Chapter Text
POV: Wade
It had been a week since Cable -- aka Nathan Summers -- had moved into an apartment with Wade.
"Don't get used to it," he'd growled when Wade gave him a big 'we're roomies now' welcoming hug. But he hadn't shoved him away either, so he took that as a win.
Wade finally learned his roomie's real name on day two, when the proposed nickname of 'Priscilla' was rejected via stabbing.
"Y'know- I usually know a guy's name before I let him penetrate me," Wade joked, gritting through the pain.
"My name is Nathan Summers. You can call me Nate. Or you can shut your whore mouth."
Wade delicately tried to pull the knife out of his right hand. "Whore mouth? Sir, I take offense. For starters, sex workers deserve respect. Secondly, I've never been paid for-- Wait, wait a second. Summers? Are you related to that uptight, one-eyed-- YEOW!"
Nate had retrieved his blade, none-too-gently, and wiped it off on his pant leg before putting it away.
"Oh, Nate. That's not sanitary. You don't know where my hand has been," Wade chided, and then gasped softly in realization. They were finally bonding. "We're finally bonding!"
"We are not bonding," Nate denied, and promptly left the apartment, not to return for several hours. But Wade knew his new enemy-turned-frenemy-turned-pal on a first name basis now, and technically they were even sleeping together, even if Nate slept in the only bedroom because he'd called dibs and Wade slept on the couch in a pile of fast food wrappers. The couch had better lumps anyways and always smelled like delicious taco grease, so who was the real winner?
Living with Nate was weird after living with Vanessa for so long. No more kisses -- not like he wanted any. No more matching sweaters. No more rules about putting away the suit or the guns or cleaning up after himself. Needless to say, the apartment got messy fast -- although Nate would occasionally threaten him to clean his shit up, and sometimes the threat of physical violence actually worked.
Usually when Wade got home, Nate was never there. Hours later when Nate did come back, he'd just go to bed. Other times, Wade was hired for jobs that took days of travel to complete. There was little interaction between them and they barely saw each other, so Wade took to leaving little notes behind.
Went to get milk. And also to put a cap in someone's ass. He's a bad guy though, so don't worry. I'll be home late. xoxo
Forgot the milk. Also didn't cap the guy so I didn't get paid. Can you pick some up while you're out? xoxo
Thanks for getting milk. I ordered Thai. Leftovers in the fridge, help yourself buddy. xoxo
P.S. ok I ate all the leftovers sorry.
P.P.S. We should order more Thai when you get back though, it was really good.
Mercenary jobs had become harder to come by, and then work dried up. It was almost like nobody wanted to pay a guy to kill people anymore. As if there could ever be a shortage of people in the world who needed to die. But when one door closes, another opens -- everywhere he went, he suddenly saw slews of missing persons flyers. Wade had never noticed how many there were before, but he took it as a sign. He'd always wanted to try his hand at being a P.I. and Wade hadn't realized that the market was booming with families desperate to find loved ones. He offered his services as a private dick to several different people, but every single case was unsolvable. It was like they'd just vanished into thin air, but he knew that wasn't possible. It was frustrating to realize he was such a lousy dick.
At the same time, Nate's hobby of saving kittens from trees, or whatever the heck he did all day, suddenly took up more time. Or maybe Wade just hadn't realized how little Nate was around until he had nothing to do but curl up on the couch and wait for him to come back.
Haven't seen you in 2 3 4 days. Hope you didn't get kidnapped. Weasel said he'd keep me posted if someone tried to sell a stud grandpa on the black market. Or a metal arm.
Someone tried to sell a metal arm on the black market????!! It better be Bucky's and not yours. Not like I care.
It was Bucky's.
Where the heck are you??? Also, we so need to exchange numbers as soon as you get back. Texting would be more efficient than leaving notes you never read.
At least if he could text, Nate would have to look at what he wrote. There was nothing that he hated more than being ignored. Might as well just talk to himself. Which he did a lot of lately.
Wade missed the exact moment when Nate got back. He heard him in the kitchen, and woke up to see Nate pulling the last two Hello Kitty post-it notes off of the fridge.
"You're alive," Wade said, sitting upright. Then he gasped in realization. "You do read my notes!"
"I read all your notes, Wade." Nate tossed the pieces of paper into the trash.
"Well. You could write back once in a while," Wade groused. "A little 'xo' wouldn't go amiss."
"We're not exchanging numbers," Nate added, ignoring Wade's request. "I've seen the photos you send to Blind Al."
"You should be grateful you can see, pal!"
"Sometimes I'm really not. Goodnight, Wade."
"Oh." They weren't going to banter, apparently. "Goodnight, Nate," Wade said, but the other man was already gone, shutting himself away in the bedroom. "Glad you're alive," he mumbled, sinking back down onto the couch.
Nate was back. It should've been easier to sleep now, but instead it was harder.
-
The jobs that seemed the most straightforward always had to be the worst. What he'd been asked to do was morally bankrupt, even by Wade's grey standards, and his client not only tried to hardcore murder him, but had also intended to frame him for innocent lives lost if things had gone according to their plan. Fortunately, they hadn't accounted for Wade's pain tolerance. Which wasn't really much higher than anyone else's pain tolerance, but he always healed up eventually.
This time when he got home, Nate was already there. For the first time in forever Nate was dressed down -- no weapons, no military-esque clothes with excessive amounts of pockets. Just one buff, half-metal silver fox in his comfiest set of PJs, watching Food Network.
It made Wade's chest ache in a way totally unrelated to the three-inch piece of steel lodged between his ribs.
He had a weirdly vivid mini daydream of Nate just looking at him like he'd missed him too and had been waiting for him to get home. Both of them squashed together on the couch, PJs on, sharing a quart of Ben and Jerry's with the same spoon, arguing about whether pineapples belong on pizza. Something that almost matched the happiness he'd felt with Vanessa. For a second, he almost forgot.
(She's dead, stupid. Nobody's gonna love you like that again. He doesn't even like you,) a cruel voice in his head reminded him. It was startling how abrupt and clear the thought was.
All of the warmth left his body at once, leaving him a little breathless and dizzy. He was vaguely aware of Nate looking at him, but it was less of a 'you're home' and more of a ' why are you here?'
Wade went to the kitchen to get himself a drink and get his head together. Something hot and sweet would be nice, like cocoa. The next thing he knew, he was on the floor instead. Everything hurt. Nate was kneeling over him, saying his name from far away, even though his hands were touching Wade's face.
"Your arms must be really long," Wade mumbled. It was a little hard to breathe.
"Wade, you died for a second," Nate told him. Wade couldn't quite tell if Nate was concerned for him or just annoyed. "I had to pull a piece of metal pipe from your chest. Can you tell me what happened?"
"I got a… pipe in my chest," Wade said, pausing for breath. His lungs felt wet and heavy. He should've left the pipe in.
"Very illuminating," Nate deadpanned, letting go. "Anything else I should know?"
[Now's your chance. Tell him you love him.]
(No, that's sappy. Just tell him you're DTF.)
"Shut up," Wade blurted out, mortified.
Nate's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"
Ah, fuck. Nate probably heard that last bit. "Not you… I can hear... boxes," Wade said, unsure of how else to explain it.
"Boxes," Nate repeated.
"Yes. Can you hear them too?" Wade asked, hopeful.
"No, Wade. I can only hear you," Nate assured him. Wade started to slump in disappointment, but to his surprise, Nate stooped down and picked Wade up in his arms.
"Ah-! Don't drop me," Wade clung to him as Nate carried him across the apartment. A traitorous, fluttery desire in his gut foolishly hoped that Nate was carrying him off to bed -- well, more specifically, Nate's bed.
[So strong. What's that arm made out of, anyway?]
(Husband material.)
[Who's sappy now?]
To his disappointment, Nate deposited him on the couch.
"Sleep it off, Wilson," Nate advised in a gruff tone, gently prying Wade's hands off of him.
(Oof. Last name basis.)
[That's not good.]
Wade stayed quiet until Nate left, but inwardly he was feeling a little panicked.
These thoughts didn't feel like his own, even though they had his voice. His mind was always scattered, full of thoughts that flowed nonstop like a babbling brook. Sometimes it took a lot of conscious effort to reign himself in and make sense of his own head. But these just popped out of nowhere, in bold print, in boxes that were separate from everything else.
"Am I going nuts?" he wondered aloud, whispering to himself, because honestly, he was a little afraid of his own head right now.
(A little late to be asking that.)
This time the reply wasn't so startling. He could almost see the words printed inside a little yellow box.
[To be fair, you've lost a lot of blood.]
That one was a little kinder, and more rational. Wade saw it as a smart Courier font against clean white.
(Why are you smarter than me? We're in the same brain.)
[Hah.]
"Is this like, a tumor?" Wade asked himself. Or maybe he was asking them. "Do I have a tumor pressing on my brain?"
[I mean. Probably.]
(Yeah, you're riddled with a fuckton of cancer. This was bound to happen eventually.)
"True," he agreed. "Okay, voices in my head. I'm gonna shut my eyes and go to sleep and when I wake up, my tumors will be in new and exciting places and both of you are going to be gone. Bye-bye. Permanently."
[Wow, rude.]
(Yeah, goodnight to you too, jerk.)
Wade ignored them and just kept his eyes shut.
-
The next day, Nate found Wade at the kitchen sink, coughing up blood clots into the drain.
"Did you die again last night?" Nate asked, too deadpanned to actually sound concerned.
"Only in spirit," Wade quipped. But he was pretty sure he had, in fact, drowned in his own blood at one point. That was probably why he'd slept so well, and why he remembered dreaming about Vanessa.
The good news was, the voices -- or boxes -- had gone away. It was just him, himself, and also him in his brain now.
Another half-chunky, half-slimy blood clot suddenly came up, and the solid little thunk into the sink made Nate grimace.
"I'd appreciate it if you could contain your biohazards to the bathroom," Nate said.
Wade was already gripping onto the sink for dear life, his eyes watery and stomach sick from the effort his body was making to expel that crap. He didn't want to put his face in the toilet right now. He knew what horrible things took place there.
"I'd appreciate it if you'd shut your handsome face and mind your own-" Wade broke off into dry heaves, which he hated, but he tried hard to roll with it, to hack up more of the crust and slime he could feel stuck inside. Ultimately, nothing came up that time. He spat out some pink-tinged saliva and slumped over the sink.
"Almost had it. Oh man, this is worse than spitting up bullets. Those just come out when they're ready. Maybe if I drown myself in the bathtub, the blood clots will rinse out. What d'you think?"
Wade looked up at Nate and was met with his usual stony expression. It was so hot when Nate did his serious face, but if Wade didn't know any better, he'd think Nate didn't really care at all.
"I'll help you," Nate said, to Wade's surprise.
"Really?" he asked, excited, but then remembered that he'd just said he was going to try drowning himself. "Oh. Yeah. I bet you'd love to hold me down and watch me struggle. I'll make it good for you, baby. Just promise me we'll do it face to face."
Nate's mouth twitched, trying to pinch back a smile. On second thought, Nate trying not to smile was even hotter, even if it was because he wanted to drown Wade in a bathtub, the sicko. But Wade would let him.
"I don't want to watch you struggle," Nate assured him.
"Ah. Consensual." Wade nodded in understanding. "Okay, well, I'd be open to some over-the-clothes stuff, and whatever happens while I'm still dead doesn't count."
"I don't think we're having the same conversation," Nate laughed, all teeth and handsome, handsome face. He put his hands on Wade's shoulders, one warm flesh and one cool metal. It was obvious that Nate was trying to be gentle with him. Wade wanted to combust.
"Do you mind if I try something on you?"
"YES, you can do whatever you want to me," Wade blurted out all at once.
"Okay." Nate's smile was a little more creepy (but no less hot, curse him) and since when did his left eye glow?
Wade suddenly had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Waityoudidn'tsaywhatyou'regon- hhhhkkk!"
He tried to throw up in the sink, but it didn't come -- or rather, it didn't stop coming. The sick feeling kept rising and rising and rising, against his will and even against what his body was involuntarily trying to do. Something completely beyond his control. A massive amount of clotted blood was pulled out of his body, his throat, his mouth, and levitated through the air and into the sink by some invisible force. Then all at once it was over.
"What the fuck was that?!" Wade gasped. His lungs felt better, but Nate suddenly looked more worn out than he did.
"Probably a quart of blood," Nate estimated. "And… a Lego man?"
"No, that Criss Angel Mindfreak shit!"
"Wade, please."
"No, you please! Did you just use psychic powers to pump my stomach?"
"There's surprisingly very little stomach content. That's mostly from your lungs."
"I don't remember inhaling a Lego man… But that's not the point! Psychic powers, Nate, Y or N?"
"Y."
"Oh my god," Wade put his hands on his head. "I thought I could trust you, Nate. I feel so violated. This whole time my voluptuous brain might as well have been naked and I was living with a damned dirty peeping Tom. How many times did you whammy me?"
"Wade, first of all, I rarely ever use my powers-"
"A likely story! Wait-- I do remember inhaling a Lego man last week."
"It's the truth," Nate asserted. He was so damn serious, it completely ruined Wade's melodrama. "You see all this metal?" he asked, flexing his sexy cybernetic arm.
"Yes," Wade bit his lip.
"It's a techno-organic virus," Nate said. "Turning my flesh into metal. It would completely consume me if left unchecked. I have to constantly focus on holding the infection at bay. So trust me, I use my abilities sparingly. Secondly… yes, I did try to 'whammy' you, once, during our first fight. I couldn't get the image of naked Bea Arthur out of my head for hours."
"That was a gift you didn't deserve."
"...Right. So I haven't used my powers on you, Wade. I wouldn't."
"You just did," Wade reminded him.
"With your consent."
"That was dubious at best and now we have to add a warning in the tags," Wade sighed. "Non-consensual telekinetic Heimlich maneuver…. This is problematic now. People aren't gonna click on this."
"Sorry? I could put it back in you if you want."
"No! " Wade's vivid imagination immediately conjured an image of that happening, and needless to say it was extremely unpleasant. "Of all the things you could put in me, that would rank among my least favorite options."
Nate gave him a funny look. "Noted," he said, and then turned to walk away.
"What does that mean? Nate?"
Nate turned back around before Wade could follow to pester him. "Wilson," he growled, his voice low and threatening in a way that made Wade go a little weak in the knees. "Clean your shit out of that sink. I wash my fucking vegetables in there."
"Since when do you have to wash vegetables? They come in a can!"
"Not all of us eat cat food, shit-for-brains."
"Just because you've binge watched eight-year-olds making sauteed mashed potatoes and julienne gravy doesn't mean you're smart enough to do it."
Nate looked at him like he was having an aneurysm. "I don't know how to 'julienne' gravy."
"My point exactly!"
"No. Because those words don't go toge-" Nate stopped himself, rolling his eyes. "Fine, Wade. I'll make dinner tonight. But only if you sanitize this shithole. Got it?"
"Got it," Wade repeated, surprised by the offer. Actual food, made by Nate? He'd eat that even if it sucked.
After Nate left for the day, he started cleaning, washing out the sink until all that was left was the tiny Lego man. Wade put him on top of the fridge for safe keeping and then continued on, throwing away moldy leftovers and scrubbing a layer of crust off the stove. No wonder he never saw Nate cook in here. He even unearthed an actual bottle of cleaner and really went to town. A few hours later, everything in the kitchen was clean and his body ached. Maximum effort. The only thing left to do was wait for Nate to return.
-
It was past midnight when Nate came back. Wade sat up and peered at him, bleary-eyed and hungrier than when he'd fallen asleep waiting. But Nate didn't seem like he remembered his promise, and just went straight to his room.
After all that, he felt a little foolish. The entire day, Wade kept daydreaming about Nate cooking some frou-frou five star dish for him, while wearing a little apron tied around his waist. Really domesticated shit. But Nate wasn't that type. Neither of them were. Nate was too busy saving the world from itself, and Wade… well, Wade was a disaster. Now he didn't even have a tin of cat food to eat, and he'd forgotten to ask Nate to leave him money. Tomorrow he was gonna have to find a job.
-
The mercenary business was still as dry as ever. Weasel had given him a lead -- some sketchy, wealthy guy who had been interested in Wade's 'special set of skills' but when Wade had contacted the guy, he turned out to be a sexual sadist. And a real cheapskate for what he had in mind. Not that Wade had entertained the notion for an instant.
On the way home, he got hired by a dad who wanted Spiderman to show up to his kid's birthday party. The bastard almost didn't pay him, complaining that he never shot his webs, and that his swords had scared the kids (which was bullshit, because the kids had loved him). But after showing the jerk a couple of his blade tricks up close and personal, he coughed up the dough.
"Fuck you, Spiderman, you suck!"
"Yeah? That wasn't what your dad said last night," Wade countered. "Or maybe it was, 'cus I'm Spiderman and I love banging old dudes."
The guy had just given him a withering look. "Dude. Whatever gets you off," he muttered, walking away.
"Wait. It's that easy?" Wade wondered aloud, not sure if he was relieved or disappointed by the lack of a fight. He tried not to think about it too much.
It wasn't much money, but it bought him a lot of groceries. He took them home and then proceeded to eat until almost everything was gone and his stomach hurt.
"That was a mistake," he groaned, and then spent the next two hours either holding his stomach or in the bathroom. It was a relief, for once, that Nate wasn't around. That was, until he was done being sick and was just left feeling miserable and sorry for himself.
He was lying facedown on the couch when Nate got home, too sore and gloomy to even bother lifting his head.
Nate didn't greet him, or even acknowledge his presence. He heard Nate cross the room and the shower start up. Even when Nate was home, he wasn't there. Wade was starting to feel a little bit invisible. Maybe his face was gonna end up on one of those missing posters. Or not, because it's not like he had anyone left to miss him.
He was still sulking when Nate came back out of the shower.
"Have you even moved off that couch all day?"
Wade finally lifted his head, and then felt his brain short out when he saw Nate standing with just a towel around his waist.
(Oh no, he's hot. I mean, we already knew that but now he's like, naked and stuff.)
[Is that even legal?]
"Shut up," Wade said, pressing a hand to his head. They were back. Why were they back???
(Why do you think?)
Nate was staring at him, brows furrowed in confusion. "Are you talking to me?"
"N-no. Not you. The boxes," Wade mumbled.
[You sound insane.]
Nate gave him a concerned look and then left him alone, going to his room.
(I don't blame him. I'd be concerned about having a psycho for a roommate, too.)
Wade sat upright, thumping his palms against his head, as if he could physically dislodge the boxes from his mind. "Get out of my head! It's mine. I liked it better when there was only one of me in here."
[I don't wanna be here anymore than you do.]
"Then why are you here?" Wade asked, wishing he could dig his head open.
[Who else is going to put up with you?]
Nate re-emerged from his room.
(Seriously. There's a reason he never wants to be around you. Nobody does.)
Wade fell silent, still holding his head in his hands. He tried his hardest not to even think, hoping that they'd also stop talking.
(It doesn't work that way.)
He held his breath for extra measure, and finally, it was quiet. Nate came closer, until Wade could see him in the edge of his vision, feet bare, t-shirt and pajamas bottoms on.
"Mind if I sit down?"
Eventually, Wade had to breathe.
[Yes, please.]
He didn't say anything, still trying to figure out how to make these fucking things stop, but Nate apparently took his silence for a lack of objection. Nate settled down on one end of the couch, tipping his head back like he really needed to get off his feet after a long day.
(And he has to see your ugly face. Can you imagine?)
"Stop it, I know. Just stop. Stop, stop, stop, stop," Wade repeated, over and over, not caring now if Nate heard how fucking crazy he sounded, arguing with nothing , so long as it fucking stopped.
"Have you been here all day talking to yourself?" Nate asked. Wade flinched, but Nate didn't sound condescending or accusatory. He actually sounded a little bit worried about how long this had been going on.
Wade took a deep breath. "No. I got paid a little bit today," he said, focusing on his words. If he spoke, the boxes would stay quiet for a little longer. "I bought some food. But then I ate all of it. And then I got sick."
Nate tilted his head. "Sick as in…? Hearing boxes talking to you?"
"No, as in I ate way too much," Wade groaned. "I was so hungry but now I'm only full of regret about my life choices."
"Ah. Fuck. That's right, I said I'd make dinner the other night," Nate remembered.
"You did. And I cleaned . For nothing."
"Sorry. I'm guessing you don't want it now."
Just the idea of food made Wade feel queasy again. "Uggh. No."
"Well… at least your kitchen is clean," Nate said. "That's a reward in itself."
(A reward in itself? What kind of asshole says that?)
[The kind that throws away Hello Kitty post it notes.]
"Yeah, I'm gonna agree with the little yellow box on this one," Wade said. "Doing a chore isn't a reward in itself. A reward is a reward."
[We were really looking forward to Nate in an apron.]
(And food. Don't forget food.)
[But also apron.]
"Understood," Nate said after a moment, having the decency to sound ashamed of himself. "I'll have to make it up to you."
"I'm holding you to that," Wade said, and then held out his little finger. "Pinky swear it."
Nate stared at the extended hand and then reached out, hooking their little fingers together.
[Wow. Holding hands.]
Nate let go and Wade turned away, feigning disinterest.
(Good job, you ruined the moment.)
God, he wished they'd shut up.
(You shut up. Fucking rude.)
"I can't even think my own thoughts in my own head?"
"Wade," Nate said, to get his attention. The look on his face was like a question he didn't have to ask.
"Boxes," Wade said, as explanation.
"You know there aren't any boxes, right, Wade?" Nate asked him. "They aren't really in your head."
"I know that," Wade said. "But they still won't shut up. I think I've got a tumor pressing on the crazy part of my brain right now."
(Nate doesn't get it.)
[No, he gets it. There's not a lot to misunderstand about 'crazy.']
"Why do you think this is happening now?" Nate asked.
"How the heck should I know! I've always been a little screwy, but this is too much even for me," Wade said.
[People who talk to themselves usually do it because there's nobody else willing to listen to them.]
(Bingo.)
"Well, I'm not talking to myself. You two can talk to each other and I'm. Not. Listening," Wade huffed, curling himself up against the opposite arm of the couch.
(Don't ignore me.)
[Let him be. He'll come back around.]
There was a long stretch of silence. Nate turned on the TV, and then started slowly scrolling through the guide, as if it wasn't already on his favorite food-related channel.
"What do you want to watch?" Nate asked, so casually, it took Wade a long moment to realize that Nate was talking to him, and an even longer moment for his brain to short out.
"What…?"
"What do you want to watch?" Nate asked again, as if this was something that they'd ever done before.
(Nate's never watched TV with us. What's happening???)
[Pity. He knows we're losing it.]
Wade turned his head to stare at Nate. He felt weirdly detached from his body, from the situation itself, as if none of this had any meaning.
"Wade?" Nate asked, sounding far away. The concern on his face didn't even look real.
"Nate. I know you don't like being around me," Wade said, slowly. "This isn't your problem, so don't worry about it."
"Wade-" Nate started again, but Wade unfolded himself from the arm of the couch and left, locking himself in the bathroom.
It was quiet, at first.
Except for the echo chamber in his head.
Until Nate realized that he wasn't coming back out and started trying to cajole him to come out and talk to him. Then he started to threaten him instead. Wade just curled up inside the bathtub and pressed his hands against his ears to drown it all out. No more Nate, no more voices.
Eventually, he fell asleep.
-
When Wade woke up the apartment was silent, and so was his head.
(Guess again, bitch.)
Or maybe not.
Wade stumbled out into the kitchen and found one of his Hello Kitty sticky notes on the counter.
Went out. Be back later. Don't off yourself. Or lock yourself in the bathroom again. Fucker.
Wow, his allergies were acting up suddenly. Wade picked up the note and held it against his chest while he tried to think of what to eat for breakfast. It was a love note. Nate loved him, and while 'fucker' wasn't the pet name Wade would've picked for himself, it was still a pet name. He should put this note into their scrapbook. He should start a scrapbook.
He made himself a bowl of cereal, and the boxes behaved themselves for once. It was hard for Yellow to get uppity when Wade had Actual Proof Nate Gave A Shit About Him clutched in his hand.
A text came, and for a second Wade thought Nate had switched numbers with him finally, but it was from Weasel. He'd sent a smiley face emoji with the eyes X'd out and a water pistol emoji pointing at it, followed by six money bag emojis.
Wade counted them again
Six.
"Holy fajitas!"
-
The kill went well. Bad guy was actually bad, the person taking out the hit actually had cash, and their only stipulation was that Wade had to use a medieval weapon to accomplish his goal, which was far from a dealbreaker. Apparently the auger he'd chosen wasn't meant to be an option, but Wade always liked a challenge.
It was already evening when Wade came back, but that meant he wouldn't have to wait around so long for Nate's return.
He didn't expect Nate to already be home.
Or for the entire apartment to smell like Emeril Lagasse's wet dream.
Or for that aforementioned Nate to be standing in front of the stove, with an apron tied around his waist.
"Took you long enough," Nate commented, bringing a spoonful of sauce to his lips to taste test it. He didn't seem particularly impressed, and reached for some sort of spice to sprinkle into the pan.
"Wow," Wade breathed, wandering over to Nate. He felt as if he were in a dream, especially when he managed to get right behind Nate and slide his hands over the older man's hips, over that adorable little apron , without getting punched in the dick. "I don't know if you're actually here or not, 'cause I'm pretty sure I'm hallucinating," Wade said, wrapping his arms around Nate. He felt solid, but that was a point against this being reality. "But this hallucination smells really good," he added, pressing his face against Nate's neck. "Dream Nate even smells like real Nate."
"Bold of you to do this while I have a hot skillet and a knife so close at hand," Nate said.
"Dream Nate flirts just like real Nate, too!"
Wade wisely took a step back, but Nate still pivoted and punched him in the shoulder as hard as he could, instantly resulting in a dead arm.
"Ow-w," Wade laugh-sobbed, but mostly sobbed.
"What does this need?" Nate asked, offering Wade a spoonful of the sauce.
Wade eyed it for an instant, wondering if it was poisoned, and then rolled up his mask and happily accepted it anyway.
"It could use… more… t-k-k-k-k!" Wade tried, wiggling his not-tingling-in-pain fingers in the air viciously to illustrate his point.
Nate squinted at him for a long moment and then turned back to the stove. "I'll try more oregano."
"I'm gonna get changed into my jammies," Wade announced, headed for the bathroom-slash-laundry room with a change of clothes. "Question," he added, pausing at the door. "Should I masturbate before or after dinner?"
"After."
"Daring. I like it," Wade said, disappearing into the bathroom. He got changed, chucked his suit into the wash, and came back out in time to help Nate set places for them at the kitchen counter.
He couldn't remember… any time when they'd ever eaten together. Not like this, anyway. Not sitting down together.
The hearty sauce Nate had made was for spaghetti. Simple, but made from scratch, Nate had informed him. Wade wolfed down an entire helping without really stopping for air before Nate had even finished half of his plate.
"You're in good spirits today," Nate said, watching him carefully.
"I got paid!" Wade responded cheerfully. "Ask me how much!"
"How muc-"
"Six--! Mmm, wait. What's the number called that has six zeros in it?"
"A million?" Nate raised an eyebrow.
"A million! Wait, no, that's not it. I think I meant six numbers altogether."
"Hundred thousand?" Nate tried again, pinching his lips against a smile.
"Yeah! I got six hundred thousand," Wade said. "And the job was easy, and I got to be creative at it."
"Who'd you have to kill?" Nate asked.
"A child trafficker, who was selling kids through a time vortex to 15th century Europe," Wade said.
Nate looked confused. "Why 15th century?"
"He figured post bubonic plague was high demand."
"That's sick. You got the kids back?" Nate asked.
"Obviously. Which, by the way,perfect segueway to let you know, I've adopted about 60 to 140 kids."
Nate choked on his spaghetti. "About?!"
"Haha. Just kidding. They wouldn't let me keep even one. Kept crying about how they missed their moms and dads. Kids are so ungrateful these days. What happened to when you could just take in a ward off the street and train them to fight crime?"
"Right? Or assassinate people for money," Nate added.
"Exactly! Anyway… I think that'll pay the rent for a while, right?"
"With what you have in the bank, you could probably buy yourself a house, Wade," Nate replied.
"You mean us, right?" Wade corrected.
Nate stared at him and then dropped his gaze to pick at his plate. "The X-Men offered me a position," he said. "I could stay at the mansion, if I wanted to. Or I could get a stipend. It'd probably be enough to pay rent somewhere. So I won't have to keep leeching off of you."
Wade felt confused. And then cold. Really, physically, dead-inside cold.
Nate sounded sorry about it, but hearing him call their whatever-this-was 'leeching' suddenly made him feel really stupid.
"Is that was this is?" Wade asked. His voice sounded strange, like it wasn't even his.
"What else would you call it?" Nate asked, not looking at him.
What else… What else would he call it? They weren't friends. They weren't even enemies. They were roommates, and soon they wouldn't even be that.
He thought that this was something they'd agreed on together. A give-and-take. If anything, he was the one leeching off of Nate. Nate was a survivor, a soldier, a kick-ass-and-chew-bubblegum living action figure. He was cool, and scary in a hot way, and sometimes he was even soft, in an even hotter way, because it was a rarer side that Wade got to glimpse once in a while.
But Nate didn't like him. He put up with him a little bit, and that was it. When Nate left, he'd land on his feet just fine. Without Nate, Wade just had himself all to himself, and himself really sucked.
(I told you,) the yellow box whispered.
"Say hi to Yukio for me?" Wade asked, forcing a smile that hurt, a lot.
They ate in silence.
-
The boxes were quiet until Nate went to bed and Wade was left alone, in the dark, trying to fall asleep.
Then it started.
[It's not like you'll never see each other again.]
(It's exactly like that. He doesn't want to see you. Period.)
Wade pressed his hands to his face, tried to breathe in slowly.
"Nate and I… are friends," Wade said.
(Who are you trying to convince?)
"We're friends," he repeated to himself, softer. "We're friends."
He tried to hold that thought in his head, tried to keep the boxes at bay and will himself to sleep. Things would be better in the morning.
[Nate will be gone in the morning.]
(He always is. He's rarely ever here.)
"Nate's busy," Wade said, trying to cling to a rationality he no longer felt convinced of.
[Yeah. He's busy having a life.]
(Which doesn't include you.)
[I think you need to take a second to ask yourself why that bothers you so much.]
Wade didn't answer, but got up off the couch instead and started pacing, searching for something to do. Anything.
It wasn't like he really thought Nate would stay forever.
He just wished that Nate would show any kind of sign that he cared. Frown, shed a tear, offer him a goodbye hug, a friendship bracelet. Anything. Anything at all. But Nate didn't emote. Wade really meant nothing to him. Just leeching.
(What else would you call it?) his yellow box echoed back to him.
Nate didn't even like him. But Wade had money. Together, they could have a place to live. All that Wade wanted in return was Nate's time, his presence, and his affections, however rough they were. Things that Nate was very reluctant to give. Things he shouldn't have to give, just for a shitty place to sleep. Who was the real leech?
(You are.)
[You are.]
(You are.)
The voices in his head kept going back and forth, pounding the same message into his head until it didn't even mean anything anymore. He was trash, but Wade had always known he was trash. Vanessa saw something special in him, once, but he was starting to suspect that when she died, that little fleck of something worthwhile died in him too.
Wade went to get his laundry, determined to keep himself busy until he was too exhausted to stay awake any longer. He could hang them up to dry, and then clean the kitchen. Maybe if he went over everything with a fine-toothed comb -- or his toothbrush, in a more literal sense -- by morning the entire apartment could be clean, and there would be one less reason why Nate would want to leave.
But then as Wade pulled his costume out of the washer, he realized that it was covered all over with little… tiny… pink… pieces… of paper.
"No."
(Ohhh my god.)
"Nononono-" Wade checked his pocket, where he'd put Nate's note and then forgotten it. All he found was a small, soggy lump of paper.
[It's gone.]
(Wasn't that your entire proof that Nate gave a single solitary fuck about you?)
"No," Wade lied, but lying to himself didn't always work so well. "It was just a piece of paper."
[But there won't be another one.]
"I'll remember it," Wade whispered pressing his hands to his face.
(Will you? Do you even remember it now?)
[Went out. Be back… Don't… Don't...]
(Don't…. Don't… Don't remember.)
"I'll remember Nate," Wade mumbled. It felt less like a statement. Less like a promise to himself. A lot more like a plea. Please remember.
(Will you?)
[Already having a hard time remembering Vanessa...]
(Will you?)
[What happens if you lose her photos?]
(Will you?)
[What happens when you lose Nate?]
-
It was bad by the time Nate woke up.
(Bad.)
He heard Nate get up and leave his room and wondered what is was that woke him. Had he been yelling? He couldn't remember.
Couldn't remember.
[Bad.]
It took a few seconds longer for Nate to find him, curled up on the floor next to the couch.
Wade held his head in his hands, trying to keep the boxes inside, where they had to be small to fit, and quieter.
"Stop. Stop. Stop."
[Really bad.]
Nate stood next to him. Looking at him. Watching him. "What's going on, Wade?"
Wade wanted to burrow into his hands, or better yet, into the ground, where maybe he could finally, finally rest. But he couldn't. And Nate was looking at him.
(Pity.)
"I can't sleep. My head is so loud, Nate, they just won't stop talking," Wade said. He had tears on his face, and Nate had to look at him, and he just didn't care anymore. He was so tired.
(Whose fault is that?)
[It's your brain, just stop thinking thoughts.]
"Get out!" Wade yelled, smacking his head so hard, his ears rang for a few seconds.
(You get out!)
It took him a few long seconds to realize that he couldn't move his hands, that Nate had caught hold of them, to keep him from hurting himself anymore. Sweet, stupid Nate. As if Wade could be hurt anymore.
"Nate… that telekinesis stuff," Wade said, digging his fingernails into his palms as hard as he could stand. "Could you do a lobotomy with it? I don't know what part of the brain you gotta take out for this kind of shit, and I don't even care. Just keep taking pieces until it stops."
(A bullet would do the same thing a lot faster.)
[Messy, though.]
A bullet in his head actually didn't sound like the worst idea anymore.
[You're kidding, right?]
"At least it would be silent!" Wade spat at them, jerking his hands free from Nate while his guard was down, and beating his closed fists against his head.
"Wade, stop," Nate grabbed his hands again, nearly getting himself punched for his concern.
[Yeah, knock it off. Listen to Nate.]
"I can try to help," Nate offered. "If you'll let me."
(Last time he tried something, you puked your lungs out.)
[This is different. This time we'll puke our brains out.]
(Why waste the strength? Nate has guns. Big ones.)
Wade didn't even care anymore. "Do what you gotta do, Nate."
"I'm not going to blow your brains out and neither are you. I'm a telepath, Wade," Nate reminded him. "Reading your mind is difficult, but I can project thoughts too."
"Projecting thoughts?" Wade repeated, completely defeated by the idea. "Like what?"
(Nate thoughts?)
[What does Nate think about?]
(Guns, fanny packs, pockets, chapstick…)
[Cooking, cooking shows, Gordon Ramsay…]
(Explosions, bigger guns, bigger chapstick…)
[Gordon Ramsay is hot, even when he's yelling.]
(Especially when he's yelling.)
[Nate yells at us.]
(Nate cooks.)
[Nate wears aprons. Naprons.]
(Nate in chaps. Naps.)
[Snaps.]
(Snacks.)
Nate reached out, touching his fingertips to the temples of Wade's head. Instantly his head was filled with a white static sound that increased in volume until only a split second it was way too loud. Wade jerked his head away, flinching from both the unexpected touch and the sensory overload.
"Sorry," Nate said. He reached out again, but Wade shivered and stayed just out of reach.
"What was that?" he asked, shaky.
(I didn't like that.)
[Touching…]
(I could hear the ocean.)
[Does that mean our head is a seashell?]
(No, it's Nate's thoughts, Nate is the seashell.)
[Sneasnell.]
(Sne snells snea snells by the snea snore.)
"Oh my god, you're so annoying," Wade groaned, holding his head in his hands. "Nate."
"Wade, it's easier if I can keep in contact while I use my power on you."
[We'd be touching…]
"I didn't like that, it's loud."
(Couldn't hear myself think.)
[But I liked Nate touching us.]
(Touching was nice.)
[Nothing hurt.]
(That's as close as you can get to being dead without dying.)
[Dying is nice.]
(Death is nice. Dying hurts.)
[Living hurts.]
"Wade," Nate said again, his voice calm but strong. He sat down on the couch, close to Wade, holding his hands open. "Come here. Put your head down, okay? I'll make it quieter this time."
"Make my head quieter?" Wade asked, edging closer.
"Yes," Nate promised. "I'll make it go away."
(Nessa went away.)
[Nate will go away.]
"They're just bad thoughts, Wade," Nate said. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay with you until you fall asleep."
(And then what?)
[He can hear our thoughts now?]
(It's almost like he's a psychic with psychic powers.)
[How can he know what we're thinking? I don't even know what we're thinking.]
"I just want to sleep," Wade mumbled, suddenly feeling completely drained. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally. He was so tired. If he could just rest.
"I'll help you sleep, Wade. It's okay," Nate said, lifting his hands in a placating gesture. It seemed like Nate wasn't going to reach for him this time. Wade would have to get closer to him. He was giving Wade the choice, the opportunity to trust him with this.
[Closer to Nate…]
(When was the last time we were close to anyone?)
Wade leaned towards the other man, tentatively resting his arms across Nate's legs. Nate's hands still hovered over him, not touching, not yet. Shakily, he lowered his head, resting it on Nate's knee. Just being this close at least made the boxes quieter.
[Nessa.]
(Nessa loved us.)
[I don't... remember what that feels like anymore.]
The realization hurt so badly, Wade let out a breath and didn't take another one. They couldn't talk if he didn't breathe. He didn't want to anymore, anyway.
Nate's hands touched his head again, but this time it was different. Warm. His fingers slid over Wade's skin lightly, so lightly, and then back again, never lifting from his head. Petting him.
It was quiet.
It was so quiet, it almost made Wade a little nervous, a little stir crazy in the sudden emptiness of his own head. If he focused, he could hear the fuzzy edge of a soft, static sound.
<Breathe, Wade.>
Wade sucked in a breath, as if his lungs suddenly remembered that they needed air.
"...Nate?"
"I'm here," Nate assured him, in his ridiculously soothing voice. His fingertips made small circles against his skin and then went still.
"Don't -- Don't stop doing that. Please. It's nice," Wade pleaded, tilting his head against Nate's hand.
"Shh. Okay. I won't stop, but don't move," Nate urged him. "Just relax."
The petting resumed in slow, soothing movements. Fingertips drawing aimless patterns on his skin. Thumb brushing over the shell of his ear. Quiet static humming away in his head, pushing out all other thoughts.
A heavy calm settled over him, as if a weighted blanket had been put over not only his mind but his entire body. Wade closed his eyes, letting himself sink into it.
"When my daughter Hope has bad dreams, I'd help her fall asleep again," Nate said as he continued the light petting. "Take away all of the nightmares."
For some reason, the reminder that Nate was, above all else, a dad , took Wade by surprise. He was a man who had lost everything, who would have moved heaven and earth to get his daughter back, to keep her safe, and he did exactly that. Somewhere in the future, there was a little girl whose dad loved her that much, that fiercely. Wade couldn't relate. His own dad had been all fierce and no love. The kind of man nightmares were made of.
"I'm sorry, Wade. I can't change the past for you, but I can try to make things better here and now. Let's think about something else."
In the black abyss of his mind, Wade saw a snowflake form and fall. Then another formed, and another. They started sticking to the ground, rapidly forming a snow-covered landscape as far as he could imagine, with rolling hills and snow-covered trees everywhere. It was like something out of a painting, too vivid and too beautiful to be real. Better than real. The snow kept falling, huge clumps of snowflakes swirling slowly out of the night sky and hitting the ground. Everything was so still, so silent, he could almost hear it.
It looked cold outside, really cold, and he didn't like the cold, but Wade was warm. He was inside, holding a cup of cocoa with lots and lots of marshmallows. Nate was there too, because being alone sucked more than anything, and he had a nice hot cup of cocoa too, because Nate deserved to have nice things. They both had matching sweaters -- something red and tacky -- because Wade had insisted on it, because ugly matching sweaters were the height of achieved domestic bliss. And they were both nestled together on a big, soft couch that was only big enough to be comfortable but not big enough to leave any space between them and Wade had his feet tucked underneath him and Nate's arm was around his shoulders and when he closed his eyes he actually felt content and nothing hurt.
Wade was happy, even if it wasn't real.
He hoped he never had to wake up ever again.
-
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