David & Wade: Tuesday evening (backdated)

[x-maverick.livejournal.com]

This is how a slightly demented soldier reacts to another slightly demented soldier nearly killing himself. By threatening to finish the job.



Wade was holding onto his anger by a very thin, frayed tether and as more and more of his friends did really stupid things, he found that tether growing weaker and weaker. His time in Genosha had left him sick in a very literal sense but also with far less self-control and restraint that he was accustomed to. Finding out via text message that David fucking North had overdosed on some kind of pill after managing to make it out of that Godforsaken backwater of a country very nearly pushed him over the edge.

As he walked through the mansion's halls toward the elevator, a route he'd become intimately familiar with while Jean and Doc McCoy were administering his chemo, he didn't let himself think. He tried really hard, in fact, to compartmentalize his thoughts. Wade had priorities. He had things he needed to accomplish. And if one of those things happened to be killing his friend, well then. He needed to get it over with so he could move on to the next one.

Glancing up from his tablet – he had persuaded Doug to bring him his work – as Wade stalked in, David took in the older man’s furious expression and responded with a bland one of his own. “Panties in a twist, Wilson?”

All things considered, it was probably not the smartest thing to say.

Holding his expression completely blank, Wade simply asked, "What the fuck?" There was virtually no emotion in his voice, though anyone who knew him well would have understood that for the warning it was. When the Merc with a Mouth stopped spouting nonsense and witty one-liners, things usually ended poorly for everyone involved.

David shrugged, reaching for the cup of water by his bed in preparation for conversation with a pissed off Wade. He had received and understood the warning, but having never been on the receiving end of it, he could only respond in his usual unfazed manner.

“I apologise for not informing you,” he offered, taking a sip to wet his mouth and throat before replacing it with a still trembling hand. The tremors had died down considerably from when he had been first taken in a week ago and when he had woken from his one-day coma, but to a marksman, it was still a significant liability. “I thought Marie-Ange would have told you.” He quirked a sardonic smile.

That didn't answer the question behind the words Wade had spoken and he was fairly certain North knew that. "You planning on becoming just another fucking statistic?"

Blue eyes narrowed at the implication. Soldiers surviving wars and coming home only to suicide was more common than it should be, but, “It was not intentional.”

"Bullshit." Wade planted his feet, keeping about a shoulder's width apart, and crossed his arms over his chest. "I've been dating Marie-Ange for over a year and you two aren't the only precogs I've known. How many pills did you take, Mav? Just to make the noises in your head and the ghost-visions stop - how many? A whole bottle? Two whole bottles? That takes intent."

There was a flare of anger in his chest at the assumptions Wade was making before he doused it with a flood of water that froze upon impact. David’s eyes were icy chips that conveyed his contained annoyance very well despite the fact that his facial muscles had blanked out.

“My powers do not work that way, Dead,” was the deceptively calm response. The mockingly mangled codename could only have been a taunt, and David set aside the tablet and sat up, placing his palms face down on his lap. He smiled, a cold and brittle twist of his lips. “The noise and the ghost-visions in my head came about the same way yours did, I’m afraid. And you and I know that nothing can make those stop.”

With a tilt of his head, the precog briefly considered explaining his accidental drunken state when his unfortunate overdose had happened, then shrugged it off. “But then again, does it matter whether or not I intended to rid this world of my existence?”

"Yeah, it pretty much does," Wade replied. "In fact, right this moment, that might be the only thing that matters." He'd been careful when he came to the mansion. In a bout of strange calm, he'd removed every single knife and gun that he'd had on his person.

“Not to me it doesn’t,” David slowly shook his head, eyes never leaving Wade’s. “A dead man is a dead man, whether or the dead man wanted to die. Everybody dies, Deadpool. It doesn’t matter whether I intended to die, just like it doesn’t matter that I failed to die. Sooner or later someone else will come along and finish the job.”

There was an edge to his voice and David spoke the way only a person could when uttering a fact of life. Like he expected the other former Weapon-X operative to understand and agree with him. The almost subconscious use of their operative codenames allowed him that distance and reminded him of one of the lessons Stryker had ingrained in Maverick’s head: Soldiers were expandable. He was expandable. Wade must have slept through the class.

What David didn't seem to understand was that, though they were all expendable in the wider scope of things and they would all die eventually, there was a significant difference between taking a bullet in the field and downing a bottle of pills after dodging the bullet. "You're a pretentious asshole, Maverick, you know that?" The mercenary was trying to maintain that mental distance, but the codenames he used weren't indicators that he'd succeeded. Rather, they showed how very close he was to snapping.

"But hey, never say I didn't do anything to help you, little buddy." With that, Wade was stepping forward, moving toward David's bed with an outward calm that belied the anger showing in his eyes.

The problem, David noted to himself as the mercenary stalked forward, tension in every step, was that Wade simply did not believe that the overdose was not purposefully done. And David North was not one to repeat himself just because someone called him a liar. Or especially because someone called him a liar. So he sat there, unblinkingly, looking oddly calm for someone looking a furious Wade Wilson in the eye.

"How long are you planning to wait till you have another accident?" Wade stopped at the end of the bed, eyes intense.

“If it happens, it happens.”

"That's all?" Wade wasn't exactly incredulous, but, "Seriously? That's the best you've got? What about Kurt and Jean?"

“What about them?” The German man’s face was as blank as a fresh sheet of snow. Aside from the fact that it was neither inviting nor pretty.

"You don't think you owe them even the pretense of appreciating what they did for you?"

“I am genuinely appreciative – and have sincerely thanked them – for their help in preserving my life,” David shrugged, the corners of his lips tight. “Ought I put myself at their disposal because I now owe them my life? They did not need to save me. I would’ve died. And for better or for worse, lives would have gone on.” Including Wade’s.

"You," Wade said, voice very low even as his nostrils flared. "You are an asshole." He didn't give himself time to think about what he was doing and he didn't give David a chance to do anything that would stop him. One moment he was standing at the end of the bed, the next he was beside it, tossing the blankets aside before leaning in and picking the younger man up in a fireman's carry. "But like I said. Never say I didn't do anything for you."

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” David snarled, reaching down to grasp at the waistband of Wade’s pants, ready to use what energy he could muster to throw his weight over and bring the other man down with him. He did not thrash around or struggle like most would. But that he was asking before he reacted spoke volumes. Unsought physical contact rankled the soldier, and being manhandled like this was enough to fill him with the kind of murderous rage that had caused loss of lives in the past.

"We're taking a stroll," Wade said, walking out of the room, down the hall, and out of the medlab. He just hoped like hell Doc Jean wasn't around because he'd catch so much shit for what he was about to do. "And if you give me a wedgie, I will make you regret it." He took the stairs because standing awkwardly in the elevator while carrying someone over your shoulder would just be... well. Awkward.

The younger man actually considered it, his grip tightening on the waist band as he was bounced on Wade’s shoulder, sore stomach muscles protesting loudly as tensed it to steady himself. The jarring sensation of being carried made David grit his teeth and gave the material in his hand a hard tug. “Put me down now, Wilson. Or I will make you regret it.” By puking his guts all over the fucking nutjob.

Wade took the stairs two at a time, well aware of the fact that even incapacitated, David could make him regret this course of action. At least physically. There was really nothing anybody could do that would make him regret it mentally. "Fuck off, North. Also, you should pay more attention to your hospital gown and less to my pants. I hear the roof is nice this time of year. I hear you can actually do enough damage from four stories up to kill yourself, too. Didn't work on me, but that's the story of my life."

“I’m sure I could throw myself down this flight of stairs with you to the same effect,” David replied, tersely, jaw clenching. “And I know because I’m considering it right now and I’m watching it happen. Don’t worry, though. I’m pretty sure you’re still breathing.”

It had taken some time for his powers to kick in, but he had better things to think about than that right then. But even as he spoke, the vision was fading because the precog knew he would not do it. And when another took its place, he laughed, a mirthless, choked sound as he let go of Wade’s pants and relaxed in his rough hold. David may have missed the implications of Wade’s words in his panic, but he certainly could not miss the future his powers were warning him of.

“Oh, I see.”

"I'll just bet you do," Wade growled, then fell silent as he continued. Up, up, up - up to the fourth floor, then continued to the door that led to the roof. He didn't see any fliers out and about, so that was a plus, but it didn't mean they were going to avoid detection for long.

Wade walked to the edge of the roof and put David down, then straightened and said. "You wanna give me that speech about life going on again? What will be will be?"

“Que Sera Sera,” he quoted back at the man as David struggled to catch his breath without giving in to the urge to let out a hysterical giggle. It would be unseemly, certainly, especially for his last moments. Well, it was not quite the skyscraper or citadel that he had discussed with a certain teenaged chatterbox. But, the German decided that it would do.

“Killing me so I won’t kill myself?” David arched a sardonic brow, so characteristic of him, it seemed almost out of place on the roof of the mansion. An almost 50-year-old man in a hospital gown, mocking a 50-going-on-25-year old man who had so much anger coiled up in him, it almost looked like Wade was the trembling one. “You do know there will be ramifications, yes? I could save you the trouble and throw myself off first if you like.”

"Ramifications?" Wade said, snorting. He'd already thought them through. He'd have to leave. Go to ground. He probably wouldn't make it far, given all of Snow Valley's resources would be turned to finding him, but he'd give it a go.

If he had to.

If this went horribly wrong.

Reaching out, Wade shoved his hand into David's throat and started walking toward the edge of the roof, pushing the German with him. "Bothered by the idea of shifting from one set of statistics to another?"

“Not at all.”

At some point in his adult life, David had really convinced himself of the fact that he would die one day of something other than natural causes. Once he had accepted his impending death, that he would one day pay for his past deeds in death and maybe suffer in the depths of hell, life became a lot easier to bear. His abandonment made him better in the field as a soldier, as a gunsman, as a spy, and no one had stuck around him long enough to tell him otherwise.

So as he was backed up towards the edge, blue eyes trained on Wade’s, the spy was silent in the chokehold. Just watching, waiting and watching. He was already falling in his head, eyes fluttering shut against the rush of the wind around him.

David had to know by now that Wade wasn't bluffing. Wade knew that. Then they were at the edge of the roof and the German hadn't given any indication that he intended to put a stop to this. So the mercenary offered David a small salute with his free hand and said, "Tell Stryker I said hi," before pushing the other man almost gently backward.

But fingers wrapped themselves firmly around the mercenary’s wrist, eyes with no irises bearing into Wade’s as David broke the momentum and sharply tugged himself forward. He threw both men away from the edge that he had come so close to toppling over and they landed on the floor with Wade taking most of the fall.

The white film over David’s blue irises lifted as quickly as it had come, the German man staring wide-eyed at the man beneath him, breathing heavily.

Wade didn't back away from the edge of the roof, choosing to step closer as David fell. He watched as his friend's arms lifted with the force of it, briefly defying gravity, before impact. He watched the other man hit, listened to the heavy thunk and crack of bones, stared for several long moments as blood seeped far enough into the grass to be visible from four stories up.

His face was a mask, cold and expressionless, giving nothing away. Only then Wade closed his eyes and the mask cracked. "You stupid son of a bitch."

David surged to his feet, never breaking eye contact with Wade even as he sought to bring his breathing back under control. He failed miserably, and the spy backed away from the other mutant.

“Fuck you,” he hissed, lips curled in an ugly sneer. Fury radiated off his tense form as the recovering addict spun on his bare heel and stalked straight for the door, intent on convincing someone to give him some morphine and knock him out before he gave in to the confusion and an irrational murderous rage.

Because he could not wipe Wade Wilson’s broken expression from his mind. Because apparently killing him would have left the other man distraught. Because Dead-fucking-pool would rather have his death on his conscience and be hunted as a fugitive than see David kill himself.

David North did not know why. But then, he did not know a lot of things, it seemed. He needed to figure shit out. But first, he needed to quell the raging inferno inside that made his heart race and fists clench in an effort not to give in to emotions that he had, for so long, dismissed, suppressed and buried deep within him. It was like the world had stopped making sense.

Wade stayed where he was for several long moments after the door to the roof slammed behind the German. Then he let out a slow breath and smiled. That had been close - too close - and he had no idea where this left him and North, but that was okay. At least the other soldier was alive to despise him, if that was how things went.