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xp_logsWade stops by to drop off the cuckoo clock he conned David into agreeing to alter for Molly's Christmas present. But with alcohol involved, their talk turns oddly serious when the men realize they have an unexpected connection in their past.
Kicking open the door, David stepped in, toed off his shoes and dumped all the folders in his arms on the table nearest to the door. It had been a long day at work, and he still had a to-do list that was at least a mile long. But he had managed to make some headway with regards to his network in France and get off work on time.
Well, technically, that is.
He had brought back a bunch of more innocuous work to the Brownstone. In fact, he would have stayed in the office if Wade were not coming by with the cuckoo clock that he had agreed to modify. The thing about being tired and hungry on a festive season and subsequently getting fed seemed to be that you become more susceptible to acquiescing to odd but touching requests.
Wade grabbed the cuckoo clock, still in its box from the shipper, the bottle of Asbrach Uralt he'd purchased specifically for this occasion, and headed upstairs. Marie-Ange probably wouldn't be getting back until later because she worked too much, but he had plans to drop some curry and other delicious foods off for her after this, so he wasn't too worried. Knocking on David's door, he looked at the clock through the open flaps of the box - this was one of his weirder gift ideas, which was really saying something, considering he'd bought Molly a moose.
Tossing his briefcase on the small hill of folders, David shrugged off his coat and reached for the door knob, unceremoniously yanking it open for Wade. “Good timing,” he commented in greeting, folding his coat over one arm and gesturing at his somewhat Spartan apartment with his other. “Come on in. Shoes off. Coat hanger’s behind the door. Welcome to my humble abode.”
"Yes, sir," Wade said, his salute only just a little mocking, which was better than it might've been if he hadn't decided he liked David. Handing the box with the clock in it to the other man so he could untie his boots one-handed and shrug out of his jacket, he asked, "Human Resources at Snow Valley not all it's cracked up to be?"
“Oh no,” David protested dryly, carrying the box to his desk and placing it carefully on it. “It’s a dream come true. The previous admin girl had the most interesting filing system worked out. None of the rest can make sense of it. So being one of the few people with a relevant day job, the task is now mine.”
The German man smirked, rifling through the contents of the box and gently lifted the clock from its bubble wrap and tissue. “Monopoly over paperwork has proven to be surprisingly good leverage.” Then, before his manners ran any further away from him. “Would you like a drink? Or a glass for your drink?”
Wade laughed a little and shook his head. "Maybe in a minute or two. You said something about an alternative to the hats, though, and I was intrigued."
Right. Sliding a clear folder from in between two books, David pulled out a thing sheaf of papers and handed them to Wade. Instead of changing hats, he had designed a series of six Batman figures, each one with a different hat on and in different stages of running. “They’ll go on the carousel.”
"Dude," Wade said, sitting the liquor down so he could take the sheave of paper and grinning as he flipped through the pages David had handed him. "This is pretty sweet - she'll love it." Looking up, he continued, "Thanks. I'm really going to owe you one for this, considering how last-minute it is and everything."
David shook his head and waved it off. “I needed something to do that wasn’t paperwork.” And it took his mind off the uglier things his job entailed. Like counting the death toll on his intelligence network. “Good alcohol and company is more than enough compensation.”
"Duly noted," Wade said, grinning. "How do you feel about getting into some of that good alcohol? Or is your paperwork too pressing?"
“You’re familiar with the way things work at the Centre,” was David’s mild reply as he inspected the clock. Good quality, no repair work needed. Nodding in approval, he shot Wade a grin of his own. “The pressing paper work doesn’t leave the office.”
Setting the clock down on his desk, he padded over to the kitchen to grab glasses for them. “So I assume I passed your background check?” He called, voice all casual-like as he returned and set the glasses on the side of the coffee table that wasn’t covered in files.
"Pretty much," Wade said, not even bothering to feign surprise as he picked up the Asbach Uralt and headed for the couch. "I mean, you're not squeaky clean, but I'd've been suspicious if you were. Why do you ask?"
“Was merely making an educated guess,” David shrugged, almost amused. He toasted Wade with an empty glass before sliding it over to him. “Thank you for confirming it. Besides, it’s always good to get these troublesome bits of conversation out of the way first, no?” Not to mention the fact that the background checks went both ways, as was only natural.
"Fair enough," Wade said, opening the bottle and pouring a healthy dose into both glasses. "Did I pass yours?"
“I let you into my apartment,” David pointed out, tone marginally teasing. He leaned forward and rested his chin on steepled fingers, regarding Wade with a calculating gaze. “Although I’m not entirely convinced that I’ve found everything there is to find.”
Wade grinned. David probably hadn't. "Well," he said, quirking a brow. "Tell me what you've found and I'll tell you if you're missing something."
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Snorting, Wade shook his head. "Then I'll remain a suspected partial mystery to you, my German friend. But only so long as you drink your liquor."
David obliged readily. “Would you tell me anything more than what you’ve already told my colleagues?”
"Depends on what your colleagues have told you," Wade pointed out. If they were going to play cat and mouse with their histories and background checks, he might as well be honest about it. Taking a sip from his own glass, he smiled.
“I haven’t asked,” David admitted, leaning back against his couch. “But I’ll bite. Wade W. Wilson, 32, Canadian. The interesting bits come from your mercenary work of the protection detail variety, which started after some health issues.” For obvious reasons, none of the above concerned him.
"I'm not 32," Wade said, still smiling. It was nice to know Weasel's talents could stand up to the type of background check David would undoubtedly have done. "I'm 51. Which is not more than I've told your colleagues.”
For a long moment, David stared unblinkingly at Wade. Then he raised his glass to his lips and drained its contents, enjoying the burning trail it marked down his gullet. It was fine Asbach Uralt. “You age well, my friend.” Or, perhaps, not at all.
"Healing factor," Wade supplied, nodding. "Not really sure what good it's doing me, aside from keeping me relatively pretty for longer than average, but there you have it."
“Prettier than Logan, certainly.” Reaching for the bottle, David poured himself another two fingers of the alcohol. “That means that you have years unaccounted for.”
"Only so far as official records go," Wade said, taking another sip of his drink. "And what you've got is essentially correct, just stretch out the mercenary work, add in some actual combat and a bit of wetwork, and you've got me pegged." He'd never met this Logan person everyone kept talking about, but he was beginning to think he didn't want to.
Interesting. “Strange how you’re not a jaded old man,” David commented with a small smile before chuckling. In his varied experience, people involved in wetwork often were quite the oddballs with issues. “And your biggest quirk runs the line of playing Santa.”
Wade thought about that for a long moment, then shrugged. "I'm generally too focused on handling situations, whatever they might be, to let myself get jaded." It was easier now than it had been before. His life prior to coming to New York and the mansion... had consisted of routines set up to keep him from getting soft, jobs to make him feel like what he was doing wasn't pointless. "And there's worse things to do with my ill-gotten gains than to give some presents to some kids."
“I am not questioning that.” Not when David had allowed Wade to rope him into making one of said presents. Neither was he judging what could only have been Wade’s coping mechanism; there were only so many situations to be handled and plenty of time in between them to deal with. But this was a matter he could fully understand.
Nodding, Wade tipped his glass toward David for a moment, then grinned. "David North - not your real name, I'm guessing, but mostly from personal experience. 46 years of age. East German, half French - that must've been fun. Precog with steady hands and excellent aim. Doug mentioned you were never around when that Logan person is, but I'm not sure why that's pertinent. You defected, though - that was interesting. After your precognition manifested. Then you worked for the government, retired, worked a desk job and now... you work for Snow Valley and we both know they're not the mutant think tank they let everyone else think they are. It all meshes together into an interesting picture - but I'm also pretty sure there are a few bits and pieces missing from the official write-up."
David snorted at first, then chuckled as Wade made his way down the list. “I am 46,” he agreed, taking a sip from his glass. “David North isn’t my real name, and you’ve got the general picture down. Fortunately, not everything leaves a paper or witness trial.” Or he would probably have been deported to face a war crime tribunal, which would no doubt have executed him without fair trial.
“To help fill in your ‘bits and pieces’, however, I will admit to being an ex-operative from the Weapon X program.” A man of Wade’s habits would know what that meant. “It’s almost an open secret around here.” And it would explain why Logan’s perpetual absence was relevant.
Wade kept his smile in place, but his attention focused more sharply on the other man. "Weapon X?" He hadn't told anyone of his own involvement with that particular program and, until now, he'd never come across someone who seemed so well-adjusted who'd come out of it along the same lines as Wade himself had. "What did they do to you there?"
“What makes you think they did something to me?” David spoke lightly, but he returned Wade’s gaze with a calm, calculating one of his own.
"Weapon X never met a mutant they didn't think they could improve upon with a little help from science," Wade said, finishing his drink and reaching for the bottle so he could pour another.
Sliding the bottle over to Wade, David’s gaze never left the older man. The atmosphere had suddenly become a lot more solemn than it was just minutes ago. Somehow talking about the past always managed to that, which was probably why he hated talking about it so much. “You speak from personal experience.”
"Yeah," Wade said, shrugging before refilling his glass. "So - what'd they do to you?"
“Psionic conditioning. Pumped me full of drugs. Tied my powers to my adrenaline levels so that I could induce if necessary. Compromised the range of my powers, but I was the early warning system.” It wasn’t that bad. It could have been worse. “You?”
"Enhanced my manifestation, pumped me full of drugs, and tried to train me into a super soldier type. When that didn't work, I went into the 'reject' pool and got scheduled for termination." Wade tipped his glass toward David, the salute less a mockery now than it might have been before. "Lucky for me, they weren't very good at the terminating part."
“I’ll drink to that,” David agreed, raising his glass in return and sliding its remaining contents home. Exhaling loudly, he reached for the bottle once more. He had always seen drinking as a way to divorce himself from his powers, and not for the first time, wondered if he would be able to do the same if it were not for his conditioning under the Program.
“I always figured that Logan and I weren’t the only survivors out there. But after the last round of attempts on my life, I didn’t think I’d find another sane one.” Here, the German man shot Wade a deprecating grin. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
"Attempts on your life?" Wade asked, brow quirking. "I've managed to stay off of pretty much everyone's radar, but there've been times... close calls - too close for comfort. When was the last time somebody came after you?"
“2009. They set my own teammates on me.” David really did not want to talk about that.
"Mm." Wade shook his head at that. "My condolences, I guess." Knocking back the rest of the liquor in his glass, he considered the bottle for a moment before saying, "Whatever they did when they enhanced my manifestation - they did it wrong. I had cancer when I went to them. I've still got it now despite the healing factor. Nobody can figure out why." He made a face, then cast a rueful grin in David's direction. "Of course, I haven't actually told any of the doctors about Weapon X. It's easier not to - fewer questions to worry about that way. Probably doesn't help my situation, though."
“Probably,” David agreed, but did not say anything to convince him to do otherwise. If only because he would have done the exact same thing if placed in Wade’s position. Some things just didn’t bear talking about. Even at the expense of one’s life. “I have to ask: Is it in remission, or are you going to drop dead at any given moment?”
And even if alcohol probably wouldn’t help Wade either way, the precog slid the bottle across the coffee table to his companion again.
"Nah," Wade said, taking the bottle to pour himself another glass. "It's this... hairy cell leukemia? Everyone says if you're gonna get cancer, this is the kind to get. It just has these side effects that crop up every now and again if I'm not careful. Like I actually bruise pretty easily. I can get tired if I run too fast for too long. It's a pain, to be sure, but it could be a lot worse. I'm not on death's doorstep or anything. It's just that nobody can figure out why I've still got it, you know? Chemo was one hell of an experience, I'll tell you that. And not one I'm looking to repeat any time soon, since it apparently didn't do any good, anyway." The mercenary slid the bottle back toward David across the coffee table because sharing was caring.
“I’m glad to hear that.” Topping up his glass, David shook his head. It really took all kinds around here. “Well, not about the chemotherapy. But you not being liable to drop dead at a given moment is great news.”
The two unlikely companions lapsed into a comfortable silence, each no doubt lost in their own thoughts. It was a strange situation for David, who had not thought that he would find another Weapon X product that wasn’t at the end of a fuse or his gun barrel. Traitorous thoughts led him down the path to the incidents two years back and the German spy had to visibly shake himself to keep certain memories at bay. Conveniently, they also served to remind him not to get too enamoured with the idea of another friend and comrade, because really, friends had that nasty habit of dying or unwillingly betraying you.
“Is there a shooting range I can hit?” He asked, to cover for his visible start. It was the best he could come up with, and he did really want to fire off a couple of clips. Where a live target would not do…
"Hm?" Wade glanced up, brows rising a bit at the younger man's visible, albeit small, start and the question. "A shooting range? Yeah. There's one at the mansion. I use it - there's another one in the woods, too, but I'm not sure how accessible it'll be this time of year, so we should probably stick with the in-door one." Then he grinned. "You up for a competition, Herr Nord?"
For a long moment, David stared at Wade, unable to formulate a response although his expression remained impassive. Then he forced himself to raise his glass and take a long pull from it, curving his lips into a semblance of a grin. “The question, Herr Wilson, is whether you are up for it.”
But first he had to find out whether Wade had actually found his original identity, or whether the man had merely translated his last name like that crazy (but lazy) little fucker of a Stryker.
"Always," Wade said, saluting David with his glass again. "Always."
Kicking open the door, David stepped in, toed off his shoes and dumped all the folders in his arms on the table nearest to the door. It had been a long day at work, and he still had a to-do list that was at least a mile long. But he had managed to make some headway with regards to his network in France and get off work on time.
Well, technically, that is.
He had brought back a bunch of more innocuous work to the Brownstone. In fact, he would have stayed in the office if Wade were not coming by with the cuckoo clock that he had agreed to modify. The thing about being tired and hungry on a festive season and subsequently getting fed seemed to be that you become more susceptible to acquiescing to odd but touching requests.
Wade grabbed the cuckoo clock, still in its box from the shipper, the bottle of Asbrach Uralt he'd purchased specifically for this occasion, and headed upstairs. Marie-Ange probably wouldn't be getting back until later because she worked too much, but he had plans to drop some curry and other delicious foods off for her after this, so he wasn't too worried. Knocking on David's door, he looked at the clock through the open flaps of the box - this was one of his weirder gift ideas, which was really saying something, considering he'd bought Molly a moose.
Tossing his briefcase on the small hill of folders, David shrugged off his coat and reached for the door knob, unceremoniously yanking it open for Wade. “Good timing,” he commented in greeting, folding his coat over one arm and gesturing at his somewhat Spartan apartment with his other. “Come on in. Shoes off. Coat hanger’s behind the door. Welcome to my humble abode.”
"Yes, sir," Wade said, his salute only just a little mocking, which was better than it might've been if he hadn't decided he liked David. Handing the box with the clock in it to the other man so he could untie his boots one-handed and shrug out of his jacket, he asked, "Human Resources at Snow Valley not all it's cracked up to be?"
“Oh no,” David protested dryly, carrying the box to his desk and placing it carefully on it. “It’s a dream come true. The previous admin girl had the most interesting filing system worked out. None of the rest can make sense of it. So being one of the few people with a relevant day job, the task is now mine.”
The German man smirked, rifling through the contents of the box and gently lifted the clock from its bubble wrap and tissue. “Monopoly over paperwork has proven to be surprisingly good leverage.” Then, before his manners ran any further away from him. “Would you like a drink? Or a glass for your drink?”
Wade laughed a little and shook his head. "Maybe in a minute or two. You said something about an alternative to the hats, though, and I was intrigued."
Right. Sliding a clear folder from in between two books, David pulled out a thing sheaf of papers and handed them to Wade. Instead of changing hats, he had designed a series of six Batman figures, each one with a different hat on and in different stages of running. “They’ll go on the carousel.”
"Dude," Wade said, sitting the liquor down so he could take the sheave of paper and grinning as he flipped through the pages David had handed him. "This is pretty sweet - she'll love it." Looking up, he continued, "Thanks. I'm really going to owe you one for this, considering how last-minute it is and everything."
David shook his head and waved it off. “I needed something to do that wasn’t paperwork.” And it took his mind off the uglier things his job entailed. Like counting the death toll on his intelligence network. “Good alcohol and company is more than enough compensation.”
"Duly noted," Wade said, grinning. "How do you feel about getting into some of that good alcohol? Or is your paperwork too pressing?"
“You’re familiar with the way things work at the Centre,” was David’s mild reply as he inspected the clock. Good quality, no repair work needed. Nodding in approval, he shot Wade a grin of his own. “The pressing paper work doesn’t leave the office.”
Setting the clock down on his desk, he padded over to the kitchen to grab glasses for them. “So I assume I passed your background check?” He called, voice all casual-like as he returned and set the glasses on the side of the coffee table that wasn’t covered in files.
"Pretty much," Wade said, not even bothering to feign surprise as he picked up the Asbach Uralt and headed for the couch. "I mean, you're not squeaky clean, but I'd've been suspicious if you were. Why do you ask?"
“Was merely making an educated guess,” David shrugged, almost amused. He toasted Wade with an empty glass before sliding it over to him. “Thank you for confirming it. Besides, it’s always good to get these troublesome bits of conversation out of the way first, no?” Not to mention the fact that the background checks went both ways, as was only natural.
"Fair enough," Wade said, opening the bottle and pouring a healthy dose into both glasses. "Did I pass yours?"
“I let you into my apartment,” David pointed out, tone marginally teasing. He leaned forward and rested his chin on steepled fingers, regarding Wade with a calculating gaze. “Although I’m not entirely convinced that I’ve found everything there is to find.”
Wade grinned. David probably hadn't. "Well," he said, quirking a brow. "Tell me what you've found and I'll tell you if you're missing something."
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Snorting, Wade shook his head. "Then I'll remain a suspected partial mystery to you, my German friend. But only so long as you drink your liquor."
David obliged readily. “Would you tell me anything more than what you’ve already told my colleagues?”
"Depends on what your colleagues have told you," Wade pointed out. If they were going to play cat and mouse with their histories and background checks, he might as well be honest about it. Taking a sip from his own glass, he smiled.
“I haven’t asked,” David admitted, leaning back against his couch. “But I’ll bite. Wade W. Wilson, 32, Canadian. The interesting bits come from your mercenary work of the protection detail variety, which started after some health issues.” For obvious reasons, none of the above concerned him.
"I'm not 32," Wade said, still smiling. It was nice to know Weasel's talents could stand up to the type of background check David would undoubtedly have done. "I'm 51. Which is not more than I've told your colleagues.”
For a long moment, David stared unblinkingly at Wade. Then he raised his glass to his lips and drained its contents, enjoying the burning trail it marked down his gullet. It was fine Asbach Uralt. “You age well, my friend.” Or, perhaps, not at all.
"Healing factor," Wade supplied, nodding. "Not really sure what good it's doing me, aside from keeping me relatively pretty for longer than average, but there you have it."
“Prettier than Logan, certainly.” Reaching for the bottle, David poured himself another two fingers of the alcohol. “That means that you have years unaccounted for.”
"Only so far as official records go," Wade said, taking another sip of his drink. "And what you've got is essentially correct, just stretch out the mercenary work, add in some actual combat and a bit of wetwork, and you've got me pegged." He'd never met this Logan person everyone kept talking about, but he was beginning to think he didn't want to.
Interesting. “Strange how you’re not a jaded old man,” David commented with a small smile before chuckling. In his varied experience, people involved in wetwork often were quite the oddballs with issues. “And your biggest quirk runs the line of playing Santa.”
Wade thought about that for a long moment, then shrugged. "I'm generally too focused on handling situations, whatever they might be, to let myself get jaded." It was easier now than it had been before. His life prior to coming to New York and the mansion... had consisted of routines set up to keep him from getting soft, jobs to make him feel like what he was doing wasn't pointless. "And there's worse things to do with my ill-gotten gains than to give some presents to some kids."
“I am not questioning that.” Not when David had allowed Wade to rope him into making one of said presents. Neither was he judging what could only have been Wade’s coping mechanism; there were only so many situations to be handled and plenty of time in between them to deal with. But this was a matter he could fully understand.
Nodding, Wade tipped his glass toward David for a moment, then grinned. "David North - not your real name, I'm guessing, but mostly from personal experience. 46 years of age. East German, half French - that must've been fun. Precog with steady hands and excellent aim. Doug mentioned you were never around when that Logan person is, but I'm not sure why that's pertinent. You defected, though - that was interesting. After your precognition manifested. Then you worked for the government, retired, worked a desk job and now... you work for Snow Valley and we both know they're not the mutant think tank they let everyone else think they are. It all meshes together into an interesting picture - but I'm also pretty sure there are a few bits and pieces missing from the official write-up."
David snorted at first, then chuckled as Wade made his way down the list. “I am 46,” he agreed, taking a sip from his glass. “David North isn’t my real name, and you’ve got the general picture down. Fortunately, not everything leaves a paper or witness trial.” Or he would probably have been deported to face a war crime tribunal, which would no doubt have executed him without fair trial.
“To help fill in your ‘bits and pieces’, however, I will admit to being an ex-operative from the Weapon X program.” A man of Wade’s habits would know what that meant. “It’s almost an open secret around here.” And it would explain why Logan’s perpetual absence was relevant.
Wade kept his smile in place, but his attention focused more sharply on the other man. "Weapon X?" He hadn't told anyone of his own involvement with that particular program and, until now, he'd never come across someone who seemed so well-adjusted who'd come out of it along the same lines as Wade himself had. "What did they do to you there?"
“What makes you think they did something to me?” David spoke lightly, but he returned Wade’s gaze with a calm, calculating one of his own.
"Weapon X never met a mutant they didn't think they could improve upon with a little help from science," Wade said, finishing his drink and reaching for the bottle so he could pour another.
Sliding the bottle over to Wade, David’s gaze never left the older man. The atmosphere had suddenly become a lot more solemn than it was just minutes ago. Somehow talking about the past always managed to that, which was probably why he hated talking about it so much. “You speak from personal experience.”
"Yeah," Wade said, shrugging before refilling his glass. "So - what'd they do to you?"
“Psionic conditioning. Pumped me full of drugs. Tied my powers to my adrenaline levels so that I could induce if necessary. Compromised the range of my powers, but I was the early warning system.” It wasn’t that bad. It could have been worse. “You?”
"Enhanced my manifestation, pumped me full of drugs, and tried to train me into a super soldier type. When that didn't work, I went into the 'reject' pool and got scheduled for termination." Wade tipped his glass toward David, the salute less a mockery now than it might have been before. "Lucky for me, they weren't very good at the terminating part."
“I’ll drink to that,” David agreed, raising his glass in return and sliding its remaining contents home. Exhaling loudly, he reached for the bottle once more. He had always seen drinking as a way to divorce himself from his powers, and not for the first time, wondered if he would be able to do the same if it were not for his conditioning under the Program.
“I always figured that Logan and I weren’t the only survivors out there. But after the last round of attempts on my life, I didn’t think I’d find another sane one.” Here, the German man shot Wade a deprecating grin. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
"Attempts on your life?" Wade asked, brow quirking. "I've managed to stay off of pretty much everyone's radar, but there've been times... close calls - too close for comfort. When was the last time somebody came after you?"
“2009. They set my own teammates on me.” David really did not want to talk about that.
"Mm." Wade shook his head at that. "My condolences, I guess." Knocking back the rest of the liquor in his glass, he considered the bottle for a moment before saying, "Whatever they did when they enhanced my manifestation - they did it wrong. I had cancer when I went to them. I've still got it now despite the healing factor. Nobody can figure out why." He made a face, then cast a rueful grin in David's direction. "Of course, I haven't actually told any of the doctors about Weapon X. It's easier not to - fewer questions to worry about that way. Probably doesn't help my situation, though."
“Probably,” David agreed, but did not say anything to convince him to do otherwise. If only because he would have done the exact same thing if placed in Wade’s position. Some things just didn’t bear talking about. Even at the expense of one’s life. “I have to ask: Is it in remission, or are you going to drop dead at any given moment?”
And even if alcohol probably wouldn’t help Wade either way, the precog slid the bottle across the coffee table to his companion again.
"Nah," Wade said, taking the bottle to pour himself another glass. "It's this... hairy cell leukemia? Everyone says if you're gonna get cancer, this is the kind to get. It just has these side effects that crop up every now and again if I'm not careful. Like I actually bruise pretty easily. I can get tired if I run too fast for too long. It's a pain, to be sure, but it could be a lot worse. I'm not on death's doorstep or anything. It's just that nobody can figure out why I've still got it, you know? Chemo was one hell of an experience, I'll tell you that. And not one I'm looking to repeat any time soon, since it apparently didn't do any good, anyway." The mercenary slid the bottle back toward David across the coffee table because sharing was caring.
“I’m glad to hear that.” Topping up his glass, David shook his head. It really took all kinds around here. “Well, not about the chemotherapy. But you not being liable to drop dead at a given moment is great news.”
The two unlikely companions lapsed into a comfortable silence, each no doubt lost in their own thoughts. It was a strange situation for David, who had not thought that he would find another Weapon X product that wasn’t at the end of a fuse or his gun barrel. Traitorous thoughts led him down the path to the incidents two years back and the German spy had to visibly shake himself to keep certain memories at bay. Conveniently, they also served to remind him not to get too enamoured with the idea of another friend and comrade, because really, friends had that nasty habit of dying or unwillingly betraying you.
“Is there a shooting range I can hit?” He asked, to cover for his visible start. It was the best he could come up with, and he did really want to fire off a couple of clips. Where a live target would not do…
"Hm?" Wade glanced up, brows rising a bit at the younger man's visible, albeit small, start and the question. "A shooting range? Yeah. There's one at the mansion. I use it - there's another one in the woods, too, but I'm not sure how accessible it'll be this time of year, so we should probably stick with the in-door one." Then he grinned. "You up for a competition, Herr Nord?"
For a long moment, David stared at Wade, unable to formulate a response although his expression remained impassive. Then he forced himself to raise his glass and take a long pull from it, curving his lips into a semblance of a grin. “The question, Herr Wilson, is whether you are up for it.”
But first he had to find out whether Wade had actually found his original identity, or whether the man had merely translated his last name like that crazy (but lazy) little fucker of a Stryker.
"Always," Wade said, saluting David with his glass again. "Always."
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