-- Accidentally falling asleep together
He doesn’t know how they’ve survived this long.
Nate leans back against the rubble passing as a barrier between flesh and bullets. Wade is almost too enthusiastic about the way they’re in constant danger these past few days. It strikes a chord, familiar, worn thin, and he can’t help the slight smile or the shake of his head when Wade gets too ambitious and has his hand blown off for his troubles.
There’s blood at the feet, blood on their hands, and blood trailing down the rest of the bridge. Wade slumps beside him, carrying on talking at his stump of a hand as if to will it to grow back faster. Nate is accustomed to it by now, tuning it out and letting it soothe the whisper of fear that maybe this time is the time he won’t make it out alive. No clone to jump to, no way to dodge a bullet aside from putting on in the other guy first.
“—and after all this time you decide to crap out on me,” Wade is saying, pausing to fix Nate with a stare beneath the mask. “Why aren’t you doing your mumbo jumbo? Just toss ‘em off the bridge.”
He’s thought about it, considering their low ammunition. It makes him feel more than a little unhappy factoring in the lives that’ll be lost but that was the cost of war — right? Nate glances sidelong at Wade, expression shifting from fatigue into what the merc at his side often called the ‘Dead Eye’ or something along those lines.
“Priscilla remember you don’t have to be gentle—”
Nate doesn’t listen as he stands, reaching out with his teke until he has enough of a hold on the men trying to kill them. It just takes a thought to send them flying, their screams muffled by the impact of concrete to bone.
A low whistle sounds beside him, dragging him from the dangerous notion of plucking a lead from a dying man’s head. “Wade—” His voice is rough, brows knit. He’s used to killing, used to fighting, but that was something more. Something dangerously close to the Deadpool he knew before. Fingers curl, clenching tightly as he considers it and Wade’s hand settles at his shoulder.
“You really taking the moral hit for this? They were trying to kill us.” Nate’s jaw tightens at the words, a response on the tip of his tongue—
Pain lances through his shoulder long before his head catches up with the sound of a gunshot. Some primal part of his brain is focused enough to keep from staying upright and his body sinks low, a hand immediately pressing over the warmth oozing free. Wade is swearing, full of bullets that were meant for him, and ends the fight with a few brief pulls of the trigger.
Gloved hands drag him closer, pushing away metal fingers in favor of searching for the bullet. Wade is muttering something about how it was going to hurt, he remembers right before white hot pain lances through his body. Nate feels his spine uncurl and watching the gloves get pulled off with teeth to better patch up the wound. He lets the other man talk for both of them, lays there quietly observing and wondering how’d they let it come to this.
Somewhere between Wade’s ramble about how Bea Arthur could’ve done a better stitch job and how he shouldn’t have assumed they wouldn’t have another guy (because they always had another guy) Nate wakes up unaware he’d fallen asleep. It’s been a long period of time, the sky is dark and there’s a meager fire crackling in front of him.
Warm air flutters against his neck and his eyes take in the unmasked face resting against his uninjured shoulder. The tension slowly settles at the hollow of his chest, cold fingers tracing fading bruises amongst the twisted up ruined skin along Wade’s jaw. He wants to say something, he always does with Wade, but instead he rests his hand at the marc’s shoulder and lets him sleep.
Words can wait for the morning.
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