Log: Matt & Wade
May. 14th, 2011 11:53 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsWade takes Matt to the cemetery to visit his father.
(backdated to Saturday, May 14)
Matt knew exactly where his father’s grave was. Straight back to the left hand side of the cemetery, third in from the bushes. He would never forget that spot. All the graves there were simple, no statues of angels or chiseled Celtic knot work crosses here. No his and her’s epithets. The grass hadn’t even been mowed all that recently compared to the front of the cemetery.
Stumbling over the other graves since he didn’t take the time to let his cane properly help guide him, Matt sat down on his father’s, knees drawn up. He reached out for the headstone, a carved piece of stone identical to the others here, flat and purposeful without any adornment.
Jonathan Murdock
1967 - 2008
Father
Wade stayed well back from where Matt had folded in on himself at his father’s grave, hip propped against someone else’s headstone. He looked off to the left, taking in all the nondescript graves, the vaguely unkempt lawn, the clouds bearing down on them and promising rain. Generally, he tried to give the kid what privacy he could, considering he figured this was kind of a personal thing.
He hadn’t been to see his mom’s grave in... decades. That was part of his past that he didn’t revisit. Mostly because he figured the remnants of the Weapon X program operators might be smart enough to’ve staked her grave out or something and he had no desire to run afoul of them right now. Paranoia kept him alive, even if it kept him from putting flowers on his mom’s grave, so Wade didn’t attempt to overcome the impulse to avoid everything from his old life.
Flowers weren’t really something that Matt had thought to bring with him. Sometimes, his social worker would pick some up for him, but why would he bring flowers? It wasn’t like his dad had cared about flowers when he was alive and he certainly did not care for them now that he was dead. He was there. That was enough.
Idly, he traced his father’s name on the headstone, grateful that he could do that. It wasn’t some sort of flat writing printed or whatever that he couldn’t feel. It was engraved or whatever it was called and that was good. He could read the block letters clearly. It was still weird though, his dad being called ‘Jonathan.’ He’d never been Jonathan. Always Jack. There hadn’t been enough room to put ‘Jack’ on there though.
With nothing to do and no desire to interrupt Matt’s silent communion with his dad’s headstone, Wade started mapping out escape routes that he could take Matt on if ninjas attacked from the sky. He figured grabbing the kid around the waist and hightailing it into the trees at the far end of the cemetery would be a bad plan, since that’d leave his back and Matt’s head exposed to throwing stars or knives or bullets. Which meant he should probably just make sure the kid knew to get to the trees while Wade provided as big a distraction as he possibly could.
Besides, it was entirely unlikely that ninjas dropping from the sky would be after Matt, so if he could make the treeline, he could probably hit that nifty panic button on his phone and the real superheroes could show up. Wade twisted his wrist, a throwing knife dropping into his palm before he flicked it back into its sheath.
The noise caught Matt’s attention. He was doing better at ignoring the little noises, the rustle of grass and trees, the smell of flowers and earth from a newly dug grave a few meters away, but the slightly mechanical spring sound broke through. “What’s that?” he called over to Wade, grateful for the distance.
He couldn’t cry thanks to his accident, the tear ducts in his eyes damaged, though not completely destroyed. Not that he would cry. He was 16. And he was tough. He didn’t cry. Nope. But...sometimes maybe when no one was around and he was in the shower he wished he did.
“I’m fidgeting,” Wade said honestly, shrugging a little. It would be really rude to ask how long Matt planned on staying here, so the mercenary didn’t. He just... stood there, hip braced against some dead guy’s headstone, making himself not twitch his throwing knives out of their sheaths and then back out. Resting his palm against Selma where she rested against his waist, he glanced toward the kid. “Sorry. I don’t sit still well.”
“Ah,” Matt traced the years of his father’s birth and death, then stood, “Let’s go,” he stated, taking more time to get back to the car than he had to get to the grave. “It’s not like he’s gonna do a dance, right?”
Ninjas might not be an issue here, at least, they didn’t have any interest in Matt. Mobsters though? Well, ‘family guys’ as the term went, that was entirely possible. Matt had never had any dealings with his father’s business associates, but he hadn’t been stupid. He knew where they lived in New York, who ran the area. And he knew that his dad had barely been able to put food on their table sometimes. Matt could put two and two together. It was unlikely that they were interested in him either, but it was at least more likely.
Wade stayed where he was, watching Matt make his way back to the car. There was nobody else in the cemetery, not even old biddies with wreaths or bushels of flowers. The groundskeeper was out front, ostensibly trimming bushes, so he was pretty sure ninjas were a pretty remote possibility. “Aren’t you gonna like. Talk to him or whatever?”
“Why?” Matt asked reasonably, “He’s dead. He’s not gonna say anything back. Anyways...” Matt shrugged, “I did. You just didn’t hear it. ‘S’between me and him. And God,” he pulled a rosary from his pocket, crossing himself, then kissing it, the movements automatic. When he went to Mass he always lit a candle for his father too.
“Okay,” Wade said, making a mental note that Matt was apparently very, very Catholic. That made two kids he had to keep track of who were religious - Klara was a minion, though. That was a little different. Sort of. Pushing the button on the keyring for the car, the doors beeped and unlocked and Wade walked over, opening the driver’s side door. “Do you want to head back to the mansion or get some food or something?”
“Whatever you want,” Matt replied, going to the passenger side and getting in. “I’m easy,” that was when his stomach rumbled. Okay, fine. He was hungry. Stupid, rebellious stomach. Traitor. “Or food. Apparently my stomach is voting for me.”
(backdated to Saturday, May 14)
Matt knew exactly where his father’s grave was. Straight back to the left hand side of the cemetery, third in from the bushes. He would never forget that spot. All the graves there were simple, no statues of angels or chiseled Celtic knot work crosses here. No his and her’s epithets. The grass hadn’t even been mowed all that recently compared to the front of the cemetery.
Stumbling over the other graves since he didn’t take the time to let his cane properly help guide him, Matt sat down on his father’s, knees drawn up. He reached out for the headstone, a carved piece of stone identical to the others here, flat and purposeful without any adornment.
1967 - 2008
Father
Wade stayed well back from where Matt had folded in on himself at his father’s grave, hip propped against someone else’s headstone. He looked off to the left, taking in all the nondescript graves, the vaguely unkempt lawn, the clouds bearing down on them and promising rain. Generally, he tried to give the kid what privacy he could, considering he figured this was kind of a personal thing.
He hadn’t been to see his mom’s grave in... decades. That was part of his past that he didn’t revisit. Mostly because he figured the remnants of the Weapon X program operators might be smart enough to’ve staked her grave out or something and he had no desire to run afoul of them right now. Paranoia kept him alive, even if it kept him from putting flowers on his mom’s grave, so Wade didn’t attempt to overcome the impulse to avoid everything from his old life.
Flowers weren’t really something that Matt had thought to bring with him. Sometimes, his social worker would pick some up for him, but why would he bring flowers? It wasn’t like his dad had cared about flowers when he was alive and he certainly did not care for them now that he was dead. He was there. That was enough.
Idly, he traced his father’s name on the headstone, grateful that he could do that. It wasn’t some sort of flat writing printed or whatever that he couldn’t feel. It was engraved or whatever it was called and that was good. He could read the block letters clearly. It was still weird though, his dad being called ‘Jonathan.’ He’d never been Jonathan. Always Jack. There hadn’t been enough room to put ‘Jack’ on there though.
With nothing to do and no desire to interrupt Matt’s silent communion with his dad’s headstone, Wade started mapping out escape routes that he could take Matt on if ninjas attacked from the sky. He figured grabbing the kid around the waist and hightailing it into the trees at the far end of the cemetery would be a bad plan, since that’d leave his back and Matt’s head exposed to throwing stars or knives or bullets. Which meant he should probably just make sure the kid knew to get to the trees while Wade provided as big a distraction as he possibly could.
Besides, it was entirely unlikely that ninjas dropping from the sky would be after Matt, so if he could make the treeline, he could probably hit that nifty panic button on his phone and the real superheroes could show up. Wade twisted his wrist, a throwing knife dropping into his palm before he flicked it back into its sheath.
The noise caught Matt’s attention. He was doing better at ignoring the little noises, the rustle of grass and trees, the smell of flowers and earth from a newly dug grave a few meters away, but the slightly mechanical spring sound broke through. “What’s that?” he called over to Wade, grateful for the distance.
He couldn’t cry thanks to his accident, the tear ducts in his eyes damaged, though not completely destroyed. Not that he would cry. He was 16. And he was tough. He didn’t cry. Nope. But...sometimes maybe when no one was around and he was in the shower he wished he did.
“I’m fidgeting,” Wade said honestly, shrugging a little. It would be really rude to ask how long Matt planned on staying here, so the mercenary didn’t. He just... stood there, hip braced against some dead guy’s headstone, making himself not twitch his throwing knives out of their sheaths and then back out. Resting his palm against Selma where she rested against his waist, he glanced toward the kid. “Sorry. I don’t sit still well.”
“Ah,” Matt traced the years of his father’s birth and death, then stood, “Let’s go,” he stated, taking more time to get back to the car than he had to get to the grave. “It’s not like he’s gonna do a dance, right?”
Ninjas might not be an issue here, at least, they didn’t have any interest in Matt. Mobsters though? Well, ‘family guys’ as the term went, that was entirely possible. Matt had never had any dealings with his father’s business associates, but he hadn’t been stupid. He knew where they lived in New York, who ran the area. And he knew that his dad had barely been able to put food on their table sometimes. Matt could put two and two together. It was unlikely that they were interested in him either, but it was at least more likely.
Wade stayed where he was, watching Matt make his way back to the car. There was nobody else in the cemetery, not even old biddies with wreaths or bushels of flowers. The groundskeeper was out front, ostensibly trimming bushes, so he was pretty sure ninjas were a pretty remote possibility. “Aren’t you gonna like. Talk to him or whatever?”
“Why?” Matt asked reasonably, “He’s dead. He’s not gonna say anything back. Anyways...” Matt shrugged, “I did. You just didn’t hear it. ‘S’between me and him. And God,” he pulled a rosary from his pocket, crossing himself, then kissing it, the movements automatic. When he went to Mass he always lit a candle for his father too.
“Okay,” Wade said, making a mental note that Matt was apparently very, very Catholic. That made two kids he had to keep track of who were religious - Klara was a minion, though. That was a little different. Sort of. Pushing the button on the keyring for the car, the doors beeped and unlocked and Wade walked over, opening the driver’s side door. “Do you want to head back to the mansion or get some food or something?”
“Whatever you want,” Matt replied, going to the passenger side and getting in. “I’m easy,” that was when his stomach rumbled. Okay, fine. He was hungry. Stupid, rebellious stomach. Traitor. “Or food. Apparently my stomach is voting for me.”
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