ishotyouuu | IC Inbox

[Wade flinches, imperceptibly, as Chara reaches up to tug at their hair, feeling the pain in his scalp even though he hasn't been blessed with hair since starting chemotherapy. He recognizes the act for what it is-- a desperate attempt to bring themself back to reality; to stave off the suffocating feeling that encompasses them right now, so he does nothing to discourage them. Everyone has their own coping mechanisms, after all.

Wade remains where he is, kneeling down before them, even though every nerve in his body is compelling him to take those last few steps forward; to envelop them in his arms and protect them from themself. All that touches them now is his voice, and he keeps up the steady chatter, giving them a life preserver to potentially cling to as the waves of panic crash around them.]

That's it. Just keep breathing. Nice, slow, deep breaths. Good. You're doing great, kiddo. You can beat this, I know you can. Just keep looking at me. Keep takin' those deep breaths. I'm not goin' anywhere.

[Why are you being so nice to me?

They don't understand. They can't understand, why he's still crouched in front of them, just- talking. Just talking. They know he wants to reach out. Wants to-- constrict them. Snuff out what's causing him so much undue stress; lash out like a human would, because what are humans good for if not for finding the walls, the floor- even the ceiling, it wouldn't be-- and their shoulders hitch with their rough inhale, a breath that wants to stay in their body, but can't. A choked laugh, muffled against their sleeve. The last time anyone saw this, the last time anyone saw-

It was Sans. They feel a similar deluge of... listlessness, slowly pushing it's way in. Exhaustion crashing over the walls as the urge to just Give Up, Please Let Me Give Up, I Just Want To Be Over grows.

They don't know it, but Sans once thought that this, right here? Is why people shouldn't be brought back from the cusp of death. Toriel had been, but she was a mother.

Why would Chara have the strength of a mother when they have the vulnerability of a child?

All in all, it's six minutes. Six, excruciating minutes, but everything has an end, eventually. They become more and more aware of the ache in their shoulders; a pained tension in their shoulder blades and neck that never really goes away. But their breathing slowly evens, tension bleeding to something almost nearing normal as they-

Stop caring about what happens now, in a way. Stop caring about how angry he must be, how much this might hurt, from here. After that- how could anything be worse than that?]

...If you'd prefer to kill me than continue to deal with this, I understand entirely.

[He'd be surprised by this statement if he wasn't already inside Chara's head; if he didn't already understand the reason for it. He watches Chara go through their thought processes as if through a heavily filtered screen; watches the child cycle from panic to distrust to finally a growing weariness that seems entirely too adult for someone so young. He both feels and doesn't feel their despondency; their fear transforming into a cynical acceptance that makes his heart ache because of it.

He again struggles with the urge to lay his hands on them; to draw them close in a futile attempt to protect them from the storm raging inside of them.]

Nah. [Said as flippantly as if Chara had asked him if he wanted to take off and leave them, though he doesn't feel flippant about this at all.] Don't worry about me, kiddo. I've handled a lot worse than this.

I don't get you.

[They don't mean to say it. It slips out, blunt and clipped- all they can do is go with it. Look him in the eyes, pretend they don't feel as empty as they feel, right now. Pretend that he can't feel that too.

He still wants to touch them. And they're certain, convinced that it must be to strike them down.]

I am offering, Wade. I will not fight back.

You win. So take your pound of flesh.

[A chill runs down Wade's spine, not so much at their words as the feeling behind them. He feels a gray patch spreading out inside his mind, and the sense of uneasiness deepens further-- it's not so much that they're retreating from them as they're... shutting down. Giving up. Accepting the outcome they've already predicted inside their head. Wade feels a spark of anger flare up inside him at their presumption, but more than that, he feels angry that they've obviously been given cause to presume such an outcome.

He won't give it to them. He won't give them vindication this time, and his answer is short and not open to interpretation:]

Gave you my answer already, didn't I? The answer's no.

[I won't punish you for something that is not your fault.]

[And again, he denies it. Denies what he wants to do, as if they can't tell, as if they can't feel it.
I don't want to hurt you, whispers part of Wade.

Yes, you do, Chara responds. It's basic instinct.
Their fingers twitch, curling into their sleeves as they swallow with difficulty; a dry throat coupled with the lump that never goes away. Despite everything, they can't help but feel a twinge of irritation in turn; that he deems fit to act so far above them, when inevitably, he's just like everyone else.]

Why?

[And there's the question he's been fearing. He couldn't dance around the subject or laugh it off even if he wanted to, not with Chara so closely tied to his brain and his heart and his soul the way they are. He wishes he could say something poignant, something his idols would say when faced with a situation like this. But he can't. Any pretty speech would make him sound like a hypocrite, and he won't do that to Chara. Not to a child; not to a child he's grown to care about.

His arms ache, not from anything overly physical but from the sheer effort of holding back from taking Chara into his arms. Weathering the storm for them. Wade decides to tell them the truth. As far as he's concerned, dealing with a troubled kid is never the time for platitudes; for lies.]

I... don't know how to answer that. All I know is that... I don't want to. I'd rather deal with this forever than have to... y'know. Resort to that to make it go away.

Like I said, it's nothing I haven't dealt with before. I'm just sorry you gotta deal with it, y'know?

[And again, they just

Can't understand.

It's disconcerting; a rubber band snapping back against everything they know, everything that tells them what the outcome should be. He is a man, is he not? He is an adult, human man- one who acts as a friend at times and as a- a guardian, at others.

They've had guardians before. And for a moment, the images flash through their mind. A bloody knife. A somber monster standing before them; so, so much taller than they are. Magical trident in his hands-

Both images are quickly stifled, repressed. Even then, they still manage to pull a sharp exhale from them, eyes dropping to the ground.

They don't... understand. They don't understand. Why does he care? Why is he sorry (not pity. It's not pity- he's genuinely sorry) that they- not because of what they are, but-

They don't understand.]

Why are you being so nice to me?

[He doesn't answer right away, but the images Chara has inevitably sent to Wade's mind are quickly answered, vague flashes of moments from long ago-- a young child, bright-eyed and excitable, squirming and laughing as his mother pinned him to the floor and tickled him. The same child, older and more somber, planting a kiss to his shorn, sickly mother as she lay diminished in a hospital bed.

Standing at his mother's grave, too in shock to weep. Arguing with his father. Screaming at his father. Being brought home by a policeman. Storming out the door.

Wade doesn't have the words to answer them. What he says instead is:]

I just... you remind me of how I used to be when I was a kid.

[And I wish someone gave me what I always want to give to you.]

[A mother.

They- he says he reminds them of him. But they can't- is that really true? He thinks of his memories and they see them, like a film, slightly distorted, but running through their mind, clear as day.

But that's wrong, isn't it? Those memories, at least to start with, all hold some kind of color. There's love. Heartache. And anger, so much of it.

Their own memories feel dull in comparison. Grey, and red, so much red. They remember sitting in the same position for hours- feeling like days were passing, because they were. The imprint of red lipstick on a wine glass. Looking at their own, pale face in a mirror, barely capable of seeing over the varied stacks of make up and jewelry littered across the make up table. The smell of stale alcohol and smoke.

And pain.

And eyes, nothing like their own. Muddy grey eyes, whites practically coated with red, and the stinging fear of the sight of them. The voice that accompanied them.

So. He has a savior complex; an issue of projecting on the smaller, less fortunate bodies of the castle.

That makes sense.]

...I don't need your pity.

[Breathe. A distorted memory accompanied by the smell of musty air and something almost poisonous, the crackle of a phone and a skeleton's voice. I'll start with numero uno.

Breathe.

Chara grips onto the memory tightly, repeating it over and over in their head like a lifeline as they begin to breathe more deeply, straighten their shoulders. Hold their head high. They're exhausted. They're so tired of everything- they have to consciously stop themself from looking over the edge of the bridge, when the temptation to do so (and more. So much more) is so high.

But the very idea that someone would pity them- the very implication, stirs something else entirely. Anger at the assumption they would require it; that they're some child who needs to be taken care of. They have their own bright, happy memories. Purple robes. The scent of fire, and pie. A furred hair petting the top of their head as they read a book. Another child, smiling over at them. His laughter.

Frisk's hands clasped in their own, and the feeling of being Home.

And they also see those purple robes torn apart by a knife. The scent of burning flesh. The taste of pie mingled with tears, choking down the pain. The look on Toriel's face just before they died. His laughter, twisted, warped.

The sensation when they died again. Frisk's life blotted out in sync with their own, as they quietly thought, for the both of them

Two-hundred and seven.

There's nothing to be reminded of, when a child never existed in the first place. People like him don't look at demons like them, and pick them off the ground. And if he does? It's his problem, for letting himself become so deluded.]

I do not require coddling. I have seen what happens from having a family- friends. I am no longer interested in either subject.

So perhaps it is best if you do leave, mister Deadpool.

[They're taking this the wrong way, and he feels it in the way their mind retreats from him; snaps shut like a trap. The memories swim inside his brain; cloaks him in shadows and pain and grayness. He tastes butterscotch and blood in his mouth, and the sensation nearly makes him gag.]

N-no... I don't pity you, Chara... i-it's just--

[--just after Boxing Day... something poking him in the back... "All right, pretty boy, empty those pockets"--

The strong scent of fire, a perfume he'd long since gotten used to smelling; to wearing, not much different from gunpowder and just as destructive. The warm, loving sensation of a mother's hand on his head.

--a throaty gagging nose, like a dog choking on a bone... a man collapsing on the ground and writhing slowly while blood gushed from his neck... "I wish this son of a bitch would just die already"--]

Kid--

["Kids are off-limits! KIDS! ARE! OFF! LIMITS!"

His brain pulses, oozing pain through every neuron; every synapse. Time seems to work in spurts-- one moment he's standing unsteadily before them, mouth still working, still trying to speak; the next moment he's bracing himself against the bridge, his mask hiked up over his mouth as he vomits over the side.]

[They can't make heads or tails of what they see, for the most part. It's words, feelings. Sensations. And raw, unbridled fury, a caution tossed to the wind and blood on his hands.

Chara staggers, but not nearly as much as Wade does. They watch as he throws himself up against the railing, awful noises escaping his throat as he loses the contents of his stomach; if there's any contents to lose.

It's almost ironic, how his panic keeps them from losing it completely. Tensed and waiting for another violent motion, but all Wade has left in him is hanging off the edge of the bridge- at least saving them from having to look at what he's doing. There's an acidic taste on the back of their tongue.

And they-

What are they supposed to-

When they were- the first time, just before they died, it's all vague. Cloudy. They'd bore through a series of high fevers, crying out in pain and terror until their throat was too blistered and raw for any further sound to escape, until even breathing was difficult. The blood-

The blood had kept clotting in their throat; until they couldn't breathe. It was the only time, closer to the end, they were moved. Sat up and leaned over the side of the bed, a large hand rubbing their back to encourage them into coughing, into clearing their airways.

A small hand rests on Wade's back, slowly rubbing circles between his shoulder blades.

They don't know what else to do for him.]

[The shame he feels for having to be taken care of by a child who's been through so much worse than he has is faint and faraway in the face of the powerful biological need to purge, but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel it. Even as he vomits what seems to be everything back to mother's milk, there's still that potent feeling of humiliation, as if he'd soiled his pants in public.

He's supposed to be the adult here. He's supposed to be the one taking care of Chara, not the other way around. How is it that he can't handle the images they're unconsciously sending him when he hasn't even lived through it like they have? It's gotta be the dizzying sensation of being inside someone else's head. That's what he tells himself as his paroxysms end and he wipes his mouth, still keeping his grip on the bridge as if to anchor himself.]

M'okay now... [The words come out hoarse and raw.] S-sorry.

[They have to swallow several times, the urge to sympathy gag all the stronger for the secondhand sensations of his throat wrenching and stomach emptying itself. But they ride it out quietly, taking a slow, relieved breath as it finally begins to ease.

At the least, it had an unintended affect. Their head feels clearer, now. The hand on his back is firmly attached to the rest of them.

They don't feel better, but they're here, at least. The exhausted fumes tethering them to this body have constricted back into place, fitting into the small body that's supposed to contain them far more easily.]

It is fine.

[What...next? After the miserable heat, body attempting to eject the toxins running through their veins, Toriel had-]

Do- should I fetch some water?

Ugh. [Is what Wade says in response, spitting a mouthful of awful-tasting bile into the depths below. He straightens slightly; shakes his head a little, as if not quite trusting himself not to lose control again with one errant action.]

N-no, no... s'okay. Just... not used to this kinda thing, I guess. I-I'll be okay.

[He won't, not really, but it's more a point of pride that directs him to tell Chara otherwise. Pride... and a little bit of guilt.]

Um... are you okay?

[A small titter of laughter. It falls flat, far too much to be anything but fake- even if he didn't have access to the wave of exhaustion that floods through them at the mere question.]

Being okay is a luxury, mister Deadpool. One that I doubt I'll achieve in this castle.

[Or ever.]

Allow me to escort you back to your room, at least.

Y-yeah... yeah.

[He still feels... unbalanced. He finds himself reaching out to take the child's hand before a sudden synapse in a foggy corner of his mind reminds him of why that isn't such a good idea. How quickly the tables have been turned. Has he become, suddenly, one who must be coddled?]

Sorry. I... I'm usually so much better at this.

[Better at what, he doesn't say. It's not entirely clear if he knows himself.]

[They try not too make too much of a show when it comes to their response, simply taking a half step away from him as their expression remains level. In comparison to the excessive paranoia from earlier, the small spike of ~~fear~~ caution is hardly worth notice.]

It is fine.

[What's fine, they don't say- it's not entirely clear if they know, themself. But as they begin to slowly lead the way back inside, it seems they're sincere, at least, in not blaming him.

It was never his fault in the first place.]

[Wade doesn't realize he's moved until he's fallen into step behind the child. Staring at their retreating back as they lead him back into the castle, he struggles to pull himself out of the grey mire his brain is currently stuck within. It's like watching a show with the color slightly off and the sound a bit muted-- still somewhat right, but wrong at the same time.

Wade shakes his head to clear it, slaps his cheeks with both hands, as if he's trying to keep himself from dozing off.]

So, uh... is this my break from reality or is this yours? 'Cause I'm startin' to feel like maybe I should apologize.

[His voice may be slightly off-kilter, but his words certainly catch their attention easily enough. The child glances back at him, brow furrowed.]

I thought I had made it clear that this wasn't your doing, mister Deadpool.

[A moment of hesitation- they're not even sure this is a question they could ask at the best of times... right now?

Ha ha.]

...What do you mean by break in reality?

[How many apologies did that make today? Three? Five? Seems like he and this kid were apologizing to each other a lot these days. Both of them making mistakes; committing infractions that probably didn't really matter in the long run but seemed all-encompassing in the moment.

Ironic, really. Time was he'd rather have his teeth pulled than say those two deadly words.

Wade shrugs in response to Chara's question, not so much in indifference as in an inability to define it further.]

You know-- this... thing that's going on right now. Where nothing feels real. Like wakin' up with a really bad hangover without the headache or the stomachache. Or like... when you're just comin' down from a high fever and you're not sure if you're still dreaming. Except you're wide awake and not sick. Usually comes on after a panic attack.

Sometimes you lose time, like I just did. There's a special word for it-- 'd'-something. Can't remember it now.

That's-

[Absolutely ridiculous. They attempt to stifle their bewilderment, but the shock- and the rapid, building paranoia that comes with being faced with something without clear proof- is quick to hit them. They already have a term for this; there's nothing else to explain.]

In my world, that sensation is called LOVE. It signifies corruption to your SOUL- based on how many people you've killed.

The more you kill, the more LOVE you have. [A jerky shrug. They aren't looking at him.] Level of Violence.

So we really have no one to blame but ourselves.

[We really have no one to blame for ourselves. It's a line that sounds awfully familiar to Wade-- not from this particular child, but from someone else, long ago. Several someones, actually-- there seemed to be no shortage of people willing to try to put him under a microscope.

Nothing can help you, Wade, because you're in this for the wrong reasons.

Spoken condescendingly. Dismissively, as if the contents of Wade's character could fit in a small paragraph.

Let me save you a few years of psychotherapy boil down your real dilemma-- you're a tick, a scumbag mercenary with no heart, motivated solely by money.

And maybe Logan had been right. Maybe all there was to Wade was simply a tiny character blurb at the corner of a page. He was cool with that. He was used to people thinking that all there was to him was random inappropriate humor and wacky psychosis.

But who'd had the heartlessness to dismiss this kid like that? Who'd been callous enough to break them down to what they believed to be this child's core elements; to tell them that their negative traits were entirely their own fault. How could someone tell this kid that, to their face?

Or maybe-- and this is the most horrifying thought of all-- this is just what they've been telling themselves all this time, with absolutely no outside influence whatsoever.

Wade can't understand it. Wade won't tolerate it. He stops in his tracks; huffs out a wry, humorless laugh.]

Yeah, Sans told me about that thing once before. Guess by that logic I gotta whole lotta LOVE to give, huh.

[The joke seemed a lot funnier in his head. He clears his throat awkwardly and continues.]

See, here's where the math doesn't add up, though. You're sayin' that this whole... situation that's going on here-- [He indicates the panic attacks and the subsequent dreamlike state with a wave of his hand.] -- is caused by LOVE. An' LOVE only manifests after you've killed someone.

But I didn't start killin' people until I was eighteen, kiddo. This first started happenin' to me when I was around your age-- maybe just a little older. So you can probably understand why I'd be a little bit confused on how those two are related, yeah?

Edited 2017-12-15 16:14 (UTC)

[A flat laugh.]

I am well aware of Sans' view on the matter.

[Where does he think they learned the terminology? That it had aligned with what they already knew- that something about them was so inherently wrong, that there never had, and never would be, a single person who wasn't hurt, merely by having them around-

All the better.

What doesn't make any sense, however, is how Wade could have possibly felt like this before he'd killed anyone. A brief flash of confusion, and Chara shrugs, dismissing it entirely.]

Perhaps you did something without realizing.

[Wade shakes his head.]

Not likely. I was a good kid. Kinda sucked at schoolwork but... y'know. ADHD an' all that. Anyway, I don't think that was enough to do... whatever you think LOVE does.

[There's a long pause before he speaks again.]

There... um. There was something, though. Somethin' that happened to me when I was around your age. Might've had something to do with it.

IC Inbox - sol_raveh

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just- cw of all cws. Lord.

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cw: referenced child abuse.

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cw: child abuse, suicidal ideation

cw: gore, emetophobia

oh geez Wade the fuck. cw: blood, illness?

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