quipsandthwips | Deerington Inbox

[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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