marvel one-shots

32. deadpool ; bruises pt1

Patrol used to be Wade's favorite part of his day. He would work his ass off in the kitchen, bussing dishes, at the mercenary bar. Then he'd hurry off to change and head out into the night to search for the guys in the city who were worse than him.

It was fun - a game almost. But this game was growing more and more tiring for him.

So each night, he came back to her apartment tired and more and more beat up. Of course the wounds healed, but the thought was there.

He'd kiss her briefly, strip to his briefs and white tank top, and slip into the cool sheets. He was usually asleep by the time she came to bed.

But this night, he didn't come back at midnight like usual. She waited and watched the hours tick by, worry ate away at her insides as she imagined every possible scenario keeping him from her.

Until she couldn't take it anymore. She stood and pulled a sweatshirt on over her little black tank top. She slipped on combat boots and slipped into the warm night.

She jogged, trying to remain casual, towards the bar.

She pulled the key from behind the closed sign and opened the back door. She left the key in the lock as she padded into the dark kitchen and to the back of the bar.

She passed the liquor bottles as they glistened in the moonlight filtered into the room from behind the heavy curtains covering the ground-level windows.

Then she saw a little note on black paper in silver writing: Your friend's with me, sweets. Come and get him. Come play.

She flipped it over and in simple matching ink read the single word: Francis.

She dialed the number into the phone on the wall. She wrapped her pinky in the spiral cord as the other end ringed out three time before the phone was answered. The other side was silent.

"It's Grace," she breathed harshly. "Where's Wade?"

"Thank you for calling, sweetheart. Why don't you ask him yourself?" he lowered the phone to her love, and heard his uneven breathing.

"Wade?" she questioned unevenly. A jagged breath against duct tape. Francis ripped the tape off his mouth and Wade cried out:

"Don't listen to him, baby, please! No matter what, don't come here. I'm coming home soon, I promise. Don't come and get me-"

Francis hit him so hard she could hear it and winced.

"Where are you?" she growled, disregarding Wade's warning in an attempt to save him heroically.

"10th street, the little red building. In the basement. Be here in fifteen minutes or I will kill him," Francis answered for Wade.

The line went dead and she hurried out of the bar. 10th street was two blocks over, she ran and her legs grew numb with the distance.

She found the red building and busted the door open. She hurried down the stairs to find the Francis making slits into Wade's body through his suit.

He winced and gasped each time behind a duct tape guard. He met her eyes and was silent, angry she hadn't listened to him, but glad she did so.

Francis stopped and turned.

"They say the worse death is death by a thousand slits," he said maniacally and tossed the knife aside. "Wade's would heal one by one, though." Francis reached behind his back and pulled out a pistol.

"But that's rather grueling, don't you think?" he raised the gun at Wade and blew a hole through his head. She winced, though she knew it'd heal once more.

But Francis then raised the gun at her.

Wade thrust the chair forward and Francis's gun fired at the wall behind her. Francis stumbled and took her on right away, without worrying about Wade.

A poor mistake.