Text Messages/Beatdown
You go. You scramble up those fucking stairs like Bro's waiting for you at the top, even though it's the exact fucking opposite, and somehow the knowledge that you're running away from a strife is worse than knowing that he's waiting up here to kick your ass could ever be.
Maybe it's because he would fucking kill you for running from him. Maybe it's because you know that he's gonna kill someone else because you ran.
God, you're going to be the one to get Deadpool killed. You're going to get the Deadpool wasted, because you couldn't shut this shit down and get rid of him before Bro got back. Fuck, you can even go further back and say that this is your fault because something you said tipped Rose off that you've been lying to her for years, that you don't really go to school and Bro's gone a hell of a lot more than you tell her and when he's here life is fucking hell—
Shit. Shit.
You pull yourself up over the last gap of bare concrete where whoever built the fire escape didn't bother to connect it to the roof itself, just lay there on your side gasping in panic more than exertion, and try to connect your scattered thoughts.
It doesn't work all that well. You can't think when you're scared, and you're pretty damn scared right now. One thought does stand out, though, and it seems logical enough: you need to contact Rose. Like, now.
So you force yourself to your feet, stagger over to the AC unit so you can have at least the illusion of cover, and dig your phone out of your pocket.
Goddamnit. Your hands are shaking.
TG: turntechGodhead [TG]started pesteringTT: tentacleTherapist!
TG: rose
TG: rose you need to answer me right now
TG: god what the fuck did you do
TG: why the hell would you do this rose
TG: you sent this guy here and hes gonna get fucking killed you know that right
TG: why the fuck would you do this when you know i can handle bro
TT: Dave.
TG: no
TG: dont you fucking say my name like you think im being fuckin unreasonable
TG: theres a guy downstairs who says hes gonna kill bro and we both know hes not
TG: he cant
TG: nobody can kill bro rose you dont get it
TG: you havent seen him fight
TT: Dave, I've seen him fight. I've seen him fight you, specifically.
TT: Dirk and Hal hacked into his cameras six months ago. We've been watching him and trying to decide what to do about it.
TG: who the fuck is hal why would you bring someone into strider shit
TG: you didnt fucking need to do anything
TT: Dirk's made some...choices, in the last year. Let's just say that he has a brother now.
TG: what the fuck are you talking about
TG: nevermind i dont fucking care
TG: call your hitman off
TT: No.
TG: goddamnit rose
TG: please
TG: bros gonna kill him
TT: Dave, the entire reason that Hal and Roxy spent the time and effort to acquire enough money to tempt this specific individual to accept this job is that he can't be killed, so far as anyone can find out.
TT: And plenty of people have tried, trust me.
TG: you brought roxy into this
TT: She's family, Dave.
TG: bros my fucking family and youre fucking killing him
TT: He doesn't deserve to be your family. He hurts you, Dave. He comes very fucking close to killing you, too regularly for any of us to be comfortable with.
TT: Do I need to start sending you the footage that Hal saved in case we get caught? Because I can prove that this is completely justifiable, in defense of you.
TG: i fucking know that rose i know its my fault
TT: What?
TT: Why would this be your fault?
Your fingers freeze over the screen as you try to think how to answer that. You don't know how to answer it—you just know that it's your fault, it is, it always is, you fuck up and the consequences fall on you like they always do, like they should, except this time they're on Bro and that's not something that can ever logically happen. It's not going to happen. Can't. Bro won't die. You don't know what'll happen, but you know that he won't die, and that you're probably going to bleed for this.
There's no way to tell Rose that that won't make everything worse. And you can't fucking think of a lie that'll work. Maybe if you had time you could, but you don't have that time. Any time that you might've had evaporates when the door that leads to the stairs down to the apartment slams open.
Oh, shit. Your first instinct is to just cringe down into the hard angle that metal makes with concrete, try to melt into nothingness so he won't see you. Which is stupid; he knows exactly where you are already, he just...he can't see you yet.
You can't escape this shit. Not by hiding.
You lay your phone down, inhale cool air and exhale some infintesimal fraction of the dread in your chest, and stand up.
"What the fuck, lil' man?" Bro's standing in the doorway to the stairs, leaning on the doorframe like he needs to support to keep from collapsing. Your stomach twists as you look at him; he's hurt worse than you've been in any but the worst kind of strifes, shirt torn across his chest to show bleeding slashes underneath. It's not just his chest, either; both his arms are marked with red, and he's holding his katana left-handed because there's very fucking obviously something wrong with his right arm. Like, the blood starts at his shoulder and covers his arm like a wet red sleeve. "Who the hell was that asshole?"
Was.
You knew this was going to happen. You knew it.
Knowing doesn't equal being ready for it. You should be ready for the news that your bro killed Deadpool, but he says that and your stupid fucking eyes fill up with enough tears to blur him into a red-and-white mess.
This is your fucking fault.
"Lil' man. What the hell's going on?" His tone's going rougher, more irritated under the pain that he's only half-managing to hide. You need to answer him, even if it's just to lie and say that you don't know, but for once in your life you can't manage to say a fucking word. "Fucking talk to me, kid, we both know you ain't hurt. Dave!"
He takes a step forward and you take a step back and hit the AC unit at your back and fuck, he's got his sword and yours is still on the floor in your room where Deadpool made you drop it, this is one of your nightmares playing out in midmorning daylight, you can't—
Bro drops his sword and grabs your arm. His hand's wet, and thinking about what that wetness is sends you into complete vaporlock. Like, you stop hearing him, you don't feel how his fingers dig into your biceps even though that's gonna leave bruises and ache for days, you don't feel how much it hurts when he shoves you back into the hard surface behind you.
You close your eyes when he lets you go. You could've done it sooner—he can't see your eyes behind your shades—but some part of you wants to know when the blow's coming.
Closing your eyes means that you don't see him pull back to hit you, though. At least you're still too out of it for it to hurt right away.
It's gonna make him angrier, but you let yourself fall and curl up on the concrete surface of the roof, rather than open your eyes and face him. What's he gonna do, kill you too?
Maybe. Fuckin' maybe. At least then you wouldn't have to explain what happened to Rose. At least then you wouldn't have to deal with next time...nah, he'd never let you out of this shit like that. He is gonna hurt you, though, you know that, so you just lay there and wait for whatever comes next.
Nothing comes.
Some too-long measure of time later, metal clangs on the concrete, and there's a heavy thud. It's not a combination of sounds that you can make any sense out of, but you don't want to get up. Curiousity can't override whatever the fuck you've got going right now.
Hands on your shoulders make you curl up tighter, but after a second you realize that they're gentle, more like he's checking you for injuries than trying to make you get up. He's saying something, too, but you can't...there's no way you can force yourself to really listen.
Either you're gonna be hurt, or you're not. There's nothing you can do either way. Not for another couple minutes, at least.