Work Text:
Work has never been so easy.
Wade balances on the lip of a roof and hums to himself, white sneakers tapping out a rhythm onto the concrete beneath him. There’s a 90s track spinning around his head. All bass and drum, and a little synth too because everything is better with a cheeky dash of synth. Splashes some flavour into his ears. Or internal monologue turned disco in this case.
He vaguely remembers overhearing the tune last time he popped by to visit Logan in that fancy ol’ gym of his. But he can’t put a name to it to save his life. Any of them. Though he’d definitely have a lot of chances to try out names if lives are what's at stake.
(Grumpy asshole or not, at least Logan’s got a decent taste in music. Now if only he’d send Wade the damn playlist-)
He spins delicately to avoid a puddle of suspicious liquid™ – blood, it’s definitely blood – with a hop, skip, and a jump.
White trainers probably weren’t his bestest idea ever, not since Weasel warned him that this might get a little messy, but thanks to a teensy-weensy bit of convincing on Wade’s part, he’s getting eighty percent cut on this job.
He can afford a brand-new pair of the sparkling Girao heels he’d spotted a week previous. And boy are they gorgeous. Pretty enough to offset ten percent of Wade’s everything. Probably. Maybe. Okay no but they’re pretty and they’re sharp and he really really wants them.
Spidey won’t approve, he says that Wade will break an ankle roof jumping with them on, but if Wade always listened to Spidey he wouldn’t be getting a film deal with Wolverine so Spidey can suck his nuts.
(Actually, please do, Spidey. Please do.)
Plus he’s sure he can get away with caving in a skull or two beneath those lovely heels before Spidey remembers that death and destruction are his second favourite hobby. Right behind crocheting. And retail. Alright so maybe he has too many hobbies.
He whistles out the end of the tune and leans forward, easily dropping down onto the sill of the window below and then to the ground after that. His foot twists, ankle casually popping free of its socket, and Wade hops forward on the other, hand slipping down to shove it back. It slides back into place with a lovely crack. Bones grinds against bone. Has there ever been a prettier sound?
And with that – Wade slides close to the opposing wall and scrambles up the side of a dumpster. Twisting the screws off of a grate with a quiet squeal – and a little squeal of his own because he feels very cool and spy-like, James Bond eat your heart out– and contorting his body until he can slide through the hole and into the vents beyond.
Inch by inch, he gains ground. Head occasionally bumping the vent roof as he awkwardly crawls his way through the silver-shaded maze.
Not all heroes get to have cool entrances like Spidey, and Wade isn’t even a hero in the first place, so he’s left with vent time two to three times a week.
Like time out, but dustier.
(He should do ad reads. Audib*le. Listen to the lord of the rings as you seek to escape the vent’s one ring. Ohh, positively salacious. Someone should sponsor him yesterday. But maybe not books. Alcohol though. That would make sense.)
He pauses and narrows his eyes, swallowing down another song – Pink this time, because the 90s were good but he’ll always have a soft spot for the 2000s – as he tries to listen to sounds beyond the vent’s hollow echo. There are thumps and bangs, the odd scream too. Shouts and cries and – oh.
He's missing a good time!
Now that’s just not fair.
Wade slams both knees to the side and bursts free of his vent prison.
It’s not the most graceful of moves.
He falls flat on his face with an ugly crunch, nose cartilage and blood smearing all over the inside of his mask. His knee bones bubble angrily as they slowly sink back into their rightful slots, tendons faintly aching. A pleasant buzz beneath his skin.
Wade’s a really odd game of operation and he keeps hitting the buzzer because he’s absolute wank at the game and the patient’s nose is flashing bright red but this whole shebang gets him free of his vent-shaped cage, so he considers it an ultimate success.
He shakes out his arms and legs and knobbly knees, absently checking over his shoulder to ensure that Beau and Arthur aren’t too pissed at being shoved in and out of tight metal confines in quick succession. Then, with one final pat to the pistols on either hip, Wade finally straightens and takes in the room around him.
There’s no sign of the commotion he heard before.
In fact, it’s quite quaint, so far as villain lairs go. Even with him flailing through the hair and breaking his nose – and a number of other things – on their property. Typical hard cement and big, fat wooden crates full of fuck all. Equally typical goons, peeking around metal girders with wide eyes and mouths agape.
Wade offers a jaunty wave.
(One man slowly waves back, what a cutie)
Cue music that he can actually remember the name of. Slip the record out of the sleeve. Get distracted and watch a three-hour documentary by a twenty-something-year-old on YouTube about celebrating the relationship between Demeter and Persephone and the misogyny which has twisted Demeter’s love into selfishness. Drop the needle. Strike a pose.
Hit play.
Under his breath, Wade hums, “I’m coming up.”
A thug lurches forward, bat raised above his head, and his yell must incite the others as five charge at one. It’s almost a surprise that one minion decides to hang back, shadowed by a crate and out of Wade’s immediate danger zone.
“So you better get this party started.”
Wade raises a pistol – this one woefully unnamed – and fires a neat bullet. A thug crumples to the ground with an equally neat hole in his head. Wade spins. Fires two more shots in quick succession. Ducks beneath the first thug’s bat as it slams towards his head and snags a knife free of the thug’s boot.
This time it’s his turn to lunge forward, flicking his wrist to the right and cleanly severing the man’s Achilles' tendon. (Knife always trumps boot. Though knife, boot, skin isn’t nearly as catchy as rock, paper, scissors.)
The grunt falls with a deafening crack, knees likely broken by the harsh collapse, and the last one standing – literally, hah – lets out a low shriek. Muffled behind his sleeve. He doesn’t try to approach though. Smart guy this one.
Wade slowly rises to his feet and tips his imaginary hat at the man. Flicking his gun across his fingers like a cowboy and ignoring the moans of his most recent victim.
Actually – he grips the trigger, aims, and fires - better to put him out of his misery.
The remaining grunt whimpers.
He was the one who waved before; Wade knew he was a good’n.
“Well then,” he says, twirling his gun in hand and absently wondering what he’ll call it - her. “See. This was supposed to be my job, my gig, my party – ya know? Was supposed to come in swinging, guns a blazing, not…” he gestures to the four bodies neatly spread around them both. “Not like this. There’s supposed to be more of you, isn’t there? A whole-ass party, reservations included. Should have booked ahead because you never fit in on the day. New York is busy, busy, real estate, my man.”
The grunt audibly swallows.
Very cartoonlike, Wade gives him a solid 8/10 for effort.
Still, he’s getting bored. Nothing good ever happens when Wade gets bored.
“Come on then – answer.”
“The- the main warehouse,” whispers the man. “We didn’t see him coming- there was just… there’s a guy in the main warehouse. I don’t…” he swallows, an audible gulp and murmurs: “I don’t know how many of us are left, mister Deadpool… please, just- please jus’ le’mme live-”
Oh yeah, Wade slowly tilts his head to the side. The plan was to enter through the smaller warehouse, take out the targets within, and then move into the main room where the larger troops were focused. Thirty to forty of them, according to Weasel at least, which means… which means that Wade is in the wrong room, killing the shittest batch when he could be searching for a missing kill-stealing arsehole. A kill-stealer scary enough that grunts are asking him for mercy.
“Well ain’t this exciting,” he says, and shoots the man in the head.
(Cutie down, call an ambulance! Nee naw, nee naw)
He christens his newest favourite, Samantha. She’s a very pretty gun.
Wade offers a low whistle, wiping the back of Beau against his thigh and ignoring the blood that quickly covers the fabric. Blood is red and his suit is red – his problem-solving skills are excellent. Beau ripples with a happy hum, she’s always been a good judge of character.
Blade clean, he raises her hilt to his mesh-covered mouth and plants a kiss on the aged leather. He’d give Arthur a smooch too, but Artie’s always been a bit temperamental. Best to leave him be.
He gently slips the two of them back into their sheathes and raises his head.
"Whoa, there buckaroo,” he says beneath his breath, staring at the carnage which has overtaken the main warehouse. “You might wanna slow down, ‘caus I hear that sharing’s caring and my fingie's are very not bloody which is very sad."
It’s… artistic?
Maybe.
Okay, no. It’s bloody enough to give Spidey a conniption. Captain America would have a stroke at the sight of it all – war veteran status be damned.
A stray arm squelches beneath his foot.
Wade absently ducks down to high-five twitching fingers, smiling to himself as he waits for them to fall still.
Only the does he finally glance up to meet the eyes of the stray cat that has wandered its way into his job. His territory, if you will. (He’ll piss all over the place to prove it.)
And what wonderful eyes they are – the person's that is, not an actual cat’s. Wade is willing to do many things, but animals ain't one of them. Not in this universe or the next. Maybe ten or so over though... that guy is a real freak.
Uh oh, look at that, thoughts are distracting him, how rude.
One eye is shiny. Fancy and red and most definitely a lil’ magical. Black swirly things whirl in circles around their pupil like tiny little ants on ketamine. Wade wonders of his own eyes do that when he's high enough to believe in Jesus. Or maybe he just starts flying or some shit. That sounds like more of a Wade thing to do.
The other eye - well, safe to say it's gone on holiday. Missing in action. Presumed dead. Definitely dead. Do not resuscitate. (Please don’t resuscitate we beg of you-). Though mystery person's injury is way more satisfyingly dramatic than Nicky the Fury's. Mister Shield almighty should take notes.
There's a gaping black hole where an eyeball used to be, dried blood still clinging to long lashes and clumped strands of the person's curly hair clinging to the ragged edges of the wound. All very morbid and macabre.
Wade draws to a halt, the world annoyingly silent past the stifling weight of his mask, and awkwardly waves.
Déjà vu.
Déjà vu.
"Hey there," He chirps. "Come here often?"
Pause - rewind - try again.
"The city that is, not this place. I doubt someone like you hangs about in places like this ‘cause you're too young and pretty to die in a bloody little shithole like this." He cocks out his hip and points his finger towards his companion. Wagging it in time with his words. "But I'm not here to judge, honey! Homicide is a healthy, therapeutic expression and it's totally hip and cool. Don’t listen to a Cap’n speech, he was killing at eighteen like the rest of us, wasn’t he!"
The person narrows their eye and shifts, slashing their own blade through the air and then crouching to drag the sword across the shirt of a dead grunt. They slip it away into the holster on their own back – matching! – and straighten.
It’s lovely to see someone else who values the ancient art of stabbing a bitch, it truly is.
There’s a slip of fabric around their neck, blood-splattered metal at its centre, and the person gently tugs at it before returning their focus to Wade.
Wade preens under the attention - he's man and woman and everything else enough to admit that he does so love attention.
"所属?" They say, and their inflection suggests that it’s a question. Finally, Wade’s true crime binges are paying off. Body posture, check! Vocalisation, check! He should start up a YouTube channel – besides the three he already has. Maybe he’ll get more than eight subscribers this time.
Still.
It’s a pity that Wade does not understand a single thing that mystery person is saying.
"Hello?" He wonders in reply, and then: "Hola? Bonjour? Guten tag? Nǐn hǎo?"
The person's brow becomes increasingly furrowed, hackles rising. Wade licks his lips and raises his hands to try some good ol’ ASL.
It's a bad move.
What Spidey would call a “very bad, not so good, kind of awful, shouldn’t have done that, why did you do that, Wade” kind of move.
He barely raises Beau in time.
His beloved shrieks beautifully as the person’s blade scrapes against her length, sparks flying through the dark warehouse like they’re starring in an anime fight scene. There’s no overworked animators here though – only blood and bodies and two people who are probably more familiar with death than their reflections.
At least Wade assumes that.
Mystery person is too quick to be anything but professional, and professionals tend to pop out of the womb with something intrinsically wrong with them. A stench. A miasma. A stain on their skin like red wine on satin.
Or maybe all killers are cultivated in a top-secret facility and pumped full of bloodthirst and daddy issues.
Because no killer is complete without daddy issues, that’s a Deadpool guarantee.
(It’s yet another thing that heroes and villains have in common.)
"We could talk?" He tries. "Or you could talk and I can stab instead- that would be way more comfy for me!"
Mystery person takes a quick step back, fingers flicking into an unreadable sign – Wade thinks it’s safe to assume it’s not ASL – and disappears. Like, full-on disappears with no sign they were ever there to begin with. Any other time and he would probably clap. He's half tempted to anyway.
Instinct flickers and hums into life. Pressing against Wade’s hindbrain. He whips Arthur free of his sheath and guards his nape just in time. It’s an assassin’s shot, he decides. A second later and he would’ve had to knit his spinal cord back together. Not impossible – obviously – but very much a pain in the neck (hah!).
Arthur rattles ominously. Wade spins, bringing Beau up in offence, but mystery person is already gone. Slipping back into the shadows of the warehouse. Their ketamine eye gleams in the darkness, the glazed sheen of a predator lurking behind their gaze, and Wade tingles in excitement.
"Now that. That's just rude."
He bares his teeth in a vicious grin and leaps forward. Lets Beau slip free from his grip as Arthur drops somewhere by his foot and the straps tighten around his wrists. Leather creaks and buckles groan; he’s not yet strong enough to break them out of sheer spite.
His reflection bulges and wrinkles, folds of skin shifting unnaturally as tears pool beneath reddened eyes. Francis’ smirk grows sharp and rakish but Wade can’t concentrate on that. The strap around his throat grows tight, the hands grow larger. They’re close now. People he doesn’t know. People he doesn’t trust. Figures, faceless and awful, threading their fingers through his hair – he has hair? – and pulls his head to the side.
Something in his neck. Something sharp between his fingers. The sweep of poison through weary veins and no he doesn’t like this he didn’t want this he never wanted to become what they’re making him and he knows he wasn’t good but he never deserved this he doesn’t think he’ll ever be good but he was worth more than this and the yellow lights grow brighter until he can’t feel his eyes and his skin grows hot and he can feel the cancer swell and rolls and Francis is smiling and he-
he-
he-
He trips. Rolls. Smacks face first into the ground and lies there, breathing in blood and cartilage that wasn’t there because they didn’t break his nose, he did. They didn’t track down this warehouse for Weasel, he did. They didn’t live and he fucking did.
He raises his head, catches sight of mystery person’s shadow, and pushes himself to his feet. Sweeps Beau and Arthur into a tight grip and raises his mask to his nose. Spits blood and mucus to the side and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, sparing a moment to be glad that he can’t yet smell the blood and viscera that coats his gloves.
The person does not move, just stares at him with their head cocked to the side. As innocent as a puppy, and not the murderous, nightmare-inducing freak that they are.
It’s good then, that Wade is freak enough to match them.
“That.” Wade bubbles through another mouthful of blood. “What the shit was that you motherfucking cock whore.”
They don’t react to his tone. Don’t even react to the stabled-together patchwork of skin that may or may not be a face. They only shift when he raises his swords, flipping the hilt of their katana until its blade is pointed towards the back of their head. The main body of the sword is half hidden behind them.
“あなたは気を散らすものを振り払いました.” They murmur softly, barely audible over the pounding blood racing through Wade’s ears. “迷惑な.”
Wade throws Beau into the air, sending her spiralling over their heads, and spins a gun across his knuckles. The crack of the safety rattles through the room and he’s-
On his back.
The bastard doesn’t use a sign this time, teleporting themselves across the bloody warehouse. There’s a foot on his chest and a blade kissing his throat.
Epic.
If not for the currently not-so-repressed trauma that’s eating a hole through what’s left of his head. He wants to bite a matching hole through mystery person’s ankle, but he’s also endlessly curious as to what the fuck that even was.
A distraction technique? Because if it was it was one hell of a distraction technique. Ten out of ten would not want to be distracted again.
He swallows, fingers all tingly from the promise of a good clash, and fights what Spidey would call a ‘wholly inappropriate threat response you absolute idiot, get the heck out of there.’ Considering the situation, Spidey would probably already be dead from high blood pressure. Though he is well used to Wade’s fuck ups so maybe not.
But still. Trauma or not trauma. Either way, either or. They basically mean the same thing, right?
So the thing is.
Wade is a very big man, and he is a very dangerous man, and yet here is this person. Pinning him down whilst bleeding and eyeless and clearly out of their fucking mind. Unable to speak a word of English, standing in central New York as if they fucking belong and Wade- His gun hits the ground a metre away. Skittering across the concrete like a constipated rodent.
Yeah. Wade’s too fucking curious for his own good.
The person lingers there, sandaled foot pressed against Wade’s creaking ribs before they shake their head and let their blade drop.
Wade’s head falls from his body with a wet thump.
The last glimpse Wade gets of the person with a magic, ketamine, eye is their back as they slink off into the darkness, blood dripping with every step.
It doesn’t matter.
He’ll find them.
Wade is very good at finding things.