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Fuck.
He couldn't do. He couldn't do something that he had done countless times before, couldn't pull off something that he was literally a pro at.
He wasn't able to pull the goddamn trigger. What the hell? The guy was on a platter, and judging by who had employed him, this guy wasn't a particularly nice one either. And yet, here he was, gun against the guy's temple, and for once all the begs and pleas weren't falling on deaf ears.
Shit.
This wasn't supposed to be happening, it wasn't supposed to go like this. The whole reason he had taken this gig was to get his mind off of things, to have some fun, for Christ's sake. This...wasn't that. The normal rush of power that was so intoxicating, the giddiness that came with violence, was curiously absent at this moment. Must be that fucking spider crawling around his head, preachy morals and impassioned speeches somehow cemented in his brain. It was fucking annoying.
With a resigned sigh, he slightly lowered the gun in surrender and declared, “Stars. Can't do it. Not today.”
The poor bastard that was previously at the end of his barrel momentarily paused his blubbering to look up at Deadpool with a confused, yet potentially hopeful look. Goddamn it, if he couldn't kill this guy without feeling shitty before, those puppy eyes certainly weren't helping his case. He rolled his eyes at the guy, which, yes, he realized that he was wearing a mask and the gesture would go unnoticed, but, shut up, it felt appropriate at the time.
“Listen here buddy, how 'bout I cut you a deal? I don't particularly feel like killing you today, and I'm betting that you don't particularly feel like dying, but I do feel like getting paid. So, here's the plan, I “kill” you, you wipe your existence from the face of the planet so my employers don't think I'm lying. Now, you stick your ugly mug in places it don't belong? You're dead. You decide that maybe you'd like to hurt/ fuck over more people, even just one more person, you're dead. Capisce?”
The guy nodded and gave weepy praises and thanks, which, ugh, he did not have time for. He left the guy where he was and texted his employer that the deed was done, to which they wired a nice couple million to his account. The money was nice, yeah, but he was feeling pretty unsatisfied nonetheless. He swore that these jobs used to be a real hoot, and now they felt..empty, he guessed. Shit, maybe he should go straight, become a hero, actually act like a decent human being for once, even if he had tried and failed before.
But there was the catch, wasn't it? No matter what he did, what attempt he made, he would fail. Being a hero wasn't in his blood, or something. Even if he did succeed at maybe doing some good in this world, it was pretty damn unlikely that anyone would accept him as anything other than an abomination.
I mean, just look at him, he definitely played the part well, and the whole disfigured thing didn't hurt things either. If Disney movies had taught him anything, it's that ugly=evil. But shit, he certainly wasn't taking on the villain role too well either. He used to do a bang up job of being a mercenary, but it appeared that the Jiminy Cricket known as his roommate had forced him into gaining back some of his conscience.
So he was stuck, not worthwhile enough to be a hero, not power hungry enough to be a villain, and not cool enough to be an anti-hero.
Fuck.
All he really wanted right now was to sit at home in his underwear, watch shitty action movies, and drink enough beer that he could pretend that he could still get drunk, and that was exactly what he intended to do. He half hoped that Peter was there, but also really, really didn't want him around either. God, he had a crush on fucking Spider-man, what the hell was his problem? Luckily, he could probably avoid ever talking about it to anybody ever for the next several years if he played his cards right. Still, he could really use a few hours to himself to get some of his mental shit sorted out (well, like 1% of it maybe, but that was all he really needed in order for people to not look too far into things) and plan out the next decade worth of lies he was going to tell.
Oh thank god, the apartment was still empty. Sure, he had only been gone for a couple of hours (it had been a local gig), but it was still a relief to see it empty. Turns out, once he reached the inside of the apartment, he was feeling far too lazy to do much besides change into pajama pants and an over-sized t-shirt, after which he promptly plopped down on the couch and channel surfed until he found a Die Hard marathon, which would be sufficiently distracting. The boxes were even quiet enough to allow him to drift in and out of consciousness, which was rather pleasant. At the sound of a key being inserted into a lock, he woke up with a start to find the young photographer that he had grown so fond of entering into their shared living space. And damn it all to hell, he felt slightly excited about Peter's return. Fuck. The guy smirked at his state, saying conversationally, “I see you had a productive day.”
“Yeah, well at least I wasn't taking selfies and selling them to a major newspaper for my living. How was J Jonah Jerk anyway?”
Peter gave a causal shrug, looking through the various photos he had taken in the day, “Eh, typical tyrannical boss, nothing particularly special. Though, hey, it was kind of cool, I ran into MJ today.”
Right, MJ, just one of many Peter's supermodel hot friends/potential love interests. Awesome.
Through a slightly pained cheerfulness, Wade forced out, “And how was redhead?”
“It was great! I feel like I've been kind of a shitty friend lately, I haven't talked to her in forever, so it was pretty great to catch up to her.”
“Mmm, I bet.”
Jesus fuck Wilson are you a jealous teenage girl or some shit?
It that moment, Wade made a decision about...everything, he guessed. Or nothing at all. Still, it was probably going to have ramifications, but fuck it, his life was all about ramifications.
“You know Petey, I can't do this anymore.”
A look of terror flashed across Peter's face, only to be quickly replaced with perplexity.
“What, exactly, are you referring to? Because if it's watching action movies on the couch for several hours I hardly think that's an activity you're going to discontinue..”
“Ah, using humor to cover up discomfort, classic. Anyway, no, I just thought I'd warn you in advance, you're gonna need someone new to help cover rent, because dear Ol' Deadpool is hitting the road for an undisclosed amount of time, and he hardly wants you to be out on the streets without his half of the finances.”
“Wait, hold up, you're moving out?”
“That's what I said, wasn't it?”
“Since when?”
“Five minutes ago, five weeks ago, shit, does it matter?”
“Why?”
“Really? Really Spidey? That big science brain of yours can't come up with a single reason I might be heading out? Dude, you've nearly kicked me out yourself, this should hardly come as a surprise. I mean, you weren't wrong then, just stupid enough to not go through with it. A criminal, worse, a killer and a hero living under the same roof? Shit, this ain't a sitcom, it makes no fucking sense. Even if you saw some part of my sorry ass that deserved a second chance, I certainly don't. I'm not your responsibility, okay? Now this is gonna sound like some shitty break up line, but, damn, I think we'd both be better off not having to see each other on a daily fucking basis, you know? You were right back at New Years, some people really don't get better, I'm just carrying out your wishes a couple months late.”
“But, I was wrong. I was angry, I was upset, and I was acting generally terrible, and I'm sorry for all that. It was before I knew-”
“Before you knew what? Before you knew that the average day of being Wade Wilson fucking sucks? Before I was deserving of your pity? Well, screw that, I'm leaving anyway.”
“Wade, seriously, what the hell is going on? No, I don't pity you, because I know you handle that daily shit better than most people ever could, but I'm sure trying to sympathize. And something tells me that that's hardly the full story of why you're up and leaving. Are you in some kind of trouble? Is there some sort of threat that you think will endanger me, because, seriously dude, I might not be immortal, but I can probably handle it. What else is prompting this?”
My shit emotions and feelings and unreciprocated bullshit that I usually resolve by running away like I am right now.
“I don't know, too many hours looking at your stupid, self-righteous face maybe? Jesus Christ, can't a guy move out without his roommate being all up in his face about it? I just don't want to live here anymore. I got locations all over the place, and all of them are nicer than this run down place, so, yeah, I'm leaving, Q.E.D. Luckily, I didn't bring that much stuff in the first place, so it should only be about an hour before I'm all packed up and out of your hair.”
“You're leaving today ? I am way too broke to be able to afford that.”
“Oh please Web-head, you got plenty of rich friends to help you out with that.”
“Yeah, well, I also have a heavy dose of pride that dissuades such actions as “begging for money”.”
“Eh, it doesn't matter, I paid the rent in full for the next three months, is that enough time to find a new roomie?”
“I mean, yeah, I guess, but that doesn't mean that I want you gone.”
“Yeah, well, I want me gone.”
“...I'm not gonna pack up your crap.”
“I didn't think you would.”
About 45 minutes later, a surprisingly small amount of items had been removed from the apartment and were awaiting travel downstairs. As Wade was hauling out his last box of stuff, Peter's mild glare he had been wearing the entire time faded into slight concern.
“You're really leaving, aren't you?”
“Yep.”
“You ever gonna tell me the full reason why?”
“Not today.”
“You ever gonna move back?”
“Don't know.”
“Well, all right then. I guess that's settles things.”
“I suppose it does.”
And like that, the door was closed behind the merc, and Peter was left alone in his apartment.
He thought he was okay with this.
He hadn't accounted for the silence.