gobbledygook | CDC Inbox

[Fiona is sitting on the roof of her rover with a small stock of snowballs, pelting them at the snowman on the ground. It looks exactly like Fiona, except, of course, made of snow, and smiling placidly. She never smiles like that, it makes her look lobotomized. A cigarette dangles from her mouth.]

Yeah, sure. Thanks. [She takes her Gauss rifle out of her pack.] I know how to shoot and everything. [She's not great at it, but she knows enough of the basics that anything more will come with time and practice.]

[He aims a swift kick in the snowwoman's direction, letting it crumble before he steps on the remains as he moves closer.]

Good. Right in the head. Not always easy though. Chest'll do just fine too.

Knife, though. [He's still twirling it, slowly, carefully.] Major arteries are a good place to start. Under the armpit, behind the knee, side of the neck, near the groin. Jugular and carotid arteries.

[He snatches it out of the air, extending the hilt out at her to take.] Stab 'em in the eye. Achilles' tendon too, if you're in a pinch.

[That brings a smile to Fiona's face. Christ, she hates that awful thing. Fiona takes the knife carefully, weighing it in her hand before holding it like he had, copying him from observation.] Armpit, knee, neck, groin. All the places you'd call the hospital over.

[It occurs to her hat she can reverse her previous knowledge of childcare, the constant worry over the kids hurting themselves in the worst and most dangerous places. She can turn that inside out, into a map of all the ways she can hurt people. The knowledge should be chilling, but it's not. It's just very clear.]

[Since she died, everything's just been... very clear.] Achilles' tendon? You want me to go all mob boss on somebody? [Still, it makes sense. They wouldn't do it if it didn't work.]

Only if you need to. Say you get knocked to the ground. Real easy to slash that tendon and send them right down in the dirt with ya. [And then, you know, roll over on top of them and go to town.]

So. Let's start. [He's looking up at her expectantly, folding his arms across his chest.]

Pick a spot and go.

[There's a silent moment where Fiona just stares blankly up at Wilson, until she gets it. She scoffs.] I'm not fucking stabbing you, c'mon. [There are still plenty of snowmen to stab. She walks past him, knife still in hand, to find one.]

[He reaches out, clapping a hand on her shoulder so she'll have to twist away to keep moving.]

You need to know how it feels when you make the right cut. If you don't, chances are you'll fuck up and it'll be all for nothing.

C'mon. You can't kill me. Little knife kisses aren't gonna do shit.

[Fiona doesn't twist out of his grasp, but she does swat ineffectually at it.] Why d'you think it's about killing? I dunno how things are on your planet, but we don't stab our friends in Chicago. [Her last few words come out with a slight tinge of condescension, as though explaining this concept to a small child.]

[He's quiet for a long time, his grip still very light on her shoulder.]

We're friends?

[And Fiona waits it out, by now accustomed to the strange turns their conversations seem to invariably take.] Yes...? I don't cook for just anybody. [That's just the kind of thing you say, when someone seems confused by the concept of friendship. Maybe that's the trade-off for Captain America being real.]

[They're... friends.

She considers him to be a friend.

She chooses to be his friend.

Deadpool's quiet for a long, long time. Eventually, there's a huff of breath, almost amused.]

Yeah, well. I don't just let anyone cut me. And as your friend, I want you to be prepared in case this shit happens again.

So. I'm a real shitty friend. But this is all I got to offer. So.

[Another beat.]

Please.

[And Fiona finally twists out of Wilson's grip when her expression turns... well, sour. Or, less poetically, like her icon.]

I'm not. Fucking. Stabbing you. [And then her posture shifts, expression brightening, as she remembers her earlier dedication to keeping the tone light.] People on my planet survive all the time doing this shit to test dummies, okay?

[He lets her go.]

This isn't your planet. You've got all sorts of freaks here, and if you don't know what the fuck you're doing, you might die again.

Except you might not come back.

Don't tell me you're scared of hurting me. That's bullshit and we both know it.

Don't... talk all big like that. It makes you sound like a jackass. [Because she is afraid of hurting him. And she's scared by how he doesn't seem to be afraid of hurting himself.] If this is something you get off on, I can learn from somebody else. [She holds the knife out, hilt first, for him to take.]

I am a jackass. Welcome to Deadpool.

[He reaches out to accept the knife... and instead snatches her wrist, hard. He then carefully maneuvers the knife, gripping both it and and her before he slashes himself deep right underneath his right armpit.]

You feel that bite? You have to use that much pressure. [And blood is immediately gushing from the wound, coating the blade and his clothing.] Can't go wrong with doing it too hard. [It hurts, a burning that persists even now, but he's talking like he can't even feel it.]

[And Fiona screams. It's stupid, but all she's thinking right now is about how she didn't want this. She wanted to have nice, stupid conversations with friends and not think about the fact that she just died. Instead, there's blood on her clothes and it's her fault again. Tears well up in her eyes.]

Stop it! Stop, oh, God, christ, you're bleeding- [She's struggling to free herself from his grasp so she can help him, because she never wanted to be someone who hurt people who were friends. She wants to protect people.]

[She wonders if that hurts as much as when she died. Or if it hurt worse, like when Monica slit her wrists on the kitchen floor. That had to hurt more, because she didn't die- the thought causes her to panic.] Let me go, please, I'm sorry, please-

[She's crying.

That's the last thing he wanted.

He lets go immediately, still holding the knife slick with his own blood even as he raises his hands as though to placate her.] Whoa, whoa, sugarlips, it's okay. It's fine. I'm fine. [Woozy, sure, but already the wound is beginning to heal, fueled with his unease of upsetting her.]

It wasn't you. It was me. Promise. It's okay.

[The entire process takes ten seconds: Fiona steps back, takes a deep breath, and covers her face with her hands. In the process she manages to smear her forehead with his blood. She takes another breath, as though she's about to sob again- and when she removes her hands, she's not crying anymore. Another few seconds, and she's no longer even frowning.]

[She manages, weakly, to smile. It becomes less weak as time goes on.] It's okay, look. I've got gauze. [She pulls a wrapped bundle of the stuff from her inner coat pocket, and takes a step forward to press it to his arm.] Is that knife clean?

I don't know.

[It's a little disturbing, how quickly she dons this facade like everything is fine. Deadpool doesn't discourage her, though after only a few seconds he pulls back and lifts his arm. The wound is healed. Besides the cut in his outfit, it's like he was never injured at all.]

I don't get sick. See? Just peachy.

[Besides that, and the blood still on her clothes and head. Fiona is left feeling embarrassed and unsure-- was she wrong to be upset? Was she being stupid? Ultimately, she's not sure, and she puts off the decision in favor of swatting Wilson on the shoulder-- gently and away from any wound, healed or no.]

You still didn't have to scare me like that. [She still can't muster the right kind of smile, a crack in her armor. Some part of her hates that he saw that.] I got it without the whole... show. [Hesitantly, she puts the remaining gauze back in her coat.]

I...

[He's never been good with apologies. They make his tongue twist up, and eventually, he just offers a helpless shrug.] You had to know what it felt like.

[That makes it okay, right? It has to. The ends justify the means.]

[She doesn't want to hear this right now. She wacks him, not particularly gently, on the shoulder. Not really trying to wound or harm, just- anger is a safer emotion to express than sadness or fear. She channels her excess feeling into that.] Shut the fuck up. All I know now's how it feels like when someone on my fucking side bleeds on me.

You need to be on your side. [His words are harsh, and he barely even registers the smack.] No one else's. [He's tired of this goddamn coddling mentality going on between the people here. It's survival of the fittest, and no one should die for anyone else. No one's hopes should be that shitty.]

[Fiona, meanwhile, is used to working in groups. And while, yes, she's usually the unspoken and uncontested leader of that group, she's used to a similarly unspoken loyalty between its members.] I'm on my fucking side. And if you're not, I need to know fucking now.

If I weren't on your side, I wouldn't be bleeding out to show you how to kill people. [It's a gentle, but stern reminder. He doesn't have to do this.]

You wanted to learn. I'm tryin' to teach.

[And that shuts Fiona up. She frowns, fighting back another wave of unwelcome emotion, and rubs the heel of her palm into her forehead. The blood gets a little more smeared for it.] And I wanna learn. But I don't wanna fucking stab you. [There's been too much of that lately- and there's another memory she doesn't want. She already checked, and there isn't, but it feels like there should be a scar there.]

I'm fucking sick of friends stabbing each other and blood on my fucking floor- face. [This is just not going well for her.]

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