Conversations Through A Hotel Bathroom Door
You don't have your fucking headphones; they're in the laptop bag, which is like. Not in here with you. Fuck, why didn't you bring your shit in here the second you decided that this was gonna be the safe place? Why the hell are you so fucking stupid?
Because. You just are. You're stupid, you just tried to punch fucking Spiderman, you're huddled in a fucking hotel bathtub with a blanket over your head and your hands over your ears, trying not to really hear the low voices in the next room because they're talking about you, deciding how bad you fucked up or what's gonna happen to you, and you just. You can't think of any way that this isn't gonna suck.
You want to go home. To the empty fucking apartment and the crows outside croaking at you to open the god damn window already and let them in, to the knowledge that yeah, everything's been shitty before and it's going to be shitty again as soon as Bro comes home but right this second you're fine, there's enough food for another couple days if you're careful and you got your own music playing over Bro's speakers loud enough to drown out the fear that never goes away—you'll have to turn that shit off before he comes home but until then this is good, this is okay, you're okay—
A soft double knock is all that it takes to snap you out of...whatever that was. Wishful thinking?
Yeah. That's all. You totally didn't just tune out of reality for long enough that the muscles in your back cramp up when you try to straighten up a little under the blanket. Nope. You're not fucking crazy.
"Dave? Hey." Another two knocks, and you yank the blanket down off your head because it's fucking suicidal to willingly blind yourself when somebody's coming.
Not that the door opens. Deadpool doesn't even try the knob, just waits a couple more seconds and then knocks again. When you don't answer this time either, you can hear a muffled sigh from the other side of the door.
"You're in there, right? Can I get some confirmation on that at least?"
He's gonna break the door if you don't give him what he wants. "...yeah. 'm here." Shit, you sound more like one of the crows than like yourself; your throat hurts.
Now he's gonna ask you what the fuck is wrong with you.
"Can you come out here, maybe?"
Shit. Shit. Shit shit shit. Is that actually a question, or is he telling you to get your ass out of the goddamn bathroom? If it was Bro saying it, you might know, but all you can tell with Deadpool is that he's not almost-laughing at something like he has been most of the time.
But you don't know what that means, and fuck but you don't want to go out there. Like, it's stupid, you can't even hear anything that'd make you think (your brain tries to think Peter and shies away from that because you should have known he wasn't just some guy, you should have fucking known somehow) you can't hear anything that'd make you think Spiderman's still out there, but still. What if he is? What if he's pissed? What if he's got more questions about your bro?
What if, what if, what fucking if, and hey, shouldn't you be breathing? Shouldn't that be a thing? Because it sure fucking isn't right now.
You gasp in a breath and immediately slap both hands up over your mouth. Too fucking loud. Shit.
On the other side of the door, Deadpool sighs again, and you hear muffled quiet sounds like he's moving shit around right up next to the door. Your brain won't even try to make sense of the sounds right now. "Will you come out if I'm not in here?"
"What?" Why the fuck would you do that?
"Come on, kid, there's food out here for you. You've got to be hungry—"
"No." Is he fucking stupid? It's not like you haven't eaten at all today; you might want one of the dumb burritos off the coffee table, you might be kicking yourself for not grabbing one, but you don't need one. Not badly enough to leave this room. Not yet. "Dude, 'm fine."
He fucking laughs. Which sends an unreasonable spark of anger up into your chest.
"Kid, if you're fine then I'm about to be elected the sexiest man alive." Pause. "Actually, forget that comparison, I totally am the sexiest man alive. But my point stands; you're not even kind of fine."
Yeah, he's right. "Fuck you."
"You're way too young to even think about that, so no." There's more soft sounds of movement; how the fuck is he this loud? He's a goddamn assassin, he should be at least as good at stealth as you are, and you know you could be quieter than this. If nothing else, you can keep your footsteps silent, and he's not even close to doing that. Like, you do have to get out of the tub to be able to track him, but once you do you can hear him move from this side of the room to the other, rustle the bag you left empty on the coffee table for a minute, and come back to the bathroom door.
You retreat back from the door like Deadpool's a magnet driving you away. Which is the wrong fucking move, because this time he does try the door, and guess fucking what?
You didn't lock it. The fucking lock didn't catch. Shit.
The knob turns, the door opens just a crack, and Deadpool nudges the bag of burritos into the room with you and pulls it shut again.
This has got to be some kind of setup.
"It's not a setup," Deadpool says. "Just food."
"What the fuck? You're a mindreader too?"
From the other side of the door, there's a soft chuckle and a slightly louder thud, more like he just let his head thump against the door than like he's knocking again. "Nope. Now there's a fun power, though; can you imagine how much I could irritate people if I knew what they were thinking?"
"How the fuck did you know—"
"What you were thinking? Hey, you're not the only one who got raised by someone shitty. I get it; this shit's too good to be true, you think I'm a bastard too, you fucked up and I'm about to make you pay, right?"
"...yeah." Hearing him say that shit makes your heart just fucking sink, like the bottom just dropped out of your ribcage. "I—"
"Nope! Wrong! One hundred fucking percent wrong." That sounds almost aggressively cheery; Wade's voice goes both more serious and more gentle for the next sentence. "You know what my job is, kid?"
"I—yeah." Of course you do. You were there when he did it.
"Okay, what is it?"
"Kill Bro." You have to force the words out.
"I mean, yeah, but that's already done."
Fuck, that wasn't what he wanted? Wait, he said Rose wanted him to bring you to her, right? "...take me to New York?"
"Eh, close enough. My job, right now and for the near future, is to protect you. Not hurt you. Get it?"
Protect you.
Fuck.
That's what Bro does. Did. Protect you (from what?) teach you to protect yourself (from who?) made sure you could patch yourself up when you got hurt (by him?) take care of you.
"Dave?"
And you let him get killed for that. And you're fucking—you're here, with the guy who killed him, you're getting down on your knees to pick up food that your bro's murderer bought for you, and you don't see anything wrong with that?
Do you?
"Hey, Dave?"
God, does he never give up? "I'm gonna eat your fucking burritos, happy?"
"Excuse you, those are tacos."
"This one is literally labeled as a burrito, dumbass."
"So it's labeled wrong!"
"Tastes like a burrito."
"It's not a fucking burrito!"
"Sure, cause you totally know what a burrito is."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"You're from like, New York—"
"I am from Saskatchewan," he corrects you, like that's somehow closer to the source of tacos slash burritos, and for some reason that's so fucking funny to you. Like, you drop the half-eaten burrito into your lap, cover your mouth with both hands because you're laughing despite the food in your mouth. Shit, you can't really be quiet or you'll choke, so you give up on being quiet and just fucking laugh at the pure ridiculousness of that statement.
Maybe for a sec there's fear under your laughter, but then you hear that he's laughing too.