Superheroes Have Names?
Thank fucking god Deadpool takes you through a drivethrough instead of actually into the McDonald's itself. People are a no right now. Talking is also a no; you just nod when he asks you if you want a specific meal and that's good enough, he orders and passes you the bag when he gets it and you fish out your burger and fries and pass it back without ever looking at him.
Which is...yeah, rude as hell. But he doesn't call you out on it, not at all. In fact, as soon as you're finished with your food he reaches over and drops his thing of fries in your lap.
"C'mon, I know you're hungry. I'm gonna have to go shopping when we get where we're going anyway, skipping the fries isn't going to hurt me."
"...uh." Okay, so you gotta look up at him. For a sec at least. "You sure, dude?"
"Of course I'm sure." Ah, shit, you wish he wouldn't look away from the road to roll his eyes and grin at you. "We can always stop for more."
Oh. Yeah. Okay.
You probably eat the fries too fast, but he's right: you're still hungry.
The soda Deadpool got for you is caffeinated, and you still pass the fuck out after maybe an hour. It's not all that deep or all that restful, but even the in-and-out unconsciousness that breaks every time the van hits any kind of bump is a hell of a lot better than being awake.
Rose would say you're in shock. You wish you were further into it; you can't stop thinking about shit. Hurts. It hurts. Even when you're barely awake it hurts.
Maybe that's why, when you sense the engine turning off, you make the almost-conscious choice to tuck your head down and squeeze your eyes shut harder, desperately trying to chase the darkness down until it'll give up and take you back.
"Hey...Dave?" Deadpool says softly. When you don't react at all, he sighs, and a second later the door opens and slams shut again.
Okay. Okay. God, why the fuck is your heartbeat going nuts? Just...keep breathing slow and even, play dead. Play dead. Don't count out your heartbeats beyond the five for a breath in or a breath out, don't fucking think about time. He'll come back and wake you up or he won't, and you're not fucking moving until he makes you.
Eventually, the door on your side opens, and you feel Deadpool's hand on your shoulder. Even through your shirt you can tell he's ditched the gloves; somehow that feels like a good thing. No fucking clue why.
You're not gonna move until he shakes you.
He doesn't shake you. Instead, he reaches across and unhooks the seatbelt, gathering you up in his arms to pull you out of the car. Which—yeah, okay, you panic, you manage to stay limp but your fucking breath catches in your throat and your hands tighten up until your nails are digging into your palms. He's gotta know you're awake, your head's leaned up against his chest and his hands're the only thing holding you up and he has to know you think you're fooling him—
"Put me down." You hear yourself say it like it's not you at all. Fuck, your throat hurts. "Dude, I—put me down—"
"Okay, okay, keep your shirt on." Deadpool shifts his grip, does exactly what you wanted him to do, and apparently you forgot how to fucking stand up, because your feet hit the pavement and you know you're gonna fall. And it's gonna hurt.
...or not. Deadpool's put you down but not let go of you; his arm around you steadies you, pulls you to lean against him when you almost wipe out.
"Hey." Leather brushes against the side of your forehead, and you don't really do a great job of not flinching. "You planning on walking with your eyes closed under those sunglasses?"
"Fuck off." You miss his hand when you swat at it, either cause he's too fast or you're too slow. (Or maybe because you only open your eyes halfway through the motion.) "What are you, Michael Jackson? Where the hell are we?"
"Michael Ja—I am wounded." Deadpool lets go of you to take a step back and put his bare hand on his chest, giving you a very fucking fake offended look. "I'm way cooler than that prick ever dreamed of being."
"Yeah, sure you are." He's a fucking dork. Your bro got killed by a fucking dork. Shit, there's that thought again, that he's dead...you cut it off, run one hand through your hair to try and get it a little less fucked up, and look around. Great, now you know you're in a parking lot that could be anywhere even slightly north of where you started out. "Where the hell are we?"
"Louisiana."
"...Louisiana." Okay, well at least now you can say you've been in more than one state in your god damn life. Too bad this place looks like any cheap single-story hotel anywhere. Well, other than the chipping red paint job on every fucking building here. Almost matches what you can still see of Deadpool's outfit, under the hoodie he's put on over the ripped-up leather shirt.
You kind of wonder what the guy who he had to have paid for the room thought of his face. Actually, no, you don't give a shit. There's better things to worry about right now.
"Dude, why the hell are we in Louisiana?"
"Hey, don't ask me, ask Google maps." Deadpool shrugs, and tosses you something small and jingly. A key, you find out when you instinctively catch it. "How about you go nap in the room instead of the car? I've got some phone calls to make. Maybe some shopping to do too...you want anything out of the van?"
"I—" Fuck, you just barely managing to process any of this. "My laptop."
"Awesome, hang on." He nods and steps away from you to open the side door, digging around for a second until he finds the right bag and then holding it out to you. "Want me to come with you to the room?"
"No." It's kind of hard to take the step forward to grab the bag out of his hands. "Where—fuck." Asking him where makes it sound like you have a fucking say in where he's going. "When—I mean. You're coming back, right?"
Ouch. You sound fucking desperate. Scared that he wouldn't.
Deadpool blinks, twice, his expression shifting completely both times. He starts confused, goes to amused, and finishes off with what you think might be pity. "Yep, I'm coming back. Uh—let me see your phone for a sec?"
It's a command. Like, your brain registers it as one, which means you've got your phone out of your pocket and in his hand before you think this shit through. Which is stupid; what if he doesn't give it back? You need that, you need to be able to answer if Bro—
Ah, fuck.
Before you can really finish swallowing the tears that really wanna come out, Deadpool's finished doing something to your phone. Making a new contact named Wade, you see when he hands it back.
"You—your name's Wade?" It's something to focus on. Something vaguely baffling, actually. Somehow the idea of Deadpool having, like, an actual fucking name never occurred to you.
"Wade Wilson, here to kick ass and take names. We kind of already did the kicking ass part."
Oh. This is him introducing himself to you. Like an idiot, you hear yourself say, "You know I'm Dave already, dude."
"Mm-hm! And see, I'd love to get further into the getting to know each other shit, but I really want some clothes that aren't all sticky. Plus Peter will kick my fucking ass if I'm dressed worse than him when he shows up." Deadpool (Wade? No, Deadpool) punctuates that statement with another eye-roll, which ends with him studying you too carefully again. "You okay with hanging out in the room for like an hour? You could come with me—"
"No." Fuck no. You don't want to have people look at you, know that they're wondering what the fuck's wrong with you. "I'm good, I'm fine, it's—it's all good."
Does he believe you? The look on his face says no. But he shrugs and nods and lets it go, for whatever reason. "You want anything specific to eat?"
"Uh..." Shit, this offer shouldn't make your brain go blank, what the fuck. "Food?"
That actually earns you a laugh. "Oh, that I can do. See you in a bit, kiddo."
There's two beds in the room. You drag all the blankets and pillows off one of them, pile them on the bathroom floor and lock the door. Won't stop anyone who's any kind of determined to get to you, but hey, the illusion of safety makes you feel just a lil' better.
Plus, you'd never be curled up in a pile of blankets on the bathroom floor back at the apartment. It wouldn't happen, it couldn't happen, and you're hoping that'll soften the pure cognitive dissonance that keeps hitting you every time you start thinking about where you are and what's happening.
Hopefully.
Anyway. You mean to open pesterchum and grill Rose about what the hell she thought she was doing here, but what really happens is that you open the app, see four separate sets of icons with maxed-out message numbers, and close it again before you can really process who's trying to reach you.
You...yeah. You can't do that right now. Time for something nice and soothing, as close to mindless as you can get right now.
You're gonna build a fucking dirt house.
Actually, you build a house, and then a cellar, which turns into a tunnel system that becomes a vast underground cavern system occasionally popping back up to add a mansion in the surface. The others must see you're online, because for a while your pesterchum keeps pinging with new messages, but eventually they all either give up or accept that you're not gonna answer them.
Not yet. Later. Not really sure how much later, but at some point.
You're very careful to not watch the clock, so you honestly don't have any idea how long it is until you hear voices outside. One's Deadpool, you think, and the other...well, the other guy sounds pissed.
Shit.
You shut your laptop and yank open the cabinet under the sink, tucking it in there as carefully as you can. The blankets get stuffed in on top of it with a lot less care and a lot more desperation; they barely fit but you make them fit, and you've got the door to the main room unlocked and open before the door to outside opens.
The guy who opens it is...kind of the last thing you were expecting. He's maybe your bro's age, looks like he forgot to shave or brush his dark hair before he left the house this morning, dressed like he picked out his clothes from a pile in the dark. Like, for some reason the second thing you notice (after the purely shocked look on his face) is the fact that not only are the sweatpants he's wearing like three inches too short, he's got on one neon yellow sock and one red plaid one.
Deadpool, who's immediately behind him, definitely is dressed better. Jeans and a band t-shirt, and the same grey hoodie from before. And a Taco Bell bag. Which reminds you that you're hungry.
The new guy stares at you for another second, then turns on Deadpool with what you're gonna read as pure fury. "You didn't tell me he's an actual kid!"
"I did too! I said—"
"Wade, you can't just—"
"Hey Dave? Catch." Holy shit why does he think you can catch a thrown bag of food. Like, you can and you do, but why the fuck does he think that's a good idea. "Be right back."
Before you can say a goddamn word, Deadpool grabs the new guy's collar and yanks him back out the door, slamming it shut.
"Fuck." That comes out too loud; you cringe a little bit. You guess you might as well sort out whatever food he brought you. Sure as fuck can't eat it with your stomach twisting up in anxious knots over what they're saying out there. Maybe you can stash it...
Nah, you can't do anything other than take the packaged burritos out and lay them on the coffee table, count them and push them around and watch your hands shake.
After maybe five minutes of that, the door opens again. And of course it's just the new guy that steps inside.
"Where's De—" Wait. No. "Wade. Where's Wade?"
"Outside, healing a broken nose." The guy huffs and steps over to the bed that you didn't strip, plopping down and crossing his arms. He doesn't take his eyes off you, which actually kicks the fear you're feeling right now up another notch. "Relax. He's fine. I don't know if you noticed, but he's pretty resilient."
"...saw him jump off a building, so yeah." If he thinks you're gonna sit down, he's got another think coming. You cross your arms and look almost-not-quite at him; it's not like he can tell where you're looking behind the shades. "Who the fuck're you?"
You don't know what you expect. For him to tell you to watch your mouth, maybe, or to watch your manners. Something like that.
Not, "My name's Peter. I'm, uh...his emergency contact." He sighs and rubs at his eyes for a second, lowering his hand just enough to give you a wry look. "This is kind of a new kind of emergency."
"This ain't an emergency." When in doubt, lie through your goddamn teeth. "My bro hired him, he's just taking me up to—" Shit, what's the town Rose lives in? You can't fucking remember. "—New York." Dammit.
Peter isn't buying this. You can tell. What you don't really expect, though, is for him to raise an eyebrow and ask very fucking calmly, "Did he kidnap you?"
"What—no!"
"Because he's giving me exactly zero info on what's going on, but he seems to think you can't go home—"
"I can't—" Well, you just torched your own story before you even started building it. Plus you're about to fucking cry again.
Peter keeps talking. "And if you really think you'll be better off where you started, I know people who can check that you're right about that and take you home. Or if your dad's as much of a douche as Wade says, there's people who'll—"
"Stop fucking t-talking." Oh, yeah, there's the tears, there's no way he's gonna miss the tracks on your face. Shit. "Back the fuck off, he killed Bro and I can't go home, okay, he's gonna—he's gonna take me to Rose, she—this was her idea, she didn't even tell me—"
"Holy shit." You closed your eyes like, when you told him to back off, so the only warning that you get that Peter's gonna touch you is when he does it. He pulls back when you flinch away from his hand on your shoulder, but a second later he takes your hand, pulls you over to sit down next to him on the bed, wraps an arm around you.
You don't even know this guy. You should sit up straight and stop fucking crying, not take a damn thing from him until you figure out what he wants.
You slump against him and sob. God, you want to go home so fucking bad right now. Bro's shit's better than not knowing what's coming. You wanna go home, you want for none of this to have happened, you wanna wake up because this shit's all a bad dream and there's a crow on your chest pecking at your face to check you're still awake, you want this to not be real.
This keeps on being real, and eventually you either get control of yourself or tire yourself out, you can't tell which. Either way, you're sitting here with a guy who looks kind of like he might be homeless mumbling entirely unhelpful words in an attempt to comfort you, sniffling like a dumbass.
"Can't go home," you tell him.
"I believe you."
"Deadpool—fuck, Wade—"
"Either works."
"Not his fault."
"So he killed your...brother?" He pauses for input from you, and you just nod. Close enough. "He killed your brother, and it's not his fault."
Fuck. You can't do this right now. Explaining this shit to him means you gotta think about it.
You still gotta do it. "My fault."
"...your fault."
Jesus fuck, this guy ain't gonna let you off easy. You sniffle again, pull away from him, and push your shades back up on your nose. "I shoulda talked him into leaving. Told him he was in the wrong place."
"You obviously don't know him too well, if you think that would've worked." Peter's voice is colored by amusement again, when he says that; it fades away with his next question. "Was he actually in the wrong place?"
"I—" Fuck, for a second you want to tell him that yeah, Deadpool fucked up, Bro was just—collateral damage or some shit. But you're not doing great with lying today. "No. Somebody I know, she—hired him to kill Bro."
"...ookay." You can't really look up at Peter right now, but you can hear the skepticism there. Or maybe the confusion. "Any idea why?"
"Because of me."
"...kid, how old are you?"
Not sure what that has to do with anything, but you answer the question anyway. "Thirteen."
"What the heck do you think you did to make someone kill your brother? Because from how Wade tells it, he killed a guy who was planning to beat the hell out of his kid—"
"Shut the fuck up!" If this was the apartment, you'd hurt him. Like, really hurt him. Since it's not, you settle for pushing yourself up to your feet and taking a swing at him.
He just...catches your fist in his hand. Like, you know how to throw a punch, but this guy ain't even moving, just holding you still and looking at you like he expects you to admit something.
Which you won't. "Let go."
Amazingly, he does. You immediately use that freedom to cross your arms and retreat to the far side of the room. Too bad Peter can't take a fucking hint.
"Was he wrong? Because if he messed up, we kind of need to—"
Shit. "No, he didn't fuck up, he did exactly what Rose fucking hired him to, will you just—will you just fucking leave!"
Okay, so that comes out loud enough that Deadpool opens the door and pokes his head in. (There's blood on his face.) He groans when he gets a good look at you, coming in to smack the back of Peter's head.
"Ow!"
"What the actual fuck do you not get about don't fucking scare him, Spidey!"
Peter probably says something else in return to that, but you kind of tune out for a second. Spidey. Spider. Spider-Man.
Okay you're done with this whole situation as of now, thanks. Deadpool's just a bit too slow to grab your arm as you bolt for the bathroom; if he wants to break the door he can, but otherwise you're so not coming out.