The man is elusive and though he's expanding beyond Gotham, his base of operation seems to remain there. It makes finding information about him incredibly difficult. Batman remains awfully territorial when it comes to his ugly, crime-infested city.

Getting information out of Gotham is like pulling teeth. Those who aren't loyal or intimidated by Batman are loyal or intimidated by Red Hood. It all amounts to the same. No one wants to talk, and the weeks crawl by without any major breakthroughs.

The only light on the horizon is his upcoming meeting with Lucas.

The trouble with Red Hood had temporarily pushed Lucas to the back of Midnighter's mind. However, when he gets the automatic email from Charlotte's Escorts reminding him of the approaching appointment all his focus switches back to their omega boy.

They don't bother renting a hotel room this time, but use their own place for delivery. Apollo's idea.

It's one thing to have an omega in an impersonal hotel room in the midst of a rut, and another to have an omega in their own den. Before they buy him, they need to know how their territorial instincts will react to the boy's presence.

The doorbell rings and Midnighter's heart jumps in anticipation. There are no rut hormones clouding Midnighter's judgment now. This is it.

The beta accompanying Lucas is different this time, but Lucas is exactly as Midnighter remembers him. If anything, Midnighter had forgotten how attractive he found that half-mocking smirk of his.

The boy's green eyes widen when he sees them and the sharp ozone tang of his enticing scent spikes with surprise. He remains quiet while Apollo goes through the legalities with the beta representative, resting against the wall of their living room, arms crossed, waiting.

Midnighter can't stop staring at him, cataloging and filing away every single detail. The instincts bellowing mine get louder as the boy's scent mixes in with theirs. Every second Apollo spends reading through the fine print lasts an eternity.

"Hello, Lucas," he rumbles as soon as the beta leaves the three of them alone, letting the desire drip into his voice.

"Hello, Lucas," the boy answers back with an unimpressed eye-roll. He peels himself away from the wall with fluid grace. "I don't get many repeat customers in such a short amount of time. You hit some good odds."

Midnighter walks to him, meeting him half-way. He catches Lucas's wrist and pulls the boy into his body to better breathe in that intoxicating scent. "Three months waiting isn't what I'd consider a short time," he says, tucking a rebel curl of black hair behind the boy's ear.

Lucas narrows his eyes and scowls at him. "You bribed someone to fix the encounter. Who did you bribe?"

"I didn't bribe anyone," Midnighter defends himself. "I very charmingly asked a customer service employee to assign you to me, and they were very helpful."

"They aren't allowed to be that helpful," Lucas says.

It surprises Minighter that the boy knows the comings and goings of his agency so well. Midnighter is too used to omegas so lost to the haze that they can't understand the world around them.

"I can be very charming." Midnighter gives him his most winning smile, the one Apollo claims doesn't fool anyone.

It doesn't fool Lucas either, but he snorts and shakes his head, and an invisible layer of wariness slowly trickles away from his body. "You aren't even close to a rut."

"We wanted to have you without a rut," Apollo says, stepping closer. "If you'll have us."

"I'm paid for," Lucas says, turning his head to nuzzle into Midnighter's hand like a contented cat. "I'm yours for the next three days. Of course, I'll have you."

Midnighter lifts Lucas's chin with his fingers and meets his eyes. "It's more than that." He wants to get this in the open now. Lucas should know that he won't have to service strange alphas ever again, that they will give him the home he deserves. "We want to keep you. Beyond the next few days. Forever."

Lucas guffaws, and breaks away the contact. "Oh my! Really?" The scorn practically drips from his tone. He shakes his head disbelievingly, stepping further away. "I'm owned by an agency. You don't need to promise me forever to convince me to do whatever kinky shit you have in mind. Chances are high I've done it before. What is it you want?" he asks suspiciously.

Midnighter desperately wants to pull him closer, but knows that it won't end well. He forces himself to stay put. "We want to keep you," he insists, willing Lucas to believe them. "We want you to become our house omega."

Lucas's body coils with tension. "And whatever you want, you get." Under his breath, low enough that Midnighter can only hear it because of his enhanced senses, he grumbles, "Fucking alphas."

Apollo hears it, too. "You don't want us to purchase your contract." It's not a question.

The certainty in Apollo's words forces Midnighter to pay closer attention. Lucas isn't reacting with the elation Midnighter had anticipated and daydreamed about. Don't all agency omegas wish for a permanent home?

"I suppose no one ever bothered to tell you this, but Charlotte's Escorts has a strict no-sale policy. You can't purchase me," Lucas explains.

Midnighter frowns. "Agencies don't have a no-sale policy." What a ludicrous notion.

"The Charlottes do," Lucas insists. He sighs. "Look, we're wasting valuable time you've paid for discussing this. It's never gonna happen. The Charlottes don't even sell old omegas past their mating years to labs. That tells you all you need to know. They aren't gonna sell me."

"To labs?" Midnighter asks carefully, dreading the answer.

"I can't decide if you two are the best actors in the world or if you truly have no idea about the economics behind omegas' shelf lives," Lucas says dubiously.

At their blank expressions, Lucas huffs. He shifts on his feet, vibrating with barely contained anger.

"Yes, to labs," he adds sharply, the words like shots being fired. "What do you think most agencies do with their omegas once they become too old to rent out? They're sold to pharma corporations or any other labs in need of cheap test subjects. For all you alphas and betas like to believe you're so much better, we regrettably belong to the same species. It makes omegas excellent test subjects for new drugs and experimental medical procedures. It's not like there are laws protecting us. The only reason no one uses us for forced labor is because hazed omegas can't function without dedicated, constant alpha supervision."

Apollo and Midnighter spent a large part of their younger years as Bendix's illegal test subjects until they were finally able to escape that nightmare. That time is a fog to him, but Midnighter remembers Bendix commenting that he started experimenting with omegas first before realizing omegas would never be strong enough to survive his experiments, forcing him to kidnap alphas to create his perfect superhumans.

The realization that the horrors Bendix did to them were only illegal because Apollo and Midnighter were alphas is sobering.

"I didn't know that," Midnighter says, nauseous.

"Lucky you," Lucas comments derisively. "Some of us can't afford the luxury of not knowing. It doesn't matter. The Charlottes are different. We don't sell omegas. Once a Charlotte, always a Charlotte."

"But we—"

Lucas cuts him off. "If you want a house omega, do what most alphas looking for a breeder do and purchase them directly from their family. Or go to an auction. It's not my problem."

"We don't want a breeder," Midnighter says, desperate to make Lucas believe them. "We want you."

"I'm not for sale!" Lucas snaps. "You know what? Never mind. Contact Charlotte's Escorts and strike a deal. Good luck with that."

"Hey," Apollo says, stepping closer to Lucas, closing the distance between them. He keeps his hands visible and unthreatening. "We won't get you in trouble with the agency. You needn't worry about that."

"I'm not worried about anything," Lucas hisses, though he seems a bit more calm.

"We've missed you," Apollo says. "You have no reason to believe us, but we have missed you these last months. How about we stop fighting and make the most of tonight?"

Apollo is impossible to resist when he uses that tone of voice. God knows Midnighter is absolutely helpless against it.

Lucas isn't immune either. His shoulders slump and he sighs out. His scent loses some of that sharp ozone tang and becomes softer. He leans against Apollo, closing that final step Apollo hadn't dared take to avoid cornering him, and his lips curl into a wicked, salacious smile.

"And here I thought I made it clear last time that I like fighting," Lucas purrs, batting his eyelashes cartoonishly.

Apollo chuckles, and traces the boy's cheekbones with the tips of his fingers. "Did someone tell you that fighting isn't foreplay?" he asks, amused.

"I remember you got off on it, too, Mister If-You-Are-Gonna-Fight-Do-It-Naked," Lucas counters, and turns his face to capture Apollo's thumb between his lips.

"Where he's right, he's right." Midnighter moves closer, following the pull the two of them touching each other has on him.

"Lucas," Apollo whispers, voice rough, as he pushes his thumb further into Lucas's wet mouth. "You're special. It'd be a privilege to have you be a part of our lives. In whatever form you want that to take."

Lucas's cheeks flush pink. He lets go of Apollo's thumb but doesn't move away from them, if anything, he leans closer. For the first time since they've met him, he avoids their gaze, uncomfortable with the praise. It doesn't seem as though he's been complimented much before. Apollo and Midnighter will fix that.

"What are you even going to do with me if you buy me?" Lucas asks, mustering a rebuttal. "Have you thought about that?"

"Whatever you want," Midnighter says. "And yes, want will have everything to do with it."

Lucas tsks. "Whatever I want? Really? And if I want to go to college? Do I get to do that, too?"

Midnighter's first impulse is to say 'omegas can't go to college' and realizes that that's the point Lucas is trying to make.

"Whatever you want that is in our power to give you," he corrects himself.

Lucas's scent spikes with ozone again, like a thunderstorm brewing. "I don't want to talk about this any more," he says abruptly. "There, a want. I came up with it all by myself even. Do you want to hear another?

"I wasn't expecting you to meet you again, but I'm here now," Lucas goes on, not waiting for their answer. "I doubt we'll be seeing each other after this, despite whatever promises you insist on making. I've been promised things by alphas before." He huffs a low chuckle that sounds like broken glass. "However, there's something you can give me now: the fight and the fuck; maybe some of the fun, too. I enjoyed myself last time. I want," he stresses the word mockingly, "to enjoy myself again today. Keep your promises of eternity for omegas who can believe them and give me now."

"All right," Midnighter agrees. Lucas can't allow himself the luxury of trust, not until he sees the proof. "We can do that. Best four out of seven?"

"Are you serious?" Lucas asks. The wicked curl of his lips is a victory by itself. "I've fought you before. Ten fights and if I manage to win just one, I'm the uncontested victor."

"That hardly seems fair," Midnighter fake-protests. It's more than fair. "One fight does not a victor make." Midnighter might be tempted to let the boy win, if only to see what triumph looks like on his face.

"Of course it does." Lucas's smirk widens. "You just need to pick the right fight to win."

"Spoken like a general," Apollo says. "I'll referee, shall I? Right after you both lose the clothes."

Lucas arches an eyebrow. "Deja-vu. What about you losing your clothes, too?"

"I could be convinced to do that," Apollo says.

Midnighter reels Lucas in between the two of them. "You're perfect," he whispers against the boy's lips before kissing him, hoping to convey with the kiss all Lucas won't let him say with words.

He will make sure that his impossible omega boy becomes a permanent part of their lives. The alternative is unthinkable.

The alternative seems more and more as though it'll become a bitter reality. They talk to a lawyer to arrange the purchase—a tough down-to-business alpha who comes highly recommended. The moment she hears the name Charlotte's Escorts her face sours.

"Any other agency, and I'd charge the standard 10% of the final purchasing price," she says. "But I've dealt with Charlotte's Escorts before and wasted precious hours trying to make them see reason." Her nostrils flare. "One client even offered to pay half a million dollars for a used escort long past their prime who any other agency would've jumped to sell for less than 15k. They refused." Her scent grows acrid with anger.

She staples her fingers together and rocks back on her chair. "I hate to turn down good business, but you need to understand going in that a long-term rental is your only choice. I won't waste our mutual time trying to negotiate for a purchase that won't happen."

Her thin lips curl down with displeasure before she adds, "I have a duty to be upfront and inform you that there's no guarantee of success even for the rental agreement, if you're set on a specific omega. Some omegas aren't eligible for long-term rentals according to their abstruse internal policies. I'll charge by the hour, regardless of outcome. That's not negotiable."

"We understand," Apollo says.

She sighs. "As a lawyer, I recommend that you find a different agency to purchase from or even better, acquire a young omega directly from a family. A perfectly fine, clean-slate omega who's never been mated for you both to mold and train to your specific desires."

"We don't want another omega," Apollo states with finality, unwaveringly.

If nothing else, the last three days with Lucas cemented their choice even more. This is no longer something Midnighter wants and Apollo is indulging him with. Apollo is just as invested. They're in it together. Always and forever.

"We'll take the long-term rental agreement, if that's the only choice," Midnighter says. "Send us an example of what such a contract looks like."

"Of course." If she's disappointed or pleased by their choice, it doesn't show. The woman has an incredible poker face.

When they leave her office, the giddiness Midnighter had walking in, when he still believed he was just days away from bringing Lucas home, is gone for good.

"Mid, we need to prepare for the possibility that he isn't going to be available for a long-term rental contract."

Midnighter closes his eyes, resigned. He'd already known it. The moment the lawyer said some omegas were never eligible, he'd known. Lucas is too special. The answer will be no.

"I don't want another omega." Midnighter is unable to hide the disappointment in his voice.

"We'll just have to steal him," Apollo says.

Midnighter stops on his tracks, frozen. Apollo takes two more steps before noticing Midnighter isn't walking next to him. He turns around and frowns, puzzled. "You hadn't considered that option?"

"No," Midnighter says, appalled at himself. "It's brilliant. You're brilliant. I love you so much." That initial sense of giddiness is back, stronger than before. Fuck the agency. They're gonna get their boy.

Apollo takes Midnighter's hand and pulls him close. "We should call Angie and drop by for a visit this week."

"Angie," Midnighter breathes out with amazement while his brain starts drafting plans of actions and calculating potential outcomes. They need Angie to hack into the agency's systems and localize Lucas for them. Afterwards, making the extraction will be a child's play.

"It's been a while since we last visited her, hasn't it?" Midnighter says with a wild, shark-like grin that threatens to split his face.

"She did recommend Charlotte's Escorts to us, didn't she?" Apollo shares Midnighter's excitement. "I'm sure she'll love to hear how much we liked it."

She absolutely will. Angie is always good for a bit of illegal hacking, if it's for a good cause.

"Hello," Angie greets them warmly, hugging and kissing them both. "It's great to see you again. I'm so glad you called. I've been meaning to invite you over for a while now, but I kept getting distracted. Come in, come in!" She steps aside to let them in. "There's someone I want you to meet."

"Someone," Midnighter says, putting a bit of innuendo in his voice.

Angie laughs. "Yes, someone."

He's happy for her. Angie has been alone for far too long and her last relationship didn't end well.

They follow her all the way to the kitchen. Angie is a firm believer that the kitchen is the best place in any house and close friends should eat there. Period.

"Meet Nick," she says, brimming with pride.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," a thin, clean-shaved man with brown, shoulder-length hair says, smiling shyly back. He meets their eyes briefly before his gaze skitters away. "Angie has told me a lot about the two of you. Welcome."

Nick is an omega. Not the kind of someone Midnighter has been expecting to be officially introduced to. Most importantly though, Nick isn't hazed. His scent is like fresh pine and earth with underlying notes of citrus. There's none of that cloying, repugnant sweetness of the haze, which Midnighter had believed all omegas had by default until he'd met Lucas.

Nick lacks the defiant, I-could-care-less-about-alpha's-opinions attitude Lucas wears like a badge of honor. Yet, his initial greeting is enough to convince Midnighter that despite his shyness there's more personality to him than the desperate desire to please Angie. He is nervous, yes, but he's assessing them in his own subtle, shy way.

"The pleasure is ours," Apollo says, and offers Nick his hand, like he'd have done to an alpha or beta.

Nick looks momentarily surprised. He glances at Angie for an instant, but then, without waiting for her approval, he steps forward and takes Apollo's hand in his. "Thank you."

"Pleasure," Midnighter says, and offers him his own hand.

Nick takes it without checking with Angie this time. The handshake is soft, hesitant, as though he's not sure how to go about it, but still trying his best to learn.

Their story comes out during dinner. Angie is too excited and happy to stop herself from telling it. Nick keeps piping in with little comments, unsure of his place with two strange alphas in the room, but growing bolder and bolder as the night progresses.

They've met through Charlotte's Escorts. Nick had been a random hire for Angie's rut.

"Imagine my surprise when Nick told me in that sweet voice of his that I've made a coding error on line 153," Angie laughs, delighted, and Nick blushes crimson.

"You had," he says, cheeks burning, refusing to meet their eyes. "I wanted to help."

"And you did!" Angie looks at him completely besotted. She turns her attention back to them. "Nick insists I didn't because he's a sweetheart, but I gaped at him like an ugly, dead fish. It took me aback. I'd been trying to find the problem with the code for weeks, and it kept eluding me. My rut came in at the most inconvenient moment ever, as ruts do. The agency I'd used in the past had gone bankrupt and their assets were bought by Charlotte's Escorts. There I was, running out of time to finish the coding, a looming rut on the horizon, and forced to hire from a new agency. Murphy's law at its finest."

Her scent spikes with happiness. "The moment I got over the worst part of the rut I opened my laptop and started working on that blasted code again." She smiles at Nick again, and Nick smiles back.

The two of them seem to have totally forgotten that Midnighter and Apollo are in the room with them. They're absolutely hopeless. Midnighter glances at Apollo and they share a knowing look. Ah, fresh love.

"Anyway," Angie says, remembering she was telling a story. "I was on the bed, cursing a blue streak while glaring at my laptop, when Nick leaned closer, still smelling of me, shy and perfect, and pinpointed the error I'd spent days trying to find without success. The best part? He was absolutely right. I could barely believe it."

She takes Nick's hand and squeezes. "We started talking then, mostly about code. I was so curious about him. I didn't even know omegas knew how to read, let alone code."

Her casual words land like a punch. Omegas don't go to school, kept at home by their birth families until they're old enough to sell to a mate. Midnighter had never considered the implications of that before. Most omegas probably don't know how to read.

"Where did you learn?" Apollo asks.

"I've been a Charlotte for almost nine years now. They taught me," Nick glances at them nervously, before confessing, "They teach all their omegas." He's tense as he says it, and Midnighter realizes he's expecting them to disapprove.

"That's good," Midnighter says instead, oddly relieved to know that Lucas must have been taught, too.

"See," Angie says to Nick. "You can trust them. I vouch for them."

"Vouch for us?" Apollo asks.

"The Charlottes isn't your average agency," Nick says after a brief hesitation, still watching them carefully. "It's not something we advertise. We purchase every omega we can, no matter their background, and work to rehabilitate them."

"Rehabilitate them?" Midnighter frowns.

"Break them from the haze," Nick clarifies, and pauses again. Waiting.

"Why keep it quiet? As far as I can tell it's a good thing." Midnighter has only met two haze-free omegas until now, and he likes them both better than the hundreds of omegas he's encountered before.

"It's frowned upon," Nick explains. "Doctors all claim that a hazed omega is a healthy omega." He stares at his half-empty plate, shifting the rice around with his fork. "As someone who spent most of his life hazed, in what most would consider a healthy home..." His scent spikes with bitterness. "I prefer the alternative.

"I was a house omega for over three decades before my alpha bought a younger omega and sold me to Charlotte's Escorts to cover part of the cost," he continues without looking up from his plate. "I don't remember much of my life before the Charlottes. The haze steals it all away. The only thing you know during the haze is the haze. It's a drug. Literally. We are forced into addiction as soon as we become of mating age. Nobody talks about that."

Angie squeezes his hand. She already knew. He must have told her. Midnighter reels from the implications. It makes sense, though. It makes so much sense. It explains why omega behave the way they do around alphas, their desperation, the cloying need constantly drenching their scents.

"The Charlottes have done research on it," Nick says. "The reason our health tanks when we're away from alphas isn't because the haze is healthy, but because the withdrawal symptoms are terrible on our bodies. Charlotte's Escorts was founded by someone who believes in omega’s right to a haze free-life. We have a method to wane omegas slowly from the haze and teach them to function without it. It's not perfect. Many omegas aren't capable of quitting it, after so long under the haze."

Lucas must have. Midnighter tries to picture what Lucas might have looked like hazed and can't. He wouldn't have been Midnighter's Lucas.

"You did," Apollo says.

"Yes," Nick says. "Some of us are able to finish the rehab program." He smiles then and looks up, his dark brown eyes filling with light. "After we're through the worst of it, enough to be able to think for ourselves, we're taught to read and write, math and science. Just your standard minimum education for betas and alphas." He shrugs.

"I loved it. For those of us who are interested, the Charlottes also offer advanced education. We don't get any titles that would be recognized by anyone outside of the Charlottes, but the programs are amazing. It was computers for me. I just love them." Nick smiles fondly.

Midnighter can't reconcile what Nick's telling him with what he knows of omega agencies, even if it explains Lucas's cryptic question about their ability to offer him a college education. He's probably studying with the Charlottes, the same way Nick did. Midnighter wonders what, and regrets not having asked what Lucas would've liked to study if given the choice.

"But Charlotte's Escorts still rent you out," Apollo points out the glaring fallacy of it all. They might not be the worst agency out there, but they're still an agency.

"Yes." Nick shrugs. "The same way alphas have ruts, we have heats. Mating with an alpha two weeks before the heats are due helps with the worst of the symptoms. Heats are hard to go through without an alpha, but it's during heats when we're most vulnerable to the haze. Mating with an alpha shortly before the heat is the best solution we've found so far to avoid falling into the haze while still fulfilling the biological imperatives of our bodies. It isn't perfect, but it's better than the alternative."

Nick looks to Angie and his brown eyes glow with warmth. It transforms his face. "It's not that bad. We've come up with an advanced algorithm to find the best alpha matches. I helped code it," he says with pride. "And it brought me to Angie."

"You're the brain behind the matching system?" Midnighter asks, surprised. It hadn't even occurred to him that the Charlottes might be using their own omegas as developers instead of hiring an external company to do it.

"Not just me," Nick deflects self-deprecatingly. "There's a team of us."

"He's just being modest," Angie laughs. "He's the head of IT development."

"Are you? Is that allowed?" Even as he says it, he realizes that there's no reason why it shouldn't be.

"It's not what typical agencies or labs use omegas for," Nick says. "However, we're legally owned by Charlotte's Escorts, and Charlotte's Escorts is allowed to use its property as it sees fit. As part of the Charlottes we can work as developers, teachers, caretakers, doctors, or researchers. What we do, it's only Charlotte's business and absolutely legal. We, Charlottes, can do whatever we want with our property."

Midnighter notices the way Nick uses 'we' whenever he talks about the agency. We, the Charlottes. Our property.

"That's the reason you refuse to sell omegas."

Does Lucas have a life beyond being rented out? Is he a coder or a researcher? Is he still studying to fulfill a dream the world outside of the Charlottes would deny him?

Midnighter never thought to ask. He never thought there might be an answer worth having.

He recalls with perfect clarity the disdain on Lucas's face at the idea of becoming their home omega. He'd assumed it was Lucas protecting himself by not allowing himself to get his hopes up. Instead, it was Lucas dismissing the idea of having his dreams stolen.

It's Angie who answers. "We've been programmed by society to believe that purchasing an omega is the ultimate way we can show our commitment to them. It's a hard thing to unlearn. Settling for a long-term rental contract with Nick seemed wrong to me at first, but I've come to accept that it's not my right to own him. I just wish the Charlottes didn't own him either."

"Maybe someday," Nick says. "Jason thinks so, and I've come to learn that Jason's dreams have power. If someone can do it, he can."

"Who's Jason?" Apollo asks.

"Our founder," Nick explains.

"Oh, you have to tell them why the agency is called Charlotte's Escorts," Angie says, quivering with sudden excitement. "No, wait, let me tell them. I love that story. It's because Pride and Prejudice is their founder's favorite book. Have you ever read the novel?"

"A long time ago, but I remember the main points," Apollo says. At least one of them has read it.

"Do you remember Charlotte Lucas?" Angie asks.

"Lucas?" Midnighter repeats. Oh. Midnighter is reading that book as soon as he can.

"Yes," Angie says. "She's the best friend of the main character. Both of them are omegas. People usually remember the love story between Elizabeth and Darcy. Elizabeth becomes Darcy's house omega and they live happily ever after. Charlotte, however, is sold by her family to an alpha she doesn't particularly want, but she's long past her mating age and has no choice but to accept. By the time the book ends, she's already carrying her alpha's pups, hazed into accepting a life she never wanted."

"That's why Jason chose the name when he founded the agency," Nick explains. "That's the dream behind the Charlottes. We take the unwanted omegas, those who never got their Darcy, and give them a different choice so that they aren't forced to settle for the Collins of this world."

Something occurs to Midnighter. "Does that mean that when an omega is unavailable for a long-term rental contract it's not the agency behind the refusal, but the omega?"

"Yes," Nick says. "If an alpha wants to buy a particular omega, the agency will ask the omega if they're interested. If the omega is, then the Charlottes will initiate negotiations for a long term-term rental, and see if the alpha will accept that instead of a purchase. That's how Angie and I got together. She asked for me and well…" He gives her another besotted smile and flushes. "I was interested."

Dread settles in the pit of Midnight's stomach even as he forces himself to laugh along with Angie. He knows what Lucas's answer will be. Lucas already answered the question. It had been Apollo's and Midnighter's own arrogance that stopped them from believing him.

Five days later, when the lawyer calls to tell them that C-18130128 isn't available for purchase, Midnighter isn't surprised at all.

They had Lucas for six days and in that time they never bothered to learn anything about him that mattered. By the time Angie's first encounter with Nick was over, she knew Nick was a programmer and that he loved to code, that he was responsible for Charlotte's Escorts matching software. She even knew Nick's real name.

All they know about Lucas is that he likes to fight and is a surprisingly quick study when it comes to wrestling. They know his sharp wit and his sarcasm, the shape of his mocking smiles. They know his scent and the taste of his kisses, the sounds of his pleasure, the weight of his body between Apollo and Midnighter, the perfect way in which he fits them both. They know what Lucas wants them to know; not anything substantial.

They don't know the boy's real name or his dreams and ambitions. They don't know what he does when he isn't pretending to be an escort to get his quarterly dose of alpha pheromones.

Apollo suggests that they ask Nick to try and contact Lucas on their behalf. They just want another chance to prove to Lucas that they are willing to do better. They want to learn everything there's to learn about their impossible boy. They don't need to own him as long as they get to have him in whatever form Lucas is willing to accept.

Two days later Nick calls. "I'm sorry," he says, sounding contrite. "It's not you. He just doesn't want a long-term commitment with alphas right now. He's too busy with his work for the Charlottes." He pauses. "For what it's worth, that's definitely true. He's busy."

"You know who he is," Apollo says. It's not a question.

"I'm sorry," Nick repeats in a small voice. "I can't tell you anything. He asked me not to. He said... I don't know if it'll help, but he did say that the two of you were the closest to Mr. Darcy he ever got in his life. However, he's committed to being a Charlotte now, and Charlottes don't get to have their Mr. Darcy. I know it sounds stupid, but coming from him that means a lot."

"Thank you," Apollo says.

That third refusal hurts more than the first two did, but all Midnighter and Apollo can do is respect it.

Chapter Text

Midnighter can't stop himself from obsessively analyzing every second of their two encounters with Lucas, rerunning stored memories and uselessly calculating new paths of actions branching out from his newly found knowledge of Lucas and the Charlottes.

He identifies and isolates 57 microexpressions that compound to 214 missed opportunities to win Lucas's acceptance. He replays Lucas's surprised face when he saw them that second time, suspicious and wary of their intentions. Despite the depressingly high 17.895% margin of error in his internal calculations, Midnighter is sure that that second encounter was their best chance to prove that they were worthy of Lucas's trust, and they ruined it with their arrogant assumption that offering a permanent collar and a leash to a haze-free omega would make him want to stay.

When the Justice League calls asking for help with their Red Hood-shaped woes, Midnighter and Apollo jump at the opportunity. They're both spoiling for a fight, and Red Hood owes Midnighter a rematch.

Some deity out there must have it out for Midnighter, though. By the time the night is over, he's more frustrated than he was when he arrived.

Dawn breaks on the horizon after one of the most boring stakeouts in Midnighter's life. "What a bust. Someone must have warned him."

"Red Hood will attack," Batman insists a 17th time, but Midnighter stopped believing him 67.382 minutes ago. Red Hood isn't coming.

Midnighter snorts. "Repeating the same words over and over doesn't seem to be making them come true. Try clapping your hands and believing harder next time."

"Red Hood is going to attack this cargo ship tonight," Batman insists. "My intel is good."

"In case it has escaped your notice, the night is already over. Red Hood isn't coming. You keep waiting for your excellent intel to materialize. We're going home."

"Wait for the debriefing," Batman orders.

Midnighter is about to tell him where he can shove his debriefing when a pointed look from Apollo stops him. Right. Burning bridges is probably not the best idea if they want to stay on the Red Hood case.

They want to stay on the Red Hood case.

A couple of hours later, back at the JL headquarters, Batman puffs up like a peacock and states, "My intel was right. He attacked a cargo ship."

"Not the one we were on," Midnighter points out meanly, ignoring Apollo's pinch.

"The shipping company misfiled the cargo documents," Batman explains. "He's going to have a nasty surprise when he opens the containers and realizes he stole an omega shipment instead of the weapons he originally wanted. I'm certain Luthor bribed someone at the departure harbor to alter the ship's manifest as an additional security measure."

"An omega shipment?" Apollo asks, a sharp edge to his voice. "Do we have an idea where he took them?"

"He's probably disposed of them by now," Batman says dismissively. "They were old omegas, ex-escorts purchased by LexCorps for Cadmus Labs. He won't be able to sell that many without raising suspicion and he knows it. His night was as much of a bust as ours."

"Aren't we going to try and find them?" Midnighter asks.

Superman and Batman look at him with identical frowns. "Red Hood won't be there. They're of no value to him. We have to set up a different ambush."

Midnighter's mouth tastes like bile while he watches them talk to each other as they do their little post-mortem about what went right and what went wrong. They don't care about the omegas. Before Lucas, before Nick, before learning about the Charlottes' work, Midnighter would not have cared either.

When he meets Apollo's eyes he sees the same bitter realization reflected there. He wants to scream at Batman and Superman, but he stays silent instead. That silence, he realizes later, is the worst betrayal of it all.

They research the missing omega cargo on their own, trying to find everything they can about it, but it's a dead end. Not even LexCorp is searching for the omegas. They claimed the insurance money, wrote off what wasn't covered, and moved on.

Nobody cares.

It's heart wrenching to see the world from this new perspective. To walk into a restaurant and smell the cloying sweetness of hazed omegas kneeling between their alphas' legs while the alphas ignore them. He wonders who they might be, free of the haze. Shy programmers like Nick or sarcastic, ballsy fighters like Lucas? They're all so incredibly young, too. It's hard to accept that they might die of old age never learning who they could have been away from the haze.

'You really have no idea about the economics behind omegas' shelf lives,' he hears Lucas's mocking words in his head on repeat. So Midnighter makes it his mission to learn, even though learning the truth makes him want to burn the world.

Midnighter is thankful for Apollo's presence at his side, for Apollo's smiles when there are days when smiling is the last thing they both feel like doing.

He has imaginary conversations with the ghost memory of Lucas. He hears the boy's half-mocking laugh in his mindeye whenever he learns a new appalling thing about the treatment of omegas. 'Maybe you should've remained ignorant. Some of us can't afford not to know, but you could have.'

Midnighter refuses to remain ignorant.

He studies omega economics and he studies Red Hood and he learns more about the Charlottes and what they're doing. They visit Angie and Nick often, and he soaks up Nick's stories and files them away to revisit later. It quiets something in him to know that Lucas is safe with the Charlottes, haze-free, himself, learning and growing. Becoming.

"That underhanded knot-whore!" Midnighter hisses and sends his chair crashing to the floor as he stands up suddenly. His coffee spills all over the kitchen table, soaking the morning paper. Midnighter ignores it, eyes lost in the distance as his brain reanalyzes all its available intel, shifting through and discarding information, highlighting invisible patterns he'd been unable to see before.

"Mid, are you all right?" Apollo asks.

"He's working for them!" Midnighter says. "Red Hood is working for them!" They've been so incredibly blind. "Oh, they're good. They're so good." He laughs out loud, high with the power of this newfound understanding.

"Working for whom?" Apollo asks.

"For the Charlottes!" Midnighter looks at Apollo, eyes wide with amazement. "Apollo, they're working together. He's stealing omegas for them. That cargo shipment wasn't a fluke. He didn't want the stupid weapons. He wanted the omegas."

"That doesn't make sense at all," Apollo points out.

But Midnighter knows he's right. Nothing has ever made more sense. "Wait, hear me out." It's hard to translate into something remotely coherent for human understanding the leaps and bounds in insights that his background pattern analysis algorithm has just decoded. "Where are the Charlottes getting their omegas from?"

"They purchased them?" Apollo says tentatively.

"Yes, but they were a no-name, one-in-a-hundred escort agency ten years ago and now they're the fastest growing escort company these days." It's so obvious now. Occam's razor. "Do you know who else was a no-name, one-in-a-hundred thug ten years ago? Red Hood! The Charlottes need money to rehab omegas the way they do. They aren't earning that with rental contracts, especially since they only rent most omegas once every three months. And yet, they're still profitable."

"You know what Nick has told us," Apollo plays devil's advocate. "They sell in-house services for other companies, which is done by the omegas they own: call center services, translations, research, data monitoring and security, apps development. That's how they finance themselves. They have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies without anyone the wiser and all perfectly legal. As owners they can do with their omegas and their work what they want."

"Yes, but the omegas doing that work had to be broken from the haze and trained. They had to learn to read and write from scratch. It must have taken them years to get them to that level. Even Nick needed four years before he could start doing the work he does for them these days, and Nick is a genius. Where did the money come before that?"

Midnighter goes on triumphally, "However, if you add money laundry and illegal omega acquisition as two new variables, suddenly that complex, multiline equation starts to align beautifully. Factor that into Red Hood's movements and right in front of your eyes the Red Hood puzzle solves itself. I just ran through the numbers, and the correlation between Red Hood's attacks and missing omegas is 0.8187."

Midnighter raises a hand to forestall Apollo's protest. "Ah-ah. Before you say, but Mid, correlation does not imply causation, I'll remind you that I fought Red Hood. And yes, I might have been playing with my food and it bit me back, but Apollo, it takes skill to bite someone like me back even when I'm playing. The type of skill which doesn't make stupid mistakes like letting a misfiled cargo manifest deter them from their intended target. Unless…" he trails off and waves a hand encouragingly, waiting for Apollo to follow the thought experiment he just presented to its only natural conclusion.

"Unless they weren't deterred at all," Apollo says. "The omega shipment was the target."

"Bingo!" Midnighter says, slamming his hand on the table. "That has been bugging me for weeks. It just didn't make sense for him to blotch that up. Someone able to become Gotham's sole Crime Lord right under Batman's nose, who then proceeds to successfully raid a LexCorp lab while the Justice League is within shouting distance doesn't make such rookie mistakes. He'd have been captured ages ago."

"Ergo, it wasn't a mistake," Apollo says.

"Ergo, it wasn't a mistake," Midnighter confirms.

"All right, say I believe you. What do we do with this information?"

"The only thing we can do, Apollo," Midnighter says, because if he sees it, Apollo has to see it, too.

"We help him."

"We help him," Midnighter agrees.

If there's an invisible line in the sand and the Charlottes are on one end, and the Justice League is on the other, Midnighter knows on which side of that divide they have to be on.

The Charlottes. Always and forever.

Once Midnighter starts analyzing Red Hood's criminal activities with his newly gained understanding, predicting where he will strike next stops being an exercise in frustration and becomes a challenging, yet winnable game.

They watch from a distance—Apollo holding Midnighter up in the air, far away enough that no one will be able to see them—as Red Hood and his men load five dozen hazed omegas into a convoy, before setting fire to the lab housing them.

The next day, local news anchors report about a faulty wire connection causing an explosion at a medical research center. Fire and arson inspectors confirm that it was an accident a couple of weeks later and everyone pats themselves on the back because all employees were home at the time the fire broke out. Nobody bothers to mention the missing omegas, although they've been tallied into the five millions dollars estimated property loss.

"You were right about him," Apollo says, after reading the fire and arson investigation report. "He's good."

"Of course I was right," Midnighter says. "You owe me a blowjob."

Apollo arches an eyebrow. "I don't remember a blowjob being on the line."

"Cause you're wrong, and I'm right," Midnighter says smugly. "Are you reneging on my blowjob?"

Apollo prowls closer and boxes Midnighter against the wall. "When have you ever known me to renege on a blowjob of all things? A debt is a debt." He leans closer and whispers into Midnighter's ear, "Next time you could just ask."

"My way is more fun," Midnighter says, slightly out of breath, even though Apollo hasn't even started yet. He's one hell of a lucky bastard.

Two weeks later they track Red Hood to an abandoned building, except that the building isn't abandoned at all. It's being used as an illegal omega breeding farm. Midnighter has done enough research by now to know that the only reason omega mills were outlawed was because some operators were caught red-handed killing the betas and alpha pups born in the farms since they couldn't be sold. It had been a huge scandal back in the fifties, which ended with governments banning breeding farms in most countries.

If Red Hood's omega extraction at the medical research facility had been bloodless, breaking into the omega breeding farm is certainly not.

"No wonder you like him so much," Apollo comments, while they take in the corpses littering the entrance of the building. "He's gotten blood everywhere."

Midnighter isn't fooled by his tone at all. He better than most knows how much Apollo appreciates a good blood splatter.

"Should we introduce ourselves?" Midnighter asks. He's tired of playing hide and seek with Red Hood.

"Lead the way," Apollo says.

Midnighter opens a portal right into the thick of the ongoing fight and jumps in, Apollo following close behind.

Red Hood adapts fast.

He realizes within minutes that the two of them aren't there to capture him but to help and takes it at face value, altering his plans accordingly. Midnighter had been expecting the man to at least try and shoot a couple of bullets at them. He feels almost cheated by his easy acceptance.

"I see you slipped your leash," Red Hood says to Midnighter after the fight is over. He nudges aside one of the heads Midnighter ripped off with the toe of his boot and watches it roll away. "You're gonna have a hard time explaining this many bodies to Batman & Co."

Midnighter might have gotten slightly carried away tearing limbs, but sometimes that's just so much faster. At least Red Hood doesn't seem to mind. "I wasn't planning on explaining anything to them," Midnighter says.

Like last time, his fighting algorithm predicts that as long as they don't attack first, Red Hood won't attack either.

"I see." Red Hood says absently, watching Apollo as he speaks, head tilted slightly. Midnighter can't blame him. Apollo in his full combat regalia is impossible to ignore. "You have me at a disadvantage," Red Hood says after a moment. "Want to introduce yourselves?"

"I'm Apollo, and this is Midnighter, my partner," Apollo says.

Red Hood is still staring. Midnighter is curious as to what capabilities that helm of his has. He must be running some kind of analysis.

"Did someone bother to tell you that wearing a face mask is part of the superhero deal?" he says to Apollo, all butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth like. "You don't have the kind of face, or hair, a couple of badly fitted glasses can hide. Anyone who's met you outside of the suit would recognize you immediately."

Apollo laughs. "His glasses are terrible, aren't they?"

"An absolute travesty," Red Hood deadpans.

"Most people who see me in a fight and are not on my side of it don't survive it anyway," Apollo comments casually. "I never saw much point trying to hide my face."

"I'm still alive," Red Hood says.

"Exactly," Apollo points out.

"I see. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your sudden change of alliance?" Red Hood asks, addressing Midnighter this time. "Last time I checked you were working for the Justice League."

"We had a difference of opinions regarding omega treatment," Midnighter says.

"I don't see how that relates to me," Red Hood lies.

"Come on," Midnighter chides. "We both know that's not true."

Red Hood tenses. "You wasted your time coming here," he snaps. "The answer is still no."

Midnighter's breath catches as the last puzzle piece finally slots into place. "Lucas?" he gasps.

Next to him Apollo goes absolutely still. "Oh."

Red Hood's hands clutch the gun he's holding. Midnighter sees 127 outcomes in which the bullets fly towards them. He calculates 127 ways in which the two of them easily avoid the bullets. Red Hood fights them; Red Hood loses. Red Hood fights them; Red Hood loses. 127 variations of the same theme. And yet, every victory ends with them losing forever this new, unexpected, fleeting opportunity to earn Lucas's trust.

It's not acceptable.

He calculates possibilities after possibilities in his brain, discarding those first 127 variations, forcing his supercomputer to generate new iterations of the future that will bring him the one outcome he desperately desires. He needs to find the one path among hundreds of thousands that will stop Lucas from firing that shot.

One path appears. One chance.

"Our affections and wishes are unchanged," Midnighter quotes, because whatever else he might be, Red Hood is Lucas, and Lucas is a Charlotte. He'll understand the meaning behind the words. "But one word from you will silence us on this subject forever."

Red Hood hesitates, and the initial 127 outcomes evaporate into nothing. "I have already said the word."

"And thus we're forever silent on this subject," Midnighter agrees, grabbing the one outcome he wants and yanking it closer, dancing along the razor thin edge of the one probability his brain calculated, to make it materialize. "We came here to offer our help, not knowing who you were underneath that mask. That offer remains."

"You just said that you knew," Lucas hisses.

"That there was a connection between Red Hood and the Charlottes," Midnighter explains. "Not that you were… you. Someone I greatly admire once told me that ignoring the economics behind omegas' shelf lives was a luxury only alphas and betas got to have. I refuse to continue living that way."

"If you can’t tolerate us near you, then make us work with someone else," Apollo says. "But I wasn't lying when I told you that whatever side of the battle we're on will be the side that wins. We are on your side. Use us."

"This isn't a war," Lucas says.

"Of course it's a war." Midnighter doesn't need the supercomputer in his brain to know that. "And you've been fighting it alone for ten years. Maybe even longer. Let us help."

"Why would you care?" Lucas asks. "It won't change my choice. I can't afford the risk of mating with an alpha more than once in a quarter and I won't. I'll never agree to an alpha claiming me, and I'd rather die a thousand times than live a single day under the haze. Having done both, I know what I'm talking about. There's no future here for you."

"Of course there is," Midnighter says. "You intend to purchase or steal every omega you can and teach them to live a life worth living. You're taking baby omegas and raising them to be haze-free. Even now, I'm sure you're researching ways to counter the haze or grow omegas’ immunity to it."

"Nick has a big mouth," Lucas grumps.

Midnighter snorts. "No, I just have a big brain with a supercomputer in it and an incredibly high capacity for logical deduction. Of course you're doing that. You're probably doing more."

Midnighter hadn't understood why someone like Red Hood would help the Charlottes. The connection was undeniable, but the motives behind it had eluded him. Now, knowing that Red Hood is an omega, the picture in his head is crystal clear.

"That future you want for omegas is a future worth having. It's a future worth fighting for." Midnighter knows what it's like to grow up in a lab, experimented on and dismissed, used and discarded. No one deserves such a fate. Apollo and Midnighter were engineered to fight and here Lucas is finally handing them a battlefield that matters, one that will change the world or burn it to the ground.

If Midnighter hadn't been in love before he'd be in love now. Of course Nick's algorithm matched them. Lucas is perfect.

"Even if you were to never talk to us again, even if you were to never allow us near you, that future would still be worth fighting for," Midnighter tells him. "And Lucas, please believe us when we tell you that we'd rather have you as an equal, haze-free and yourself, than as a hazed omega at our feet. If friendship is all you're willing to offer, we'll take friendship."

"I don't," Lucas says."I don't believe you."

"Then don't," Apollo says. "Don't believe our words, believe our actions. Test us. Let us prove to you that we mean it."

Lucas huffs, annoyed. "Gods, you actually make me want to believe you."

"He's disgusting like that," Midnighter commiserates. "It should be illegal."

"You're one to talk," Lucas grumbles.

"Oh, come one, no one ever wants to believe me," Midnighter says. "I don't have a trustworthy face."

"You have an I-still-want-to-punch-you face."

Midnighter's grin widens as the probability of Lucas leaving declines from 0.467 to 0.132 and continues to drop with every passing second.

Lucas sighs out loud. "I'm probably gonna regret agreeing to this, but what we want to do is bigger than just me. The Charlottes have taught me that many hands make light work. We could use the help."

"Thank you, Lucas," Midnighter says.

"It's Red Hood when I'm wearing the helmet," he says. "Red helmet means Red Hood."

"Aye, Aye, Captain Red Hood, sir. Clear, precise instructions." Midnighter salutes him.

"You're gonna be impossible, aren't you?"

"You've no idea," Apollo says, smiling fondly at Midnighter.

"I must be partially hazed after all to even be considering this insanity," Lucas mumbles under his breath, low enough that it's clear they aren't intended to hear it. Louder he says, "All right, break is over. You," he points at Apollo."Stop lazing around and help move the omegas into the vans. It'll go faster with an alpha telling them what to do." He turns to Midnighter, "As for you, let's see how good that supercomputer of yours is. Hack their system and see if they have similar facilities somewhere else."

"It's not that type of supercomputer," Midnighter mumbles to himself. He can get into the system, but that's a different skill altogether.

"Chop, chop! What are you waiting for?" Lucas says.

It's a test. Not of their skills, but of their willingness to obey an omega. Midnighter grins; he's great with tests. "Aye, Aye, Captain Red Hood, sir!"

It might take them a while, but they'll earn Lucas's trust. In the back of his mind, calculations start running. The probabilities of a future with Lucas in it soar past 0.5 and continue climbing. Tonight marks a new beginning. They have all the time in the world.

Chapter Text

"Settle," Apollo orders.

The command sends shivers up Midnighter's spine. He stops pacing and forces himself to sit on the hotel bed next to Apollo. He laces his fingers with Apollo's and squeezes, needing the connection to calm his jittery energy.

Apollo grows quiet and intense when his ruts are near. It's Midnighter who always has a harder time staying still. The waiting seems worse this time.

They both agreed to go into it with an open heart and an open mind. It's not fair to the omega to judge him for not being Lucas. Just knowing that they will be haze-free helps. The rest is up to the Charlottes' matching system. Apollo took his time reading the questions and answering each of them as truthfully as he could. Now, all that's left is to wait.

There's a knock at the door and Midnighter jumps to open it. His hand falls numbly from the knob when he sees Lucas on the doorway. It takes his brain an eternity of 3.5 seconds to compute the input his eyes are giving him.

"Hello," Lucas says, and Midnighter's heart skips a beat when he sees that painfully familiar half-mocking smile he'd missed like a limb. "Are you Mr. Andrew Pulaski?"

Midnighter blinks, mind drawing a complete blank, as his brain tries and fails to remember how to function.

"That'd be me," Apollo says, standing behind Midnighter, close enough that he can feel the bulge of Apollo's cock against the small of his back. "Please come in."

Right. Right. Andrew is the name Apollo puts on official paperwork.

Apollo pulls Midnighter away from the door with a gentle hand and Lucas steps in, closing the door behind himself.

"I'm your hired escort for the next two days," Lucas says, eyes crinkling. "If you'd have me, that is."

"Of course we'll have you!" Midnighter says immediately, starting to recover from the initial surprise. Lucas is here. Lucas chose to be here.

"Do you have a name?" Apollo asks, continuing to play the game.

"I suppose C-18130128 is a bit of a mouthful," Lucas says.

Midnighter saves that teasing smile into permanent storage. It just made it to the top of Midnighter's favorite Lucas's things, pushing Lucas's deadly precision with combat knives down to number two.

"How do you feel about Jason?" Lucas asks.

"Jason," Apollo breathes out, surprise in his voice. "It suits you."

Jason.

Wait a moment.

"As in Nick's Jason? Founder of the Charlottes Jason?" Midnighter asks dumbfounded.

Of course.

Lucas's peels of laughter fill the room and Midnighter wants to spend the rest of his life finding ways to make him laugh like that again. Scratch the teasing smile. This is Mindighter's favorite thing by far.

"Yes, that Jason," their impossible boy answers.

It makes so much sense that Midnighter feels dumb for not having figured it out before. From the very beginning, he'd known there was more to Lucas than met the eye. It went beyond his self-confidence or even the way he would always meet Apollo's and Midnighter's gaze without flinching. It was that I-know-something-you-don't maddening smile of his. The long looks from the beta handlers. Nick's subtle comments and hints about Lucas. The almost worshipful, fanatical loyalty the Charlottes have for Red Hood on the field.

It impresses and amuses Midnighter in equal parts how long Jason has been running circles around the two of them.

His biggest consolation is that deep down he'd known it. From the very first moment his eyes landed on the boy, Midnighter had recognized how incredibly unique he was. Even though all Midnighter had been allowed to see was the tip of the iceberg, he'd instinctually known that Jason was more.

Oh.

Midnighter's brain glitches momentarily as a new, key data point unexpectedly jumps from background data intake into his frontal processor.

Jason.

Lucas just gave them his name. Midnighter's heart leaps at the implications. The trust.

He pulls Jason in and kisses him, unable to stop himself. Then, there's Apollo's arms and Apollo's mouth, the taste of the three of them mixing together. Wet and hot and perfect.

"Thank you, Jason." Midnighter breathes in the boy's delicious scent. "Thank you," he repeats, resting his forehead on Jason's.

"I should have stayed away," Jason whispers like a confession. "I could have. I don't even need to mate right now. But I… I wanted to be here."

"Good," Apollo says. "Because we want you here for as long as you'll have us."

A universe of wants stretches out before Midnighter, binary and infinite, impossible to narrow down or calculate no matter how hard his brain tries. For once, the mystery of the future, his inability to narrow it down to a single possible outcome, doesn't bother him. For each line of code, each possibility, ends in infinite iterations of this very moment.

Apollo and Jason, next to Midnighter. Always and forever.