Chapter Text
1. Sad Sacks
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Vanessa can’t fake the sex.
It comes as a surprise. You’d think that out of anyone else in the world, Nessa would have been able to do it. Would have been able to pretend. A hot young sex worker should have been more than experienced in the art of faking an orgasm. She bumps uglies with some absolute trolls on the regular, and she – well, she is no troll. But come to find out, Wade Winston Wilson’s body repulses her. She can’t fake it. Can’t hide the disgust at the sight of his naked bod. Where once upon a time, her hands groped and gripped with a sure, steady pressure, they now tremble, grip lax, fingertips a hesitant, reluctant glide across the deep, rippling scar tissue, if she even touches him at all. No amount of kidding around and inside jokes and trips down memory lane can hide the fact that he just – well, grosses her out. Wade’s too observant. Too in love with everything about her not to notice all the differences between the glorious then and the horrible now. He’s got White and Yellow, too, who can’t seem to shut up about the truth he’s been trying not to admit.
Last night, he’d been going down on her in their quiet, dark bedroom, his bald head between her thighs.
She writhed like she used to, all breathy moans and squirming legs.
But when he glanced up with a slow, swirling tongue, her eyes gave up the game.
She used to look at him when they were together.
Her eyes used to be – hungry for him. Playful with him. A sparkle of pleasure, a warmth.
A home.
They used to look at each other like they could never get enough. Every time he saw her felt like the first time. A gravity that sucked him ever closer, that wrapped around the heart beating in his chest and yanked him toward her. He couldn’t get enough of her, the feel of her soft skin under him, around him, arms wrapped tight around his neck as she jumped on him and they made out like randy teens on the living room floor. He still looks at her that way. Appreciative. Hungry. In love, as much as an asshole like Wade could be. But she – but she –
They only ever sex in the dark, now.
And her eyes? Always clenched shut. Always closed.
Wade can’t remember the last time they made out. The last time he slipped his tongue into her mouth. The last time she jumped his bones and turned him inside out the right way. Now he’s just – his skin’s the thing inside out, and there’s no hiding how it repels her. You’d have to be batshit crazy and blind to love him, now, and Nessa’s batshit crazy’s matched his all along, but she’s never been blind. Her eyes haven’t sparkled since that day he finally killed Francis, since he first showed her his new face. She’d gulped at the sight of him, that first day, but so quickly turned it around. So quickly said it’d be a face she’d happily sit on. But there’s been no happy sitting, and the hopeful yearning happiness of that first day back in her arms grows dimmer by the day. Every day he wakes up hoping he can turn this thing around.
But every day, they wake up on opposite sides of the bed. She curls into a pillow on the other side almost as soon as he cums. Says it’s too hot in the apartment to cuddle. She’s a pretty okay faker, he’s reasonably sure none of her johns would ever question the performance, but Wade knows that he hasn’t been able to get her off since they got back together. He’s been letting her fake it for months now, but it hurts too much to keep up the game.
It hurts too much to see her sparkle go out, little by little, every damn day.
It hurts too much to be alive, when he feels so damn dead inside.
“Hey, ‘Nes?” he says the morning after another failed cuddle, failed orgasm, failed eye contact.
He’s wearing the Deadpool suit, mask and all, in their kitchen.
She doesn’t protest the ensemble. Doesn’t ask him to take off the mask. Doesn't ask him why he wasn’t eating breakfast with her. Her hair’s still wet from her morning shower, draped over a lean, graceful shoulder, a big comfortable sweater hanging loose around her curves. Vanessa’s cradling a mug of steaming coffee and has her eyes focused on an open book in front of her, a plate of cooled pancakes with a nibble gone here and there beside the book. Wade’s no genius, but he’s pretty sure she hasn’t flipped a page in about eight minutes and twenty-two seconds. White and Yellow do their level best to keep track of the time for him, ever helpful assholes in his brain. Wade’s stomach hurts, his chest tight like a bruise. He’s not sure he’ll ever get the words out through the lump in his dry throat, through the despair that feels like acid eating away at his internal organs. And Wade can totally make that comparison – he’s had acid eat away internal organs before. Dead ringer for this feeling now.
She hums at him but doesn’t look up from the book.
It’s not Wade Wilson but Deadpool who reaches over the table and sets a gloved hand on the open page.
She finally looks across the table at him, her eyes following his hand up his arm and then landing on his masked face. She raises a delicate dark eyebrow, unimpressed. “What’s up? I know you’re not a fan of books –”
[She’s calling you an idiot.]
[[You ARE an idiot. A gross, steaming pile of shit idiot. You never deserved her.]]
[Commercial break OVER.]
“’Nes,” he says. His voice cracks. He’s glad he’s wearing the mask because tears pool in his eyes and trail down his ruined cheeks when he blinks, and she’d pity stay. She’s been pity-staying but pity cuts like serrated steel and he can’t let her do this anymore, she deserves better than – than a perpetual pity fuck. She shouldn’t have to fake it with her lover the way she fakes it for rich old bald guys.
[You’re ONE of those rich old bald guys, now.]
“What is it? I was getting to the good part.” She takes a sip of her coffee.
Wade shakes his head. “We – we can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what, Wade? Eating breakfast?”
“No – this!” He forgets about the book to gesture between them, his other hand tight on the edge of the table because he feels like he’s on the world’s shadiest roller coaster and if he doesn’t hold on tight to something, he’s going to splat. He’s suddenly very frantic for her unimpressed face to morph into real emotion, frantic for her to feel even a fraction of the inner turmoil that’s got his insides as wrecked as his outsides. Her pretty olive eyes widen at his outburst, then narrow when he says, “You’ve gotta stop pretending. You – you don’t love me anymore, ‘Nes. I get it – I. It’s understandable. I sure as shit can’t stand me either. I’d have left myself ages ago, but. I just – we can’t keep pretending everything’s fine with us. I think – I mean, I know you deserve to be with someone who’s in your league. Someone you’re not ashamed of.” Wade grits his teeth to get this all out in the open, feeling raw, exposed with her eyes on him. He tries to sound unaffected, but his voice won’t stop cracking. “Someone better. You didn’t sign on for the shitshow that’s under this suit. I don’t – I want better for you.”
“Where’s this coming from?”
And well, there it is, isn’t it? The emotions. She’s hurt by his words, her face closing off to him, her eyes round and sad. She sets her coffee down and crosses her arms across her chest, almost like giving herself a hug. But she doesn’t deny any of it, does she? That one final stubborn shred of hope in his chest withers and dies right then and there, curls up and disintegrates. He swears he flatlines for a heartbeat, for two.
“You flinch away from me,” he says. She flinches in response, as if to prove him right.
“You have to turn the lights off when we have sex,” he says.
He feels removed from it all, floating somewhere on the ceiling, watching this train wreck from an agreeable distance. Once he gets started, he can’t stop. Months of built-up hurts come pouring out like a fountain, the biggest pile of word vomit the merc with the mouth’s ever spewed. He throws it all in her face while she sits there in her sad little defensive pose, shoulders hunched, wide-eyed as she listens. He tells her he knows she’s been faking her orgasms. He knows she can’t keep her eyes open. They don’t cuddle anymore and it’s not too hot for it, he’s been keeping the air conditioning on nonstop, she’s wearing a fucking huge ass sweater in the middle of a sweltering summer morning in New York because it’s so damn cold in here. It is not too hot to cuddle. They haven’t showered together since he got back. When he laid his head in her lap the other night on the couch, she angled her legs away, sat stiff and uncomfortable until he moved off her. She never touched his head. He’s been wearing the mask more often around the house and he’s noticed how much less tense she’s been because of it. He hasn’t eaten around her in over a week and she hasn’t questioned it once.
Vanessa doesn’t deny any of it. She does, however, cry.
“I loved you so much, Wade,” she tries to say, cajoling.
“You say it in the past tense.”
She wipes her eyes on her sleeve, glancing away from him. Even with the mask on, she doesn’t want to look at him. Deadpool stands up from their tiny little two-seater dining table. He’s got guns and knives strapped all around, his katanas on his back like a firm, comforting weight. He doesn’t own a single goddamn thing in this apartment that he’d brave these emotions to stick around for.
“You’re not denying anything I said,” Deadpool says, panda white mask eyes blank and unreadable. He’s crying underneath it, all hitched breaths and stinging eyes. He wants, more than anything, to rip the mask off and see her smile at his face. See her light up at the sight of it. Of him. But she wouldn’t. She hasn’t been and she wouldn’t now and it’s all – it’s all fucking Francis’s fault. That fucking –
“It’s because – it’s because you’re right. God, you’re right and I hate myself for it.”
He laughs, a sputtered laugh, a choked laugh. “’S not your fault… just. It’s. Not your fault.”
He doesn’t know what else to say.
“It’s painful,” she finally admits. “to look at your skin and know how hurt you had to have been. And the scars – they move.” She says it like Wade doesn’t already know that, like she’s revealing some huge revelation that’ll make all this make sense, hurt less, something. But Wade feels his scars moving every second of the day. They ripple and itch like crazy, sometimes, the mutation constantly fighting his cancer. Some days are way worse than others. Some days hurt, all boiling, aching skin, every nerve on fire, exposed like a livewire. Some days it hurts even to have the suit press against him, or any other clothes, for that matter. But the cool air hurts, too, and there’s zero relief, nothing at all that can stop the relentless death march across every square inch of his cells. He kills himself on those days, away from the apartment. In a back alley alone, or in the backroom of Sister Margaret’s. Weasel hates it, though, all the blood spatter, so it’s usually the back alleys for him.
He thinks he’ll go find one of those now.
“When they move, it looks like – like bugs crawling under the surface of your skin. I get a little sick, sometimes,” Vanessa admits. She’s whispering it like a dirty confession and she still won’t look in his direction. Wade’s surprised he hasn’t fallen out already. He’s surprised his heart’s still beating through this unbearable squeezing pressure. At least she’s finally admitting the truth. It hurts, but – but it’s been hurting for months. He’s seen that sick look in her eyes when he gets too close, a little green around the gills. He’s seen the scrunched nose, the held breaths, the trips to the bathroom. Nothing she’s saying comes as a surprise.
But fuck.
“I’ll always love you.” His words are soft. A whispered confession of his own.
Vanessa cries.
He can tell this is hard on her. And honest to God, he doesn’t blame her. His skin is repulsive. It’s sick. When he’s in his hoodie in public, people stare, whisper, throw up. He saved a few kids from a burning building last month down in Queens, but part of his suit burned away in the process and made one of the kids pass out. The other one hurled chunks all over Deadpool’s boots. And the news? Shit, the news lit him up. Got a great view of his naked back and his face before he managed to hightail it out of there, and he’s pretty sure that video’s got hundreds of thousands of views on YouTube, with just as many insulting comments. Not that he’s looked or anything… okay so he’s totally looked. Done more than looked. He’s spent several restless nights pouring over mean comment after mean comment, sobbing into a bowl of fruit loops while White and Yellow both tell him how everybody’s right about him. Like Weasel said the first time he saw his face, it’s like an old avocado hate-fucked another old avocado, and Wade will die alone. Except, oh wait, he can’t die, so he’ll just live alone forever instead.
Which is worse. So. Much. Worse.
But he knows it’s true, now.
If Vanessa can’t stomach his ugly mug, nobody will.
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After Wade kills himself, twice, he takes a job out of the country and carves bad guys up like diced ham. And they are bad, too, really bad. A whole organization into child trafficking and baby porn, and Wades has zero misgivings about wiping the entire shit stain company off the face of the earth. As a matter of fact, he throws himself into it wholeheartedly, with all the gusto of a fugly man who’s got nothing better to do with his immortality than slaughter assholes. It takes a few months to round them all up, to smoke out their hidey holes and scatter them like ants. He thinks this is the last of them, now, and he feels right at home in the middle of the carnage that’s become their last fully staffed warehouse.
“I give you money. I give you money!” one of them says, frantic, as he runs away.
Deadpool throws a knife into the back of his neck.
“Sweet of you to offer,” he says to the corpse, grinning, mask and suit covered in blood. “But I’m pretty sure I can just take it off your dead body, and also, I’m getting paid a pretty penny to take you out. But shhh, don’t tell my employer, ‘cuz I probably would have done this for free. You guys suck.”
Then he whirls around like a ballerina, unsheathing one katana midair to slice it through another guy coming at him from behind. He cuts him in the middle so his guts trail to the ground before he’s even fully dead, and he gargles up blood as he falls to Deadpool’s feet. Deadpool hops away from the gore and gets a torso full of bullets from some other idiots. The suit’s already riddled with holes, though, so he’s not too mad about more. His skin pushes them out faster than they went in. It feels like a bit of spring cleaning every time another of these fucks die, a nice casual outing with Bea and Arthur. He smashes two bad guy’s faces into one another then shoots them both in their assholes. Stepping on instead of around their moaning bodies, Deadpool waits until three more assholes charge at him from behind some crates before he shoots the moaning guys in the head. Their squishy bodies twitch under his boots. It’s been a long few months, and it’s a little exciting to be nearing the end of this shit show, so Deadpool makes quick work of the stragglers, leaping over crates and trying to shoot people in rhythm with White’s loud rendition of ‘walk like an Egyptian’ blaring in his brain.
[It’s falling down like a domino!]
[[oh ay oh!]]
Thirty-two kidnapped kids get rescued from the wreckage of the warehouse. He yanks open all the crates they’re hogtied in, pulling the wooden lids up with his bare hands so hard that nails go flying. So many wide, scared eyes peer up at him, dirty faces and torn clothes, flinching away from the flood of light. Deadpool makes sure to stay far away from their terrified faces while he calls the cops to come get them, convinced he’d just scare them even more. He follows behind the cops and makes sure the kids get actually rescued, makes sure there aren’t any baddies on the police payroll. It feels good to watch all the family reunions through his scope. He did that. Pool comma Dead. The Merc with the Mouth. He might look like a trash fire. People might hate his guts. His life might be endless and shit and the most he’s got to look forward to for the rest of eternity is hookers pretending they don’t wanna run screaming at the sight of him for a marked-up, hefty price but –
[Where were you going with this again?]
“It does my cold dead heart good to see all these kiddos hug their parents.” Deadpool sighs.
[[That’s why we do it.]]
[But also – the violence was good.]
[[Ooh yeah, did you see how that guy crapped his pants right before we tore his arms off?]]
[See it? I SMELLED it.]
[[Whoever smelt it dealt it!]]
“He should have worn the brown pants,” Deadpool says, but that just reminds him of Francis and Weapon X, which of course spins all the way back to Vanessa. If he’d never met her, Deadpool wouldn’t exist. He’d have stayed Wade Wilson all the way to the bitter end, would have drowned himself in liquor before the cancer had the chance to drown him in other bodily fluids. Deadpool sets down the rifle and leans back on the rooftop, staring into the starry skies above. It’s tempting to stay away from New York for another eighty years, to wait until everybody he knows is dead and gone from old age. But he’s a little lonely. Dead guys make for crappy company. White and Yellow make for even worse company.
[[We hate you too.]]
He could always start somewhere new. Start fresh. Move to a quiet little town where nobody knows him and pretend he’s a random shmuck burn victim whose only skillset involves blood and violence. It’s a nice thought. He could buy an old farmhouse. Renovate. Maybe he could meet a nice farmhand and oh, who’s he kidding? Deadpool’s not meant for a happy little life. Deadpool’s a social pariah in New York, for crying out loud. Home of the freaks! Quiet little towns would roast him for breakfast. He’d probably be run out with pitchforks.
Maybe he should go to Hollywood. Try Weasel’s idea – star in his own horror movies.
[Nah, we all know Ryan Reynolds can’t act for shit.]
[[His beard sucked in Amityville.]]
Well. What else is there to do?
“I’ve got way too much time on my hands,” Deadpool says. “Like, all the time. So much time that time’s becoming meaningless. The question is, how do I plan to spend my little slice of eternity? Taking jobs like this forever? Sending shit stains to the not-so-great beyond? Am I doomed to think about Vanessa for the rest of this crap fest?”
That’s the real question.
He can’t go back to New York. He’d probably end up stalking her. Truly pathetic. But he can squat with Blind Al again. Maybe she can teach him how to knit socks. He’s at the late stage of loneliness where he’s even starting to think about Blind Al’s old lady pants smell with gnawing fondness. He kind of wants to mope at Sister Margaret’s. Get wasted off Weasel’s cheap booze and feel like himself again. But it still feels like a bad, bad idea to go back. Having Vanessa in close proximity sounds like a disaster waiting to happen. He shouldn’t go back.
Deadpool stares up at the night sky. It’s such a different view from the one in New York.
There’s way more stars on this side of the earth.
[That’s not how it works.]
Deadpool is – unhappy. So, he shoots himself in the face.
The screen fades to black.
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When he gasps back to life, a flock of birds are pecking at his corpse. He flails his arms to get ‘em to scatter, his whole body on fire. Not literally, although that’d be a hoot. No, apparently, he stayed dead longer than he usually does, because the sun’s a harsh ball of death above him and he’s pretty sure he smells like cooked meat under the heavy black and red leather. The mask is stifling, and he can’t take in a full breath, but his lungs will just have to adjust to diminished air capacity because there’s no way he’s taking this thing off. Possibly ever again. Deadpool waits until his blurry vision improves, waits until his legs can hold his weight. Christ, but he needs a drink. Not even alcohol, either, but cool, crisp water. When’s the last time he drank water? His shriveled-up insides scream in protest as he pulls himself to a shaky, wavering stand. Deadpool gets his feet back under him. He stretches.
Then, well, he’s got nothing better to do than go home.
New York isn’t home, exactly, but it’s the closest he’s got these days. By the time he tromps through the heavy steel door to Sister Margaret’s, the dark and dingy stale smoke atmosphere is lively and full of familiar faces. His eyes go straight to the dead pool, but it doesn’t look like anybody’s croaked yet. How is it that a room full of bumbling mercenaries and criminals can all manage to keep themselves alive this long? Weasel’s behind the bar, ever faithful as he scrubs a glass with a dirty dish rag. As soon as he sees Deadpool, he raises the dirty glass to him in a mock salute.
“Heard you saved a bunch of kids,” Weasel says.
Deadpool grunts, plopping into a stool, elbows on the bar. “Killed a bunch of adults, too,” he agrees. “Shit, that was fun. I think I’ve earned a break, though. And next time, I’d kinda like to go somewhere tropical. Algeria had its moments, but shit is it hot there. Do bad guys ever pick tropical breezy tourist destinations to set up shop? It’s almost like they’re against fun. What about Hawaii? I hear the crime rate there sucks, and it’d be cool to get in on the Hawaii Five-0 action before they close up shop for good. Also, pineapples, amirite?”
Weasel rolls his eyes. He reaches under the bar and comes up with a perfectly sliced piece of chilled pineapple, which he adds like a garnish to a mug full of cheap beer. He slides it over to Deadpool, but Deadpool stops its trajectory with a careless elbow and bumps it back the other way. Weasel catches it, frowning. “What, my beer not good enough for you anymore, mister bigshot criminal killer?”
“Not thirsty,” he lies.
“You don’t drink booze because you’re thirsty Wade, what the fuck.” Weasel’s frowning with his whole face, now, eyes narrowed behind his big round glasses.
“I didn’t come here to be interrogated.”
“Okay, well then why’d you come here? Because this is a bar and you’re refusing alcohol.”
“I need a hooker,” Deadpool declares.
“Don’t we all?” Weasel retorts.
“No, I mean a special hooker. Like a sugar baby. That’s a thing, right? There are websites.”
Weasel’s face scrunches into obvious disgust. He takes a swig of the mug he’d offered to Wade and says, “Aren’t you, like, married to a hooker already? I doubt Vanessa’s gonna be cool with you soliciting innocent sugar babies online.”
The ache of hearing her name slices right through Deadpool’s chest. Metaphorically. He thumps his head onto the bar and moans out loud, hiding his head under the cover of his arms. This is his fault, of course. He never mentioned the breakup to Weasel. He’s never mentioned it out loud at all. Once he does, it’s real. Once everybody else knows… it’s real.
“You suck, Weas,” he mumbles into the hard surface his face is smooshed against.
“In your dreams, maybe. Gross.”
Deadpool can’t hold it in anymore. He finally blurts out the whole sorry thing, crying into his mask. How Vanessa couldn’t stand the sight of him, how they broke up, how he’ll be alone forever, how he’s never taking the mask off again. How his skin aches and itches and writhes and ripples, how the cancer feels like fucking snakes under his skin, he’s in the grossest meat bag, he can’t stand another second in this fucked up body, he doesn’t belong in it, he’s stuck. Deadpool needs to die, why can’t he die, please let him just die –
“Jesus, Wade.” There’s something cool and wet pressing against his arm, insistent. Deadpool bats it away and the smell of spilled alcohol fills the air, liquid sloshing out of the mug Weasel won’t stop trying to pawn off on him. “Drink this you asshole, you’ll feel better.”
“I can’t drink through the mask!” he wails.
“All right, that’s it.”
There’s shuffling and footsteps, a glass slamming onto the bar. Deadpool keeps his head buried and is too deep inside his own brain to notice it, sobbing out his woes to his favorite barkeep. He doesn’t realize Weasel isn’t even there to listen anymore until he’s hauled off the stool by two burly, sweaty guys. If he weren’t so damn depressed, he might have cared. As it is, he’s sobbing and crying into the mask, hanging limp as they drag him away from the stool, around the bar, and into the backroom. They toss him over Weasel’s musky, mustard-colored old couch. Wade smooshes his face into the cushions with his legs hanging off the side at an uncomfortable angle, idly wondering how unsanitary this seat is and how many uglies Weasel’s bumped back here on this very spot, but who the fuck cares about germs, anyway?
“Take off the fucking mask and drink this now.”
Weasel’s suddenly there. He grabs Deadpool by the shoulder and tries to haul him into an upright position. Weas is weak as fuck, though, and Deadpool doesn’t much want to be in an upright position. It takes Weasel three tries and both arms to turn the black and red clad merc around. He’s huffing and puffing, out of breath and out of shits to give, when he physically shoves hard liquor into Deadpool’s lax grip. Weasel has a very serious frown on his face, his brow furrowed like an angry beaver from the 70s. Or something. Deadpool holds the drink, stares down at it, blank and empty. He shakes his head.
“I’ve already seen your face,” Weasel says. “It’s gross, but – eh, this whole self-pity thing you got going on is even more disgusting, and I honestly didn’t think that was possible. Pull yourself together, dude. Get wasted. Stay wasted. You’ve got a long, long life ahead of you and if you’re already this fucked up? I dunno man, just drink the damn booze. I’m not a therapist.”
Deadpool feels like crying again. “I can’t even kill myself, Weas. I’m useless.”
Weasel throws his hands up. He walks to the other side of the small space and grabs a closed crate, drags it all the way back to the couch and spends a few mopey, pathetic minutes prying it open with a crowbar. Deadpool sniffs, watching the bartender pull out his good stuff, imported shit he’s been squirreling away for a rainy day, probably. He must think today is an awfully rainy day because he pulls out the entire stash and pops one open for Wade. Deadpool drops the mug of the cheap stuff Weasel had wrestled into his hand earlier, lets it drop to the floor and shatter into a loud blast of glass and alcohol across his boots. He takes a deep breath, which isn’t that easy right now through all the snot, and quickly yanks the mask up so his mouth and nose are exposed, leaving it on halfway so it still covers his bald ball sack head. He watches Weasel for a reaction, but the man doesn’t flinch or make the usual disgust-face. The asshole’s trying to make him feel better, Deadpool guesses. It won’t work. Nothing’s going to ever feel good again. Nothing’s going to –
“Is this aviation gin??” Deadpool eyes the glass bottle Weas forced into his hand, turning it this way and that.
That son of a bitch.
“Damn straight.” Weasel looks smug. “You’re gonna drink and I’m gonna drink, and we’re gonna forget our own motherfucking names, you feel? No more of this sad sack business. It gives me hives.”
Deadpool’s eyes well up all over again. He can’t win tonight.
“Yeah,” he says, soft and reverent. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, buddy.”
“Hives, hives, hives. Shut up and chug!”