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Specula Imperatoris

A tower comes falling down. Parts: 1 2 [3]

3 - Speed

Set during events of Stormblood - CW: Strong language, war, loss

The airship jostles from turbulence, jerking Gloria’s neck against the bench. She numbly stares at the vehicle’s ceiling and continues counting sheep. Seven hundred and forty one, seven hundred and forty two, seven hundred and forty three...

“After Castrum Abania fell, so too did Ala Mhigo, and the fate of our exalted prince remains unknown. All of the XIIth are to report back to the Capital immediately.”

#ff14 rp #Gloria Jen Gallus #AND THATS HOW SHE BECAME #wretched.#:o)#ty for reading!

- wretched.

This is a stupid idea.

“I know that,” he points out, amiable as ever. “You’re me.”

The voice grumbles, but it subsides; when it comes down to it, they want the same thing. Only a few of them cared enough to protest even a token amount.

Rubbing his hands together, he grins. “C’mon, let’s do this.”

We are pathetic.

And before he has a chance to stop himself, he dunks his head into the filled bathtub, letting the water stream down his nose and throat. It’s quick, efficient - he’s done it before. He knows how fast his reactions are and how to beat them.

His body thrashes in the water, muscles spasming and limbs clutching at the walls, but he’s done a damn good job this time. His heartbeat slows, loud in his ears, and everything goes a familiar shade of grey.

Wade Wilson is paying Death a visit.

When his vision clears, he’s sprawled over an expanse of shifting grey, laced with colors that don’t exist. It’s shade and darkness, interwoven into something that goes on forever but feels snug, like he’s in a room all to himself.

And maybe he is, given that there are structures that almost resemble candles and ornate, iron-wrought chairs. Aww, how romantic!

Hauling himself upright, he wanders over, settling down. If there is any one single upside to halfway-dying, it’s that he isn’t in conflict with himself. His mind is still, cooperative - as close to whole as he can manage, anyway.

A faint weight settles against his back, hair spilling over his shoulders, and he chuckles. “Hey, baby. It’s getting really hard to come see you, you know.”

That’s what she said, Death whispers into his ear, and slender, pale fingers devoid of any color at all reach around him, settling an hourglass near his feet. The sand shifts, and sunken eyes blink at it; looked like five minutes at most. You’re a strange man, Wade Wilson.

“Why?” he asks, settling his chin atop his hands and batting his eyelids at her as she steps around to face him. She’s beautiful as ever, duality in its starkest form, harsh strokes of black and white swirled together into robes that sway in a nonexistent breeze and dark lips and piercing, empty eyes. “Not that I’m arguing. I’m crazier than a dingbat. But you knew that, so.”

One black brow quirks at him, and that glossy mouth twitches upwards, though the lips never part. Because you would rather die than be alone. You give yourself to anyone that asks it of you - even me.

He snickers at that, but doesn’t bother refuting it. It’s not what he wants to think of, though, and so they sit there, Death forming rotting flowers between her palms and lifting them, blowing each away into nothingness. He lights a cigarette from nothing with nothing and watches crumbling petals spiral away on the smoke.

He knows she doesn’t love him. She thinks she does, but it’s just attraction tempered with want for what she cannot have, something individual among the broken pieces she isn’t allowed to claim. But her heart is in it, and he holds it - he swallowed it down a long time ago and it sits heavy and cold in him like a stone.

She belongs to him, even if he can never be hers, and he doesn’t love her, but he treats her kindly. He visits, he offers her his embrace, lets soft names drop from his lips as heavy as lies.

She knows, but it’s enough for the both of them.

Pretending was all that they could do, and it was fine, just fine.

They gave each other to cling to, and they weren’t lovers and they weren’t friends, and they stood on the edge of something a little like love. And that was enough.

She nudges him in the ribs with an elbow, smiling, and he presses a kiss to her temple, a hand settling on her bony hip. “Don’t do that! Augh, you know I’m frail and weak. I’m betrayed, destroyed - ”

Shut up . We’re running out of time.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay.”

Don’t be, she says, but there’s a sadness in it.

Will you give me your heart? she asks, longing strung through her voice like jewels on a golden chain, and cool fingers wrap around his face, dry as bone and skin paper-thin, rustling like dead leaves against the icy ground.

He smiles, lips cracked and splitting from the sheer force of it, the agony of all the things he had lost to her already - but the truth of it was that she collected it all, every piece of him, what he loved, everything but the one thing she wanted most. Like a child, beautiful and so cruelly innocent in her way.

“Sorry, babe,” he chuckles, voice hoarse as she leans in to press her mouth to his, stealing his shallow breath and sending a rush of static through him. “You know I don’t have it either. It isn’t mine to give.”

She angles her gaze towards him, amused, and he’s a little bit flattered to see that the color of her eyes has changed to mirror his own. She knew that already; she only ever asked because she wanted to hear a yes.

But Death also knew that he didn’t love her. Not the same way. He did love her, but not the way she wanted - not the way she longed for. But she still cared.

He died all the time just to see her, after all. His smile widens, blood beading as the skin splits, and that’s love too. It’s what he can give. A little blood, a little breath, a little time.

He takes another drag off his cigarette, and this time as he holds the smoke down in his lungs, choking and prickling and burning, it turns to something heavy and liquid and damning.

The last grains of sand spill out, pooling at the top of the pile, and as the hourglass settles she nods.

Until next time, Wade.

He opens his mouth to answer, the first wisps of darkness trailing from his mouth, but the space between his eyes bursts into brilliant white light, and with a pop everything is unmuted, sounds too sharp, and the smoke streaming from his mouth and nose are bubbles, and the screaming in his ears is his own.

It takes him a long time to heave the water out of his lungs, choking and gagging, vomiting up acid with tap water gushing from his mouth and nose. His breathing is ragged, labored, and he coughs, unable to stop.

She’s right, you know.

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbles. “We’re so lonely we’re literally killing ourselves.”

I know you miss -

“Shut up.”

He’s kind enough to himself not to keep going, and when the coughs turn to racking sobs, he’s kind enough not to call himself out on it either.

#drabbles.#wretched.#deadpool #idk if this counts probably not #deadpool fanfic #whatever let's be thorough with these tags #fuck