"Goodbye" In Corvid
You're fine. Like. Yeah, you could probably be making a better use of your time than just sitting here and watching the little loading symbol go around on your computer, but fuck it. You need your music programs, okay? Them, and the comics even if they're super fucking shitty, the literal thousands of selfies and the baby pics of the crows—
Oh, god. The crows. The fucking crows.
It's not like you ever really stopped crying after you started back in Bro's room, but you'd gotten it down to something that was basically just your eyes leaking out a steady stream of tears onto your face. The realization that you're gonna have to walk away from the crows—most of whom you've watched go from eggs to ugly-cute featherless hatchlings to screaming reckless fledglings to black-feathered birds that named you with a caw that rises to almost match the tone you use when you talk to yourself in the damn empty apartment—all that starts you really crying again. Like, really crying. Like, you sob twice and try to muffle the sound and remember that you don't need to muffle it for anyone other than Deadpool, and you just...curl into yourself around the pain that shouldn't be there.
So yeah. Maybe you're not fine. Maybe you're on your knees with your head pressed against the concrete blocks that hold your desk up, sobbing so hard you can't breathe.
And of fucking course, now is when the goddamn mutant steps into the doorway and says your name.
"Dave—aw, shit."
Fun fact: a lot of the time, you're kind of shit at reading tone. You never know what Bro's thinking, can't even kind of tell if he's about to call a strife or just shrug and go back to ignoring you. Somehow, though, Deadpool ain't like that; even with your forehead pressed against the concrete and your eyes closed, you can tell that he'd rather be doing anything else other than interacting with your dumb ass.
And you still hear him take a step further into the room. What the fuck is wrong with this guy?
"Out." It comes out croaky, like you're the one imitating the crows for once. God, that doesn't really help at all. "I—"
Okay. Stop. Take a breath, reach up and wipe your eyes as subtly as you can, straighten your shoulders and don't think about Will Smith and Crowbar and Cawrack Obama—look, what part of don't do you not understand? Fucking stop it!
(You can't. You can't stop it, you can't stop crying.)
All right, you can't stop. After like ten seconds you accept that, and look up at Deadpool anyway.
The fact that he's got fucking Cal draped over his shoulders manages to succeed where your own willpower failed, though; it actually doesn't just make you stop crying, it makes you stop breathing. Fear wins out over grief and frustration, apparently.
When your heart starts back up, you shake your head and scramble across the floor to snag the sword that's still lying on your bed, raise it up to as much of a defensive pose as you can when you're still on your knees.
Deadpool blinks, and glances over his shoulder like he thinks there's something there. The little movement brings you eye to eye with that fucking puppet for a second, and like you always do you drop your eyes, stop looking at him, concede the staring contest because you can't win against something that doesn't blink.
You don't let your guard down, though. Not now, not when Deadpool comes to the obvious conclusion that you and him are the only living things in the building and looks back at you, cocking his head to one side and spreading his hands like he needs to prove that he's not holding a weapon.
"What? I told you I'm not going to hurt you, kid—"
"Cal." From the look on his face, that one word isn't enough to explain shit, so you take a shaky breath and gesture at him and at the thing on his back. "The—it's Bro's puppet, okay, he—"
How the fuck can you tell him that the thing seems alive half the time? That it moves by itself, that it fucking watches you and lets Bro know when you're in a prime position to be ambushed? How the fuck can you explain why you're so fucking scared of it without sounding like you're crazy?
"It's Bro's," you say again, and maybe Deadpool doesn't get why you're terrified but he does seem to understand that you are, because he nods and unwraps the long floppy arms from around his neck and tosses Cal back into the other room.
"Okay, no creepy puppet. Got it." Despite the fact that you've still got the sword out in front of you, Deadpool takes a step forward and holds out his hand. "Need some help?"
"No." You still take his hand and let him pull you to your feet, though. It's the one with the ripped glove; you can feel warm skin through the tear in the leather. God, you hate letting go. "I got it."
"Uh-huh. Did you actually get anything packed yet?"
Shit. "...not really." Well, you got the important contents of your computer downloaded onto a couple flash drives, but other than that. "I—fuck. No."
Instead of the scowl you expect, that just gets a shrug from him, and he steps over to examine your closet. "Seems fair. Grab the breakable shit you want to keep and head down; I'll handle the clothes and stuff, meet you outside in a few."
You can't think of anything to say to that. He probably doesn't want an answer, anyway; he just wants you to do what you're told.
So you nod, and you head over to the closet.to find some kind of container to put your collection of dead shit in.
Fifteen minutes later, you've been standing under the fire escape for five minutes, waiting for Deadpool to get his ass down here. Which is a stupid thing to do; you know what cars park here everyday and which don't, and the only new one is the beater van that's got evidence of at least six paint jobs and Arkansas licence plates.
Of course, logic doesn't trump the little voice in your head that asks what if it's not his? So yeah, you're standing here hugging a cardboard box to your chest, with the strap to your laptop bag digging into your shoulder, trying to ignore the three crows perched on the lowest level of the fire escape above your head. Ignoring them is really fucking hard; they keep cawing out the specific sound that means you as much as your name does.
You're not still crying. You definitely didn't close your eyes because you're sick of your vision being blurry. No, that's because you left your shades on the roof. It's because it's too bright out here.
Not because you're crying, because you're not.
Having your eyes closed is a good thing no matter what your motive is, because it means you don't actually see Deadpool hit the pavement in front of you from a nine-story freefall. No, you hear the muffled thud of a duffle bag full of clothes hitting the ground, and then a much louder impact that's equal parts thump and crunch, and by the time you work up enough nerve to open your eyes he's already bouncing back up to his feet, holding out your shades in one hand and your phone in the other.
"Come on, kid, we've got like five minutes to get out of here before it goes up," he says when you don't take them right away.
You grab your stuff away from him even before he's finished the sentence, shoving your shades into place and your phone into your pocket. "Until what goes—"
Something explodes, far above you.
You flinch.
Deadpool just rolls his eyes and pulls his mask back down, then leans down to grab the bag he tossed out of the apartment window. "Well, I can't count. Come on, time to go."
You nod, and look up because you want to say goodbye to the crows even if it's for your own benefit and not theirs, but they're gone. Scared off by the noise, properly.
It shouldn't hurt this much. It shouldn't.
You push the pain down and follow Deadpool to the van.