[Cable & Deadpool] Post-Second Coming fic
I've already had my little ramble about Second Coming and how I enjoyed it far more than I'd expected to - despite the fact the ending was so predictable that I have had the mental outline for fix-it-fic kicking around my head since around six months before the whole event even started. (I'm not sure who this says more about - me, or the state of the modern comic industry.) It still took me a few weeks to get a measley couple of thousand words out of the idea - I think enjoying the event actually made it harder, even if only because it threw me off my stride a bit, and the result is probably less of an outright parody than I thought it was going to be. But this is pretty much how I deal with Cable/Deadpool related Marvel events lately - good, bad or just slightly bizarre - and finding SC so far into the 'good' category (YMMV, of course) is hardly a reason to break tradition.
Title: A meditation on the inevitability of life, the meaninglessness of death and what a total jerk you were about it, by Wade Wilson
Summary: So, Cable's dead - again. Deadpool has a few things to say about that.
Word count: 2205
Rating: PG
Notes/Warnings: Spoilers for the end of Second Coming, one reference to a line from Cable #25.
Afterwards, the mourners trickled away awkwardly, for the most part too sick of funerals to be sure how long they'd been there, or how long they were supposed to hang around in order to avoid looking disrespectful when everyone on the island had reached the end of their emotional stamina by this time yesterday. The grave site was deserted when the very last of them wandered up, muttered, “'I promise you this isn't goodbye', my butt,” and kicked the headstone firmly in the middle of the nameplate.
After several seconds of hopping up and down on the other foot and swearing loudly, Deadpool sat down, cross-legged, and blew on his toes. He let out a low whistle. “Damn that's some quality rock,” he allowed, somewhat grudgingly. “Maybe if they built their mansion out of that stuff they wouldn't be out here playing utopia on an old floating satellite - cause that always ends well, and you should know, huh Nate? What is it with you and big, tragic sacrifices on these things, is this your new gimmick now? Time travel and big guns just not moving those comic books anymore?” He rubbed his foot absently, and gave the gravestone a firm glare that said that just because it had countered his first attack didn't mean he was admitting defeat. “Yeah, I know, I know, 'nothing personal', but that's the whole damn problem with you, since even a signed 'wish you were here' card has been 'too personal' for you since about 2008, so if it seems like I'm taking this 'a bit personally' maybe you're the one who should sit down and think about the reason for that, huh? Would it have killed you to stop by and say 'hi' this time? And even if it would, big loss.” This last bit came out a little more quietly, then he shook himself.
“You know they asked me if I wanted to say something at the funeral? And when I told them nah, I'm all grieved out after the last time, thanks, they gave me this look like, 'poor little 'Pool, too torn up to know how to deal with it'. What the hell was that all about?” He shot the gravestone another look, but when it became obvious that it wasn't going to be able to offer any insight into the matter, he took it upon himself to explain the problem. “Don't they get how X-Death goes? You think I've got a weird on-again, off-again thing going with Death, but you X-Folks can't get her past first base. Between you and me, I wasn't even going to show up, but I knew that if I didn't then everyone was going to be too polite to bring up the thing about the last time you died - you remember that, Nate? They got you a giant statue with exaggerated naughty bits and a national day of mourning in some made-up country with a name ending in 'stan'. This time? A bunch of guys standing around for ten minutes scuffing their toes, trying to remember if they ever even liked you back when you were alive, and an indestructible lump of rock with your name on it. Know what that's a sign of? Resurrection fatigue. Maybe they're too polite to talk about it, but I guarantee you next time you pull this stunt, you'll be lucky if you get two shrugs and some C-lister making a few bad jokes about your Mum and revolving coffin lids.
“Don't know if you're catching my drift here, Nate,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees until his face was only an inch away from the stone, “you almost got me last time, but this time? Nah-uh. Not falling for it. We both know how this one goes - you're going to be back in some big event, and if my invite is going to be 'lost in the mail' again for two and a half years, then I wanted to be here so I could look you in the epitaph when I asked you who you even think you're kidding this time.” That delivered, he rubbed his nose in a totally-not-sniffly sort of way, and muttered, “You big jerk.”
“Not you, evidently,” said Cable.
There was a significant pause.
“You're behind me, aren't you?” said Deadpool.
“Yes.”
“...how long have you been behind me?”
“Since just before the embarrassing story about how you tried to deal with your sorrows by eating your own weight in chimichangas.”
Deadpool tried frantically to remember when he'd told that story for several seconds before reality caught up with him. “Ha, nice try, but I don't even like chimichangas! Why does no-one ever remember that? I just like the word! Chimichanga, chimichanga, chimi-freaking-changa.” He risked a look over his shoulder. Turned out Cable was not only audible, but visible too. Huh.
“No?” said Cable, mildly. “It seemed like a good guess.”
Deadpool got to his feet and looked Cable up and down suspiciously, for any signs of being an evil robot clone. “I see you found your sense of humour somewhere.”
“They do say death changes a man. I don't see why it can't be for the better.”
“You are looking pretty good for a dead guy.” He was looking even better for guy who'd probably been pushing fifty before raising a newborn baby to mutant-puberty, but when the whole point of his big resurrection stunt had probably always been to let the Marvel execs drop a couple of decades off his age without anyone noticing, Deadpool wasn't in the mood to feed his ego.
“Thank you. You're not looking bad yourself.”
“I'm wearing my costume!”
Cable shrugged. “I always did like the costume.” He paused. “Aren't you going to ask?”
“Ask what?”
“How I made it back.”
“Nah. Does it matter?” said Wade, cleaning out an ear with his finger. “Unless you are an evil clone, or a ghost or a zombie, or on a twenty-four hour time limit that we can only fix by going on a super secret mission to a mystical temple guarded by frog-people in the Amazon by midnight. That's always fun.”
“Nothing that exciting. Sorry.”
Deadpool shrugged to let him know he'd be able to deal with the disappointment. “So, you just get back? Gotta admit even I wasn't expecting you to pull it off this fast - I hadn't even got the betting pool started, and I was gonna put my money on something more like a couple of months. Do the X-Men know yet? 'Cause you must have busted all their best records.”
“Just you.”
“So?” said Deadpool.
“So?” echoed Cable, who had either come back more stupid or was being deliberately obtuse.
“So, since you did stop by to say 'hi' this time I guess I can let that other thing slip,” Deadpool explained, slowly and deliberately, “and I'm not going to hold it against you too much if you wanna take ten to go tell them that they got you this great rock for nothing. Stop me if you've heard this one before: teenaged girl, red hair, about so high, just sang us all a tragic sob story about her dead Dad's horrible insomnia problems - might be interested in knowing you're back? Ring any bells?”
“Ah,” said Cable, suddenly more guarded. “I'm not sure that's a good idea.”
“Is it about how much they wasted on your funeral? C'mon, Nate, they'll understand! If they haven't learned to get a 30-day money back guarantee on every gravestone yet then this is the only way they're ever going to learn.”
“It's not about the X-Men, it's about Hope,” said Cable. “I meant to tell her first, but when I got here, I was in time to see her at the funeral, and she was...”
“All torn up and practically inconsolable over the death of the only parent she ever knew?” Deadpool suggested, helpfully, when Cable didn't seem to know how to finish that.
“Coping.” The word seemed to cost Cable more than its usual market value. “Not... well, not easily, but she was coping.”
“Po-TAY-to, po-TAH-to,” said Deadpool waving an arm.
“I mean it, Wade, she's going to be okay; regardless of whether or not she knows I'm back.” He sounded like he was still at least half a dozen takes away from making anyone believe he was happy about that, but on the right track. He probably hadn't even noticed how he'd turned to look wistfully back towards the main complex during this part. “Seeing her like that made me realise... it might be for the best that she doesn't see me right away. She's got a long road ahead of her, but it was never going to be my job to lead her all the way - and even if I could, if I'm honest, it probably wouldn't be in her best interests. I've been with her this long, perhaps I owe her the chance to figure out who she is without me standing over her shoulder.”
Wade raised his eyebrows. Then he remembered he was wearing the mask, and raised them a little more just in case Cable hadn't noticed. “That's awful noble of you Nate, but - and maybe this sounds like crazy talk to you - but there might just be a little room between 'letting them know you're not dead' and 'stuffing them in a box for the rest of their lives'.”
“I'm sure there is,” said Cable. “I'm just not sure I can trust myself to find it. Not this soon.”
Well, Deadpool wasn't touching that one without a twenty foot pole, or a Master's degree in family counselling and a riot shield or two. “Okay. So now what?”
“I don't know,” said Cable, still sounding a long way off his guard. “I haven't planned that far. But, to be honest... it's been a rough few years. All I'd really like is to take a break from it all for a while.”
“A vacation, huh?”
“If you like.”
“And not anywhere too obvious, if you're hiding out from all the X-Men, huh?” said Deadpool, perking up a bit as certain possibilities occurred to him.
“Yes.”
“Sooo,” Deadpool scuffed a toe a bit. “I have a place.”
“Yes?”
“With a couch! And a TV, and a million different cable channels. And an XBOX! And...”
“Wade,” said Cable, warmly, “you had me at the couch.”
Caught in the middle of mentally cataloguing how many FPS's he owned set in dystopian futures that Nate might like, it took a second for Deadpool to realise that he had, in fact, agreed. “I did?”
“Possibly at 'a place'. That sounds perfect.”
“It does? It's nothing special. And it might have this little problem with people occasionally coming bursting in through my front door wielding sharp objects.”
“If you don't think I can deal with an assassination attempt or two-”
“They're not assassins so much as angry neighbours - y'see, there might have been this little incident with someone with an uzi and a safety catch that doesn't always work so well and someone's vase that they left really close to this thin spot in the wall - and a fire-extinguisher and this really big tub of cake mix - honestly it could've happened to anyone... ”
Cable cut him off before he could get any further. “After the last few years I've lived, a few weeks sleeping on a real couch with no worse concerns than a few angry neighbours sounds like the height of luxury.”
Deadpool opened his mouth to raise another point about his apartment's shortcomings, but what came out of it instead was, “Wanna pick up a couple of six packs on the way?”
“I'd call that the best idea you've had yet,” said Cable, falling into step beside him with a smile on his face. “Provided you mean the beer rather than the company.”
“You're not telling me there's no beer in the future.”
“Wade,” said Cable, with feeling, “You can only imagine how much I'm not going to miss the future at all.”
Deadpool snickered. “Okay, but I should warn you I'm not going to be home all the time. I'm in, like, a billion books right now. I'm in more books than Wolverine! I'm in books with Wolverine! Actually I'm supposed to be appearing in this big two-page spread, like, right now, but it's only the one shot so they can just hang some extra weapons on a cardboard cut-out or something and no-one's ever going to know the difference...”
He continued to natter on like that most of the way home, but the details weren't nearly as important to anyone listening as simply being there to hear him do it.
Title: A meditation on the inevitability of life, the meaninglessness of death and what a total jerk you were about it, by Wade Wilson
Summary: So, Cable's dead - again. Deadpool has a few things to say about that.
Word count: 2205
Rating: PG
Notes/Warnings: Spoilers for the end of Second Coming, one reference to a line from Cable #25.
Afterwards, the mourners trickled away awkwardly, for the most part too sick of funerals to be sure how long they'd been there, or how long they were supposed to hang around in order to avoid looking disrespectful when everyone on the island had reached the end of their emotional stamina by this time yesterday. The grave site was deserted when the very last of them wandered up, muttered, “'I promise you this isn't goodbye', my butt,” and kicked the headstone firmly in the middle of the nameplate.
After several seconds of hopping up and down on the other foot and swearing loudly, Deadpool sat down, cross-legged, and blew on his toes. He let out a low whistle. “Damn that's some quality rock,” he allowed, somewhat grudgingly. “Maybe if they built their mansion out of that stuff they wouldn't be out here playing utopia on an old floating satellite - cause that always ends well, and you should know, huh Nate? What is it with you and big, tragic sacrifices on these things, is this your new gimmick now? Time travel and big guns just not moving those comic books anymore?” He rubbed his foot absently, and gave the gravestone a firm glare that said that just because it had countered his first attack didn't mean he was admitting defeat. “Yeah, I know, I know, 'nothing personal', but that's the whole damn problem with you, since even a signed 'wish you were here' card has been 'too personal' for you since about 2008, so if it seems like I'm taking this 'a bit personally' maybe you're the one who should sit down and think about the reason for that, huh? Would it have killed you to stop by and say 'hi' this time? And even if it would, big loss.” This last bit came out a little more quietly, then he shook himself.
“You know they asked me if I wanted to say something at the funeral? And when I told them nah, I'm all grieved out after the last time, thanks, they gave me this look like, 'poor little 'Pool, too torn up to know how to deal with it'. What the hell was that all about?” He shot the gravestone another look, but when it became obvious that it wasn't going to be able to offer any insight into the matter, he took it upon himself to explain the problem. “Don't they get how X-Death goes? You think I've got a weird on-again, off-again thing going with Death, but you X-Folks can't get her past first base. Between you and me, I wasn't even going to show up, but I knew that if I didn't then everyone was going to be too polite to bring up the thing about the last time you died - you remember that, Nate? They got you a giant statue with exaggerated naughty bits and a national day of mourning in some made-up country with a name ending in 'stan'. This time? A bunch of guys standing around for ten minutes scuffing their toes, trying to remember if they ever even liked you back when you were alive, and an indestructible lump of rock with your name on it. Know what that's a sign of? Resurrection fatigue. Maybe they're too polite to talk about it, but I guarantee you next time you pull this stunt, you'll be lucky if you get two shrugs and some C-lister making a few bad jokes about your Mum and revolving coffin lids.
“Don't know if you're catching my drift here, Nate,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees until his face was only an inch away from the stone, “you almost got me last time, but this time? Nah-uh. Not falling for it. We both know how this one goes - you're going to be back in some big event, and if my invite is going to be 'lost in the mail' again for two and a half years, then I wanted to be here so I could look you in the epitaph when I asked you who you even think you're kidding this time.” That delivered, he rubbed his nose in a totally-not-sniffly sort of way, and muttered, “You big jerk.”
“Not you, evidently,” said Cable.
There was a significant pause.
“You're behind me, aren't you?” said Deadpool.
“Yes.”
“...how long have you been behind me?”
“Since just before the embarrassing story about how you tried to deal with your sorrows by eating your own weight in chimichangas.”
Deadpool tried frantically to remember when he'd told that story for several seconds before reality caught up with him. “Ha, nice try, but I don't even like chimichangas! Why does no-one ever remember that? I just like the word! Chimichanga, chimichanga, chimi-freaking-changa.” He risked a look over his shoulder. Turned out Cable was not only audible, but visible too. Huh.
“No?” said Cable, mildly. “It seemed like a good guess.”
Deadpool got to his feet and looked Cable up and down suspiciously, for any signs of being an evil robot clone. “I see you found your sense of humour somewhere.”
“They do say death changes a man. I don't see why it can't be for the better.”
“You are looking pretty good for a dead guy.” He was looking even better for guy who'd probably been pushing fifty before raising a newborn baby to mutant-puberty, but when the whole point of his big resurrection stunt had probably always been to let the Marvel execs drop a couple of decades off his age without anyone noticing, Deadpool wasn't in the mood to feed his ego.
“Thank you. You're not looking bad yourself.”
“I'm wearing my costume!”
Cable shrugged. “I always did like the costume.” He paused. “Aren't you going to ask?”
“Ask what?”
“How I made it back.”
“Nah. Does it matter?” said Wade, cleaning out an ear with his finger. “Unless you are an evil clone, or a ghost or a zombie, or on a twenty-four hour time limit that we can only fix by going on a super secret mission to a mystical temple guarded by frog-people in the Amazon by midnight. That's always fun.”
“Nothing that exciting. Sorry.”
Deadpool shrugged to let him know he'd be able to deal with the disappointment. “So, you just get back? Gotta admit even I wasn't expecting you to pull it off this fast - I hadn't even got the betting pool started, and I was gonna put my money on something more like a couple of months. Do the X-Men know yet? 'Cause you must have busted all their best records.”
“Just you.”
“So?” said Deadpool.
“So?” echoed Cable, who had either come back more stupid or was being deliberately obtuse.
“So, since you did stop by to say 'hi' this time I guess I can let that other thing slip,” Deadpool explained, slowly and deliberately, “and I'm not going to hold it against you too much if you wanna take ten to go tell them that they got you this great rock for nothing. Stop me if you've heard this one before: teenaged girl, red hair, about so high, just sang us all a tragic sob story about her dead Dad's horrible insomnia problems - might be interested in knowing you're back? Ring any bells?”
“Ah,” said Cable, suddenly more guarded. “I'm not sure that's a good idea.”
“Is it about how much they wasted on your funeral? C'mon, Nate, they'll understand! If they haven't learned to get a 30-day money back guarantee on every gravestone yet then this is the only way they're ever going to learn.”
“It's not about the X-Men, it's about Hope,” said Cable. “I meant to tell her first, but when I got here, I was in time to see her at the funeral, and she was...”
“All torn up and practically inconsolable over the death of the only parent she ever knew?” Deadpool suggested, helpfully, when Cable didn't seem to know how to finish that.
“Coping.” The word seemed to cost Cable more than its usual market value. “Not... well, not easily, but she was coping.”
“Po-TAY-to, po-TAH-to,” said Deadpool waving an arm.
“I mean it, Wade, she's going to be okay; regardless of whether or not she knows I'm back.” He sounded like he was still at least half a dozen takes away from making anyone believe he was happy about that, but on the right track. He probably hadn't even noticed how he'd turned to look wistfully back towards the main complex during this part. “Seeing her like that made me realise... it might be for the best that she doesn't see me right away. She's got a long road ahead of her, but it was never going to be my job to lead her all the way - and even if I could, if I'm honest, it probably wouldn't be in her best interests. I've been with her this long, perhaps I owe her the chance to figure out who she is without me standing over her shoulder.”
Wade raised his eyebrows. Then he remembered he was wearing the mask, and raised them a little more just in case Cable hadn't noticed. “That's awful noble of you Nate, but - and maybe this sounds like crazy talk to you - but there might just be a little room between 'letting them know you're not dead' and 'stuffing them in a box for the rest of their lives'.”
“I'm sure there is,” said Cable. “I'm just not sure I can trust myself to find it. Not this soon.”
Well, Deadpool wasn't touching that one without a twenty foot pole, or a Master's degree in family counselling and a riot shield or two. “Okay. So now what?”
“I don't know,” said Cable, still sounding a long way off his guard. “I haven't planned that far. But, to be honest... it's been a rough few years. All I'd really like is to take a break from it all for a while.”
“A vacation, huh?”
“If you like.”
“And not anywhere too obvious, if you're hiding out from all the X-Men, huh?” said Deadpool, perking up a bit as certain possibilities occurred to him.
“Yes.”
“Sooo,” Deadpool scuffed a toe a bit. “I have a place.”
“Yes?”
“With a couch! And a TV, and a million different cable channels. And an XBOX! And...”
“Wade,” said Cable, warmly, “you had me at the couch.”
Caught in the middle of mentally cataloguing how many FPS's he owned set in dystopian futures that Nate might like, it took a second for Deadpool to realise that he had, in fact, agreed. “I did?”
“Possibly at 'a place'. That sounds perfect.”
“It does? It's nothing special. And it might have this little problem with people occasionally coming bursting in through my front door wielding sharp objects.”
“If you don't think I can deal with an assassination attempt or two-”
“They're not assassins so much as angry neighbours - y'see, there might have been this little incident with someone with an uzi and a safety catch that doesn't always work so well and someone's vase that they left really close to this thin spot in the wall - and a fire-extinguisher and this really big tub of cake mix - honestly it could've happened to anyone... ”
Cable cut him off before he could get any further. “After the last few years I've lived, a few weeks sleeping on a real couch with no worse concerns than a few angry neighbours sounds like the height of luxury.”
Deadpool opened his mouth to raise another point about his apartment's shortcomings, but what came out of it instead was, “Wanna pick up a couple of six packs on the way?”
“I'd call that the best idea you've had yet,” said Cable, falling into step beside him with a smile on his face. “Provided you mean the beer rather than the company.”
“You're not telling me there's no beer in the future.”
“Wade,” said Cable, with feeling, “You can only imagine how much I'm not going to miss the future at all.”
Deadpool snickered. “Okay, but I should warn you I'm not going to be home all the time. I'm in, like, a billion books right now. I'm in more books than Wolverine! I'm in books with Wolverine! Actually I'm supposed to be appearing in this big two-page spread, like, right now, but it's only the one shot so they can just hang some extra weapons on a cardboard cut-out or something and no-one's ever going to know the difference...”
He continued to natter on like that most of the way home, but the details weren't nearly as important to anyone listening as simply being there to hear him do it.