fanfic: Unfair
Writer:manicr
Title: Unfair
Rating: PG13
Warnings: insanity, death, violence, depression, suicide
Summary: Monologue on life, and that hot babe Death. Grief.
Notes: Drinking Buddies verse; sequel to Bottom of a Bottle. Spoilers for X-force, Deadpool ect. References gallore.
The ceiling was stained in browns and yellows, veins of discolouration spreading from one corner, water damage from when the upstairs neighbour had trashed his bathroom in a freak accident involving raccoons. Wade, on his back on the ratty living-room couch, held up his gun and thought about how many shots it would take to make the ceiling crash down on him. If he concentrated his fire he might manage or perhaps just shooting randomly would hit some pipes or something. Then again didn't they usually put those in the walls?
The walls weren't closing in on him like at the institute. No doctors, no inmates - sorry, patients - no hospital food and no useless regulations. It was true that he had tried to kill himself, who wouldn't in his state, but having doctors patronize him wasn't really helpful. They couldn't help him without killing him, and since they wouldn't let him kill himself it was a moot point. Wade knew that he would never be sane. He would have good days sometimes, like when he had his own psychic mutant-messiah taking off the pressure and a stable environment, and he would have bad days, like when there were too many mirrors around and too many temptations. All there was that would help him was death.
Sometimes, he was fine with this. Sometimes, like today, he was far too clear-headed. He wanted Nate to be alive again, he never stayed dead but it kept on hurting anyhow, to reboot his brain and keep him stable for a few moments. Providence felt like a dream and Wade wasn't certain if it even happened; no one else ever mentioned it. He went to Irene's funeral a few months ago; she'd had cancer everywhere and joked about being Lady Deadpool when he'd visited the hospital. But that might just have been something he'd seen on TV. He liked watching reruns of Six Feet Under so that might be the case. Wade threw the gun on the floor, giving a shit about gun safety.
He had been an ass about it anyhow; gotten angry and stormed off. Wade wished that he had joked back at her and kissed her hairless head, cemo hadn't been kind to her, and told her that she rocked the Sineade O'Connor look. Once hot, always hot. Instead, he'd sulked at the unfairness of it; he'd wanted to die instead of her. Nate would have been so disappointed at him. He would have made that frown, which still made Wade feel like something he'd scraped off his boot. But Nate had been dead at the time. He hadn't stood with him in the rain three days after the funeral, feeling like crap.
Wade didn't call the X-Men any more. He did his jobs with X-Force without mentioning Nate or debts unpaid. Psylocke wouldn't look at him though and Wolverine frowned at him. Not that those guys were much saner than him; shooting kid Apocalypse hadn't been nice. He never did kids. Period. But now by association he had. So, Wade wouldn't accept money for that nor any of his jobs with them.
Wade supposed that he'd gone a little sane after that. Realized that the world was a little bit better off without him. Wade wondered if people would cheer when he was dead like they had with Bullseye once they got over the whole 'holy shit, daredevil is crazy' chock. Being a merc didn't exactly ingratiate you with the gen pop. Wade had been a bit pissed at that when he'd been at his local watering hole. Some prick had raised a toast to Rookie's death. Wade hadn't said anything - what could you say to defend a psycho-for-hire? He had made a killer Harvey Wallbanger and was a great drinking-and-fighting buddy? - but his gun had; maiming usually brought home the message better than words.
Wade had wanted to leave flowers at his grave but Bullseye didn't have one. He'd been buried, twice, but they wouldn't let him rest in peace; it was just an empty hole in the ground now. Wade guessed that some shit-for-brain crazy would find a way to bring him back soon enough. Wade didn't think anyone would thank him/her for that, not even Rookie himself. Bullseye had always been a few screws short but smart enough to realize that;he was terrified because of it. He feared relapses, he feared his own mind and he feared death. Dying and coming back would hardly make him any saner. As if being a homicidal-psychotic-schizophrenic-repressed-homosexual wasn't troublesome as it was. Wolverine's brat had stopped over him once too often as well.
Wade himself doesn't remember much of dying. He did die once - or was it twice? - and he was buried. Well, the little of him that there had been left to bury that is. But he remembers Death. He'd fallen in love with Her before then; the Weapon X Project had half-killed him while saving him, it had been a helluva first date. He wanted to die once more and be with Her. It didn't matter if She was just a figment of his imagination, his version of Heaven, because he'd be happy. And the world would, after all, be a bit tidier without him in it.
But nothing had worked. Not even Death-by-Hulk. Was he, the most degenerate Merc-with-a-Mouth, doomed to eternal life without the sanity clause? Someone hadn't been paying attention with that devil's contract. #&%***/%#! Killbrew. There were no words to describe how much of a shit he had been.
And since when were his bouts of sanity accompanied with this much monologuing and no alcohol?
Wade guessed that it was whatever part of his brain that was still capable of guilt and sadness just kept everything to itself until the rest of Wade caught up with it. Normal people would be eating pills by now, hanging themselves, shooting their brains out, ANYTHING. But Wade had tried it all and it didn't work. All there was left was to live and to hope that he'd stay too insane to notice that he'd rather be dead.
Perhaps, by the next time he was lucid, Nate'd be alive again and kill him. There was a nice symmetry in that, favours returned and all that. Wade smiled and removed his mask, his fingers ghosting along his scars and tumours. Nate had never minded; not even realized that he should have. Wade had liked him for it and more. Perhaps, even loved. But love paled compared to Death.
However, Wade had had more than enough of his navel-gazing and he knew if he just closed his eyes for long enough he'd forget. Quietly, he said goodbye to Irene, Nate, Rookie. He'd forget that they'd existed in the first place - at least for a while. He didn't count on remembering Irene ever again though. She wasn't high-profile enough, no one would remind him of her. On the bright side he could forget the sad sight of her in her hospital bed; her beautiful locks gone and her once-lively face sunken and bone-like. He could forget being angry at her for dying.
Wade glanced at the TV and remembered that he had Battlestar Galactica on TiVo. With a grin on his face, he grabbed the remote and started to re-watch season two. Cylons were AWESOME!
THE END
Sequel: Such stuff as dreams
Title: Unfair
Rating: PG13
Warnings: insanity, death, violence, depression, suicide
Summary: Monologue on life, and that hot babe Death. Grief.
Notes: Drinking Buddies verse; sequel to Bottom of a Bottle. Spoilers for X-force, Deadpool ect. References gallore.
The ceiling was stained in browns and yellows, veins of discolouration spreading from one corner, water damage from when the upstairs neighbour had trashed his bathroom in a freak accident involving raccoons. Wade, on his back on the ratty living-room couch, held up his gun and thought about how many shots it would take to make the ceiling crash down on him. If he concentrated his fire he might manage or perhaps just shooting randomly would hit some pipes or something. Then again didn't they usually put those in the walls?
The walls weren't closing in on him like at the institute. No doctors, no inmates - sorry, patients - no hospital food and no useless regulations. It was true that he had tried to kill himself, who wouldn't in his state, but having doctors patronize him wasn't really helpful. They couldn't help him without killing him, and since they wouldn't let him kill himself it was a moot point. Wade knew that he would never be sane. He would have good days sometimes, like when he had his own psychic mutant-messiah taking off the pressure and a stable environment, and he would have bad days, like when there were too many mirrors around and too many temptations. All there was that would help him was death.
Sometimes, he was fine with this. Sometimes, like today, he was far too clear-headed. He wanted Nate to be alive again, he never stayed dead but it kept on hurting anyhow, to reboot his brain and keep him stable for a few moments. Providence felt like a dream and Wade wasn't certain if it even happened; no one else ever mentioned it. He went to Irene's funeral a few months ago; she'd had cancer everywhere and joked about being Lady Deadpool when he'd visited the hospital. But that might just have been something he'd seen on TV. He liked watching reruns of Six Feet Under so that might be the case. Wade threw the gun on the floor, giving a shit about gun safety.
He had been an ass about it anyhow; gotten angry and stormed off. Wade wished that he had joked back at her and kissed her hairless head, cemo hadn't been kind to her, and told her that she rocked the Sineade O'Connor look. Once hot, always hot. Instead, he'd sulked at the unfairness of it; he'd wanted to die instead of her. Nate would have been so disappointed at him. He would have made that frown, which still made Wade feel like something he'd scraped off his boot. But Nate had been dead at the time. He hadn't stood with him in the rain three days after the funeral, feeling like crap.
Wade didn't call the X-Men any more. He did his jobs with X-Force without mentioning Nate or debts unpaid. Psylocke wouldn't look at him though and Wolverine frowned at him. Not that those guys were much saner than him; shooting kid Apocalypse hadn't been nice. He never did kids. Period. But now by association he had. So, Wade wouldn't accept money for that nor any of his jobs with them.
Wade supposed that he'd gone a little sane after that. Realized that the world was a little bit better off without him. Wade wondered if people would cheer when he was dead like they had with Bullseye once they got over the whole 'holy shit, daredevil is crazy' chock. Being a merc didn't exactly ingratiate you with the gen pop. Wade had been a bit pissed at that when he'd been at his local watering hole. Some prick had raised a toast to Rookie's death. Wade hadn't said anything - what could you say to defend a psycho-for-hire? He had made a killer Harvey Wallbanger and was a great drinking-and-fighting buddy? - but his gun had; maiming usually brought home the message better than words.
Wade had wanted to leave flowers at his grave but Bullseye didn't have one. He'd been buried, twice, but they wouldn't let him rest in peace; it was just an empty hole in the ground now. Wade guessed that some shit-for-brain crazy would find a way to bring him back soon enough. Wade didn't think anyone would thank him/her for that, not even Rookie himself. Bullseye had always been a few screws short but smart enough to realize that;he was terrified because of it. He feared relapses, he feared his own mind and he feared death. Dying and coming back would hardly make him any saner. As if being a homicidal-psychotic-schizophrenic-repressed-homosexual wasn't troublesome as it was. Wolverine's brat had stopped over him once too often as well.
Wade himself doesn't remember much of dying. He did die once - or was it twice? - and he was buried. Well, the little of him that there had been left to bury that is. But he remembers Death. He'd fallen in love with Her before then; the Weapon X Project had half-killed him while saving him, it had been a helluva first date. He wanted to die once more and be with Her. It didn't matter if She was just a figment of his imagination, his version of Heaven, because he'd be happy. And the world would, after all, be a bit tidier without him in it.
But nothing had worked. Not even Death-by-Hulk. Was he, the most degenerate Merc-with-a-Mouth, doomed to eternal life without the sanity clause? Someone hadn't been paying attention with that devil's contract. #&%***/%#! Killbrew. There were no words to describe how much of a shit he had been.
And since when were his bouts of sanity accompanied with this much monologuing and no alcohol?
Wade guessed that it was whatever part of his brain that was still capable of guilt and sadness just kept everything to itself until the rest of Wade caught up with it. Normal people would be eating pills by now, hanging themselves, shooting their brains out, ANYTHING. But Wade had tried it all and it didn't work. All there was left was to live and to hope that he'd stay too insane to notice that he'd rather be dead.
Perhaps, by the next time he was lucid, Nate'd be alive again and kill him. There was a nice symmetry in that, favours returned and all that. Wade smiled and removed his mask, his fingers ghosting along his scars and tumours. Nate had never minded; not even realized that he should have. Wade had liked him for it and more. Perhaps, even loved. But love paled compared to Death.
However, Wade had had more than enough of his navel-gazing and he knew if he just closed his eyes for long enough he'd forget. Quietly, he said goodbye to Irene, Nate, Rookie. He'd forget that they'd existed in the first place - at least for a while. He didn't count on remembering Irene ever again though. She wasn't high-profile enough, no one would remind him of her. On the bright side he could forget the sad sight of her in her hospital bed; her beautiful locks gone and her once-lively face sunken and bone-like. He could forget being angry at her for dying.
Wade glanced at the TV and remembered that he had Battlestar Galactica on TiVo. With a grin on his face, he grabbed the remote and started to re-watch season two. Cylons were AWESOME!
THE END
Sequel: Such stuff as dreams