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Ashton does not fucking let go their hammer when they fall. They’ve taken out one guy with it, they’re pretty sure—the guy who sliced their leg before they tripped—and keeping hold of a fucking weapon is really fucking important. It’s only three guys, only one with a blade (that’s the one he thinks is down), and he can take two fucking unarmed dudes even in this condition, so long as he has his fucking hammer.
They could take three dudes with their fucking eyes closed and their hands tied if their stupid fucking body weren’t going into heat.
Ashton does let go their hammer when Guy 2 stomps on their wrist, heavy fucking work-boots and uneven cobblestones. The guy looks like he hurts his ankle trying to kick the hammer away, at least—but then he’s stomping on Ashton’s fingers and fuck, now their fingers are definitely broken and fuck, fuck, this is not good. Gotta get back on their feet, gotta fucking—but aaaaaaaagh FUCK FUCK FUCK oh holy fuck that is a fucking shortsword just buried in their fucking thigh and fuck, fuck fuck fuck this is really not fucking good—
“Gonna stay down now, bitch?”
Guy 2 is laughing, smells like adrenaline and violence and alpha bullshit, has his filthy fucking hand on Ashton’s throat and pressing down hard. Ashton’s broken hand is pinned, elbow under the guy’s knee, but he tries to swat with the other, barely swatting, fuck, they can’t even throw a fucking punch from here, hits something—yes—but it’s not enough: there’s cursing and then a knee to their shoulder, fuck, and then there’s two hands wrapped around his skull which FUCK that fucking hurts, and the guy smashes the back of their head into the street, fuck—
“Oh, we’re gonna have so much fun with you, sweetheart—”
And that one guy isn’t even fucking down: he’s sitting up, spits—looks like he’s hurting at least, crater in the side of his face, but—and FUCK that’s the back of Ashton's head against the street again and it's nothing for a moment, a ringing lack of feeling and then everything at fucking once, burning white noise and pain and fuck, his vision's fucked—and if they knock Ashton out he’s done, he’s done, fuck, fuck, gotta stay conscious, gotta—
“Bet you’re gonna be real sweet once you’re all tied up, yeah?”
“Never seen a genasi omega. How much you reckon he’s worth?”
“Fuck if I know. Fortune. I think Barne knows a guy, if we get him back to mine we can keep him for a couple days then try to find out?”
And fuck, Ashton can’t beg, they won’t, they’d rather die, fuck—but that’s not an option, no one lets an omega fucking die, and what’ll Milo do, what'll Letters do if Ashton just disappears into the black market and never comes home? He’s gotta try to get these morons to—
“Back off, now.” Wilder? Shit. Sounds like a wilder. Ashton’s vision’s—not great right now—but that's a sword over his face, and there's definitely still a sword in his fucking leg, so the new guy's armed. That could be anyone, but the guy sounds like a wilder? Too calm for a civilian. Shit. He can’t fight the fucking wilders like this. He sure as fuck won’t be able to convince them of shit.
“Three of us, one of you, mate. Move along.” The guy mangling Ashton's head.
And—“What, he yours?” Laughing, the fuckwit who ate his hammer. Didn't eat it hard enough, clearly.
Maybe not a wilder, then—but still a fucking distraction, and Ashton pushes every ounce of pain and fear and feral fucking rage into getting up. They've jumped back to their feet from down on their back in a hundred fucking brawls, and if they can get upright they can punch, they can fight, they can do something—
“I said, back off!” The maybe-wilder, and then he's behind Ashton because Ashton’s up—
—until Ashton’s not, because his right leg just collapses, fuck, no—and crater-face kicks him in the fucking chest, and Ashton tries to grab the guy’s leg but they just fucking miss—their vision’s shot, their shoulder’s maybe out of its socket?—and they're falling—but then crater-face is lunging past them instead, and Ashton’s back on his back, fuck, and there’s blood? From above, on his face but not his? And there, right there, the probably-not-wilder—he’s not in Warden colours—slashes across crater-face's shoulder, and he's only a halfling but he does some kind of bullshit jumping shit right fucking over Ashton as the two guys rush him...and then suddenly he’s behind the thugs' one uninjured friend, blade at his throat.
“I told you to back off.” It’s not quite calm, Ashton thinks: something similar, but there’s a whole lot of anger in there. Ashton’s so fucked. He can’t take this dude in this shape.
The guy who’d slammed Ashton’s head into the pavement looks like he’s pissing himself, at least. “Okay—okay—guys—guys listen to him—”
“There’s three of us!”
“He’s going to fucking kill me!”
Not-wilder holds his blade steady. “You two leave, and once you’re a long way off, I’ll let your friend leave too.”
“Fuck! You have any idea how much that thing’s gotta be worth!” Guy 2—but he’s backing off, two steps backward, then more, limping badly, a hell of a gash in one thigh.
Crater-face takes a step forward, and his friend with the not-wilder fucking sobs, ugly crying; Ashton can’t see shit but they're guessing the sword at the guy's throat did something new. Crater-face throws his hands up. “I’m just getting my sword, dude!”
“Leave it.”
“What? No, I'm not—”
“Shouldn’t have stuck it in his leg. Leave the sword, and go, before I change my mind.”
They’re focused on each other, not on Ashton, but they’re still either side of him, and the little not-wilder was really fucking fast. And Ashton’s leg didn’t hold his weight when he jumped up before, so what’s he going to do? Crawl away? Fuck.
“Okay! Shit!” Both guys backing off now. “Fuck you!”
“What you even going to do with an omega like that? Your tiny dick won’t touch the walls!”
“Brug! Stop provoking him!” Still crying.
The halfling doesn’t answer. Ashton’s not really surprised. These guys are dumb fucking rock breakers, Smolder-spire thugs—and 'thugs' is generous. The new guy doesn’t look like money money, but he looks like a proper fucking alpha—maybe has a pack or at least runs second, maybe sends betas to knock down that kind of trash under normal circumstances. Probably couldn’t take Ashton alone on a good day, but definitely fucking can right now, because Ashton is down two arms, one leg, most of their vision, probably all of their balance.
It’s quiet, sort of, for a million fucking years—maybe a minute, who fucking knows—while the shit-heads back off down the street, and further, and well out of Ashton’s sight, and their remaining friend whimpers and swears, and the halfling just stands there with his blade held steady. Eventually, the halfling’s sword drops out of Ashton’s peripheral vision, and the remaining guy bolts off down the street after his friends.
Ashton takes the deepest breath they can. They can do this. They can be smart. He keeps his eyes open but pointed straight up, as averted as he can manage while keeping the guy just in sight. He can do this. Pride ain’t worth shit, not when they have people waiting for them to come home. “I won’t fight. You don’t need to—knock me out, or anything. I’ll be—” he can fucking do this, he can “—good. I'll be good.”
The halfling swings his sword a couple times, fucking terrifying, sprays a bit of blood or whatever into the street. “Do you live nearby?”
What the fuck’s that about? Too fancy to fuck them in the street, maybe. And has pups, maybe, doesn’t want to drag in busted up street cunt at home? Doesn’t matter. Ashton’s playing nice, ‘being’ fucking ‘good’. “No.” Come on, fuck. “No, Alpha.”
The guy drops to a crouch. “Can you stand?”
Ashton is torn for a long moment—bad time to admit weakness—but a lie’s going to fall apart just as soon as the guy tells them to get up. He swallows, hard. “Not really, Alpha. Maybe on one leg.”
“Hm. It’s not going to be safe to move you far like this.”
This is positive, Ashton thinks. If this guy’s willing to drag Ashton back to Ashton’s place to fuck them, then he’s probably maybe hopefully not fucking planning on trying to keep them. No way they can actually let this guy come back to the Krook House, though: Milo and Letters and Anni would try to fight, and Letters might get somewhere, sure, or Milo might manage to pull off a miracle with something, but Ashton’s a liability right now, and just as likely they’d all wind up dead. Or Letters and Anni dead, and Milo and Ashton taken, if this guy has friends. That’s before even thinking about what this guy might try to ransom out of Milo to let Ashton go. Milo only has so much, and fuck if Ashton’s taking Milo down with him.
“You can come back to my place, you’ll be safe there.”
Huh?
“I can’t carry you, but I’m just over there, with the blue flowers. I can help you hop, or limp, or something. We’ll make it work.”
Fuck. This is a bad idea. Going back to some random fucking alpha’s house on his fucking heat—very fucking bad idea. If they don’t get sold underground or handed over to the wilders, good chance they get bit: maybe this guy, maybe some junior alpha in his pack, if he’s already got something less trashy lined up and isn't big enough news to keep a harem. Worst case they get fucking bred, end up tied to some fucking bed with a pup in them. This dude has the look, kind of.
“You still with me?” Waving a hand over Ashton’s face. Fuck. “I need you to stay awake. I can get you some healing once we’re inside, but it’s not safe for you out here.”
Fuck. Option 2: refuse to co-operate. Maybe this guy leaves to go find friends to help him drag Ashton. Maybe Ashton can crawl down the street a bit, find somewhere to hide. But it’s here, the heat, there’s no denying it now. Any alpha in a hundred feet’s going to fucking smell them. No way he can crawl back home without being picked up.
And this guy asked where Ashton lived, first: he didn’t want to take Ashton to his fancy fucking house right there. So maybe—maybe he just wants a couple rounds. Maybe he’ll let Ashton go when the heat subsides. Maybe. Who fucking knows, but maybe. And maybe—at this point, when they can’t fucking walk, when they’re in fucking heat on the street miles from home—maybe’s probably the best they’re going to get. Fuck. Fuck.
“Okay. Okay. I really don’t want to leave you here. It’s not—” A quiet noise of frustration.
Ashton shuts his eyes. Fuck. He can’t believe he’s fucking doing this. “I’ll come with you.”
The guy adjusts quickly. “Okay, great.” Relief, sounds like? That's good, that's fine. Guy likes it easy, that's a good thing.
And fuck, Ashton’s not going to fucking cry. Greymoore kids don’t fucking cry. He’s just going to ask, just in case the guy tells the truth, ‘cause he’s still outside for now; he can still take his chances if the answer’s bad. Deep breath. “Will you let me go home, once you’re done?”
“Hey, look—”
Ashton opens his eyes, force of will: no point asking if he doesn’t even watch the guy’s reaction. “I’ll be—good, I swear, but please—”
A sigh—disappointed? annoyed? Hard to know. Dangerous. Eyes shut, briefly, then open, and looking Ashton right in the eye. Fuck. “Yes.”
“Really?” Dangerous, to question—but not as dangerous as what they’re about to fucking do if they willingly go home with this guy.
No hesitation. “Yes. I promise. I’m not going to hurt you, and I’m not trying to kidnap you.”
Easy, easy lies to tell. But as good as they’re going to get. Ashton grits their teeth and rolls back up to sitting. Their head feels like a paper bag being beat with a fucking mace.
The halfling backs off a few inches, which is some relief, at least, for now. “I don’t really want to pull that out of your leg without a healer, in case it’s cut anything important.”
And fuck, a healer—Ashton’s known more than one person indentured that way. Beat the life out of someone, call them a healer, write up a bill for ten times what it should have cost. Not a lot of choice, though—he might survive three days of being fucked blind with a hole in his leg, but chances are his leg won’t. And in three days’ time his fingers won’t be salvageable without breaking the bank. And this won’t be his first debt, probably won’t be his last. Maybe he can convince the guy he's worked it off in heat sex.
He agrees several beats too late, he knows. “Yeah.” Gods damn it. “Yes, Alpha.” He’ll push his shoulder back in before they get that far, at least; one less thing to catastrophically over-bill for.
A pause. “You don’t have to—I don’t care about that stuff.”
Alpha trying to be nice; not a good sign. But fuck it. “I might need a hand getting upright. And carrying my hammer.”
The halfling nods, circles round a bit. Reaches for his left arm, the good side. At least the fucked shoulder is the same side as the fucked leg. “May I?”
Ashton breathes through the panic. Nods. “Think my fingers are broken.”
The alpha nods too, makes a soft sound, then slowly—telegraphing—grasps Ashton’s upper arm near the elbow with both hands. “Ready?”
He pulls when Ashton nods, and he’s strong for his size—Ashton comes up, wobbly, very wobbly, but upright on their one leg. Heat always fucks their sense of balance.
“You okay?”
The profound temptation to snark back at that, fuck. Ashton nods instead.
The halfling makes a face. “That was a dumb question. Sorry. Which side should I go? To help you walk? Or hop?”
Ashton tilts violently and thank fuck, the guy catches them, one hand on the same elbow, one on their waist.
“Okay, I’m going to come round by your bad leg—”
Ashton opens their mouth to protest that their shoulder’s out that side, but the guy’s not tall enough for Ashton’s shoulder to be relevant.
“I’m going to put my arm round your waist, okay, and you can just lean on me as much as you can. I’ll come back for your weapon once you’re in.”
It’s only maybe thirty yards to the house with the blue flowers, but it’s a long thirty yards.
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