|Secrets, part III. Logan/Wade, Movieverse. Um... R?
||[May. 14th, 2009|04:03 pm]
Cable x Deadpool
Title: Secrets, which not only sucks as a title but isn't even relevant anymore. This is an official call for you guys to name this fic in comments, plz.
Warnings: Violence. Lack of sexy times.
This is the second-to last bit! Whoo.
Wade wakes up in what looks like a hospital bed in what looks like a warehouse. He’s heard enough drugs/organ harvesting/secret brothel stories to know that’s bad news. He sits up sharply, realising he’s naked under the sheets. Not only that, but he isn’t wearing any clothes. The loss of the katanas bugs him more, though, and he gets up to go look for them.
He feels… right now he feels drained, not hangover-drained but like he spent all night crying and throwing up, but it doesn’t phase him. He feels like that most mornings these days.
There’s an IV in his wrist. Shit. No, according to the label it’s saline. According to his hand, warm. Come to think of it, there were a lot of blankets on that bed.
So, he’s being treated for hypothermia in a warehouse. He remembers Logan’s house, and he juust about remembers giving in to the cold. And if Logan had suddenly got cold (ha) feet and come out after him, he’d be in Buttfuck Nowhere General Hospital. So… signs still point to not good.
He ties two blankets on, one as a skirt and one as a cape, grabs the IV stand and goes for a walk.
Investigating will at least take his mind off how very fucking angry he is at whoever fucked up his beautiful little emotional sendoff. He was supposed to die like The Little Match Girl, dammit, it was supposed to be a sweet little moment, but no, somebody with a striplights-and-chrome fetish had to ruin it for him… hello.
“Stryker.” Striplights and chrome, very high-tech modern fancy-pants military issue now you come to think of it.
“Hello Wilson.” Stryker gives him a thin smile. “Lost for words?”
“Fuck no. But right now I want answers, and that means you talking. So how about we ditch the Disney villain routine and get down to the Bond villain explaining-your-plans-just-in-time-to-get-them-foiled.”
“I’m surprised you’d cast me as the villain in your cute little fantasy life. Logan’s bleeding heart isn’t catching, is it?”
“I.. you followed me?”
“My assistant Kayla Silverfox was kind enough to tell me all about both of you.”
Wade punched a wall. Six months ago, he coulda put a dent in that fucking metal. Now…
“By the time we located you,” Stryker was continuing, “My doctors tell me you were clinically dead.”
“What made you jump in? If you’ve been stalking me, you have to know it’s not long till I’ll be gone for good anyway.”
“Well, here’s the deal, Wilson; I can stop that.”
Wade looked into his eyes for a long time. Warehouse-y type building, military, medical-y, it all fit. He’d heard rumours. Shit like the Super Soldier Program. The program that made one Captain America and a whole load of dead or crazy or crazy and dead feebs. And now, the whole mutant thing. There could be something in this.
“No.” He said. He wasn’t even sure why not; something in Stryker’s eyes just said run away. He wasn’t trusting that freak anywhere near his fragile, consumptive-opera-chick physique.
“Happily,” Stryker continued, apparently not listening, “I’m not the one who has to persuade you. I brought an old friend to help.”
Wade hears one, two approaching footsteps before his body gets itself together and makes to move.
Victor and he never did get along.
He ducks the first kamikaze pounce, but movement is difficult when you’re attached to an IV, and Victor is soon up again, claws out and grinning.
Wade feints to the left and hits him over the head with the IV stand. Saline and Wade’s blood spills everywhere.
Beautiful. The claw swoops through the air towards him as if in slow motion, and all he has to do is jump and grab the ceiling light and he’s at just the right height to swing back and kick Creed in the face, which is of course the exact moment at which his arms give up and he crumples to the floor.
Six months ago, that woulda been kickass.
There’s a thump as Creed’s knees land on his calves; not quite enough to break the bones, but enough to curtail any pretence of wriggling away. A nasty crack as Tarzan jr’s huge hand grabs the back of Wade’s neck and his head says a quick hello to the floor. His arms, as he just proved, aren’t strong enough to be useful and he’s pretty much just reduced to impotent flailing.
Impotent Flailing would be a good name for a band.
Victor twists his head around to look up at Stryker; he feels like the kid in The Exorcist right now, but neither moving nor projectile vomiting are options, judging from the thumb-claw pressing against his windpipe.
“I do wish you wouldn’t be so difficult, Wilson; I’m trying to help you.”
“Lemme go.” He manages to choke out.
“What are you scared of?”
Ooh. Could always get army guys with that one, but not Wade Wilson. He just shut his mouth and concentrated on breathing against the increasing pressure on his throat. In out. In out.
“Can you think of anything I could do to you that would be worse than dying?”
There’s a long pause, filled in only by laboured breathing.
Unconsciousness, followed, he’s pretty sure, by death from blood loss and/or lack of oxygen enters the room and Wade can feel it creeping up on him.
At least hypothermia was gentle. By the time you passed out, you didn’t even know you were cold. It didn’t feel as pathetically final as this.
It didn’t hurt.
As darkness clouds his vision, Wade shakes his head. Only a glimmer in Stryker’s eye tells him he’s made the biggest mistake of his life.
Logan can’t sleep. Hates it when he can’t sleep because it either means waking Kayla, or leaving her for the cold outside the bed.
He has army dreams. Always did, could always count on Kayla to comfort him, but he’s not sure he wants to trust her with these ones. In these dreams, bombs and khaki and no-man’s-land quickly make way for lights and alleys and those noises Wade made when he clamped a hand over his mouth.
And he tells himself, that’s sick. Aside from anything, Wade’s dead. Probably.
For about a month after that night every time he leaves the house he expects to find Wade’s lily-white frozen corpse in the woods. He’s not sure if he’s being haunted out of guilt or regret or what but it’s almost a relief when Stryker shows up and everything changes.
By day, Wade is distant and lurking and elusive. By night, young, sexy, foul-mouthed and almost obscenely available, and they do things Logan was pretty sure he’d never even heard of till his subconscious tells him otherwise.
He feels like he’s living ménage a trios with a ghost. And having an affair. With the ghost. Kayla’s acting funny, too. Less jokes, less laughter, more phone calls. Sometimes when he thinks she thinks he’s not looking, she gives him these sad, pitying eyes and he thinks maybe she found Wade.
So, finding her dead in the grass is more of a non-sequitor than anything. He’s running on pure adrenalin from there to Stryker to the Island.
The thing about being the animal is that it’s easy. The animal can be thinking about Kayla, about revenge, but he doesn’t feel it any deeper than he feels anything, filtered through instinct and reflex and rage.
He lost them one by one; Victor, an enemy. Kayla, a sham. All that’s left is the ghost.
By which he means the first time he saw Weapon XI, he actually thought he’d gone insane. Doesn’t help that it looks almost exactly like his ghost-Wade.
Then he puts two and two together and he literally thinks he hasn’t been so angry in his life. The Kayla thing, that was animal rage, but this is incredibly human, incredulous fury. With Kayla, all he could think was why and how and why and what had she done to deserve it.
Wade… Wade probably deserves it. Wade’s a mass-murderer, after all.
But fuck. His mouth, his fucking mouth and his silence and his obedience.
Kayla was a tragedy, but this is a joke, a sick fucking fucking joke, and Stryker is going to die for this.
Weapon XI never once stops trying to talk.
Life comes in stops and starts.
What did you think of? Stryker? What did you think of that was worse than -
And then he blacks out for a few minutes and when he comes to, he’s facing Logan.
“Wade, is that you?” and, “You don’t have to do this.”
Apparently, I do…
He works out after a while that every gap is a fresh command. He’s not just going crazy.
Mind control. Mind control and fucking sewing my fucking mouth shut, I can’t even be fucking funny about that.
Was it supposed to be some joke about how I was always lippy and disobedient?
Perfect fucking soldier, ha ha ha.
Just so you know guys, I’m rooting for you in here.
I’m rooting for you, Logan… Logan?