|The Impenetrable Noise of No Guns Firing
||[Mar. 29th, 2007|06:53 pm]
Cable x Deadpool
Title: The Impenetrable Noise of No Guns Firing
Characters: Wade, Nate.
Rating: That thing with the violence and the cursing.
Series: Sequel to A Goat and a Countryman which is really just a prologue. I dub this series Never Gets Older.
When they told him Nate's little pleasure dome had been reduced to a smoldering crap heap, this wasn't quite what he'd had imagined. Hop-skip down to Bananarepublicville, Middle of Nowhere, Waterworld, take in the damage, have a quiet gloat and get back to his righteous babes and the Great Big Fatso (Larry, Moe, Curly, Costner) before Nate got to the lecturing bit.
He gets a lot of gloating in these days. It's doing wonders for his skin tone, which means he doesn't have to run down to Gianni's to exfoliate anymore. Guy's been eyeing his butt up lately and no matter what Hayden says he ain't swinging that way, nuh-uh (not that there's anything wrong with that).
So it comes as a kinda surprise to find that 'smoldering crap heap' actually translates to 'smoldering crap heap' - on his way down he nearly trips over a couple pieces of Irene's furniture (is that a bra? there'll be time for analysis) and the sound of malfunctioning machinery is so loud he could freakin' tapdance on it.
Might as well make sure.
"Hello? HelloooooooOOoo? StellaaaaaaAAAAaaaa!"
He breaks in through a chimney, just because.
Ever since Nate pulled that stupid shit with the blinking lights and the subconsciouswhatever, the flood gates on his brain have been flapping open like Britney in the glory days. He put that stuff away for a reason, watched a whole lot of television and made a whole lot of bad jokes just to back it into reverse and make sure it was properly forgotten-- but no, mr. Askanigesundheitfeatherupmybutt has to come in all pompous and fuck that up.
So now he's stuck with Worm's yelling at him (way back in the trash of Weapon X) over and over in his head -- But Wade, you could do something here! -- make things right! You've given us hope! Wade! Hero!--, all the time all the time, the image of two corpses in his hands, Ajax's blood splattered all over his chest.
See, that's the stupid thing about the whole hero business, which is that it don't stick. The first time you think you're a hero and you find that that's just another word for 'kill things for great justice', you get a little disappointed. The second, when it's the girl, you might get a little down, 'specially when you find out you got no H/c in real life. Third time, when it's the world -- okay, out with the waterworks, no matter how manly a man you are.
Fourth time? Just stop bothering. No matter what the voices say. It can only end in tears.
Which is why he hates Nate, 'cause right now he can see himself--
The mess is a mess. Mess, mess, mess-- the word ain't that funny. It's also sopping wet in here and it isn't doing anything for his union suit. The water's crawling up his pants and in a minute it's gonna look like he wet himself.
He revs up his falsetto to 'medium' (too bad there isn't anyone to appreciate it, because a gravelly falsetto is something to be heard): "Oh, Nate, the things I do for you." Or gloating, anyway. Gloating's a good thing, even if the word makes no sense at all when you think about it. Gloat. Gloat goat. Goat goat. Goating. What the hell is goating?
Sop sop sop sop sop sop sop.
This better be a real good gloat. Next time, he's going to get some freaking scuba gear. Or thermal underwear, or something. Speedos? He could pull off fire-engine red Speedos, no problem.
Dedpol's Lst of Possible goats:
Hey, Nate! I see Irene Merryweather, former girl reporter and former Chief-of-Staff didn't take Petey's new appointment as WD-40 spokeschick too well. How's that war for peace thing going with you? I see your think-tank's firing on all cylinders! Ahoy, matey!
--holding Ajax under the water, legs wrapped around his neck, the silence of death settling over them with his busted freaking eardrums. That shoulda been the wake-up call, really: 'Wade, you're never gonna be a hero. You might wanna fly or beat your scars out or whatever, but you're just a putz with a shiny sword and a couple thousand TV shows burnt into your greys.'
He even thought it, at the time. Sensible to a fault. A guy like him, put wings on his back and he'll just use 'em to kill a pidgeon.
Maybe not a pidgeon. They're smart birds. But he'd kill something anyway, and then probably throw a tea party, complete with sulking in a corner, which is totally unmanly.
"You believe in me."
They're standing side-by-side, leaning on the railing - well, he's more slumping, really, 'cause that's the cool, manly thing to do - and Nate is smiling his stupid Happy Messiah smile that he kinda wants to stab off maybe.
There's sea right underneath their feet and a nice breeze and he's just wearing a Hawaiian shirt 'cause there's nothing to hide now, is there? He's got legs like Tricia Helfer (Breathy: "Welcome to Canada's Next Top Model. I'm Number Sixty-Nine."), here, and if Nate's stooges keep up the good work in a bit he might actually have a head full of hair that won't fall off. Classy.
It's a nice dream, got started somewhere around when this mess did, but more and more these days Nate suddenly sprouts long black hair and a gorgeous rack (which is what shocks him outta the pipe-dream status of all of this bullshit) and smiles a half-white smile: "I know you, Deadpool. You're like me: a broken, crazy, beautiful killer." And then it's quiet.
Man, this place looks like it got a major case of the Dick Cheney. You do this yourself, Nate? Get me the name of your interior decorator! New-World-Orders-R-Us, you say? Fancy. Looks like they do good work. Think they could do a number on my bedroom?
It's quiet, so he talks. He's not sure what about, but it seems to be the hazards of competitive indoor crab fishing.
Trust Nate's office to be like the only unbreakinable thing on the entire freaking island. Couple've meta-level kicks and the water flows in anyway, though, complete with what little air and Deadpool that's left. He stumbles over the debris, and lands face-down on Nate's desk.
When he steadies himself, he comes face to face with something red and black. He moves his hand, but the image doesn't change. Huh. Hallucinating again? It's been a while.
Oh, wait. It's a Deadpool action figure. One of his Deadpool action figures, the one he kept with him in his pouches all the time, right up until Nate held him wrong side up an' shook him down for his lunch money.
It's missing an arm and a leg. Literally.
"Just gotta push everything till it breaks, don't you, Nate?" he mutters, mostly to himself, and puts the figurine back in his pouch. Still no sign of the guy.
Life's not all bad. So memories can't all be bad, either. He's got friends.
"Oh god. Oh my god. Oh no, oh god."
"Will you keep it down, Weaz? I'm trying to watch something here."
"I'm bleeding! Out! Onto the couch!"
"Then get up and get a napkin. Blood stains are a bitch to get out of fabric. Just shaddup, Roslin's on weed right now and I don't wanna miss a minute of it for night time funtime reasons. Rowwr."
"I can't! I'm stuck! To the couch! Oh god!"
"Weaz, stop being such a wuss."
"You stabbed me in the leg!"
"Well, that was your own fault, wasn't it? You shouldn't have eaten the last Cheesy Puff."
(Q: Why'd you do it, Wade? A: See Q.)
Now that gets Weasel's attention: his head shifts and his eyes meet Wade's and he looks defiant.
"They were my Cheesy Puffs! I bought them!"
"Should've thought about that before you ate them, Weaz."
"I can't-- ohgodithurts." Weaz is shivering now, clutching his leg with one hand and curling the other around the knife. "Ohmygod I'm gonna die!"
----"Tell me --where you are, freakshow! What's ---the matter? Afraid of a --little girl?"
His hand is going red and white around the knife, convulsing, and when he finally slips it out of his thigh his head sags against the couch and his eyes flutter closed.
"Know what, Mary? In --another life, you and I would have made beautiful music together.
In another universe, -dirtbag."
"Wuss," Wade says, mildly. His eyes are following the Prez on the small screen. He leans down, and his hands hit plastic. "Hey, look, Weaz. Another bag! Guess I didn't have to stab you after all." He waves at Weasel's prone form. "Bygones."
"Ouch, that hurts."
Blondes on TV. Starbuck kinda looks like this girl he knew -- well, two girls, really. Homicidal twins, who'da come up with that?
"But probably not as bad as when you killed your sister."
He gets hired, one dies, and then he pushes the buttons.
"I heard your sister was the brains of the operation. Heard she got the looks, as well. But don't worry, sweet-cheeks. I got something that'll make you feel a whole lot better."
Even from a distance he's a killer, really. Even talking.
"Oh, yeah? What's that, hero?
This. Right between those pretty eyes."
Gotta be proud or drown.
Didn't see Weaz after that, not for a while. Not until the New York incident with all the bad guys and the hacking and the explosions and everything, anyway. He got to mock some of the really big good guys-- it was fun, like he hit the big time.
Halfway through the next corridor (his feet are swimmin' in it), he pops his spine. Just for kicks. Pop, pop! Never mind tapdancing, this is gonna be a whole new discipline in the arts, he can feel it.
It's too freaking empty in here. Couple more hours and he's going to have to start digging into Burt Bacharach's back catalogue just to keep the right attitude up.
What with the healing factor keeping creaking joints at bay, sometimes he forgets, but then sometimes it's really freaking obvious that all the pop culture jokes in the world aren't gonna stop him from feeling every bit of the last forty, fifty years. (Q: When did you lose count, Wade? A: If I knew that I wouldn't have lost it, mr. disemsentenced letter.)
So maybe sometimes he's jealous Nate's at least got the wizened grey-haired scratched-on old fogey look in exchange for his own long fuck-up filled decades. Which is stupid, 'cause only Bea really pulls off old and queens everywhere would kill for his wrinkle definition.
And anyway, if he ever patents 'Cancer Face' he might actually be able to cash in on that one for a while.
So how's it feel to be the guy who gets his life ruined for once, Nate? Is it fun, getting in touch with the baser feelings of us normal guys? Freaks, whatever you wanna call it? Like having all your dreams down in the sludge, too?
Still happy just making sure the trash don't pile up? You're as big a fuck-up as me and you know it. But you don't got the guts to own up to it, do you? Even now I bet you're all, 'I'm gonna fix it!', you useless putz.
You should never vow to fix anything, you should just get the hell up again. Learn your little lesson, move on. And shut the voice in my head the hell up.
He finds Nate in the kitchen, face-down in the water with little bits of cereal drifting past his head. Probably too good to hope that he drowned, or something.
"Man, Nate," he says instead, "You look like a targ made love to a seal. Don't tell Weasel I made a Star Trek reference."
He rolls the big guy onto his back, propping him up against the fridge, which seems to be the only stable surface on the whole damn ex-island. Nate coughs up some water, his eye pulsing sluggishly, and then he lifts his head as if the thing is twenty freaking tons.
"You came back for me."
Grateful, crushed and vulnerable. As far as Nate-emotions go, that's a new one. Usually doesn't show anything besides 'placid', 'pleased' and 'so angry he's gonna shit his pants any second'.
"I'm just here to gloat," he retorts. He jabs his finger in Nate's direction. "..." He drops the finger. "You are a total chump," he finishes, lamely.
Nate quirks a brow. "That was it?"
"I didn't," he says, "Put a lot of thought into it. So I'm gonna go now. Arivvideci, strobe face."
"I think it's arrivederci, Wade."
"No, it isn't. You ever been to Spain?"
"It's Italian. You know that."
"Whatever." He does know that, but he's not gonna give Nate the satisfaction. (Q: Of what? A: The answer to your first question is 'shaddap'.)
"So are you going to kill me?" Nate asks, blatantly placid again. Accepting, even. The bastard. "I'm not really up for a fight, and with me gone, you could probably bodyslide out of this alone."
"Yeah," he says, "I could." He slides down next to Nate, back against the other side of the fridge. Fuck, now his butt is getting wet, too. It makes a smooshy noise that's strangely satisfying, though. Smooshy splashy. He should tell Weasel about that. "This is all your fault, you stupid shmuck."
Water's leaking from the ceiling and the whole place just creaks and he's got the craziest idea that in a couple it's gonna be 'bye-bye Messiahland, Home of the Terminally Big Headed'.
"Mmhm," says Nate, and looks at him for a while. A long while. Like it's going right through the mask, which may be logical 'cause he took it off. Break it. Break it.
"Raindrops are fallin' on my head," Wade says, and looks the other way. "And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed." Halts.
When the quiet falls, a deep chuckle breaks through, and then a familiar bassline of humming keeps it at bay.
He settles back closer against the fridge and stares at the cracks in the ceiling. He doesn't really feel like gloating, any more. Doesn't know what to do, really. Not that he's personally got anything to fear about the cracking above, except maybe a major headache and losing some spare eardrums, so it's probably some stupid mindfuck thing of Nate's again--
Fuck it. Of course Nate would know the Burtmeister. He's a crazy old fart, too. And it's not like Wade's got any pride left to lose anyway, 'cause he's soaked.
"Nothin' seems to fit, those raindrops are fallin' on my head and they keep fallin'..."
He did get to play the hero like once, though. This kid, this kid was flaming up the place - big burning ball of fire, he should've brought marshmellows or something. But kids are kids, so you sit down and tell 'em a few good Yo Mama jokes, and poof, no more problem.
Crying's not for me, cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin'.
Then some asshole comes in and shoots the kid in the face anyway, and bam, you're accomplice to murder. Might as well just be the freaking killer, there. Nevermind the hero bit, his luck with kids is ranked in the negatives. (Hell, there was even the one fugly mutie kid who lectured him on how he was hiding himself from the world or something. Whaddaya make of that?)
Because I'm free. Nothing's worrying me.
Good stuff. He's done good stuff at the pointy end of a gun. Like that crazy chick who killed everybody just because she wanted to be with him - or maybe that's a bad example (Q: Are there any good examples? A: The answer to your second question is 'shaddap'.). But she handed him the gun and he looked her in the eye and she said, "I know you. I know you won't shoot me." And he said, "You don't know me at all." Because she didn't.
Next thing he knows, hero by fire. Hooray for him.
"Raindrops keep, um, falling?" Finally he shifts again. "Nate, I'm kinda running out of words, here. Know any opera so I can take a breather?"
His only reply is a thin rumble.
And now, with the the music died down, the only thing keeping death ('cause quiet is death, totally death, turn-up-in-yourself-and-throw-away-the-key death, not the good Death with the killer breasts) away is his audible swallowing, eyes darting to Nate from the ceiling and back again.
"Do it, Wade." The lumbering form next to him shifts and groans. "I'm done."
"That's nice, Nate."
"Who says I want to?"
"Nah," he finds himself saying, the words gaining a stupid little tremor somewhere low in his throat. "I don't think I will. We're way too old. Somewhere in that thick skull, you of all dumb folks should know that self-sacrificing shit only goes for the twenty-somethings with their big-ass doomed love affair thingamajigs and the 'oh my god, I'm too young to die!' and whatever, so why even bother asking?"
"Wade, I haven't-- look around-- I don't mind. I wouldn't mind. Okay? I'm okay with it." Something makes a nasty wet noise, and he's suddenly got a sick hunch it's in Nate's guts somewhere. "I want it."
"Too bad," he says, dropping his hands in his (wet, sopping wet, splashy splashy) lap and peering past the side of the fridge, where he thinks he can see Nate's arm melting. "Think how much better off we'd all be if as a kid momma'd just told you you can't always get what you want. Hell, even Mick Jagger woulda done."
"Many important life lessons come from the Stones. And the D, for that matter, wonderboy."
"Their hallowed words teach me that I am so too a mutant." He wriggles his fingers demonstratively, smiles like a jester. "'Cause I got the power to move you."
He thinks about another place another time another Messiah, is this what you wanted? I don't know. And freedom fries on a Saturday morning, no, Nate, I don't care if we're on Providence and it's open to all nationalities in this and all forty-one other dimensions, I'll spite the surrender monkeys if I wanna. Curly fries are the wave of the future, and I'll give you fifteen reasons why.
Problem with Messiahs is the same eternal question, and maybe just now he's learning that putting a number one up top ain't going to solve everything. Which is funny because he shot numbers one, two and three about a gazillion years ago, with interest.
After years of all that stupid bullshit with Typhoid on one shoulder and Siryn on the other-- he still doesn't know, really, what his call shoulda been, what his call should be now (Q: What is Nate to you, really? A: ...Not a Messiah, not a savior, not a leader, not a great man... Q: But what is he? A: I don't know. (the answer to your third question is 'shaddap')), and maybe that's what's important for keeping a planet on straight.
So he breaks the silence one last time, three words to a room of two before that quiet crashes down on Providence for good.