You know, granted what an irredeemable dumpster of diarrhea the world could be at any given moment, Wade liked to occasionally take the time to count his blessings. Despite the fact he’s likely going to spend the rest of his life looking like the human embodiment of what happens to your liver in year 40 of your alcoholism, he’s… really, got it made. He’s got a LIVING girlfriend (#itscanonbitches), he’s wiped his formerly problematic self from the Wolverine trilogy (#stilllloveuwolvy), and he’s got the bestest BEST BEST BEST friends in the world (#talkingaboutxforcebutyoustillcountdopinder).
Which brings him to his CURRENT situation: crashing out in his bedroom, throwing the coolest slumber party ever with his closest buddy, CABLE! So, yeah. There was that trip to Hong Kong or whatever, which he MAY or may not have hijacked the X-Mansion’s Blackbird to travel to because A. TSA checkpoint times in JFK these days are awful and B. as much as he loves the occasional cavity searches, he just wasn’t in the mood this week. Plus, dragging Domino along meant they might not actually crash land the military-grade stealth jet!
Win/win.
Anyway, he’s back “home” now. Or, well, Wade actually opted to park his ass in Nathan’s roach-infested motel room. He was initially gonna surprise him but Old Man John Connor was out somewhere else. Taking care of their psychopathic, snarky, plump little ray of sunshine no doubt! Or… something. Whatever.
Point being, after a few hours became more like… half a day, Wade opted to procure a sharpie out of his ass (literally) and create his own Nathan Summers BODY PILLOW! Granted, the drawing itself was more akin to a first grader’s art project but—it got the point across. Looked fat, grizzled, old, complete with unwashed hairdo (fuck you Bucky, Cable can ROCK this look).
And as the hours go on, Wade makes himself more and more at home. He’s got the shitty Red Roof Inn premium-disco-music-tv-station on and is blasting How Deep is Your Love while giving himself a pedicure (bonus: he’s already done Cable’s, if the little splotches of cherry-red paint blotches on the stick-figure like feet of the drawing are any indication). Full DeePee costume and gear on save for his boots which have been kicked off so that he can air out his welt-coated, pus-oozing, rot-scented feet (;** that one's for you, niche kinksters of bakerstreet).
He’s huddled up against the backboard of the bed, legs curled in. One arm is wrapped around this poor accosted DIY body pillow, the other reaching down to flick cotton candy pink nail polish over his own crusty-jaundice-ass-yellowed toenails. Oh! Wait! What’s that? He gingerly sets the polish aside to reach down between his toes and pull out… a tooth?
“Tumor or… Triad? Tumor or Triad?” Muttering listlessly to himself as he squints down at the molar in question. Cuzzzzz we’re living in a world of fools-- “I’m guessing Triad!” Because he’ll sleep better at night knowing this came from a person he murdered and not a cancerous tooth-tumor growing between his toes.
Anyway he flicks the tooth aside before leaning to the side to rest his head on Pillow!Cable’s Pillow!Shouldercorner. “We have some pretty good times, huh? I mean when we’re old and grey, we’re gonna MISS these days, buddy.” Hold on. Give him a minute to just. Lean in a liiiiiiittle bit more and nuzzle this poor fucking pillow before taking a deep. Long. Extended. Inhale.
The last thing anyone wants to come home to (home in this case being a motel room where finding literal shit in the bed is a best case scenario, considering there's a Ramada Inn across the street) is a mess assaulting all senses — taste, touch, sight, sound. When Nathan finally returns to his motel after a lovely afternoon of wrangling preteen delinquents and coming into conflict with a hairy, cigar-chomping piece of work who's conned the world into thinking he's a teacher, the first thing he hears is the muffled crooning of what sounds like a song. It gets louder as he walks up the stairs leading to his— Ah, yep, that'd be his room. It's coming from inside.
He sees the door slightly ajar, opened just a crack. The knob feels greasy like whoever palmed it rolled their hand around in a bottle of Vaseline. And there's a cloying odor wafting in the air that smells, vaguely, like rotting garbage.
He can already feel a snarl welling up in the back of his throat. Wilson.
The pieces of whatever train-wreck is waiting for him are all lined up, but nothing prepares him for what he sees when he opens the door, handgun drawn. And by open, he means kicks in. Because if he's going to be fucked with, he can at least not make it totally easy, and maybe if he's lucky Wade is standing close to the door.
Except he isn't. He's on the bed, lounging with his necrotic feet out, toes wiggling in the air. There's a pillow. It's covered in scribbles and other weird shit that he assumes is supposed to make it look like a person, and Wade is rubbing his face against it like a cat, and if Nathan squints hard enough he can make out one long downward slope on the thing's "face" that's supposed to be — he thinks — a frown and several more fleeing from one of the eyes that's supposed to look like stink lines or maybe glow lines, and—
Oh.
Oh God.
"What the fuck." He sounds dazed. Like he's trying to decide if he should be mad, horrified, confused or all three at once.
Listen, Wade is, if not anything else, a fantastic friend. He’s essentially that one neckbeard anime geek who shows up at all the parties and provides booze and weed so everyone opts to quietly tolerate, DESPITE the fact, he’s the social and human equivalent of a hybrid between a cockroach and a leech. But when it comes down to it! When all your other friends leave you in the dust, your Mouthbreathing Weeaboo Drug Dealer will ALWAYS have your bag. Always. A-L-W-A-Y-S.
Which is what’s happening here. Since, ya know, Cable fought tooth and nail to save his family from being BBQ’d alive by a socially maladjusted pyromaniac ONLY to end up trapping locking himself in time with… this. This decrepit abomination which reeks of bargain bin Claire’s nail polish and gradually decaying skin cells. This is what he gave up his entire existence for. Do you feel it now, Mister Summers?
Either way, Wade is under the impression he’s being a STELLAR friend right now. Especially because he’s currently locked in his own fucked up little fantasy of pretending this pillow is, ya know, actually the angry, bloated, 180 pounds of muscle huffing and puffing in the doorway there. Especially with the sultry warbling of Barry Gibb thrumming into his ears like a sweet sweet siren’s song.
---Whoopsie daisy! Hohoho, that is Cable standing there, isn’t it? Somewhere in there, Wade missed (or just tuned out) the very real sound of his BFF essentially kicking the door open. Because really, when it comes to Cable, this is basically the equivalent of getting used to the sound of parents coming home from work on a nightly basis.
Regardless, Wade (temporarily) un-pries himself from the pillow, kicks his ranka-ass feet out, and claps his hands above his head in excess delight, before cheering in an all-too-singsong voice, “YOU’RE HOOOOOME~” Complete with tilde.
Track change: this shit. Let the horror sink in juuuust a bit more.
Some days, thinking about his family becomes too much to bear. The loss he's experiencing now is different from the loss he experienced when he found them in the charred remains of their home — less all-consuming — but grief is grief. The point is they aren't together.
At the end of the day, he has no family to come back to. He can't be with Aliya. He might never get to watch Hope grow up. He can't be by their side to protect them, if need be.
Because he's stuck in the past. Here.
With Wade Wilson.
There isn't anything small within grabbing distance, but there's a lamp. A decently heavy one, Nathan discovers when he yanks it off the table, ripping the cord out of the wall socket. He chucks it at the foul creature rolling himself all over his bed as hard as he can, and if it hits Wade in the head, good. Means his aim is still sharp.
If Wade Wilson were a more externally empathetic person, he might, on some level, feel for Nathan. The brief amount of time he'd had living without Vanessa had been agonizing, on a level he never even thought possible. And listen, he's a guy that knows a thing or two about pain. She was and is the only real family he's got. Or well, the only real family outside of this big cuddly lug.
Just. Look at him. Look at those adorable little cheeks that could cut diamonds. And those beady little eyes full of catastrophically damaging levels of mangst! And those massive hairy pecs which could only be usurped by a shockingly uncanny genocidal pink space alien's!* How could you NOT love a guy like th--
And in comes the table lamp. Directly toward his head. Wade instinctively rolls to the side, attempting to deflect the blow with his back but is just a half a second too late. As the lamp goes careening into his low neck and back. Shards of porcelain and glass shattering against it. Some shards even lodge themselves in his back. One nasty little bigger in particular favoring his spine.
Good thing this place already looks like your run of the mill murder motel! Because the guttural blurfing that follows can only be compared to a slowly dying walrus. It's short-lived however because honestly, Wade's been the worse.
"Owwww! Ow ow ow ow ow!" Hold on a second, he's gonna roll over to face Cable and--cruuuunch. Oh. Wait. No. Wrong way. He just further crushed those salaciously sultry slivers further into his spinal column. Welp! The damage is done. He's going to just. Try and pose here on the bed, propping his head up with one hand... very very stiffly. Wait. He's gonna reach back and try and... no. Nope. Can't reach it.
"I think you're gonna have to scratch this itch for me, buddy. I skipped pilates classes for the past two weeks and I'm juuuuust not as flexible."
Nathan watches the ensuing carnage play out with the flattest of flat looks on his face. This sadly doesn't doesn't make him feel better. In any other circumstance, that should be a good thing; a sign that he's not over the edge or something. Instead it just adds to his backlog of frustration that's been piling up the moment he got Vanessa's call earlier that Russell was parking his butt in her kitchen when he should have been at the Institute.
"Fine," he says as he unlatches his utility bag from his back, "come over here so I can pull them out and shove them in your eyes."
He tosses the bag on the table where the lamp once sat, knocking a few old beer cans out of the way. Even before Wade polluted this place it's been starting to look and smell like a pit, and he can't really pin it entirely on the motel's lack of anything resembling a good cleaning staff. Wake up, get dressed, choke down whatever's around for a meal, go out. Follow up on the anti and pro-mutant crimes he's researched the night before, keep slowly building a network of information. Come home, do more research, drink. Fit Russell's needs around all that and make sure he's still keeping to the right path. Then find the time to sleep.
That's it, that's his life now.
Making a point to avoid Wade's face as he walks to the bed, Nathan takes one look at the pillow... thing... and grunts. Not his usual placid this-is-just-my-default-mood grunt, but something with a bit more of an edge to it. An I'm-going-to-puke grunt.
This is the dark path you chose for yourself Nathan. Embrace it. Embrace it.
Wade squints his beady little CGI cowl-eyes over at Nathan. Mainly because he's trying to decipher whether or not that offer was legit. Because if it was, he'd totally consider taking him up on it. Heck, porcelain to-the-eye is a stellar upgrade from being lodged in an unreachable area of his spine. But alas, there goes Nathan, throwing his bag down and stomping around the room like the petulant time traveling gorilla he is!
What a guy, hoho. The times they have.
"Hong Kong." He corrects with a scolding little tsk. "China would have been able to provide me with all seventy-two seasons of Guiding Light for a fraction of the price I paid in Hong Kong. Which--" He points to the monumental stack of bootleg DVDs stacked next to the TV. "You're welcome! Happy birthday! Hope you can fit alla' that in your fanny pack!"
Anyway. Back to... trying to reach for that... little sliver of... nope. No dice. Maybe if he starts grinding his back into the bed here whilst pelvic thrusting, he can roll it out. You'd better believe he's trying in 3... 2...
"Utility bag," he snaps back. Bright Lady help him, he's falling to the bait. But when you're already the butt of the universe's sick joke in physical and pillow form, what else can you do? The answer is clearly to strike back defiantly.
He looks at the pile of cheap plastic languishing next to the dinosaur of a television. He has no idea what Guiding Light is, but it sounds cultish, and coming from him, that should mean something. He has about as much desire to watch one of those as he does to stick his head in an oven, and knowing Wade, he's probably going to be roped into making this a team building experience. Because nothing says productive like wasting time watching garbage instead of, you know, helping people. Saving the city, maybe even the world. Learning a new language. Changing all the lightbulbs in this room.
Literally anything else.
Then something starts going skrritch skraatch against the cheap rubbery bed comforter and he already sees a vague impression of what's happening of the corner of his eye enough to guess it's obscene. And sure enough, it is.
"You came back without telling anyone." The look Nathan gives Wade is nothing short of contemptuous, but there's natural disgust there too because now he's getting a full eyeful of... whatever this is. Air humping. "You could have gone to see your girl. You could have checked on your friends at that bar," he says as he narrows his eyes on Wade's weird gyrating form. He concentrates on the pieces of glass he saw embedded in the other man's back, pictures them in his mind's eye.
"You could have went to that school to make sure your kid is still there."
There's a wet squelch. It wouldn't feel or look pleasant even if Nathan pulled the shards out himself. At least from a distance he doesn't have to worry about getting his fingers cut up or dirty.
"But instead you came here." One piece of glass, then another, then one more comes sliding out of Wade's back as if pulled out by invisible hands. "Just to fuck my pillow."
What even is a utility bag? That's basically the inanimate equivalent of saying that unicorns exist. It is just not possible. Fanny packs however? Definitely exist. And really, if Cable would just own up to his fashion faux-pas, Deadpool would commend him. It's like, such a hip-cool-dad-thing to do. Or was. In the 90s.
"Wowwww you are awfully invested in my--" HOLD on a second! Cable's doing some kinky mind voodoo here because he can feel the shards of the lamp unceremoniously removing themselves from his body. It's either that or this motel is HAUNTED. Which is also, entirely plausible but way less sexy. It's that last piece that really smarts though, as he can feel a vertebrae or two shifting as its callously dislodged from his spine.
Wade flops over onto his stomach, haplessly clutching to his beloved Cabpillow. "Count to three next time or give me a safe word, mmk?" Hm. Maybe he should thank him. But Cable doesn't seem like the sentimental type soooooo... those copies of Guiding Light will have to suffice.
"Also? For the record! I actually came here to see you, your WELCOME. But you weren't here so I had to make do with your pillow--which, really, isn't all that bad. It's softer, gentler, and listens to me." Yeah, he's weirdly caressing this pillow again for another couple of seconds before--
"Hey! How's our belligerently crazy babushka doing? Heard he skipped out on school. Kids these days! At least it's not heroin amIright?" Soooo Vanessa may or may not have sent him a text about that. And he may or may not have just kinda. Figured. Cable would take care of it.
You're welcome, dipshit. And there he goes again with that pillow. God. He probably knows Nathan's been sleeping on it because it's the only one in the room. He might not even wait until Wade leaves to set the thing on fire, purge it like any biohazard should be.
"He left because he wanted to see you," Nathan answers, and it's not something like an accusation, it is an accusation. "He hitchhiked all the way from upstate back down to the city. Had to drag him back kicking and screaming myself."
It's not that he expects Wade to feel anything remotely resembling guilt for inconvenience Nathan. He knows better than that. But while the ordeal of getting Russell back was something you'd definitely call a journey, it's not the heart of the problem, nor is it the real reason why Nathan is angry.
Oh. Oh. Well. That might genuinely make his cancerous little heart flutter just a bit. The lil' guy wanted to see him. It's not really often that anyone outside of Vanessa, Weasel, and occasionally Colossus (xoxo, big guy) deliberately goes out of their way to interact with him.
All this is going through Wade's head IN REAL TIME, which means he's just been staring blankly at Cable for the last sixty seconds or so, saying nothing. And it's hard to tell if he's actually contemplating feeling any sense of remorse behind this seedy little cowl of his but--Cable likely knows hims well enough at this point to deduct that...
"You..." Wait for it. "... bodily dragged my child against his will?" Have a slow, disapproving shake of the head and a little finger wag. "I think the internet would call that problematic. I know you like beating up kids, Cable, but I thought we were better than this now."
Phhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew. The point. It's gone. Out the window. Dead.
Only Earth's mightiest telepaths will hear the sound of Nathan's blood pressure spiking, perhaps even from across the country.
"You don't even care, do you?" He blinks slowly, expression unreadable but dark. He looks like he's trying to comb over each part of his anger to decide what to act upon first. It turns out, there's a lot to unpack. But this is the best way to sum everything up.
Literally aaaaaaaaaaanyone else in the world might feel some level of guttural dread in response to Cable's tone at this very moment. That said, Wade has been figuratively and literally pushing every single one of the other man's buttons for the past twenty minutes without fail. So really. He's not at all surprised.
Deadpool: 1 Cable: 0
"Asks the guy who just threw an actual antique lamp at my head. The audacity." Okay no. No no no. No, Wade. This is serious.
Abruptly he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and wiggling his Brony colored toes for a moment before sighing slowly. His body posture says that maybe he does feel a bit sheepish. Just. Maybe. "Okay okay okay. So maybe this wouldn't have happened if I didn't make him take Colossus's knitting class. But what was the alternative? Football with Cyclops? Puh-lease! No child of mine is going to be an athlete."
Nathan's face remains deadpan throughout Wade's explanation, but something flashes in his eyes towards the end of it — literally in the case of his left one. It's fleeting, gone by the end of Wade's little diatribe, but it's visible if you care enough to look.
"It wouldn't have happened if you took even an iota of this seriously," he says slowly. "The kid has problems. You know it, I know it. He needs more than just Xavier's help, and the only person he trusts enough to give it to him is you. Not anyone else in that school, not your girlfriend, definitely not me. You."
He steps over to the bed.
"So why don't you just stop acting like a fucking clown—" And grabs at the pillow with all the grace of a fat crocodile, prying it out of Wade's grubby hands with equal force. "—And start acting like a parent?"
Really, Wade should be counting his blessings here with Cable giving him fatherly advice on how to properly child rear. Granted, ya know, Vanessa is... still expecting, and he has absolutely no fucking idea how to take care of a baby let alone a full grown child like Russel. So. Yeah. Maybe he should heed the advice of this guy. Even if said guy at one point in a timeline got his kid incinerated--
Should he bring that up? He could. He really really could if he was that level of a dick. And in a lot of instances, Wade is. But truth be told, all banter aside, he genuinely 1000001% likes Cable. Like so much that he wasted his artistic talent on him. Listen, not even Wolverine got that kind of treatment. Wade had to settle for People Magazine cut outs from some RANDOM GUY named HUGH JACKMAN for source material.
But this pillow? This dakimakura was made with heart and soul. And his masklip quivers slightly as its torn away from his cold cancerous hands.
Even then, ;ow blow insults to his cranky-old-white-cis-man buddy here is gonna be a hard pass.
There's a beat that follows and Wade sheepishly looks down at his toes. Like he's just been told off by the father he actually liked and never had.
"But... Xavier said I'm not allowed within two hundred feet of the school..." Idly twiddling his thumbs. "I maybe kind of planted a hidden camera in Wolverine's toilet and he maybe kind of found it. And there may or may not be a temporary restraining order out on me."
He gradually peers back up at Cable with, wide, sparkling, unmalicious eye-holes. "And you know how much Russell hates walking."
No. Really. Sincerely. That last part might come off as a insensitive fat joke but this... this is his actual reasoning. Said with complete conviction and heart now. You KNOW it's serious because just LOOK at this icon. Look at it.
i have a heart attack every time i see that icon in my notifs
This... feels like progress. Sort of. At any rate, it's an answer he can understand for it is and not have to shift through the mountain of esoteric references that usually make up Wade's word vomit. As long as he can at least understand what this squawking dildo is saying, he can pretend to be satisfied.
Nathan grunts, walking back across the room. Whether it's from Wade's answer or the defiled pillow he's stuck holding is a mystery not worth getting into.
"He'll get used to it." That's some equal sincerity here.
Without missing a beat, he opens the door, drops the pillow on the floor and makes it walk the dinosaur out of his room, a phrase which here means "he dropkicks it the hell out." He doesn't stay to watch the thing sail out and over the stairwell to land somewhere in the parking lot, slamming the door once that bit of necessary nastiness is done and moving to lean against the wall, arms crossed as he faces Wade.
"You don't have to be at the school to spend time with him," he says like he's still working this plan out as he goes, evenly, carefully. "Take him back here on weekends. A lot of the kids up there do that."
Wade feels a visceral amount of pain then. Pain which felt so much more guttural and churning compared to the former table-lamp-assault. And it was the pain of watching his beloved Cabpillow get Sparta-kicked into the elements. A pain which shook him to his very core. Nathan, you monster.
Oh well.
It's okay.
He could always make another later. Although it wouldn't smell nearly as hyper-realistic as one which had his disgruntled compatriot here would smear his greasy unwashed head-mop all over every night. But... there were ways. Ways to fix that.
"A lot of kids go back to dirty hotel rooms with their illegitimate guardians?" Wade needed to make sure that he just heard Cable right. "Listen, Cable. I don't know what constituted normalcy in that fire-roasted future of yours, but here in safespace America, we call that a setup for Dateline NBC."
Okay okay okay. He gets the point. And as if to signify his willingness to comply with the demand being made here, Wade scoots over on the bed a little (or well, a lot because Nathan's fat), smooths over a the sheets a bit, then (whilst making unsettling levels of eye-contact) delicately pats the spot next to him.
Almost fifteen minutes in and it took this long for him to fall back on his go-to refrain for Wade's bullshit. That's a new record. Every day, he gets a little more used to putting up with it.
You'd think it would be difficult to maintain eye contact with someone whose eyes aren't even visible, but Nathan's getting a lot of practice in. "Get off my bed," he finally says with as little emotion as he can muster (which makes him sound even more exasperated) as he pushes off the wall, naturally expecting Wade to completely ignore him. Worth a shot anyway.
Seeing as how he's spent the greater afternoon running all over the city and Westchester County with an on-and-off storm going on, he's more than a little grimy and definitely soggy; two qualities that are definitely contributing to his mood. His jacket comes off first, tossed over the back of the chair he passes on the way to his dresser. Every drawer is filled with something, none of it predictable, all of it practical. Smaller guns in the top drawer, ammunition in the middle. Stacks of circuit boards and miscellaneous gear salvaged from appliances and electronics, dismantled rifles cannibalized for their parts. And at the very bottom drawer, a spare pair of civilian clothing, neatly folded below a combat knife and sheath he hasn't found any room for — a blemish on an otherwise efficient use of space — which he kneels down to pick through.
He figures this is and the implication of what's coming next is practically porn for someone as fucked up as Wade, but he's not about to tailor his routine and basic needs around him, just because he wants to avoid whatever filthy comments are going to come bouncing his way. What kind of way to live is that?
Such a provocatively domineering tone there. So much graceful assertion. Yet... yet, Wade can't help but liken it to an voluptuously plump little mosquito, huskily EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEing in your ear at night. Yet, you don't get up and take aim to properly swat it. No, you just blearily wave your hand and smack your ear, too warm, toasty, and lazy to make an actual effort.
Which is why Wade still continues sitting there, opting to cross his legs oh-so-lady-like. So he can, ya know, sit back and watch the free show unfolding here. A show he didn't even have to ask OR pay for! Wowzer! What a bargain!
And Wade, being Wade, is making no effort at hiding his quaint little gasps at Cable's every move. The way he (fatly) slings off his jacket and shambles toward the dresser like a deranged gorilla searching for a snickers bar. Opening those drawers to... guns! Ammunition! Gasp! Gasp! And then---uh. Circuit boards?
Wade's boner wilts. And he lets out a disappointed, "D'awwww." Way to kill the mood, Inspector Gadget.
Except, the GIANT FUCKING ANIME COMBAT KNIFE and clothing in the bottom drawer is way more his kink. Preferably put together but, ugh, fine. He'll settle for one or the other. And as all this is transpiring, this fucking TV station is STILL PLAYING DISCO HITS. Just in time for this.
Nathan tilts his head upwards as if in prayer, even closing his eyes. Exhales. "Hashtag get-the-hell-off-my-bed. Go bleed somewhere else."
Also, he didn't even take anything off yet, so he's not sure where that lie came from. Though to say he doesn't even want to now would be severe understatement, in spite of the fact that the cuffs of his jeans are splattered with mud from the road leading up to the Institute, his shirt is sticking to his chest, and he can't tell if the moisture glued in his hair is sweat, rain or both. Probably both.
Before he opens his mouth to tack on another retort, the combat knife catches his eye again. Holds it there for a little longer than a second.
And then, an idea begins to take shape.
"I'm getting changed." He gathers up the bundle from the drawer and stands. The door to the bathroom is already open so there's no halt in his step when he goes to it, his tone a matter-of-fact grumble. "You better be gone when I'm done."
Cable sure knows how to disappoint, doesn't he? Haha, now Wade knows how it felt to be his wife and kid when Firefist--wait. Too soon? Yeah. Especially given that's coming from a timeline that never happened. Besides, that analogy is way too dark for his bestest friend in the whole wide world (over the age of 50, okay. xoxo, colossus).
That said, aforementioned BFF is being a complete bonerbiter right now and shambling on into the shower without so much as an INVITATION. Telling Wade to get off his bed like he's some throwaway chanteuse! Especially after the (rather problematic) violent dispute which had just transpired. The very least he could offer was a little TLC.
Wade hears the shower flip on, followed by some fat heavy shuffling. Naturally, he immediately wants to mosey on over and test the doorknob on the off-chance his silly pal here is just playing coy! But... buuuuut. Wade reaches over to grab the remote and idly starts (finally) flipping from disco to actual channels, only to settle for one of the five working channels which---has Dallas reruns currently playing.
And as Wade zones out on that, mesmerized by Larry Hagman's hollow 80s dilfy gazy, he begins to think. To think about other brands of hollow dilfy gazes... ones which are so much more accessible and only a door knock away.
So, taking a deep breath, the merc sliiiiides off the bed and tiptoes over to the bathroom door. Leaning up against it, he takes one gloved hand and gentle raps at the cheap jizz-crusted door frame.
"Open up, Cable." Cue: magical piano intro. Then. "Do you wanna build a snowman..."
There's no reply and the shower keeps running, but the door isn't locked or even closed that well. These cheap motels and their cheap ass construction. Under Wade's hand, the door creaks open a few inches, just enough to give him a view of the steam filled bathroom. The mirror is fogged up and the shower curtain is firmly drawn, and the smell of sweat hangs heavy in the hot air. Same goes for the mildew that's etched into every surface of this disgusting room, but that's infinitely less sexy.
It's difficult to make out anything else — likely from both sides of the curtain, which hasn't moved back.
Wow. This is like the setup of an sexy slasher flick. Cheap motel, running shower with no one in sight, foggy mirrors. Heck, there's even a slutty girl with a nice ass knocking on the door, trying to jump on her boyfriend disco stick! (HINT: That's Wade. The slutty girl is Wade.)
Anyway, he could huff this manly mildew all day but uh. The door is just... kind of opening on it's own. Which is NOT. HIS FAULT. He very explicitly stated that he wanted to build a snowman and NOTHING MORE. So if all hell breaks loose from here on out, as Dreamwidth as his witness, IT IS NOT HIS FAULT.
So just. Gonna. Use one finger to... slooooowly push that door open a few inches more.
"Heeeey so I forgot to pluck my left nutsack earlier today and I left my Caboodle in there so do you mind if I. Ya know. Get my tweezies." WOOSH, a bunch of musky mansweat steam is blasting him in the face now as he opens the door in full. Standing there. Like a sentient used tampon, surrounded by a heavenly mist.
It's his fault. The door that comes bouncing back directly into his face says so.
It's not entirely accurate to say that he's been tricked, because honestly, Nathan really had wanted to shower. Eventually. When Wade was about fifty feet away from the building. Shutting the door behind him, he'd dropped his clean clothes on the toilet seat, turned the shower on, drew the curtain back. Then he pressed himself against the wall next to the door with his combat knife unsheathed and waited. The door wasn't even locked, because he's pretty sure the mechanism is busted because the thing can't even close all the way. Altogether it's like catnip for Wade, easy obvious bait that Nathan knows he won't be able to resist.
And sure enough—
When the door opens enough for him to have a good opening, Nathan kicks it back, hard enough to hear the cheap wood splinter. It goes flying back against Wade, hopefully to give him a face full of pain and peeling paint. Regardless, Nathan doesn't give him the time to react. He darts forward and aims for his throat with what is definitely, unequivocally and resoundingly a big fucking knife.
Whereas Cable had genuinely wanted to take a shower at some point in the near future, Wade had genuinely wanted to build a snowman. At some point. Possibly when it's a little bit colder out. And global warming isn't such a big issue.
Anyway, even as he kind of starts to creeeek that door open with his pinkie, Wade's half bracing himself for what comes next. Because deep, deep, deep down in his loins, he knows. And one of the great things about being a human pin cushion, is he's fully equipped to deal with the brutal agony that is L-O-V-E.
Case in point: door smashing into his face and breaking every single bone in it, in one fell swoop. And back he flies, like a dildo flung away in favor of the real dee. He bounces (literally) on the floor and rolls just in time to avoid the splinters of said flimsy door, and the fat of said not so flimsy Cable.
"Were you just STANDING behind that door with a giant combat knife?!" He's doing his very very best here to wiggle out of the way from the wrecking ball (and not the Miley-Cyrus-fun-kind) that is Cable coming his way. "Oh my god. Talk about Bates Motel role play! Oh oh oh! Does this make me Janet Leigh?" He's gonna just, reach over on the floor and grab a chunk of door to use as a makeshift shield against Cable's extremely massive, sweaty, pulsating, throbbing... combat knife.
There's another awful crack as the blade hits the door directly and goes right through the wood, the tip of it actually making it out to the other side just inches away from Wade's eye. Nathan gives it a good, hard twist and wrenches it right back out.
"Less talking," he huffs, "more bleeding." He delivers a kick at the leg on Wade's less dominant side, trying to sweep his feet out from under him. He feels his lungs kicking into overdrive as adrenaline starts flooding into him like a wave, feeling so drenched in it that he wouldn't be surprised if he could smell it along with the mud, the residue of today's storm still sticking to his skin with his sweat, the humidity bouncing off the shoddily built, filthy walls of this entire room.
He can still smell Wade's blood from the lamp he threw at him, too. And with the earsplitting crunch his face made when it connected with the door, he bets there's going to be a lot more of it soon too.
Really, just giving in and taking the hits here would likely be the easier path to follow. Given the carnivorous rage Cable is apparently spiraling through (over the request to build a snowman, no less!!!), simply giving in and taking it might make this whole thing blow over a lot less quickly. After all, it'll kill him--hahaha. Ha ha ha ha.
But Wade's a fighter and truth be told, he doesn't really like the agonizing sensation of a blade driving straight through his eye socket. So he's not gonna go down without a struggle, here.
If this isn't a Lifetime movie plotline which simultaneously campaigns against domestic violence, Wade isn't sure what is!
"You know," CRACK. Another block. Oh dear. This door-chunk is getting awfully smaller. "It's so much more of a turn on when--" THWAK. The sweep to the leg connects, and he topples over and on to his ass once again. That's not to say he isn't instantly struggling to scramble backward on the floor, like the spastic little cockroach he is. "--Vanessa tells me that. Although I gotta admit--" And he's gonna grab... whatever he can to attempt another block---which happens to be the designated Holy Bible for said shit-tier room. "You've got the whole gilfy-bear thing going for you, so I'd be lying if I said that it's doing nothing for me."
And since he's in this oh-so-compromising position, let Wade take this moment to just, spread his legs a little bit more than necessary. "Wanna snap those meaty sausage digits of yours and ash my loins, old man?"
And for the upfuckingteenth time today, Nathan doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. His answer to all of that, and to the way Wade opens his legs like a cheap whore? Is to stomp down on one of his kneecaps. The sound his boot makes when it connects with the bone is like velcro being torn back, or brick rolling over packing peanuts, and he can feel the crunch through the leather, deep and satisfying. It sends a bolt of heat straight to his gut.
He doesn't expect it to hold Wade back for long, though. The man is worse than a cockroach; at least those can be counted on not to come back when they're squished. So Nathan opts to stop him the only other way he knows how: by pinning him. He goes down, cuffing the other around the bible and across the face with his techno-organic arm. He holds it over Wade's throat, bearing down on it. He uses the rest of his weight to hold Wade's body down with his own, half-kneeling, half-lying over him.
Nathan's knife-wielding hand moves to Wade's sternum, and he presses the blade down.
"Keep talking." The tip of the knife scratches over the fabric of Wade's jumpsuit, cutting through crimson to reveal a line of mangled raw flesh underneath. The pupil of Nathan's good eye is blown. His techno-organic one gleams red. "See how far your raving lunatic bullshit gets you when I jam this through your throat."
Of course, he doesn't know if he really wants to go through with it for something like this, which really isn't even all that much of a serious offense if he thinks about it (and fuck, it should say a lot about how he's starting to grade the dumb shit Wade does on a scale), but his body sure seems to like the idea at any rate. Being this close to another source of heat doesn't help matters either.
This is giving him the absolute weirdest fucking boner and he doesn't even realize it yet.
Oscar Wilde once said that the heart was meant to be broken. Maybe the very same thing could be said about kneecaps. Because, seriously. Outside of the family jewels, what other broken part of the body triggers that level of mind-numbingly excruciating pain? Its sole purpose in life, outside of any biologically relevant function, is for irredeemable fuckups like Wade here to have broken at any point in time.
Good thing the perpetual cancer eating away at his body on a twenty-four-seven basis makes the whole experience an easier pill to swallow. Because, haha--otherwise he might've actually considered shutting the fuck up for ten seconds!
Regardless, the break does cause him to loosen his grip on King James' New York Times Bestseller in favor of clutching at his kneecap--only, that's also momentarily stifled by the globulous girth of a man bearing down on him. Oh! Well! Shiver me timbers, Deadpool, his kneecap can wait.
"What's all this about you wanting to jam your twelve-inch blade in my throat?" Comes a strained but still all-too husky murmur before--oh. Jesus. He can feel those twelve hard inches pressing into the center of his chest and not in the happy-go-paizuri way. Bum-mer. The strangled, guttural groan that rises from his lips is almost as grotesque as the splintering sound of the blade cutting into flesh and bone.
Wade actually goes silent for half a second, save the malformed bodily noises coming from him. It's almost as if he's really starting to absorb what's happening here. That he's actually reconsidering--oh. Wait. What's that? Feel that little roll to your groin, Cable? No? How about now, because there seems to be a steady-dry-humpy-rhythm to it.
"Would you mind, pushing that a little--" He coughs though his words. "---to the left? I got an itch there. Massive sarcoma. Like the size of Wendy William's left breast." One gloved hand reaches up to delicately rest on Cable's very-much-so-knifed hand. It's a far too romantic gesture, given the situation. "Here, lemme help you, big boy." Winky-face. Winky-face.
i had a harder time picking the icon than writing the tag
You know those really fierce fullbodyshivers you occasionally see in certain mass marketed animated media commonly produced in East Asian territories? And sometimes beyond?
That's how Nathan reacts to that hip roll.
It's less of a slap back to his senses and more of a gut punch, sharp, needling pleasure that shoots up his body and leaves him feeling more dazed than the head rush he's getting from feeling Wade's chest strain against his as he struggles for breath. That's the first clue that he may have fucked up somewhere here.
The second comes from him actually looking down at his groin. Yeah — he fucked up.
And the third comes from feeling Wade's hand slither over his, right as it's in the midst of preparing to plunge the knife straight through his breastbone (or at least making a good show pretending to). Yeah — he really fucked up.
All the fight seems to rush out of him like air escaping a balloon. His head drops and he presses his face against the closest thing he can find that serves the purpose of a rock to crawl under — in this case the space between Wade's shoulder and the wall — and mumbles miserably into the abyss.
Now this is the part where Wade would need Fred Savage to cover his eyes. Because even if all the high mast shenanigans are OFF SCREEN, that doesn't omit the fact that there's cleaner boner business at play here.
Which, okay, Wade is trying to figure out how to actually react to. Because he's been egging Cable on for the last hour or so now (and let's be real, since... forever) and he's pushed every physical and metaphorical button IMAGINABLE. But feeling a very-protruding-hardon pressing up against his leg (nearly massaging that gradually regenerating shattered kneecap there) is...
... it's...
... such an overwhelming sensation of seemingly unattainable victory, that he isn't even sure what to do with himself. Kind of like finding the elusive surfing Pikachu and not frying your game with Missingno. But sexier. And listen, he probably has a boner too, but when does Wade NOT have a boner? Pikachu and boners in the same paragraph. This sure is a time to be alive.
ANYWAY, he's just sorta' silently holding his breath here. Hell, he's even forgotten about the giant fucking knife cutting into his chest. Because he really, really doesn't want to ruin this magical moment of beefstick-y eroticism with his bee eff eff. Especially as Cable sort of slumps on top of him and seems to be imploding over everything Wade is astoundingly giddy about.
Ah yes, there it is. The quintessential call out to God's only son. And as Cable deflates against his body, Wade FINALLY exhales through pursed lips, mimicking a sound akin to a tightly puckered anus releasing a heavily built up fart.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeee. Shattering that deafening silence. "OhgodsorryIcouldn'tcontainmyselfanylonger."
Then, he lifts his other free hand to reach up and around, resting it on the back of Cable's head. His fingers curl in slightly and he begins gently stroking the sweaty clumps of old man hair protruding from the other's meaty skull. "There, there." He whispers in a hushed tone, similar to that of a mustachio'd pedo trying to coax a small child off the playground. "Anyone would get off on cutting up cancer victims. It's so very George R. R. Martin of you. Like I'm getting major Dothraki vibes right now."
[In the worst possible way. Maybe he's not ready to get his "let's-murder-a-kid" game on anymore, but he's still in "I'll-hurt-you-if-you-look-at-my-family-funny" mode.]
[ jean is 500% smiling while making her reply. not just because of new found family, but because of all the details she remembers from domino's story. thank you neena. ]
Kind of everything? The whole recruitment Wade did, the jumping off the plane, her luck, you guys fighting in the truck. You guys did a huge number in the end against the headmaster and the big guy.
[so she doesn't know? that means that scott and charles really didn't tell her.
which also means he could have gotten away with never talking about it.
shit.]
Couple days ago.
Scott and Logan were going at it again. Found out later from Scott it was because [fuckfuckfuckfuck this is so weird] he thought Logan was overstepping his boundaries with you. Xavier wanted me to talk it out with him, calm him down.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
THIS TIME WITH FEELING
Which brings him to his CURRENT situation: crashing out in his bedroom, throwing the coolest slumber party ever with his closest buddy, CABLE! So, yeah. There was that trip to Hong Kong or whatever, which he MAY or may not have hijacked the X-Mansion’s Blackbird to travel to because A. TSA checkpoint times in JFK these days are awful and B. as much as he loves the occasional cavity searches, he just wasn’t in the mood this week. Plus, dragging Domino along meant they might not actually crash land the military-grade stealth jet!
Win/win.
Anyway, he’s back “home” now. Or, well, Wade actually opted to park his ass in Nathan’s roach-infested motel room. He was initially gonna surprise him but Old Man John Connor was out somewhere else. Taking care of their psychopathic, snarky, plump little ray of sunshine no doubt! Or… something. Whatever.
Point being, after a few hours became more like… half a day, Wade opted to procure a sharpie out of his ass (literally) and create his own Nathan Summers BODY PILLOW! Granted, the drawing itself was more akin to a first grader’s art project but—it got the point across. Looked fat, grizzled, old, complete with unwashed hairdo (fuck you Bucky, Cable can ROCK this look).
And as the hours go on, Wade makes himself more and more at home. He’s got the shitty Red Roof Inn premium-disco-music-tv-station on and is blasting How Deep is Your Love while giving himself a pedicure (bonus: he’s already done Cable’s, if the little splotches of cherry-red paint blotches on the stick-figure like feet of the drawing are any indication). Full DeePee costume and gear on save for his boots which have been kicked off so that he can air out his welt-coated, pus-oozing, rot-scented feet (;** that one's for you, niche kinksters of bakerstreet).
He’s huddled up against the backboard of the bed, legs curled in. One arm is wrapped around this poor accosted DIY body pillow, the other reaching down to flick cotton candy pink nail polish over his own crusty-jaundice-ass-yellowed toenails. Oh! Wait! What’s that? He gingerly sets the polish aside to reach down between his toes and pull out… a tooth?
“Tumor or… Triad? Tumor or Triad?” Muttering listlessly to himself as he squints down at the molar in question. Cuzzzzz we’re living in a world of fools-- “I’m guessing Triad!” Because he’ll sleep better at night knowing this came from a person he murdered and not a cancerous tooth-tumor growing between his toes.
Anyway he flicks the tooth aside before leaning to the side to rest his head on Pillow!Cable’s Pillow!Shoulder
corner. “We have some pretty good times, huh? I mean when we’re old and grey, we’re gonna MISS these days, buddy.” Hold on. Give him a minute to just. Lean in a liiiiiiittle bit more and nuzzle this poor fucking pillow before taking a deep. Long. Extended. Inhale.no subject
He sees the door slightly ajar, opened just a crack. The knob feels greasy like whoever palmed it rolled their hand around in a bottle of Vaseline. And there's a cloying odor wafting in the air that smells, vaguely, like rotting garbage.
He can already feel a snarl welling up in the back of his throat. Wilson.
The pieces of whatever train-wreck is waiting for him are all lined up, but nothing prepares him for what he sees when he opens the door, handgun drawn. And by open, he means kicks in. Because if he's going to be fucked with, he can at least not make it totally easy, and maybe if he's lucky Wade is standing close to the door.
Except he isn't. He's on the bed, lounging with his necrotic feet out, toes wiggling in the air. There's a pillow. It's covered in scribbles and other weird shit that he assumes is supposed to make it look like a person, and Wade is rubbing his face against it like a cat, and if Nathan squints hard enough he can make out one long downward slope on the thing's "face" that's supposed to be — he thinks — a frown and several more fleeing from one of the eyes that's supposed to look like stink lines or maybe glow lines, and—
Oh.
Oh God.
"What the fuck." He sounds dazed. Like he's trying to decide if he should be mad, horrified, confused or all three at once.
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Which is what’s happening here. Since, ya know, Cable fought tooth and nail to save his family from being BBQ’d alive by a socially maladjusted pyromaniac ONLY to end up trapping locking himself in time with… this. This decrepit abomination which reeks of bargain bin Claire’s nail polish and gradually decaying skin cells. This is what he gave up his entire existence for. Do you feel it now, Mister Summers?
Either way, Wade is under the impression he’s being a STELLAR friend right now. Especially because he’s currently locked in his own fucked up little fantasy of pretending this pillow is, ya know, actually the angry, bloated, 180 pounds of muscle huffing and puffing in the doorway there. Especially with the sultry warbling of Barry Gibb thrumming into his ears like a sweet sweet siren’s song.
---Whoopsie daisy! Hohoho, that is Cable standing there, isn’t it? Somewhere in there, Wade missed (or just tuned out) the very real sound of his BFF essentially kicking the door open. Because really, when it comes to Cable, this is basically the equivalent of getting used to the sound of parents coming home from work on a nightly basis.
Regardless, Wade (temporarily) un-pries himself from the pillow, kicks his ranka-ass feet out, and claps his hands above his head in excess delight, before cheering in an all-too-singsong voice, “YOU’RE HOOOOOME~” Complete with tilde.
Track change: this shit. Let the horror sink in juuuust a bit more.
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At the end of the day, he has no family to come back to. He can't be with Aliya. He might never get to watch Hope grow up. He can't be by their side to protect them, if need be.
Because he's stuck in the past. Here.
With Wade Wilson.
There isn't anything small within grabbing distance, but there's a lamp. A decently heavy one, Nathan discovers when he yanks it off the table, ripping the cord out of the wall socket. He chucks it at the foul creature rolling himself all over his bed as hard as he can, and if it hits Wade in the head, good. Means his aim is still sharp.
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Just. Look at him. Look at those adorable little cheeks that could cut diamonds. And those beady little eyes full of catastrophically damaging levels of mangst! And those massive hairy pecs which could only be usurped by a shockingly uncanny genocidal pink space alien's!* How could you NOT love a guy like th--
And in comes the table lamp. Directly toward his head. Wade instinctively rolls to the side, attempting to deflect the blow with his back but is just a half a second too late. As the lamp goes careening into his low neck and back. Shards of porcelain and glass shattering against it. Some shards even lodge themselves in his back. One nasty little bigger in particular favoring his spine.
Good thing this place already looks like your run of the mill murder motel! Because the guttural blurfing that follows can only be compared to a slowly dying walrus. It's short-lived however because honestly, Wade's been the worse.
"Owwww! Ow ow ow ow ow!" Hold on a second, he's gonna roll over to face Cable and--cruuuunch. Oh. Wait. No. Wrong way. He just further crushed those salaciously sultry slivers further into his spinal column. Welp! The damage is done. He's going to just. Try and pose here on the bed, propping his head up with one hand... very very stiffly. Wait. He's gonna reach back and try and... no. Nope. Can't reach it.
"I think you're gonna have to scratch this itch for me, buddy. I skipped pilates classes for the past two weeks and I'm juuuuust not as flexible."
*Friendly Neighborhood Deadpool Footnote: The internet provides.
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"Fine," he says as he unlatches his utility bag from his back, "come over here so I can pull them out and shove them in your eyes."
He tosses the bag on the table where the lamp once sat, knocking a few old beer cans out of the way. Even before Wade polluted this place it's been starting to look and smell like a pit, and he can't really pin it entirely on the motel's lack of anything resembling a good cleaning staff. Wake up, get dressed, choke down whatever's around for a meal, go out. Follow up on the anti and pro-mutant crimes he's researched the night before, keep slowly building a network of information. Come home, do more research, drink. Fit Russell's needs around all that and make sure he's still keeping to the right path. Then find the time to sleep.
That's it, that's his life now.
Making a point to avoid Wade's face as he walks to the bed, Nathan takes one look at the pillow... thing... and grunts. Not his usual placid this-is-just-my-default-mood grunt, but something with a bit more of an edge to it. An I'm-going-to-puke grunt.
"I thought you were in China," he says.
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Wade squints his beady little CGI cowl-eyes over at Nathan. Mainly because he's trying to decipher whether or not that offer was legit. Because if it was, he'd totally consider taking him up on it. Heck, porcelain to-the-eye is a stellar upgrade from being lodged in an unreachable area of his spine. But alas, there goes Nathan, throwing his bag down and stomping around the room like the petulant time traveling gorilla he is!
What a guy, hoho. The times they have.
"Hong Kong." He corrects with a scolding little tsk. "China would have been able to provide me with all seventy-two seasons of Guiding Light for a fraction of the price I paid in Hong Kong. Which--" He points to the monumental stack of bootleg DVDs stacked next to the TV. "You're welcome! Happy birthday! Hope you can fit alla' that in your fanny pack!"
Anyway. Back to... trying to reach for that... little sliver of... nope. No dice. Maybe if he starts grinding his back into the bed here whilst pelvic thrusting, he can roll it out. You'd better believe he's trying in 3... 2...
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He looks at the pile of cheap plastic languishing next to the dinosaur of a television. He has no idea what Guiding Light is, but it sounds cultish, and coming from him, that should mean something. He has about as much desire to watch one of those as he does to stick his head in an oven, and knowing Wade, he's probably going to be roped into making this a team building experience. Because nothing says productive like wasting time watching garbage instead of, you know, helping people. Saving the city, maybe even the world. Learning a new language. Changing all the lightbulbs in this room.
Literally anything else.
Then something starts going skrritch skraatch against the cheap rubbery bed comforter and he already sees a vague impression of what's happening of the corner of his eye enough to guess it's obscene. And sure enough, it is.
"You came back without telling anyone." The look Nathan gives Wade is nothing short of contemptuous, but there's natural disgust there too because now he's getting a full eyeful of... whatever this is. Air humping. "You could have gone to see your girl. You could have checked on your friends at that bar," he says as he narrows his eyes on Wade's weird gyrating form. He concentrates on the pieces of glass he saw embedded in the other man's back, pictures them in his mind's eye.
"You could have went to that school to make sure your kid is still there."
There's a wet squelch. It wouldn't feel or look pleasant even if Nathan pulled the shards out himself. At least from a distance he doesn't have to worry about getting his fingers cut up or dirty.
"But instead you came here." One piece of glass, then another, then one more comes sliding out of Wade's back as if pulled out by invisible hands. "Just to fuck my pillow."
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What even is a utility bag? That's basically the inanimate equivalent of saying that unicorns exist. It is just not possible. Fanny packs however? Definitely exist. And really, if Cable would just own up to his fashion faux-pas, Deadpool would commend him. It's like, such a hip-cool-dad-thing to do. Or was. In the 90s.
"Wowwww you are awfully invested in my--" HOLD on a second! Cable's doing some kinky mind voodoo here because he can feel the shards of the lamp unceremoniously removing themselves from his body. It's either that or this motel is HAUNTED. Which is also, entirely plausible but way less sexy. It's that last piece that really smarts though, as he can feel a vertebrae or two shifting as its callously dislodged from his spine.
Wade flops over onto his stomach, haplessly clutching to his beloved Cabpillow. "Count to three next time or give me a safe word, mmk?" Hm. Maybe he should thank him. But Cable doesn't seem like the sentimental type soooooo... those copies of Guiding Light will have to suffice.
"Also? For the record! I actually came here to see you, your WELCOME. But you weren't here so I had to make do with your pillow--which, really, isn't all that bad. It's softer, gentler, and listens to me." Yeah, he's weirdly caressing this pillow again for another couple of seconds before--
"Hey! How's our belligerently crazy babushka doing? Heard he skipped out on school. Kids these days! At least it's not heroin amIright?" Soooo Vanessa may or may not have sent him a text about that. And he may or may not have just kinda. Figured. Cable would take care of it.
#DadOftheYear
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"He left because he wanted to see you," Nathan answers, and it's not something like an accusation, it is an accusation. "He hitchhiked all the way from upstate back down to the city. Had to drag him back kicking and screaming myself."
It's not that he expects Wade to feel anything remotely resembling guilt for inconvenience Nathan. He knows better than that. But while the ordeal of getting Russell back was something you'd definitely call a journey, it's not the heart of the problem, nor is it the real reason why Nathan is angry.
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But oh. Wait. Right. This is a bad thing because Russell was skipping school. And didn't Slater say something about that once? Hmmm.
All this is going through Wade's head IN REAL TIME, which means he's just been staring blankly at Cable for the last sixty seconds or so, saying nothing. And it's hard to tell if he's actually contemplating feeling any sense of remorse behind this seedy little cowl of his but--Cable likely knows hims well enough at this point to deduct that...
"You..." Wait for it. "... bodily dragged my child against his will?" Have a slow, disapproving shake of the head and a little finger wag. "I think the internet would call that problematic. I know you like beating up kids, Cable, but I thought we were better than this now."
Phhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew. The point. It's gone. Out the window. Dead.
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"You don't even care, do you?" He blinks slowly, expression unreadable but dark. He looks like he's trying to comb over each part of his anger to decide what to act upon first. It turns out, there's a lot to unpack. But this is the best way to sum everything up.
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Deadpool: 1
Cable: 0
"Asks the guy who just threw an actual antique lamp at my head. The audacity." Okay no. No no no. No, Wade. This is serious.
Abruptly he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and wiggling his Brony colored toes for a moment before sighing slowly. His body posture says that maybe he does feel a bit sheepish. Just. Maybe. "Okay okay okay. So maybe this wouldn't have happened if I didn't make him take Colossus's knitting class. But what was the alternative? Football with Cyclops? Puh-lease! No child of mine is going to be an athlete."
Nope. So much for serious.
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"It wouldn't have happened if you took even an iota of this seriously," he says slowly. "The kid has problems. You know it, I know it. He needs more than just Xavier's help, and the only person he trusts enough to give it to him is you. Not anyone else in that school, not your girlfriend, definitely not me. You."
He steps over to the bed.
"So why don't you just stop acting like a fucking clown—" And grabs at the pillow with all the grace of a fat crocodile, prying it out of Wade's grubby hands with equal force. "—And start acting like a parent?"
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Should he bring that up? He could. He really really could if he was that level of a dick. And in a lot of instances, Wade is. But truth be told, all banter aside, he genuinely 1000001% likes Cable. Like so much that he wasted his artistic talent on him. Listen, not even Wolverine got that kind of treatment. Wade had to settle for People Magazine cut outs from some RANDOM GUY named HUGH JACKMAN for source material.
But this pillow? This dakimakura was made with heart and soul. And his
masklip quivers slightly as its torn away from his cold cancerous hands.Even then, ;ow blow insults to his cranky-old-white-cis-man buddy here is gonna be a hard pass.
There's a beat that follows and Wade sheepishly looks down at his toes. Like he's just been told off by the father he actually liked and never had.
"But... Xavier said I'm not allowed within two hundred feet of the school..." Idly twiddling his thumbs. "I maybe kind of planted a hidden camera in Wolverine's toilet and he maybe kind of found it. And there may or may not be a temporary restraining order out on me."
He gradually peers back up at Cable with, wide, sparkling, unmalicious eye-holes. "And you know how much Russell hates walking."
No. Really. Sincerely. That last part might come off as a insensitive fat joke but this... this is his actual reasoning. Said with complete conviction and heart now. You KNOW it's serious because just LOOK at this icon. Look at it.
i have a heart attack every time i see that icon in my notifs
Nathan grunts, walking back across the room. Whether it's from Wade's answer or the defiled pillow he's stuck holding is a mystery not worth getting into.
"He'll get used to it." That's some equal sincerity here.
Without missing a beat, he opens the door, drops the pillow on the floor and makes it walk the dinosaur out of his room, a phrase which here means "he dropkicks it the hell out." He doesn't stay to watch the thing sail out and over the stairwell to land somewhere in the parking lot, slamming the door once that bit of necessary nastiness is done and moving to lean against the wall, arms crossed as he faces Wade.
"You don't have to be at the school to spend time with him," he says like he's still working this plan out as he goes, evenly, carefully. "Take him back here on weekends. A lot of the kids up there do that."
The ones that have families to go back to anyway.
dokipool
Oh well.
It's okay.
He could always make another later. Although it wouldn't smell nearly as hyper-realistic as one which had his disgruntled compatriot here would smear his greasy unwashed head-mop all over every night. But... there were ways. Ways to fix that.
"A lot of kids go back to dirty hotel rooms with their illegitimate guardians?" Wade needed to make sure that he just heard Cable right. "Listen, Cable. I don't know what constituted normalcy in that fire-roasted future of yours, but here in safespace America, we call that a setup for Dateline NBC."
Okay okay okay. He gets the point. And as if to signify his willingness to comply with the demand being made here, Wade scoots over on the bed a little (or well, a lot because Nathan's fat), smooths over a the sheets a bit, then (whilst making unsettling levels of eye-contact) delicately pats the spot next to him.
"Makeup cuddles?"
What the everloving fuck.
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Almost fifteen minutes in and it took this long for him to fall back on his go-to refrain for Wade's bullshit. That's a new record. Every day, he gets a little more used to putting up with it.
You'd think it would be difficult to maintain eye contact with someone whose eyes aren't even visible, but Nathan's getting a lot of practice in. "Get off my bed," he finally says with as little emotion as he can muster (which makes him sound even more exasperated) as he pushes off the wall, naturally expecting Wade to completely ignore him. Worth a shot anyway.
Seeing as how he's spent the greater afternoon running all over the city and Westchester County with an on-and-off storm going on, he's more than a little grimy and definitely soggy; two qualities that are definitely contributing to his mood. His jacket comes off first, tossed over the back of the chair he passes on the way to his dresser. Every drawer is filled with something, none of it predictable, all of it practical. Smaller guns in the top drawer, ammunition in the middle. Stacks of circuit boards and miscellaneous gear salvaged from appliances and electronics, dismantled rifles cannibalized for their parts. And at the very bottom drawer, a spare pair of civilian clothing, neatly folded below a combat knife and sheath he hasn't found any room for — a blemish on an otherwise efficient use of space — which he kneels down to pick through.
He figures this is and the implication of what's coming next is practically porn for someone as fucked up as Wade, but he's not about to tailor his routine and basic needs around him, just because he wants to avoid whatever filthy comments are going to come bouncing his way. What kind of way to live is that?
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Such a provocatively domineering tone there. So much graceful assertion. Yet... yet, Wade can't help but liken it to an voluptuously plump little mosquito, huskily EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEing in your ear at night. Yet, you don't get up and take aim to properly swat it. No, you just blearily wave your hand and smack your ear, too warm, toasty, and lazy to make an actual effort.
Which is why Wade still continues sitting there, opting to cross his legs oh-so-lady-like. So he can, ya know, sit back and watch the free show unfolding here. A show he didn't even have to ask OR pay for! Wowzer! What a bargain!
And Wade, being Wade, is making no effort at hiding his quaint little gasps at Cable's every move. The way he (fatly) slings off his jacket and shambles toward the dresser like a deranged gorilla searching for a snickers bar. Opening those drawers to... guns! Ammunition! Gasp! Gasp! And then---uh. Circuit boards?
Wade's boner wilts. And he lets out a disappointed, "D'awwww." Way to kill the mood, Inspector Gadget.
Except, the GIANT FUCKING ANIME COMBAT KNIFE and clothing in the bottom drawer is way more his kink. Preferably put together but, ugh, fine. He'll settle for one or the other. And as all this is transpiring, this fucking TV station is STILL PLAYING DISCO HITS. Just in time for this.
And if Nathan starts like... undressing at ANY speed, Wade is abruptly going to blurt out, "WAIT! Wait. Hold on hold on hold on! Go slower. I wanna Insta this!" To which, he procures a phone out of his ass (literally) and begins shuffling through his screen. "Just two buddies. Hanging out. Getting naked together. No biggy, no biggy. HASHTAG JUSTHETEROSEXUALTHINGS."
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Nathan tilts his head upwards as if in prayer, even closing his eyes. Exhales. "Hashtag get-the-hell-off-my-bed. Go bleed somewhere else."
Also, he didn't even take anything off yet, so he's not sure where that lie came from. Though to say he doesn't even want to now would be severe understatement, in spite of the fact that the cuffs of his jeans are splattered with mud from the road leading up to the Institute, his shirt is sticking to his chest, and he can't tell if the moisture glued in his hair is sweat, rain or both. Probably both.
Before he opens his mouth to tack on another retort, the combat knife catches his eye again. Holds it there for a little longer than a second.
And then, an idea begins to take shape.
"I'm getting changed." He gathers up the bundle from the drawer and stands. The door to the bathroom is already open so there's no halt in his step when he goes to it, his tone a matter-of-fact grumble. "You better be gone when I'm done."
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Cable sure knows how to disappoint, doesn't he? Haha, now Wade knows how it felt to be his wife and kid when Firefist--wait. Too soon? Yeah. Especially given that's coming from a timeline that never happened. Besides, that analogy is way too dark for his bestest friend in the whole wide world (over the age of 50, okay. xoxo, colossus).
That said, aforementioned BFF is being a complete bonerbiter right now and shambling on into the shower without so much as an INVITATION. Telling Wade to get off his bed like he's some throwaway chanteuse! Especially after the (rather problematic) violent dispute which had just transpired. The very least he could offer was a little TLC.
Wade hears the shower flip on, followed by some
fatheavy shuffling. Naturally, he immediately wants to mosey on over and test the doorknob on the off-chance his silly pal here is just playing coy! But... buuuuut. Wade reaches over to grab the remote and idly starts (finally) flipping from disco to actual channels, only to settle for one of the five working channels which---has Dallas reruns currently playing.And as Wade zones out on that, mesmerized by Larry Hagman's hollow 80s dilfy gazy, he begins to think. To think about other brands of hollow dilfy gazes... ones which are so much more accessible and only a door knock away.
So, taking a deep breath, the merc sliiiiides off the bed and tiptoes over to the bathroom door. Leaning up against it, he takes one gloved hand and gentle raps at the cheap jizz-crusted door frame.
"Open up, Cable." Cue: magical piano intro. Then. "Do you wanna build a snowman..."
#dicksout
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It's difficult to make out anything else — likely from both sides of the curtain, which hasn't moved back.
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Anyway, he could huff this manly mildew all day but uh. The door is just... kind of opening on it's own. Which is NOT. HIS FAULT. He very explicitly stated that he wanted to build a snowman and NOTHING MORE. So if all hell breaks loose from here on out, as Dreamwidth as his witness, IT IS NOT HIS FAULT.
So just. Gonna. Use one finger to... slooooowly push that door open a few inches more.
"Heeeey so I forgot to pluck my left nutsack earlier today and I left my Caboodle in there so do you mind if I. Ya know. Get my tweezies." WOOSH, a bunch of musky mansweat steam is blasting him in the face now as he opens the door in full. Standing there. Like a sentient used tampon, surrounded by a heavenly mist.
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It's not entirely accurate to say that he's been tricked, because honestly, Nathan really had wanted to shower. Eventually. When Wade was about fifty feet away from the building. Shutting the door behind him, he'd dropped his clean clothes on the toilet seat, turned the shower on, drew the curtain back. Then he pressed himself against the wall next to the door with his combat knife unsheathed and waited. The door wasn't even locked, because he's pretty sure the mechanism is busted because the thing can't even close all the way. Altogether it's like catnip for Wade, easy obvious bait that Nathan knows he won't be able to resist.
And sure enough—
When the door opens enough for him to have a good opening, Nathan kicks it back, hard enough to hear the cheap wood splinter. It goes flying back against Wade, hopefully to give him a face full of pain and peeling paint. Regardless, Nathan doesn't give him the time to react. He darts forward and aims for his throat with what is definitely, unequivocally and resoundingly a big fucking knife.
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Anyway, even as he kind of starts to creeeek that door open with his pinkie, Wade's half bracing himself for what comes next. Because deep, deep, deep down in his loins, he knows. And one of the great things about being a human pin cushion, is he's fully equipped to deal with the brutal agony that is L-O-V-E.
Case in point: door smashing into his face and breaking every single bone in it, in one fell swoop. And back he flies, like a dildo flung away in favor of the real dee. He bounces (literally) on the floor and rolls just in time to avoid the splinters of said flimsy door, and the fat of said not so flimsy Cable.
"Were you just STANDING behind that door with a giant combat knife?!" He's doing his very very best here to wiggle out of the way from the wrecking ball (and not the Miley-Cyrus-fun-kind) that is Cable coming his way. "Oh my god. Talk about Bates Motel role play! Oh oh oh! Does this make me Janet Leigh?" He's gonna just, reach over on the floor and grab a chunk of door to use as a makeshift shield against Cable's extremely massive, sweaty, pulsating, throbbing... combat knife.
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"Less talking," he huffs, "more bleeding." He delivers a kick at the leg on Wade's less dominant side, trying to sweep his feet out from under him. He feels his lungs kicking into overdrive as adrenaline starts flooding into him like a wave, feeling so drenched in it that he wouldn't be surprised if he could smell it along with the mud, the residue of today's storm still sticking to his skin with his sweat, the humidity bouncing off the shoddily built, filthy walls of this entire room.
He can still smell Wade's blood from the lamp he threw at him, too. And with the earsplitting crunch his face made when it connected with the door, he bets there's going to be a lot more of it soon too.
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But Wade's a fighter and truth be told, he doesn't really like the agonizing sensation of a blade driving straight through his eye socket. So he's not gonna go down without a struggle, here.
If this isn't a Lifetime movie plotline which simultaneously campaigns against domestic violence, Wade isn't sure what is!
"You know," CRACK. Another block. Oh dear. This door-chunk is getting awfully smaller. "It's so much more of a turn on when--" THWAK. The sweep to the leg connects, and he topples over and on to his ass once again. That's not to say he isn't instantly struggling to scramble backward on the floor, like the spastic little cockroach he is. "--Vanessa tells me that. Although I gotta admit--" And he's gonna grab... whatever he can to attempt another block---which happens to be the designated Holy Bible for said shit-tier room. "You've got the whole gilfy-bear thing going for you, so I'd be lying if I said that it's doing nothing for me."
And since he's in this oh-so-compromising position, let Wade take this moment to just, spread his legs a little bit more than necessary. "Wanna snap those meaty sausage digits of yours and ash my loins, old man?"
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He doesn't expect it to hold Wade back for long, though. The man is worse than a cockroach; at least those can be counted on not to come back when they're squished. So Nathan opts to stop him the only other way he knows how: by pinning him. He goes down, cuffing the other around the bible and across the face with his techno-organic arm. He holds it over Wade's throat, bearing down on it. He uses the rest of his weight to hold Wade's body down with his own, half-kneeling, half-lying over him.
Nathan's knife-wielding hand moves to Wade's sternum, and he presses the blade down.
"Keep talking." The tip of the knife scratches over the fabric of Wade's jumpsuit, cutting through crimson to reveal a line of mangled raw flesh underneath. The pupil of Nathan's good eye is blown. His techno-organic one gleams red. "See how far your raving lunatic bullshit gets you when I jam this through your throat."
Of course, he doesn't know if he really wants to go through with it for something like this, which really isn't even all that much of a serious offense if he thinks about it (and fuck, it should say a lot about how he's starting to grade the dumb shit Wade does on a scale), but his body sure seems to like the idea at any rate. Being this close to another source of heat doesn't help matters either.
This is giving him the absolute weirdest fucking boner and he doesn't even realize it yet.
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Good thing the perpetual cancer eating away at his body on a twenty-four-seven basis makes the whole experience an easier pill to swallow. Because, haha--otherwise he might've actually considered shutting the fuck up for ten seconds!
Regardless, the break does cause him to loosen his grip on King James' New York Times Bestseller in favor of clutching at his kneecap--only, that's also momentarily stifled by the globulous girth of a man bearing down on him. Oh! Well! Shiver me timbers, Deadpool, his kneecap can wait.
"What's all this about you wanting to jam your twelve-inch blade in my throat?" Comes a strained but still all-too husky murmur before--oh. Jesus. He can feel those twelve hard inches pressing into the center of his chest and not in the happy-go-paizuri way. Bum-mer. The strangled, guttural groan that rises from his lips is almost as grotesque as the splintering sound of the blade cutting into flesh and bone.
Wade actually goes silent for half a second, save the malformed bodily noises coming from him. It's almost as if he's really starting to absorb what's happening here. That he's actually reconsidering--oh. Wait. What's that? Feel that little roll to your groin, Cable? No? How about now, because there seems to be a steady-dry-humpy-rhythm to it.
"Would you mind, pushing that a little--" He coughs though his words. "---to the left? I got an itch there. Massive sarcoma. Like the size of Wendy William's left breast." One gloved hand reaches up to delicately rest on Cable's very-much-so-knifed hand. It's a far too romantic gesture, given the situation. "Here, lemme help you, big boy." Winky-face. Winky-face.
i had a harder time picking the icon than writing the tag
That's how Nathan reacts to that hip roll.
It's less of a slap back to his senses and more of a gut punch, sharp, needling pleasure that shoots up his body and leaves him feeling more dazed than the head rush he's getting from feeling Wade's chest strain against his as he struggles for breath. That's the first clue that he may have fucked up somewhere here.
The second comes from him actually looking down at his groin. Yeah — he fucked up.
And the third comes from feeling Wade's hand slither over his, right as it's in the midst of preparing to plunge the knife straight through his breastbone (or at least making a good show pretending to). Yeah — he really fucked up.
All the fight seems to rush out of him like air escaping a balloon. His head drops and he presses his face against the closest thing he can find that serves the purpose of a rock to crawl under — in this case the space between Wade's shoulder and the wall — and mumbles miserably into the abyss.
"Jesus."
just keeps using this one
Which, okay, Wade is trying to figure out how to actually react to. Because he's been egging Cable on for the last hour or so now (and let's be real, since... forever) and he's pushed every physical and metaphorical button IMAGINABLE. But feeling a very-protruding-hardon pressing up against his leg (nearly massaging that gradually regenerating shattered kneecap there) is...
... it's...
... such an overwhelming sensation of seemingly unattainable victory, that he isn't even sure what to do with himself. Kind of like finding the elusive surfing Pikachu and not frying your game with Missingno. But sexier. And listen, he probably has a boner too, but when does Wade NOT have a boner? Pikachu and boners in the same paragraph. This sure is a time to be alive.
ANYWAY, he's just sorta' silently holding his breath here. Hell, he's even forgotten about the giant fucking knife cutting into his chest. Because he really, really doesn't want to ruin this magical moment of beefstick-y eroticism with his bee eff eff. Especially as Cable sort of slumps on top of him and seems to be imploding over everything Wade is astoundingly giddy about.
Ah yes, there it is. The quintessential call out to God's only son. And as Cable deflates against his body, Wade FINALLY exhales through pursed lips, mimicking a sound akin to a tightly puckered anus releasing a heavily built up fart.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeee. Shattering that deafening silence. "OhgodsorryIcouldn'tcontainmyselfanylonger."
Then, he lifts his other free hand to reach up and around, resting it on the back of Cable's head. His fingers curl in slightly and he begins gently stroking the sweaty clumps of old man hair protruding from the other's meaty skull. "There, there." He whispers in a hushed tone, similar to that of a mustachio'd pedo trying to coax a small child off the playground. "Anyone would get off on cutting up cancer victims. It's so very George R. R. Martin of you. Like I'm getting major Dothraki vibes right now."
@reminiscences; 4
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I don't know what happened in the future, but this is now. I want to make sure you guys are all right.
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Yes.
[ because that's what her gut tells her so. ]
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[That's not a 100% true. He's done plenty of things that he's not sure he can do, because if he doesn't, no one else will, but—]
Besides, we'll have Domino with us to counteract Wade's dumbassery. We're used to this kind of thing.
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Okay, okay. I will — you have a lot of experience with things like this just from the look of it. I just haven't worried about family in a long time.
Also, she is pretty cool. She told me about how all three of you met.
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[In the worst possible way. Maybe he's not ready to get his "let's-murder-a-kid" game on anymore, but he's still in "I'll-hurt-you-if-you-look-at-my-family-funny" mode.]
Christ. How much did she tell you?
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Kind of everything? The whole recruitment Wade did, the jumping off the plane, her luck, you guys fighting in the truck. You guys did a huge number in the end against the headmaster and the big guy.
Also, something about saving Wade's life?
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Did she tell you about the part with Wade's baby legs?
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Baby legs, seriously? She totally missed that part!
If you've got time to tell me I'm all ears.
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It was every bit as fucking horrifying as it sounds and much worse than whatever you're imagining.
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I'm going to make sure that whenever we get on missions together that I'll help keep him together. Do not want to see it for myself.
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And you’re thinking too far ahead. Thought Xavier didn’t want you and the other students running missions with us anymore.
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Who said that? We've literally just started going on missions after what happened in Egypt.
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[ tmw probing into nate's mind would be like a mom reading over her son's diary so she isn't doing that. ]
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which also means he could have gotten away with never talking about it.
shit.]
Couple days ago.
Scott and Logan were going at it again. Found out later from Scott it was because [fuckfuckfuckfuck this is so weird] he thought Logan was overstepping his boundaries with you. Xavier wanted me to talk it out with him, calm him down.
Didn't work out the way he wanted.