Wade Wilson (Deadpool) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ishotyouuu) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
lifeaftr2017-09-27 08:39 pm
ishotyouuu) wrote in lifeaftr2017-09-27 08:39 pm
Entry tags:
[closed]
Who: Wade Wilson (ishotyouuu ) and Sans (justribbing )
What: Two pun pals decide to confront the giant elephant in the room. Er, cottage.
When: September 23, early morning
Where: Islet #2, Cottage #1
Warnings: Two grown manchildren talking about their feelings, I guess?
It had been a long time since Wade had seen rain-- several years, in fact. There hadn't been much weather in the castle of Sol Raveh and Haven had pretty much been devoid of anything, let alone changes in barometric pressure. He remembers the first time it rained on the island-- how he'd been in the middle of scavenging and had been suddenly struck by the heady wet smell of damp leaves and freshly cut grass. How he'd merely stood there when he first began to hear the telltale patter of raindrops, allowing the deluge to wash over him in a curtain of warm wetness until he was soaked to the skin. How it had felt to be enveloped in that downpour-- overwhelming and familiar and completely, utterly sublime, like being a child playing in puddles again.
This rainstorm is a lot more angry than the others, but no less enjoyable-- in no small part due to the fact that they'd managed to get the roof properly thatched in time. Wade sits by the doorframe of the modest little cottage and watches the storm rage outside, occasional bright flashes of lightning illuminating his silhouette and the meager furniture behind him. Occasionally he takes a sip from the wine bottle at his side, another reason why this morning is particularly pleasant. As far as he knows, all of the other residents are asleep in their beds, which is fine by him. Socializing is all well and good, but sometimes the Merc with a Mouth needs a little bit of time alone to himself. To reflect on past occurrences, mostly.
Okay, mostly to get drunk, but hey-- there's no one awake to judge him, is there?
ishotyouuu ) and Sans (justribbing )What: Two pun pals decide to confront the giant elephant in the room. Er, cottage.
When: September 23, early morning
Where: Islet #2, Cottage #1
Warnings: Two grown manchildren talking about their feelings, I guess?
It had been a long time since Wade had seen rain-- several years, in fact. There hadn't been much weather in the castle of Sol Raveh and Haven had pretty much been devoid of anything, let alone changes in barometric pressure. He remembers the first time it rained on the island-- how he'd been in the middle of scavenging and had been suddenly struck by the heady wet smell of damp leaves and freshly cut grass. How he'd merely stood there when he first began to hear the telltale patter of raindrops, allowing the deluge to wash over him in a curtain of warm wetness until he was soaked to the skin. How it had felt to be enveloped in that downpour-- overwhelming and familiar and completely, utterly sublime, like being a child playing in puddles again.
This rainstorm is a lot more angry than the others, but no less enjoyable-- in no small part due to the fact that they'd managed to get the roof properly thatched in time. Wade sits by the doorframe of the modest little cottage and watches the storm rage outside, occasional bright flashes of lightning illuminating his silhouette and the meager furniture behind him. Occasionally he takes a sip from the wine bottle at his side, another reason why this morning is particularly pleasant. As far as he knows, all of the other residents are asleep in their beds, which is fine by him. Socializing is all well and good, but sometimes the Merc with a Mouth needs a little bit of time alone to himself. To reflect on past occurrences, mostly.
Okay, mostly to get drunk, but hey-- there's no one awake to judge him, is there?
no subject
For a walk, he'd said. He was gone for most of the day. Those who returned to the cottage in the evening would've found a mess.
One mattress, its bedding rumpled, sits on a platform made of a frame of sticks lashed together with twists of the fiber found bristling inside palm fruits, run through with a crude netting of saplings. With some flat rocks at each corner, it actually makes for a serviceable bedframe.
And then there was the shambles of an attempt to make a second scattered all over the floor. In that mess slept Sans, having more or less spent up every ounce of unusual productivity he might have spared in a half a year. Whether anyone else managed to construct the other bedframe during the night is anyone's guess. That's not what finally gets him to wake up. It's the loud rumble of thunder rolling across the sky, sounding as heavy and dry as a boulder, even through the drenching percussion of rain. Sans sits up, his arms thrown up over his skull in a reflexive flinch, but the roof doesn't fall down. Instead, lightning flashes, brightening all the cracks and crevices in their abode, making him jump.
It's not a cave-in. It's a thunderstorm.
And--there's Wade, drinking.
"Y'know, when people say 'It's six o'clock somewhere'," jokes Sans, feeling unsteady, looking up at the sky through the doorway at, uh, a safe distance, he thinks. Much as he likes rain -- loves it, in fact -- he's not so sure about violent storms. At such low HP, you learn to be cautious. "I think 'six in the morning' wasn't exactly what they meant."
Hey, pal.
no subject
Wade offers him a smile that's only a little unbalanced, motioning him to take his place opposite him by the doorframe. "Heh. Can't blame a thirsty man for indulging when he gets the opportunity, can you? Besides, it really is six o'clock somewhere. Look."
He taps his holographic watch. His image inducer might no longer work at peak capacity, but at least it still serves as a timekeeper... such as it were. The analog numbers on the watch display 6:07 PM, the time it would have been in Sol Raveh. He hasn't gotten around to changing it yet. Maybe he just doesn't want to. Maybe it doesn't really matter what time it is, when you've got all the time in the world.
"C'mon, sit down. Don't let me get debauched by myself." He seems in good spirits, at the very least.
no subject
They don't talk like that anymore.
Sans finds that he misses it, whenever he gives himself a chance to actually stop and think about this, instead of burying himself in the grey limbo of sleep.
"Guess I better," rumbles Sans, settling in, "The clock don't lie."
It's raining here, but it's 6:07 PM somewhere else. "Cheers, pal. That what I think it is?"
no subject
He lifts the bottle to his lips and takes another deep drink, exhaling in a gusty sigh when he's finished and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Damn straight it is. Asked for it from that bibliophilic god of ours. I mean, that's how these scenarios work, right? Relaxing on the beach with a nice cold mojito?"
He huffs out a soft, cynical laugh-- this is as far away from an island vacation as you could get. Hell, even Survivor was a more genuine experience than this, and it's not just because of the angry weather they're experiencing right now. Wade passes the bottle over to Sans.
"Here. Take it slow, though-- this thing's got quite a kick."
cw: alcohol use haha
He whistles lowly through his perpetually grinning teeth, impressed, perhaps, by Mother Nature's ferocity.
Turns out, Wade doesn't need to tell him twice; Sans takes the bottle by the neck in one hand, the other cradling the bottom so it won't simply slip through his phalanges. "You got no idea how much I've needed this," he chuckles.
Because sure, why not. Two grown men getting drunk first thing in the morning. It's fine. Tipping that bottle against his teeth, he lets a sip slip past them and experiences the familiar momentary warmth of magically-enhanced wine abruptly evaporating into pure energy. As it always does, the stuff hits fast, and hits hard.
It snaps off all the sharp edges of his awareness, blunts them down with the pleasantly fuzzy buzz of intoxication. He rumbles something that might have been a sigh if he had lungs.
"Thanks," he'd push it back into Wade's hands, but it feels enormously heavy, so he just puts it down on the ground between them. "Now all we need's a sunny beach instead of a soggy one. Maybe a beach chair. Think anybody knows how to make those little umbrellas?"
no subject
"We might be able to jerry-rig some sticks and leaves together. S'how the guys on Survivor did it."
He reaches out for the bottle again, and although his senses have mostly been dulled by the alcohol, his heart nonetheless does an awkward two-step in his chest when his fingers accidentally brush against Sans's phalanges. Wade settles back against the doorframe with a sigh of his own, doing his best to quell the warm flutterings in his stomach that have nothing to do with the amount he's drunk so far.
"...This's the first thunderstorm I've seen in a while. Almost forgot what it was like. I like a good storm, y'know? Makes you feel... I dunno. Helpless."
no subject
"Or like you're in the middle of a cave-in," quips Sans. "I getcha, though. It's pretty impressive. All this rain makes me think we should'a set up a catchment system or somethin'."
Making suggestions on improvements? Yeah, the wine has definitely hit him. Otherwise, he might have avoided saying that, lest he get volunteered to make it happen. Not exactly something he expects Wade to do -- Wade... uh, kinda lets him laze about without complaint. Which only makes Sans feel guilty, sometimes.
It's not exactly the thing he should be feeling guilty about, but... hey.
no subject
Wade huffs out another laugh at Sans's suggestion, taking another small pull from the bottle. "Heh. Might not be such a bad idea. I'll get our resident geek to whip up some schematics. Might be able to... I dunno-- dig up a man-made lake, or something. Be a lot easier to get our water that way, that's for sure. Or take a bath. Might have to figure out how to heat the water too, though-- I mean, you probably won't have anything to worry about, but us human types have a little thing called 'shrinkage' we gotta take into account. Very embarrassing."
More simple small talk; little conversations and jokes about nothing that die on the vine. The unspoken discussion lingers embarrassingly between them like a fart at a funeral, with neither of them wishing to draw any attention to it; each of them making their own pitiful attempts to play things off like everything was normal. Wade finds himself grateful that the wine is clouding that discomfort a little bit.
It never used to be so hard to talk to Sans. Time was, their conversations were the only reason Wade got up in the morning.
no subject
Except there's the fact that Sans has, only once, ever managed to lay down and die, despite the fact that literally anything could have killed him at any time. It took numerous memorials to his deceased brother -- in any incarnation -- it took a hopeless 'war'. It took everything else from Sans to make him finally, truly, utterly give up.
But Wade had shown him space. Not just space, but the emptiness of it. The utter loneliness. Colin had shown him the potential but Wade had shown him the reality of it all.
"...Heh."
Silence lands between them like a great stone. In it, long after he's left alone the bottle, Sans pulls it up off the ground to have another, unwise pull.
"What happened to us, pal? I'll tell ya."
It's too early in the morning, the day, the afternoon, whatever time it is to be this drunk, and Sans? Honestly, he doesn't flipping care.
"I screwed it up."
no subject
The statement cuts through the pleasant haze that's overtaking Wade's brain, and for a moment he honestly believes it's one of the errant, incessant voices in his head shouting to be heard. He straightens from where he's slouched against the doorframe, looking at Sans with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"The hell are you talkin' about, dude? You didn't do anything. I mean-- hell, if there's anyone to blame, it's me."
The sky chooses this exact moment to let loose with a subdued rumble of thunder, and the effect would have been rather hilariously overdramatic if it had been in any other medium. Here, however, it only serves to show how pitiful all of this is. Wade sighs, re-positioning himself so that he's facing Sans from across the threshold. It's a wasted effort-- somehow he can't seem to look the skeleton in the eyesockets.
"We had a good thing goin' here, y'know? Figures I'd screw it up eventually-- it was only a matter of time. I dunno, maybe I just constantly pick up on the wrong signals. Watched Sixteen Candles too many times or somethin', I dunno. Had to have been something, otherwise why would you react that way when I tried to-- well. I don't gotta rehash it. You were there, you know what I tried to do."
His face feels hot, and not just because of the alcohol. With a frustrated groan Wade suddenly falls backward, draping one arm over his eyes as if he could somehow blot out the memory of that altogether embarrassing faux pas.
"Haaa... I'm a fuckin' mess, bro. Should've given ya a bigger warning when we first met. I'm really not good at this kinda thing. Pretty sure you'd know that if you read my comics. Didn't mean anything by it, I just... kinda go with how I feel in the moment sometimes. A lot of times. Almost all the time. Sorry."
The last word is mumbled.
no subject
For what? For being him? For being the friend Sans never knew he needed? For being -- and whether it's in spite of or because of all the blood on his hands -- one of the kindest humans he's ever known? Who, uh, despite everything, continued to care about a guy whose singular contribution has been to let him down at every turn?
Nah. In fact, it's that this is so beyond comprehension (and his mounting state of intoxication) that Sans doesn't even pay attention to the thunder, staring blankly at the man leaning against the other side of the doorway. The fact Wade has a tough time meeting his gaze makes the staring easier, he can watch the strange whorls and creases in his ruined skin stretch and move around his words and his pop culture references, and Sans, trapped underground for a lotta that, finds he has Colin and his movie nights at that old, dusty castle in another world to thank for that.
Wade's talking. Talking too much, in fact, and Sans experiences a kind of exasperation that's a little fond, regardless.
This guy. He isn't sure what's more embarrassing -- his apologetic flustering or the, uh, reminder of what had sent Sans packing to start with.
"..."
Sans doesn't say anything for a while, just watches him apologize and... and languish under the weight of shame.
"Holy crap," he drones, remembering. "I just remembered that wasn't even the first time." Sans stares, and stares, and when he thinks why the heck-- instead what he says is, "How long's this been goin' on?"
no subject
It's a slow build. Might feel like it comes on all of a sudden, but that's usually just 'cause you're not payin' attention. Until... y'know. You just know.
What a fuckin' idiot.
Wade sighs again, remaining motionless from where he's lying supine on the floor. Enough time passes that Sans might think he's prepared to leave that conversation hanging, but eventually he breaks the silence, his embarrassment and tipsiness causing him to speak in fragments.
"Don't really know, honestly. Might've started when Papyrus up an' left, or it might've started the first day we met. Christ... that sounds maudlin as fuck, don't it?"
A soft, humorless laugh, followed again by more silence. When he speaks again, his voice seems more contemplative, as if he's articulating a conclusion he's only just come to. His arm is still across his eyes-- he refuses to sit up; to properly look at Sans. He doesn't want to see the look on Sans's face during this gut-spilling session.
"I mean, when we originally decided to do that fake dating bullshit, I was just messin' around, y'know? It was just a joke. After a while... I dunno. Stopped bein' so funny, I guess."
CW: suicidal ideation, depression
Just so there's no mistaking just what kind of garbage Sans is.
And Wade -- he's been a hero. Sure, there's... there's stuff he's done, stuff he's capable of that doesn't, can't sit well with Sans, but there's also no denying just how often, how consistently, how... even instinctively Wade has come to his aid. He didn't even have to ask. He still doesn't understand why, or how this spun out of control. Despite the fact that this cements the guy's tastes as thoroughly questionable, Sans finds himself, uh. Maybe a little complimented..?
Ha ha, wow, he's drunk.
And still staring, slow on the uptake, takes to that second sip of magic-infused wine saturating him in the warm, fuzzy buzz of inebriation. Honestly, it's the fact he's so drunk that he isn't instantly protesting that Papyrus didn't leave, he was taken.
"Why? Geez," there's a soft scrape of phalanges over what amounts to his face. "I mean--"
Shit.
"Wade," he relents, scrubbing at the crown of his skull for a lack of anything better to do, a little miserably aware of how... utterly unprepared he is to have this kind of conversation, uh, ever. "Look, maybe... it wasn't funny to begin with. I can't, uh."
And Sans laughs, less the low and indolent chuckle they're used to, more something that's high and a little mortified. He is not good at this, he could be smashing the guy's heart to pieces because he's talking himself into knots. "I can't give you what you want, ok? Holy crap, we aren't even the same species, pal.
"I dunno what I was thinking."
no subject
Guys like him were different. There weren't very many victories for guys like him, no happily ever afters. What was the point, when every one just left you in the end?
He hates himself for feeling anything; hates the strange and pleasant flutter in his stomach when Sans's voice shapes his name, butterflies making a last-ditch effort to remain alive in the face of the skeleton's rejection. Wade doesn't blame him. He's had enough dead ends and failed attempts to know that he's not exactly a catch. But that doesn't mean that Sans's "it's-not-you-it's-me" explanation doesn't sting.
Wade huffs out another laugh from where he's lying on the floor, and with effort he eventually rises up onto one elbow to finally look Sans in the eyesocket. The wine has clouded his brain enough that his prior self-consciousness has, for the moment, been silenced.
"I'll tell you what you were thinkin', dude. You were thinkin' of a way to cheer up your brother. An' that's as far as it went. S'not your fault I had to go and fuck it up by having feelings at the worst time possible. I mean, s'not like I was Ryan Reynolds and you were Sandra Bullock-- what did I think was gonna happen? I'm just an idiot, plain an' simple."
It's suddenly too much effort to remain upright, and the wine pulses in his brain, causing his vision to blur and spin. He sinks back down onto the floor again, closing his eyes.
"D'you remember the day we met?"
no subject
A kid wondered what had changed Sans's mind, after their first meeting saw the skeleton still around. Trying, even. Seems a damn shame to leave Wade all alone. Wade laughs and Sans can hear him already grieving them. Wonders, for a second, when he got so used to that word. Them.
Heh, he let this go on too damn long, now the let-down -- inevitable, because disappointment is all Sans is good for -- is going to hurt like hell. An idiot, he calls himself. Sans thinks that makes the two of them, doctorate be damned.
"...Yeah," he rumbles, "You coulda turned sideways and nobody could see ya, you were so thin. Couldn't tell which appetite was more voracious -- for the jokes or the chocolate covered onions," Sans adds, a chuckle slipping past his teeth.
"The jacket one-- that was good. And then before you know it, we're rippin' out with the gross ones. 'All right again', you know the one."
cw: suicidal ideation
There's a moment of silence, so prolonged that Sans would be forgiven in thinking that Wade had fallen asleep. He's halfway there already-- the wine has settled pleasantly in his stomach, making him drowsy. "You came along at the right time, all things considered. It was like you were a fucking ninja, or something. A comedic skeletal ninja. Heh. Pitch that one to Warner Brothers."
Another pause. A part of his brain, the part not fogged up by alcohol, shouts at him to stop talking; to keep his secrets to himself, but the message gets lost in translation on the way to his mouth. The big secret's already out, anyway. Might as well go the whole hog.
"Dunno if I ever told you this, but I... um. Right around the time when you parked your bony ass next to me... I was just in the middle of settin' up a plan that'd let me check out early. Talk about perfect timing, huh?"
no subject
Food wasn't the only thing he needed.
Things seemed so much brighter back then. Like there was a purpose to things, even if Sans had done what he always did, which meant his best to ignore responsibilities as much as he can get away with. He recalls, blearily, that it didn't always take. Most of the time, doing anything meant ruining things, meant making them worse.
And yet... there were a few people who were always there. Wade. Rin. Some... some other people?
As Sans's thoughts wander, he latches onto the admission he hears him make, and in a period of silence he reaches again for the bottle.
Puts it down after a ill-advised sip. He'll feel awful later, and regret that one in particular. Sliding his phalanges down one side of his face, he rattles a long sigh.
"Yeah... think I knew that. Not right away, yeah? But eventually. Whatta couple'a messes."
It's crazy, that he finds something a little flattering about being told he'd effectively saved his life, to know that the feeling's mutual, and to know that the most feeling he's done in remembered, recent history has involved a lot of this guy in his life.
"I can't keep-- I mean it ain't you," he kneads at his brow, "You got... things you want or need or whatever, stuff that I can't deliver, pal. I don't have it in me. Haven't for, uh, years?" he slurs, his hand scraping along the crown of his skull as he stares uncomfortably out at the storm.
"Sorry."
no subject
That's not the worst thing. He's dealt with rejection before. The worst thing is having to suffer through this conversation in the first place. He should've hidden it better. He shouldn't have just laid all his cards out on the table like that, cornering Sans into a snap decision. Of course Sans was intimidated.
"Dude, I don't think you're hearin' what I'm sayin'. I don't care about any of that. Fuck, if I could just go back and retcon this whole situation, I would. Make it... I dunno. Not happen. I'm... I can't keep going on like this, y'know? This weird walking on eggshells thing that we've been doing. I want things to go back to the way they were, before I got all fuckin' stupid about it."
He glances over at Sans now, trepidation in his eyes. It's the expression of someone who's anticipating the coming of pain, but not when or how it'll arrive. "D'you think that maybe we can go back to that? I'll do my best to... y'know. Rein it in, or whatever. I just need... I mean, I really miss your shitty jokes."