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He finds Wade hanging like Christ, if Christ had been hung up like a slab of meat. He's stripped bare, more or less covered in blood, which has dried in thick, red-black-brown streaks from wounds which are no longer there. Wade has obviously been there for a long time. He isn't breathing.
The people in the dingy wards who had been given Wade's organs are all mercifully dead. Whether that was because Wade's organs tried to grow a new Wade inside someone else, or simply because they were rejected by the host bodies, they would never know. The others, still on the waiting lists, are pale and huge-eyed; some of them clearly desperate and furious that Nate has just gunned down the chief surgeon.
He curls an arm around Wade's waist to support him, and cuts the cords binding Wade's arms with his free hand. They're pulled so tight, his blade slices through them easily. Wade drops into him, a dead weight which suddenly drags in a huge breath. It sounds more like a scream.
"Easy," Nate murmurs, lowering him gently to the ground. Wade draws another painful-sounding breath and begins to shake. Nate snags some clean bed linen and drapes it around Wade's shoulders, kneeling beside him. "I called the cops," he tells Wade quietly, rubbing his shoulder through the blanket. "They'll be here soon."
Wade doesn't even look at him. He's gasping for breath, and shaking like a leaf. Nate frowns, beginning to feel concerned. "Vanessa's been worried sick about you," he says, "jackass. Next time fucking tell me where you're going so I don't have to spend days looking for you."
Distantly, he hears a crash, and then multiple deep, roughened voices bellowing, "NYPD! Get your hands in the air!"
"Can you walk?" Nate asks. Wade shakes his head without looking up. That's unlike him, too. "Come on," Nate says, putting an arm under Wade's. "Let's go."
Slowly, he raises Wade from his knees, until there's enough room for Nate to get his free arm underneath Wade's legs. "Got your blanket?" He grunts, not wanting to suddenly find himself with an armful of naked mercenary. Wade hides his face in Nate's neck and nods. "Okay," Nate says, and lifts. Wade reeks of blood and sweat.
He makes it to a ward without much struggle; Wade is taller, but Nate is strong. The ward is alive with the SWAT team, who all turn their guns towards him when he steps through the door. "I'm the one who called you about this place," Nate grumbles, unimpressed when they all roar at him to get down on the floor. "Can I get a glass of water for this guy, please?"
This seems to throw them all off. A sergeant approaches them cautiously, gun raised. "He okay?" He barks, his volume betraying his nervousness about Nate appearing from nowhere with a glowing eye.
"You can put the damned guns down," Nate tells him impatiently, "does it look like anyone here has the strength to fight you?"
"You do," the sergeant observes.
"Yeah, well, I've kind of got my hands full," Nate points out irritably. The sergeant lowers his gun. "Water," Nate repeats venomously. "Please."
Suffocating over and over again while bound to the ceiling and having your organs repeatedly harvested was probably a pretty awful thing to have to live through, but Nate believes he shouldn't be able to feel Wade still shaking like a frightened rabbit against his chest. He sits down on the foot of an empty bed with Wade in his lap. The SWAT team is standing down, calling the paramedics and letting them know the area is clear. They're speaking to patients now, reassuring them. The sergeant comes back with a polystyrene cup of water and offers it wordlessly to Nate.
"Thank you," he says. He twitches the shoulder Wade's head is pillowed on. "Hey," he murmurs, "here. Drink." He touches Wade's lower lip with the brim of the cup and tips gently, until water laps against Wade's mouth. A bead rolls sideways across the crease of Wade's lip and drips coolly on to Nate's shoulder. Wade opens his mouth obligingly, and sips at the water. "Good," Nate murmurs encouragingly, before he can stop himself.
"He need a medic?" The sergeant asks brusquely.
"No," Nate replies.
"Funny," the sergeant says snidely, "because he looks like he needs a medic."
Nate turns to glare at him, and the sergeant gets a proper look at Wade for the first time. The grimy flourescent strip above them does nothing to soften the impact of Wade's ruined face. "Christ," the sergeant swears, taking an involuntary step backwards. "What happened to him? They boil him alive or something?"
Wade's fist clenches in Nate's shirt, against his stomach, where the sergeant cannot see it. "Fuck you," Nate snaps. He crumples the empty cup and throws it across the room. "I'm taking him home."
"Hey, wait a second! You can't just--"
"Let's get one thing absolutely straight," Nate snarls, leaning into the sergeant's space. "I can do whatever the fuck I want."
And he does.
Dopinder is waiting down the street in his cab, listening to 80s classics ("if we find him, Mr Pool will want to unwind with George Michael!"). When he sees Nate coming, he leaps out and opens the back door, worriedly. "Is he okay?" He frets, as Nate slides Wade into the back seat.
"Of course," Nate replies distractedly. It had been his intention to sit in the front, and let Wade stretch out in the back, but Wade's fist is still clenched in his shirt. He sighs and climbs in after Wade, saying nothing when Wade scooches close and hides his face in Nate's neck again.
He only lets go once they're safely back at the apartment he shares with Vanessa, and Nate sits him gently on the sofa and backs away so that Vanessa can crowd in close, tearful with relief. Then he sees Wade move, slowly, leaning into her hands on his face.
Something sits uncomfortably with Nate, all the way back to his own apartment, something niggles away at him, until he realises, hours later, that Wade had not spoken at all.
*
The following day, Vanessa calls, asking him to come over that evening, which Nate takes to mean that Wade is happy enough to have people over. When he gets to the apartment building, he almost runs into Vanessa coming the other way, in a full face of make up and a short leather dress. "Finally!" She says, glaring up at him, "what took you so long?"
He opens his mouth to reply, but she cuts him off. It's fortunate, because he had no idea what he was going to say. "Never mind!" She says, holding a hand up. "I don't have time for it. Look, he's in a lot of pain, and he's feeling pretty shit about it, so just sit with him, okay? He's never blown his brains out on any of our walls, and I want to keep it that way."
"In pain?" Nate repeats confusedly, "how is he in pain? From yesterday?"
Vanessa narrows her eyes at him. "He has stage four cancer, asshole."
Nate ducks his head. "Yeah, but he has that every day," he replies, by way of an explanation. "Yeah," Vanessa says angrily, "and he's in pain every day. Sometimes it gets to him. Is that okay with you?"
Nate ducks his head again. He gets a little shy with Vanessa, partly because she's so beautiful and so fierce, but also because she knows exactly how he and Wade feel about each other, but he doesn't know how she feels about it all. "Okay, then." Vanessa says tightly. "Well, I've got to go." She gets out of the door, but immediately whips back inside. "One more thing," she points a warning finger at him. "Don't fuck him. Don't ask to fuck him, and if he asks, do not accept. He will tell you it will make him feel better; he is lying. It is a form of self-harm, and I will kick your half metal ass back to Crystal Tokyo, or wherever the fuck it is you come from. Got it?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good."
He goes up to the apartment, a little trepidatious, and finds Wade, bundled in his pyjamas, a towelling dressing gown, and his Deadpool mask, curled up at one end of the sofa. He's watching Queer Eye, which Nate knows about because Wade had once nominated him for it. He didn't get through because he threatened the production team which showed up on his doorstep, but after Neena was through laughing, she showed him a couple of episodes.
"Hey," Nate says, "how are you doing?"
"Hey-y, if it isn't my knight in shining T.O.!" Wade sings, just a shade less brightly than usual. He shifts, cuddling his plush unicorn closer to his chest.
"Vanessa said you're hurting," Nate rumbles, sitting down beside him. Wade moves away from him, subtly; he hunches against the arm of the sofa.
"If you try to baby me, I'll get some bolt cutters and snip off your steel balls," he remarks coldly, glaring at the TV.
"If I tried to baby you, you'd make it uncomfortably sexual somehow," Nate answers, hoping it softens him. It does, a little; Wade's shoulders come down slightly, but he doesn't turn away from the screen. Nate sighs, slumping into the sofa. The freely-available luxury of soft furniture is still a surprise to him. "Who are they fixing this episode?" He asks, gesturing to the TV.
"His name's Tony. Not Stark, although I would watch the hell out of that episode."
"They couldn't fix Tony Stark. Nobody can."
"Jonathan would shave off his van dyke."
"Karamo would put him in therapy."
"You know who Karamo is!" Wade cooes happily, turning away from the screen at last to beam at him. "Do you think they'd get him out of his stacked heels?"
Nate snorts, stretching his arm across the back of the sofa, giving Wade the opportunity to slide under it. It's a technique which has never failed before; Wade's a touchy-feely kind of man and rarely passes up an opportunity to cuddle, but this time, although Wade knows the arm is there, he resolutely refuses to take the bait. Nate finds himself wanting to reach out and touch Wade instead, cross the invisible barrier between them. Perhaps that's what Wade wants: effort. Nate has never had to make this decision before with Wade.
He purses his lips, indecisive. Then, he lets his human hand fall warmly on the curve of Wade's shoulder. Wade looks around curiously--or it seems curious; Nate can't tell for certain with the mask on. He looks at the blank white eyes, and wishes Wade would say something, instead of staring at him. "Wade..." he begins, helplessly.
"Nate," Wade simpers back.
Nate glares at him. "Talk to me, for fuck's sake."
"You're so gentle, lover."
"Is this about yesterday?"
Wade turns back to the screen again. "Oh, fuck it, I missed Jonathan's bit!" He announces, scrabbling for the remote. He knocks it with an elbow and sends it skittering across the floor. He stares after it, dumbly, like he can't believe what just happened. Nate frowns, confused. Wade gives a little sigh and then looks at the screen again.
"What, you're not going to go get it?" Nate asks, his hand sliding, forgotten, down Wade's arm. Wade shakes his head and keeps his eyes on the screen. Nate watches him, blatantly, and Wade refuses to return the look.
"Why are you so quiet? You're never quiet."
Wade huffs a little laugh through his nose. "Most people would say you're looking a gift horse in the mouth there, Foxy Grandpa."
Nate frowns, his lip twisting upwards incredulously. "I wasn't aware I'd ever given a flying fuck about what 'most people' do," he remarks. "I like listening to you speak."
This time, Wade does look at him, a slight distortion in the mask suggesting he has raised the bit where his eyebrows should be. Nate stares back, a little challengingly. "You're just gonna leave that one there?" Wade teases, after a moment. Nate shrugs, folding his arms stubbornly.
"You're a funny guy, you have a nice sounding voice." The 'sue me' at the end of the sentence is heavily implied. Wade does smile at that; the mask creases around his eyes. He reaches out to Nate and tweaks the point of his elbow affectionately.
"I've got a serious case of the warm fuzzies," he says. He pauses, then; "wanna fuck?"
Nate levels him with a look. "Quiet and in the mood to self-harm," he says lightly. Wade recoils. He twitches his arm away from Nate's elbow, jerking it back around the plush unicorn. "Hey," Nate drops his voice into a low murmur. "Come on, Wade."
"I'm trying to watch this," Wade replies stiffly, turning his attention back to the screen.
After a beat, Nate gives up with an audible sigh. He sees Wade's shoulders lower again, fractionally, and knows that he is simply relieved not to be faced with more questions. He gets up and retrieves the remote, holding it out to Wade like a peace offering. Wade takes it slowly, almost timidly. "Thank you," he says sullenly. Nate cups his cheek gently, swiping his thumb across Wade's cheekbone.
"I don't like seeing you upset," he admits, cocking his head like he's trying to work Wade out. Wade leans into his hand.
"I'm not upset," he lies.
"Yes, you are." Nate contradicts, without any heat or anger. They stay like that for a moment, until Wade's shoulders come down a little more. "Can I take this off?" Nate asks, flicking his nail over one of the mask's seams. Wade lifts his chin and takes himself out of Nate's grip, but again, without anger. "I'll take that as a no. Are you hungry?"
"Nope," Wade replies morosely, petting distractedly at his unicorn's nose.
"Well, I am," Nate says, watching him. "I'm going to order pizza."
Pizza is another of the freely-available luxuries Nate can't quite believe. It's something he has to limit, because otherwise he'd eat it all the time. This situation, however, calls for pizza. Wade shrugs with one shoulder. "Do you need anything?" Nate asks, picking up on a low buzz of insistent thought. It's more than he usually gets from Wade, but he still can't work out what it is. "Wade?"
Wade lets out an irritable breath. "Help me up, shit for brains," he snaps, holding out an arm. Nate takes it, without being offended in the slightest. Wade appears to steel himself, and then slowly uncurls, gingerly stretching out his legs, then sitting up out of his slouch. He shuffles to the edge of the sofa, then, taking a deep breath, he leans his weight in Nate's hands, and hesitantly gets to his feet. He moves like an old man, like his joints ache and his bones are crumbling, and Nate begins to understand the depth of what Wade has to live with. "Help me to the bathroom," Wade grinds out, looking furious even through his mask.
Nate lets Wade arrange him, direct his arms where he wants them to be, where he will be useful. He has one arm around Wade's back, and holds Wade's hand with the other, walking him step by step. "Painkillers don't work, I guess?" He murmurs.
"Holy fuck, what a guess," Wade snarls. Nate squeezes his shoulders gently, pressing his face into the crook of Wade's neck.
"I'm sorry," he says softly. Wade shrugs, a shoulder in Nate's chin.
"I told you not to baby me," he grumbles.
They shuffle to the bathroom, Nate taking the brunt of Wade's weight. "Do you," Nate wets his dry lips, "uh. Need any help in here?"
Wade sniggers humourlessly. "You're welcome to stay for the show," he says, "but I think I can handle a tinkle. Unless you wanna hold Little Wade for me?"
Nate grins at him. "Jackass," he says affectionately. He orders the pizza and hovers uncertainly about the living room, until Wade kicks the bathroom door open and starts to walk slowly back to the sofa. "Want help?" Nate asks awkwardly. Wade shakes his head.
"Nah. I was stiff from sitting all day. Better now."
"You know how I know you're not better?"
"How?"
"You just said you were 'stiff' and absolutely did not make an innuendo about it."
"Damn you, you dirty space alien."
Nate offers him an arm, which Wade takes with a sidelong glance and a stretch of the mask which suggests a grin. "Why, thank'ee kindly, good sir," he flutters.
"My pleasure, darlin'," Nate drawls back. Wade stops, taken aback.
"I can't tell if you're being out of character," he says wonderingly, "I'm being written by someone who's only seen you in the movie. Once."
They walk slowly back to the sofa, Wade leaning heavily on Nate, but his manner is softer. His body curves towards Nate, where before it curved away. This time, when they sit, Wade cuddles close, laying his head dolefully on Nate's shoulder. "Are you going to run me through what happened at that place?" Nate asks gently, resting his cheek on the crown of Wade's head. Wade makes an unhappy sound, and Nate tightens his arm around Wade's waist, inching him closer.
Wade shrugs uncomfortably, reaching behind himself for his plush unicorn. He sits it in his lap and plays with its narrow ears distractedly. "Wade?" Nate prods carefully.
"I used to be cute, you know," Wade says mournfully.
"You're cute," Nate tells him, a little taken aback by the abrupt change of subject.
"No," Wade replies unhappily. "I used to be really cute."
He fumbles in his dressing gown pocket--at first Nate thinks he's trying to cop a feel and shifts out of the way--and digs out a battered-looking phone. He flips through the pictures until he finds one almost at the end of the gallery, and holds it up so that Nate can squint at it, past the cracked screen and the scratches, to a face he doesn't recognise. A cute face, with a sharp jaw dusted sweetly in stubble, a broad smile, sandy-coloured hair, and Vanessa's face close beside it.
Wade's face.
"That is a cute face," Nate admits, because it is. Wade makes another unhappy noise and turns in towards Nate, pressing his nose behind Nate's ear, as if he can't even bear the idea of Nate looking at his mask.
"Wade," Nate says, jogging his shoulder a little. "You're still cute."
"No!" Wade insists, and to Nate's horror, his voice is thick with tears. "I used to be cute, and now I fucking--fucking look like a scrotum got rolled around in some poison oak, and i-it wouldn't have happened if I had just fucking--if I'd never gone to that Agent Smith-looking fuck! Shit!"
He yells the last word for emphasis, slamming a fist down on Nate's chest. "You would be dead," Nate remarks mildly, moving Wade's hand and knuckling at where he'd been hit. Wade's shoulders heave.
"So?" He croaks, "I'd be dead. You know what I wouldn't be? Shitting blood and pissing agony, and uglier than the devil's crusty asshole."
He swings a leg over Nate's hips and straddles him, hip to hip, chest to chest, clinging like a baby monkey clings to its mother. "Fuck me," he whispers miserably, mouthing at Nate's neck through the mask. "Please, Nate."
"No," Nate strokes a hand up and down his spine gently. "Tell me what happened at that hospital place."
Wade shakes his head, fingers digging in to the fleshy parts of Nate's shoulders. He rolls his hips, impotently, nuzzling at Nate's cheek. "Knock it off," Nate rumbles, gripping Wade's hips in either hand to still him.
"Can't you just--this one thing--"
"Help you hurt yourself? No. Tell me what happened."
"That would hurt me," Wade replies, his voice hitching. "Yeah," Nate agrees, "in a different way. Tell me."
"It wasn't worse than the last time I was tied to a hospital bed," Wade sniffs, and Nate gets it. He peels the mask away from Wade's face, ignoring his protests. It would be counter-productive, at that point, to react how he wants at the revelation that crying inside a leather mask leads to unpleasant smearing, so Nate swallows down his emphatic "urgh", and reaches for some tissues from the box on the coffee table.
"Blow," he commands.
"Are you still not-babying me?" Wade asks thickly, through the tissues.
Nate balls up the tissues and throws them in the general direction of the bin. "'Bin' isn't a typical American usage," Wade remarks, hiding his face in Nate's neck again. "Kind of throws off the narrative, if you ask me. Neither is 'dressing gown', now I think about it."
"So, being in that facility reminded you of Weapon X?"
"How do you know about that?" Wade asks suspiciously.
"Negasonic Teenage Warhead told me," Nate shrugs.
"And how the fuck does she know about it?" Wade returns, mumbling into Nate's collarbone.
"Colossus, probably," Nate says impatiently, poking him. "Stop dodging the subject, asshole."
"Yeah. Yes, it reminded me of that. And I realised I'd just been a fucking idiot and walked into that situation again."
"You were scared." Nate clarifies. Wade moves, and at first Nate thinks he's shaking his head. Then he realises that Wade is wiping his nose on Nate's T-shirt. He pulls a face, but lets it go.
"Yeah," Wade agrees in a small voice. "I'd just abandoned Vanessa again, I was being tortured again--it was the hospital shit that got to me, I think. I just kept remembering--really fucking awful stuff that happened to me in the first movie. Like, shit they didn't even show in the torture montage."
"And now you're feeling sorry for yourself," Nate concludes, rubbing his back in a conciliatory way. Wade turns his head and glares up at Nate with one bloodshot eye.
"Um, fuck you," he says. "I actually am in pain. I actually did go through some shit. I actually do have, like, a list of mental illnesses. And physical ones."
"I didn't say you weren't allowed to feel sorry for yourself," Nate replies lightly. "Of course you are. Of course you should. It's part of getting better. But not self-harm."
"It's not like it does any actual damage," Wade mutters. Nate clicks his tongue. "Wade," he sighs, "it does damage. I care, even if you don't."
"Do you?" Wade looks up at him, sideways.
Nate rolls his eyes. "Jesus, fish for more compliments, I dare you. Yes, I care. Vanessa cares. Weasel cares, Al cares, Dopinder fucking creams himself every time you walk into a room. We all care. So, next time, why don't you just send one of us a text and mention where it is you're going?"
There's a pause. Wade lies across his front, boneless, breathing more peacefully than before, so Nate supposes the tears are over. "And when you're through feeling sorry for yourself," Nate continues, "talk it out. Like now."
"I don't feel a whole lot better," Wade mutters ungratefully. Nate inclines his head and kisses the bits of Wade he can reach with his mouth.
"You will," he says confidently. "Pizza's on its way, and I will give you free rein to play with my metal bits."
Wade giggles at his unexpected playfulness. "But they only go as far as your waist!" He says, mock-outraged.
"And so do you," Nate answers affectionately.