quipsandthwips | Deerington Inbox

[The thing with May's face looks unbothered by suddenly being against the wall with a knife near, and in fact, she just holds the mirror fragment patiently at her side. She knows. She knows he'll just bounce it, or heal. She knows it won't matter.

"Bless you. You're not as bad as you seem, are you? A little on the scruffy side, maybe... You just don't understand what I'm trying to do for him." Patient, proper, blood-splattered. Her dead eyes look right into his. "Can't you see, he's suffering? He should be with us. With his family. Can't you see how lonely he is?"

She opens her mouth, and maybe this is a mistake on Wade's part —

She screams, a terrified, blood-curdling sound, one that doesn't match the flatness of her expression. One that echoes through the house, stains the walls with its reverb.

"Peter, help me! He's going to hurt me—!"]

[ That reaction pulls a look of utter loathing from Wade, and before he can really even think about stopping, he tosses his knife to the ground behind him, causing it to slide and hit the door with a loud thump.

One of his hands clamps over her mouth to silence any more annoying sounds from her and his other yanks her against him, into a hug.

Yeah, we've all seen how well Wade forcing hugs on baddies goes.

It goes about as well as this one, since he moves his hand from her mouth and shoves her face against the front of his suit, muffling any other screams, and holds it there with a hand at the back of her head. All of it's firm pressure, nothing in an attempt to hurt her, like she'd claimed. He'd promised, after all.

His free hand yanks one of his DEs from its holster and presses it against the back of her skull, under where his other hand keeps her still.

What a nightmare, to be surrounded by Wade Wilson when you die. Maybe it's what she deserves, he sure thinks so.

The gunshot is unmistakably loud in the small room and it makes his ears ring. It was something he was trying to spare Peter from hearing, but with her wailing like a goddamn banshee, it didn't really matter, did it?

He doesn't let her body hit the floor, he scoops her up into a fireman's hold after re-holstering Shooty. The knife has to be slid out of the way of the door by a combat boot, but when he manages that and to get the door open, he speaks. ]

Pete, I'm gonna be right back.

[ He sure as hell isn't going to leave her dead body in his house. For the time being she'll have to settle for outside until he can cart her off. So he does head out the back door, trying to avoid Peter in the process.

When he does come back inside, he feels even more tired than he had seconds ago.

He wants to cry. But that hurts too much, so instead he goes back to the bathroom to clean any blood he'd gotten on him off and to retrieve his knife. ]

You know, if you'd wanted a new table you could have just asked.

[ He doesn't know where Peter's hiding, so he'll just conversate loud enough the whole house can hear him. ]

I don't mind donating my paychecks to the Peter Parker Need Furniture Fund. All they're going into right now is the ass implant fund and the boob job fund.

[This is... definitely one of the worst nights of his life. Not many are gonna top it, he's pretty sure. Ben's death. May's first death. That's — probably about it, right now. He would take a slow, painful Erasure Virus or getting mauled any day. Would handle Clara's ghosts or struggle a knife out of Wade's hands before having to listen to his mom screaming frantically for his help before she was shot dead just a walk away from him. He presses the side of his palms against his ears, curls fingers around the back of his skull, and tucks his head against his knees.

It's not very dignified, his reaction. But it's hard not to feel that visceral reliving of the first time he lost her. And now, with it, that sense of dread and failure, knowing he couldn't have handled it himself; that he had to have Wade come in and feel like he had to fill the role. He'd jolted at the sound of what had to be a bullet entering his aunt's head.

(That wasn't May, she'd never hurt you.)

The living room's still a mess from his breaking things, still scattered with debris. And as Wade talks, Peter has to admit, only a handful of words even register. He'd broken a — ah, right, his table. He'd broken a lot of things. Wade could point and laugh and call him a massive hypocrite now, after he'd lectured Wade for smashing up his own home.

Tears plip-plop, make a little sad, irregular sound on the wooden floor below him; they leak down into his eyebrows, slip off the slight slope of his forehead. He sits on the ceiling of the empty second bedroom because he's not sure where else to put himself. He just wishes he could get May's plea for help out of his head. And fine, fine, he's not that tough; he's not that strong; the only real response Wade gets — a response that isn't actually a response — is a muffled, distant sob.]

[ By the time Wade hunts down where the sob comes from, his hands are itching to pull his mask back over his face and hide away behind it. It's stupid how the thing has become a safety blanket to hide his anxiety and anguish behind. He knows Peter wouldn't like that, however. So his mask stays off his face for now.

He stops at the doorway, not entering the room, but looking in and up at Peter. He fingers the wood base of the doorway, uncomfortably. He feels just like a kid again, when he was little and couldn't figure out what he'd done wrong, only that the adults were mad at him.

Except he knows exactly what he's done wrong.

He'd hurt Peter. He'd hurt Clara. And now he's killed Peter's auntmom.]

Do you want me to leave?

[ He doesn't want to, but if Peter never wants to look at him again... well, they might as well figure that out now. ]

I don't mind staying, but if you're gonna hate me or don't want me here we should address it now. I'm not cut out for the role of Roseanne Conner.

Don't.

[He says it quickly, cutting off any potential rambling that might come after. It's a waterlogged sound, that word, and he tries to wipe the wetness on his face off on a sleeve. There's a long moment where nothing's said, because he can't speak further, but... eventually, he manages to let his quivering, taut jaw relax enough.]

... Please don't leave me alone here.

[He breathes in, holds his breath.]

Where'd... where'd you put her?

[He shouldn't ask, because it wasn't her — but in some horrible way, it felt like her.

That's maybe one of the worst parts of all.]

[ Wade's felt heartbreak before, plenty of times. But it's never enough to prepare himself for when it happens again. And boy, does his heart hurt at Peter's plea.

He stays quiet for a moment trying to process before he realises he should probably say something. He nods his head dumbly and then manages to find his voice. ]

Okay, I'm not going anywhere. I'll be gum on your shoe until you want to scrape me off.

[ He hesitates at the question, not really sure if they should keep talking about it, for Peter's sake. Wade finally steps into the room and stays put only a step inside. ]

Outside in the yard, I have a spot in the woods - diggable soil, no foot traffic.

[ And company.

He just didn't want to leave Peter alone after that. ]

I'll deal with it when you finally get one of those terrible dehydration crying headaches and need to sleep it off. Usually I only get those after watching the Notebook or Click. Wait, Up too.

[Peter looks unsure for a moment, frowning, but... eventually, inevitably, he flips to hang by his palms from the ceiling — a wince in his face as he pulls the mangled, healing muscle in his shoulder — and drops onto his feet. And then he stands there in the middle of the empty, dark bedroom, despondent. Burying May, huh? That's a thought. Diggable soil, no foot traffic. A resting place.

... He hasn't buried her back home.

Looking exhausted, his brow wrinkles and his lips thin.]

I can help bury her.

It'll be my job back home, and it'll be my job here.

Then — then whatever else can happen. But she needs to be buried.

[He moves to start toward the door, carried almost mindlessly by his feet in some kind of dazed way.]

[ Even upset as hell, he makes that look cool. ]

No. [ Wade says it so quickly and firmly, there's clearly something wrong behind the thought. He moves in front of Peter, his hand coming to Peter's chest to stop him. He knows Peter can overpower him, even in this injured and rattled state, but it doesn't stop him from making himself an obstacle. ]

Regina George in there wasn't your aunt. And don't think I missed the fact that you're hurt. You don't need to be burying anyone.

[ Neither reason are lies, even if his main reason for not wanting Peter to help is to keep him in the dark about what happened to the other Aunt May zombie he'd met. The disturbed ground where he'd buried her would be unmistakable to anyone who saw it. ]

Besides, I get the sense you're not that practiced in disposing bodies. [ Not that Wade is either, there are usually people you call for that, but he's disposed of a few bodies in his time. ]

Yeah, well. I'm practiced in putting people in the ground; it just usually involves a funeral and a big bill. [Peter leaves Wade's hand at his chest, but he doesn't quite seem to surrender to Wade's train of thought.] ... I'm mostly healed. Enough that I can handle this...

Whether it was any part of her or not, if I don't do it, I'm not... sure I can forgive myself.

[There's nothing better than heaping more self-hatred on your plate, right, DP?

It's a familiar feeling, that.]

That almost sounded so badass. Almost. [ Back to taking nothing seriously, it seems. He doesn't know how to begin to talk to Peter about that. Sure, they've shared pretty fucking similar trauma when it comes to burying family and friends - but it's trauma that Wade doesn't even begin to know how to tackle for himself let alone another person he cares about. So Peter gets jokes.

The kind of jokes that don't really hit their mark but that's never stopped the mercenary before. His lips press into a disapproving line and the muscles in his jaw tense. But Peter gets the outcome he'd wanted: Wade relents. He sighs, then takes a step back and turns to head back downstairs.

How's he even supposed to argue with sentiment like that?

He's not going to give him the chance to be the one to carry the body either. No fucking way. ]

A guy down in Florida tried to get me to dig my own grave once. [ He doesn't know what to say to comfort Peter, for any of this. So he's just going to chatter away in that jovial tone that annoys basically everyone. ] The hole kept filling with water it was just a mess. I'm pretty sure it was his first time at that sorta thing, y'know? Can't fault him for common fucking geographic knowledge. [ Maybe he should wait to see if Peter's even following him before he continues his story... but well. He doesn't. ] I taught him a wonderful lesson that day - wild life preserves are where you stash the stiffs in a pinch.... and that flip flops aren't an every season footwear.

[ He's going to keep talking about fuck all as he scoops the fake aunt up into his arms too. ] They're hardly an any season footwear. Unlike Crocs.

That's my usual brand.... 'Badass, almost'.

[Man, that's painfully sad-sounding, for a Peter Parker joke. He follows after Wade, barefoot and looking disheveled (which he thinks that's a little fair right about now). And part of him almost objects to Wade doing any of the heavy lifting here — he should be the one to... do everything here. But he quiets, lets it go.]

... Crocs are a nightmare. I figured that reason's why you even own a pair.

[He watches Wade walk, just a step behind, trying not to stare at the red head of hair that bobs as he walks, the body limp and cold and — just like home. That's what he's returning home to, huh? At least there'll be a casket. He'll make sure she has a really good one. Homeless and jobless or not.]

If they go missing, it totally wasn't me.

So, the same reason you own every plaid shirt in existence?

[ It's not a denial on his part, but he's trying to keep up the witty banter. ]

My big rubber masturbating shoes go and your plaid goes.

[ To be fair, Wade already has a couple of his shirts at his place. The excuse is so that Peter always has something to wear when he stays over. He's not sure if Peter even believes it, but maybe. He's got his own toothbrush after all.

He's tired - not physically, just emotionally. He's exhausted in a way that shows in how his shoulders slump slightly and every grin and laugh that's possibly produced looks and sounds a bit dimmer. ]

We could turn 'em into my fun sex shoes. Who knows, that might be the next in thing. Straight from rimming and auto-erotic-asphyxiation to crocs on cocks.

You're unbearable, sometimes.

[Usually spoken with love, and it still is, but it's hard to sound very playful right about now. He knows it's just — his way of coping and dealing. He gets it. He does it too, all the time, every waking moment, like it'll just magically make his deep dark place lighten up.

He rubs his aching shoulder, quiet for a moment as they walk. Maybe he should have gotten some shoes?

... Fuck, who even cares.]

Wade. What happened...

I know I made — mistakes, and I made things worse, so I'm... sorry for that.

I'm really sorry.

[ Wade goes quiet to listen to what Peter has to say; he's itching to butt in and lighten the mood or force the conversation elsewhere, but Peter deserves to say whatever he wants to say. Well, Wade thinks that until he hears the absolute garbage that leaves Peter's mouth. It actually gets him to stop walking. He doesn't exactly turn around, but he does glance over his shoulder, and the expression he's wearing isn't a pleasant one. ]

Don't fucking -- apologize like you have anything to be sorry for -- fuck - like you're not the victim in all this. I hit you. [ He wants to turn around and call him out on this stupid line of thinking, but he also doesn't want to make him face his dead fake aunt again. He's done enough damage as it is. ] I said I wasn't ever going to be like that - the kinda shitswizzler that smacks on the people he loves.

[ He opens his mouth again, then closes it with an audible click of his teeth that sounds painful before he starts walking again. ] Don't. You did everything right. I royally fucked that up. I royally fucked all of this up. I'm the one who should be sorry.

[Peter shakes his head.]

... I put you in a bad spot. Me. I should've let you leave when you wanted to.

I could tell something was effecting you, but... I decided to play hero. Because apparently that's just my go-to. Play hero, make things worse, rinse and repeat. [He massages his thumb over the space where his shoulder's scabbed, rough under the fabric of his shirt.] I can't say I didn't deserve at least one elbow to the head...

... You're not that kinda shitswizzler, Wade. That much I'm pretty confident in.

[ He halts again, and makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. He doesn't look back, but he doesn't start walking either. He's not an idiot, his words definitely had consequences,
they had hurt Peter. ]

I would have done the same thing. I wouldn't have let you leave until you broke my bones and tied me up into a pretzel.

And no-fucking-duh. You played hero because you are a hero. You're used to helping people - being able to help. You're Spider-Man! [ Not so used to the person on the other end being too much of a fuck up to help. ]

You didn't deserve any elbows to the head - fuck, Pete. You never deserve any. [ He wants to just turn around and touch, to try to soothe in some way, instead he just wobbles a little bit in an attempt to keep himself from causing Peter any more trauma with the dead aunt. ]

I'm sorry. [ He wants to chant it until it feels right, but he doesn't. He doesn't deserve forgiveness at least not easy forgiveness. ]

... Yeah? The real Aunt May, she wouldn't be dead under a hospital blanket back home if Peter Parker wasn't such a shitty son, needing to play the hero when she needed him most. [There's something hollow and twisted up in the way he says it, almost venomous in the self-hatred that suddenly drips from his voice. He would do anything right now, to bring her back. He'd let Kingpin gut him with that stupid weeaboo sword of his, if it meant her being okay.

That's Spider-Man for you, though. That's good ol' Peter Parker. Couldn't save his aunt, couldn't salvage his relationship, didn't fucking notice that something was wrong with his terminally ill best friend. Failed to pay rent or hold a job or stop the city from catching on literal fire. Never managed to keep his mentor from walking off that cliff into villany. Someday he'll absolutely let Wade down. Worse than he already has.

Weird, this whole 'self-loathing' session came kind of late to his Deerington stay.

Now he's just pissed at himself.]

You don't have to apologize for having a good point.

[He glances up, from the ground to Wade's back, his brain catching up with his emotions; maybe this isn't the best time to be open and honest. Maybe he should just shut his fucking mouth.]

Almost there?

[ It's a similar path he's been down. God, he hates to see Peter on it. Wade shifts the body in his arms so that he's holding it with one, not a hard feat for someone with mutate super strength, and reaches his hand behind him and wiggles his fingers in a "hold my hand" gesture. C'mon Peter, you gotta. ]

Yeah, almost there.

[ He doesn't know what to say, he's the guy to go to to joke things away. ]

The real Aunt May probably wanted you out saving whoever you were saving as much as you did.

[ He'll start walking again when he has a hand in his, and it won't be too long until they're happening upon a place in the trees where there was clearly already someone else buried. The ground obviously freshly dug and replaced, and the shovel laying against a nearby tree. ]

[He takes the hand, and — really, it's all just ridiculous, huh? Holding hands toward a burial for a murderous zombie that looks like your aunt-mom. This is just not a good date night. As they reach the recently dug-up ground, Peter stands, barefoot and looking just a smidge unhinged in his blood-spattered sleeping shirt and unkempt hair.

It's just one of those days. Watching Wade move, he drops his hands to his sides, frowning.]

... Wade. Who's —

[He hesitates, looking to the nearby mound. Something cold settles in his stomach.]

It's not — it doesn't have Vanessa's face, does it?

[ His head turns towards the unmarked grave, frown on his face evident.

There's something sharp in his voice, maybe a little sharper than he means it to be. ]

You think I'd be able to kill something with Ness' face?

[ He knows Peter didn't mean it like that, but it still stings. If this place threw someone who looked like Vanessa or Peter at him, he'd be the one in the ground. ]

It was someone else's problem. I was doing them a favour. [ Because apparently that's what he does now. He wonders if the kiddo is okay. He probably shouldn't have left him alone, but they both needed some space and Wade needed to talk to his boyfriend. ]

I'm starting to think an ice-pick to the brain would be more fun than this place.

[ He moves to set Aunt May down so he can grab the shovel and begin digging a hole next to the other one. ]

... Right. Sorry.

[He quiets, unsure what to do with himself. He wants to just rip the shovel out of Wade’s hands and do it himself, because he deserves as much. But he just ends up staring down at her body and disconnecting from this — everything. Instead he’s a year in the past, huddled next to her hospital bed, listening to her heartbeat evolve into that long flatline. It always ends up falling into that kind of thought process: what else could I have done? Was I not fast enough? What if I had actually stopped Otto from becoming what he did? What if I stopped Li before the City Hall disaster? What if I used my so-called intelligent brain to mass-produce the cure? Question after question, all with one answer: it doesn’t matter, because it’s not what happened.

He blinks, and the grave is half-dug, and he moves to Wade and pats his shoulder, holds out a hand expectantly for the shovel.]

My turn.

... Please.

[ He produces a non-committal grunt that probably translates to "apology accepted" or "whatever". And suddenly they're plunged into the fabled Wade Wilson silence -- a rare event that many have only dreamed about. The only sounds are his breathing and the unpleasant noise of the shovel being jammed into the earth to toss dirt aside in a pile.

It's nice to disassociate with a task, not that he's fully able to. His thoughts still swirling around what's happened. The dissociating is cut short by a pat at his shoulder and a hand wandering into his space in a gesture to hand him the shovel. ]

Not a fat chance in hell. Go sit down or something.

[ Peter's already pushed his buttons on this thing with following him out here. While he feels fucking terrible over what he's done to Peter and what he's done to his aunt looking monster, he's not about to let the asshole hurt himself in some self-flagellation. He cares too much about Peter to let him do that. ]

I'm almost done anyway. [ Half...way... ]

[He curls a hand on the handle, apparently not ready to back down from what he's wanting to do here. Maybe he's just a little too fucked up and bothered by this whole week to give a single solitary shit what Wade wants him to do.]

Give me the shovel or I'll start digging with my hands.

[Wouldn't want you to accidentally jab his fingers off in the process, would you?

Peter's beyond caring at this point.]

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cw: MURDER????

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cw: self-hate narrative, it's fine

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