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Title: Various Things Friends Are For
Author: Randi
Pairings: Wade/Weasel
Genre: Action/Adventure with porn thrown in, or vice versa.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None really.
Sequel to: Comfort, Cues & Chili Dogs.

Summary: Weasel gets into a tight spot.



A/N: I took the liberty of naming Weasel's cat. Thanks to GW for the beta. <3

ETA: This can be considered an AU, or not.



Various Things Friends Are For
by Randi


Weasel wakes up under someone's arm and with a headache. Sunlight's filtering in through the blinds, and something is poking him.

His sleepy eyes flicker automatically to the ceiling before he remembers he's not at home, he's at Wade's, and Wade doesn't have a projection clock. The clock's on the other side, behind Wade. He can't see it from this position. And it's Wade's scarred arm slung over his chest.

Weasel doesn't move at first, taking it all in. Wade's nestled against his back, still naked. Weasel winces when his groggy, hung-over brain kicks in and indentifies the firmness pressing insistently against his hip.

He's not sure at what point during the night Wade started spooning him. With women, and while awake, that can be nice. Weasel generally doesn't like people touching him while he's unconscious, a distaste probably stemming from a childhood in which he was bullied a lot. But compared to the activity the night before, it's small potatoes.

God. Weasel's face gets hot remembering the previous night. The things he said, the things Wade said, the things he let Wade do to him...

Last night was certified, 100% grade-A crazy.

He wonders if this episode'll spell the end to all the gay jokes Wade loves to make at his expense. Knowing Wade, he doubts it. Wade is who he is.

The jests don't even bother Weasel anymore, not really.

Especially when it comes to Taskmaster, because there Weasel has to admit he deserves at least a little bit of the teasing. He's man enough to cop to a tiny, hetero fanboy crush. Who can blame him? Taskmaster's one of the greats. Sometimes Weasel wonders how his life would be different if he'd gone to work for Taskmaster back in the nineties. Weasel likes to remember that once upon a time, Taskmaster was kinda fanboying him. Enough to kidnap him in the middle of the night, and those were some crazy days too.

Weasel's whole life has been crazy, really.

Weasel needs to know what time it is, but he's not going to be able to see the clock unless he gets up. And he's not sure he can get out from under Wade's arm without waking him. Weasel's not sure he wants to wake Wade. Seems better to slip away before things get irrevocably awkward. If they're not already.

He carefully lifts Wade's arm by the wrist and eases out from under it, settling the sheet down gently as he slips out of bed. The pain in his butt isn't exactly a surprise. What does startle him is the intense soreness radiating from the tendons where his legs meet his torso. The muscles in his thighs ache too, whenever he moves them. Weasel flushes, cause clearly his legs were not meant to be spread like they were last night. Walking, hell, even getting up hurts.

But he's upright, if a little wobbly, and Wade's still unconscious. Three cheers for being slick and sneaky.

"Naate." Wade's voice is half mumble, half moan, and he sounds like he's in pain.

Weasel freezes. He stands still for a few seconds, waiting to see if Wade'll wake up, and he realizes with a certain amount of horror that the pillow under Wade's face is damp.

But Wade slumbers on.

Weasel runs a hand through his hair, not at all sure what to do. No way is he going to wake Wade up, not if he's crying in his sleep. Weasel is not feeling well-equipped to deal with Wade's grief right now. Last night he was. This morning he's busy with his own gay panic, thank you very much.

From a standing position he can finally see the blue digital numbers of the clock. It's 11:33.

Crap.

He needs to get home and feed Chiana. She'll be hungry and meowing by now. Weasel prays to no one in particular that she doesn't drink the day-old coffee on the table again. That was such a disaster. He had to hire a carpet-cleaning company.

Weasel takes his glasses into the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror. He looks a little hung over, that's for sure, with reddened eyes and dark circles underneath them. He washes his glasses and his hands. His head throbs, and peering at his reflection, it occurs to him that despite the sex being really kind of great, he feels used. But Wade's so fucked up right now. Weasel's not mad, but he's not sure exactly how he feels. Maybe just like he doesn't want to think about it.

Going out into the living room, he digs into his laptop bag for some ibuprofen. In the kitchen he drinks a glass of water, plus half a can of beer for the hair of the dog.

He creeps back into Wade's bedroom. Weasel moves silently around the room, collecting and donning his clothes. His shirt's in one corner, his pants in another. His socks are on opposite sides of the room. Vaguely, he recalls Wade throwing a sock over each of his shoulders. He can't find his underwear.

He pauses in the doorway, wavering, and decides it would be kinda bad to leave without saying goodbye.

"Wade, man, I'm leaving," he says softly. "I need to get home and feed my cat."

Wade stirs but doesn't open his eyes. "Ungh. Kay."

Weasel takes that as a cue to back away from the bedroom door. He packs up his laptop and leaves, heading downstairs and into the crisp, cool morning air. The hurt in his ass is acute and dull by turns, sometimes stinging sharply, sometimes feeling more bruised than anything else. His thighs are incredibly sore, more so than he can ever remember them being, and he knows he's walking a little funny. But for all that Wade made him his bitch, he doesn't feel like any less of a man. Leaves blow around on the street as he walks to the corner to hail a cab. Weasel guesses you can rationalize anything away in the name of getting laid.

He doesn't see or talk to Wade for a couple weeks after that. Which is okay. By the time AD&D night rolls around, he's walking normally again.

* * *

Two and a half weeks later he's on a corporate espionage job. Local, cause that's the only kind of job he can do these days. The building has a random sampling of your basic security devices: motion detectors, closed circuit surveillance cameras, and a standard alarm system, but Weasel's ace at disabling minor crap like that. The process of hacking the alarm system takes a little while, twenty, twenty-five minutes, but it's not tough. The company's on its way up, and the powers that be will probably install more challenging-to-bypass measures soon enough, but that hardly matters to Weasel.

Assuming of course that they have any money after their foremost rival patents their almost-finished new missile design. But Weasel has no pangs of conscience, cause although it's small, Lucer's execs have a reputation for screwing over anybody they can. It's why they're on their way up in the world, Weasel thinks wryly.

Weasel breaks in and disables everything from inside the large downstairs foyer. He resets the alarm once he's inside but leaves the motion sensors and surveillance cameras switched off. Then he heads upstairs. He has to break into an additional office, but it only takes him half an hour to boot up a desktop and steal the files. With the information he wants copied over onto a data key, Weasel shuts down the computer, tucking the key into his pocket and grabbing his laptop bag.

He gets a few hallways down and is walking past a receptionist's desk when he hears approaching footsteps. On instinct he ducks out of sight as quickly as possible, crouching behind the desk. He's glad he didn't turn on any lights now, grateful for the shadows when a man passes by less than ten feet away. Weasel peers out from his vantage point.

He's close enough to make out the symbol on the man's forehead, likely white but looking gray in the darkness. Weasel's aware of even the most minor players around, and this guy is anything but minor. Even if Weasel didn't have an encyclopedic knowledge of the operatives in the merc industry, everybody knows Bullseye.

And running into Bullseye on a job is never a good thing.

Weasel puzzles over it for a second; Bullseye's known to have some skill with computers, but not a ton, and this sort of work detail isn't his normal thing. Bullseye's chiefly an assassin, and as far as Weasel knows, he tends to take on more death-for-hire assignments than anything else. Bullseye's definitely not your typical corporate espionage/sabotage guy.

Holding every muscle still, Weasel distracts himself by skimming through a mental list of the possible people Bullseye could be working for.

Then he realizes, in a wave of dismay. Weasel re-enabled the main alarm system as a precaution, but he left the cameras down as well as the motion sensors turned off. He had to, to avoid getting caught, but when Bullseye came in, he would have been expecting to have to deal with all of the security measures, including the ones Weasel disabled.

So Bullseye almost certainly knows someone else is here. Any merc worth his salt would know it, and Bullseye's one of the best fish in the big pond. This development could be extremely bad.

Weasel curses to himself. He expected tonight to be a breeze.

Bullseye never looks in his direction, and after Bullseye walks past him Weasel exhales a silent sigh of gratitude. He creeps away as quietly as he can manage, his sneakers barely whispering on the floor. He needs to get away, and right now. In addition to excelling at merc work, Bullseye has a serious reputation as a total psychopath. Loves killing. Tangling with him is a terrific way to quickly get dead.

Putting the motion sensors and cameras back online will be cake. But he has to fully reset the main system to get out, which unless he gets ├╝ber lucky is going to take at least twenty minutes.

Once he's two hallways down, he breaks into a quiet run, his shoes softly slapping the carpeted hallways. He high-tails it down the stairs, because waiting for the elevator would take too long, and elevators make that soft pinging sound that would still be too loud for Weasel's taste right now. As he reaches the ground floor and leaves the stairwell, Weasel pulls out his cell phone and dials Wade's number. He's not sure how he feels about calling Wade for help, but if ever a situation called for it, being trapped in a building with Bullseye qualifies.

The phone rings four times, then stops ringing. Weasel hears clicking and the sounds of distant conversation over the receiver. Sometimes when he's watching tv, Wade doesn't say hello right away when he answers.

"Wade," he breathes into the phone. He freezes at a soft skittering noise from somewhere off in the darkness. When a few seconds pass, and all he hears is his heartbeat, he resumes whispering. "Wade, it's me. I need help."

"That you Weas? Why you whisperin'?" Wade's voice sounds overly loud in the quiet of the darkened room.

"Wade," he hisses, marginally louder. "I need help!"

"I was gonna go see a movie," Wade says, and the loud, through-a-cell-phone whine of his voice makes Weasel wince. "You know the new horror flick that came out last week, the one with that hot blonde, what's her--"

"Wade!" Weasel says emphatically, raising his voice enough to interrupt. "It's important. I'm at the Lucer Corp building. You know where that is?" He quietly rattles off the address.

"Yeah, okay," Wade says, sounding bored.

"Bullseye's here," he whispers urgently, and repeats the address. "Hijack a car if you have to," he breathes.

"Yeah yeah, be right there," Wade says, and hangs up.

Weasel looks to the main entrance across the foyer. So close, yet so far. Weasel's a professional. He doesn't want the company to know he was here, so damning the alarm system and running like hell is not an option. So he has two choices. Reset the security system and try to get out, or try to hide.

Weasel thinks fast. If he had Bob with him, he'd choose the latter. They all crack jokes about it, but Bob truly is exceptional at hiding and would know exactly where to conceal himself in a building like this one. Hiding isn't Weasel's specialty. He's more the shootout-then-run-away type.

In a crap situation, Weasel believes it always pays to go with your strengths. He's good with electronics and fleeing. He's a good shot, but there's no way he's willing to risk a direct confrontation with Bullseye. That would end badly. So Weasel decides to do his best to get away as quickly as possible.

Weasel goes over to the security card slot and keypad, hooks up his laptop and electronic gear to the ID keycard slot, types in some commands. He puts the laptop on the floor and waits.

While monitoring the process, Weasel checks his watch far too frequently, the bright blue light flashing on at a press of the leftmost button. Always-on ceiling lights make the foyer better lit than the rest of the building, but he still can't see the digital numbers of his watch without additional brightness.

Exactly seventeen minutes pass. Weasel's pacing and sweating bullets.

"Who's there?" The voice is interested, low and masculine.

Weasel freezes, stands stock still, then half-turns. Weasel's eyes have adjusted enough to see Bullseye in the semi-darkness.

Bullseye sees him too, now.

Fuck.

Bullseye looks thoughtful. "Hey, I know you."

Weasel takes a step backwards and avoids stepping on his laptop only by good luck. The wall's behind him now, he can't back up any farther. "You do?" His voice doesn't even shake as much as he thought it would. His heart's thumping though.

"You're Deadpool's nerd-boy wonder. Weasel." Bullseye seems self-satisfied as he produces Weasel's name, nearly purring it. Bullseye's fingering something in the palm of one hand, maybe a pebble, maybe a bullet, Weasel can't tell. Could be anything. Weasel has a .357 Magnum tucked into the back of his jeans and a Glock in his laptop bag, but the last thing he wants to do is give Bullseye a reason to turn whatever's in his hand into a lethal projectile.

"What are you doing here?" Bullseye asks casually.

Weasel swallows, his mouth dry. "Just--just a job."

If Bullseye returns to his employer with the news he prevented some other outfit from getting these files, he might be able to get paid more. Even if he couldn't, it might be a point of pride for his professionalism. Or he might be contractually obligated to prevent anyone else stealing the data. Depends on who hired him. Weasel would give a great deal to know that information right now.

Crossing paths with this psychopath on the street is unsafe, never mind running into him on a job. Bullseye's not known for leaving a lot of survivors in his wake. Weasel shifts, slipping the Magnum out of his jeans with practiced ease as he moves, holding it loosely aimed at the floor. His immediate instinct to yank it up and open fire wars with the common sense of knowing that barring a miracle, Bullseye can kill him with whatever random object far more quickly than he can hope to shoot Bullseye. The weight of the gun feels reassuring in his hand, but he's not going to point it anywhere, not yet. With Bullseye, it'd a big mistake to make the first aggressive move.

"You know, it's been a long time since I killed somebody with office supplies," Bullseye drawls, advancing on him.

Tension coils at the base of Weasel's spine as Bullseye comes forward. Weasel's eyes flicker to Bullseye's hand, which is still twirling something. To the immediate left of Bullseye's hand, the spandex costume doesn't hide anything, and Weasel observes with deep trepidation that the other man's sporting a hard-on. Probably just from the thought of killing him with paper clips and lines of staples, but even so, it's massively fucked up.

Bullseye closes in on Weasel and disarms him with a single swift movement, taking the gun. He puts a large hand on Weasel's back and pushes him face-first into the wall. Bullseye tosses the gun off to the side. Weasel hears it land with a thud against the thin carpeting, but he has no idea where.

Weasel feels the cold metal of a knife against his throat and the menacing weight of Bullseye's body against his back, pinning him to the wall. Bullseye's larger and taller than him. Weasel feels the solidness of Bullseye's erection against his lower back. This situation has gone very south very fast.

For the moment, Weasel's pretty sure the assassin's only trying to intimidate him with the knife-to-the-neck routine. If so, it's working admirably. Weasel suspects he's about to be shaken down for information before Bullseye decides to flick a binder clip or whatever into his brain.

"Let's have a talk," Bullseye suggests. The keen edge of the knife presses a little more firmly into his throat. "Who are you working for?"

Weasel hates always being right.

To his breathtaking, exquisite relief, at that moment he hears a familiar voice float down from the top of the stairs, across the room.

"Weas, I'm ready to go--ohhh, hey."

Sweet deliverance from evil, courtesy of Wade. It's not how James Bond reacts to getting out of situations like this, but Weasel could cry from relief.

He doesn't, cause hell no, but he could.

Bullseye turns his head, keeping the knife under Weasel's chin. "Deadpool," he says, and damn if he doesn't sound pleased. "I didn't think you were here."

"Yup. What's up, rookie?" Wade says it as casually as if they'd run into each other at a mall instead of in a secured corporate headquarters in the middle of the night.

"That's what I was wondering," Bullseye says, more coolly now. "Where've you been?"

"Upstairs." Weasel can't see Wade, but his voice comes closer. "Whatcha doing to my little buddy there?"

"We were just having ourselves a friendly chat." Bullseye turns his head so he's speaking almost directly into Weasel's ear. His breath tickles. "Weren't we, Weasel?"

Weasel refrains from answering. When in doubt, keep your mouth shut.

Bullseye shrugs and turns his head back to address Wade. "Kind of chat that hadn't progressed quite yet to bloody violence. If you want to know, I was trying to figure out if Little Red Riding Hood was here all by his lonesome."

"Sometimes I let him out alone, if he promises to be a good boy and not play in the street." Weasel twists his head slightly as Wade strolls into his line of sight. "I'm okay with talking, but I know you're gonna stop molesting him now, right? Cause I got a policy, nobody slaps him around but me." Wade's still a good thirty feet away, but he stops moving and crosses his arms.

Bullseye grins, snorting a tiny laugh. Weasel sighs thankfully as the assassin lowers the knife, turning fully to face Wade. Weasel doesn't move, his cheek still pressed against the wall like he's waiting to be searched by the cops.

Wade looks Bulleye up and down pointedly. "Literally molesting. I think someone's having a little too much fun here."

Bullseye seems unruffled. "Nah, just the right amount," Bullseye answers with an evil little smile. He shifts his stance. "Imagine my surprise when I got here to find the security net already partially disabled."

"Yeah, Weas is good for that sort of thing. He bakes, too. But stay away from his coffee, it's toxic sludge."

Bullseye laughs again and finally walks away from Weasel as Wade uncrosses his arms and starts coming forward again. Weasel's shoulders slump in extreme gratitude. The heavies are gonna talk. And banter, and probably fight. Fine by him. Long as he's not involved. He edges a little to the side.

Bullseye glances from Wade to Weasel and back, clearly trying to determine who's carrying the goods. "I think you may have something of mine."

"Doubt it. We only came for the free snacks. And we were just leaving," Wade says blandly.

"How about some answers first?"

"I honestly don't know what to tell you except you should try the pigs in blankets, they're to die for." Wade closes the distance between them.

Bullseye spins the object in his hand again, and Weasel realizes it's a key. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm here on a job. And I'm gonna need some answers. I'd really rather not have to kill you."

"Awww, does our friendship mean that much to you?" Wade cocks his head. "Ooooh, I know! We should take a road-trip, cross-country, and have wacky adventures, and Weasel and Bob can film it and it'll be like one of the greatest buddy movies of all time." They circle each other, mere feet apart now. Bullseye's expression is as predatory as anything Weasel's ever seen. "We can sumbit it to Cannes and Sundance." Wade considers. "Not the lesser indie festivals, though. Most of them are tiny and lame, we don't want to lower ourselves to that."

Weasel isn't sure who throws the first blow, but one moment they're circling and the next they're kicking and striking at each other, throwing and blocking punches quick as snakes. Bullseye gets a hold of Wade's wrist and breaks it in one fast jerk. Weasel hears Wade's grunt and the snap of bone.

Suddenly Deadpool backflips until he's standing almost next to Weasel. Wade puts out a hand and shoves him, sending him stumbling.

"Go hide, Weasel."

Bullseye launches a letter opener and a handful of pens toward Wade, lodging them in his chest. Wade leaps back at Bullseye, and the two go crashing through a glass wall into a records room. Weasel hurries from the room, trying not to scamper like a total girl. He's unsure where to go until his eyes alight on the elevator at the end of the hall.

He wedges the doors open quickly. Taking a last glance behind him, Weasel lowers himself carefully onto the little platform down and off to the side. He can't glimpse the bottom of the elevator shaft in the darkness. They're on the main floor, though, so if he did fall, it would only be a couple stories at most, into the sub-level or the basement.

He can hear the melodic cadence of Wade's voice, but he can't make out individual words. The sounds of combat echo out to him, thuds and wet slapping sounds and occasional grunts, and it occurs to Weasel that perhaps this wasn't the best possible hiding place he could have chosen. He may not be able to get out of the elevator shaft by himself.

Frankly, this maybe wasn't the best job he could have picked. Weasel forgets sometimes, when he has a long stretch of focusing solely on the weapons dealing and the computer stuff, just how unexpectedly dangerous merc work can be. What seems like a perfectly simple and ordinary corporate espionage gig can become potentially lethal at a moment's notice.

A long minute after the sounds of fighting cease, Deadpool's masked head pops into view, peering down at him.

Weasel lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Wade, thank god." He accepts the hand Wade dangles down to him, and Wade effortlessly pulls him up, grabbing his other hand by the wrist as Weasel's in motion. The toe of Weasel's sneaker catches the ledge, and he's up, just like that. He sighs in relief. It's a good thing Wade's strong.

"I didn't want you to get caught in the crossfire, but this is kind of a funny hiding spot," Wade comments. "You should ask Bob for some lessons, maybe."

Weasel rolls his eyes. "Thanks for the advice."

"I figured you for someplace sensible, maybe a broom closet."

"Yeah, well. I was a little panicked from being pressed against a wall with a knife to my throat."

They go back into the main room, Wade pulling pens and paper clips and even a Chapstick out of his torso as they walk. The Chapstick comes out without its cap, and Weasel looks away as Wade inserts finger and thumb into the hole to fish it out. Bullseye's lying unconscious on the floor, bleeding copiously from a stab wound in the right side of his chest.

Kind of says bad things, Weasel thinks, that he can identify this sort of injury at a glance. Stab wounds, gunshots, he can even hazard a guess as to the ammo based on the size of the hole. If he's ever forced for legal reasons to give up his day job, maybe he can forge a medical degree and get a gig as a coroner.

Weasel avoids stepping anywhere near Bullseye, picking his way across a floor that's now littered with shattered glass, busted computer parts, scattered pens and broken office furniture. The keycard security bypass has long since finished at this point. He glances around until he locates his Magnum, which he stashes back inside the waistband of his pants. He can't help but glance over at Bullseye. He knows he's safe with Wade there, but even so. Conscious or not, Bullseye's presence makes him nervous. Weasel checks to confirm the data key is still in his jeans pocket.

"This is a nice space," Wade's saying as he walks around the room. "I like the cathedral ceiling and the staircase. It's real classy."

"Did you kill him?" Weasel asks. Bullseye's breathing, but the movement of his chest seems rather slight.

"Nah, he'll live," Wade says nonchalantly, strolling over and prodding Bullseye with a toe. "We can trip an alarm on the way out, yes/yes? Or we could call 911 from a pay phone or something."

Weasel frowns. "Not unless you want to make the call. I don't want my voice recorded. And yours is kind of, um, distinctive." Weasel thinks a minute. Fuck professionalism. "Let's set off the motion sensors. I just want to get out of here."

Weasel turns the motion detectors back on, and Wade sets them off by walking a few feet into the room and waving his swords. Weasel remotely reboots the security cameras and puts his laptop back in his bag. Then they're on their way. Since the cops are probably already en route, he doesn't bother relocking the doors.

"So... thanks for coming," he says as they burst from the building into the cool night air. Weasel takes a deep breath, because fresh air never tasted so good, never felt so clean in his lungs. Technically it's not fresh air, it's New York City air, but same thing. The adrenaline rush has left him feeling oddly exhilarated.

"Sure, no problem. You're lucky I was available, I almost hooked up with this hot chick from the grocery store." Deadpool pauses, and under the mask the lines of his face turn sly. "I haven't decided yet what I'm going to charge you for sweeping in to your rescue like that."

Weasel gives him an amused look, and Wade grins. Weasel's not averse to the idea of paying Wade off, in money or guns or information. It's not like he does stuff for Wade for free. Funny how a close call makes money seem a hell of a lot less important for a little while.

He sobers up at that thought, cause this is the closest call he's had in a long time. Scary to imagine what might have happened if Wade hadn't come.

The sound of the alarm fades as they walk. Up ahead, along the next cross-street, a cop car flashing red and blue lights drives past.

"I'll get you a new RPG-29," Weasel offers after a moment's consideration. "Or an RPG-7, whichever you want. With infa-red and night sight?" He'd planned to get Wade one for his birthday, but he could come up with another gift by then. Though given Wade's track record, chances are good that by the time his birthday rolls around, he'll have destroyed or lost the RPG, and Weasel can get him another one. Or simply more ammo, the warheads for them are wicked expensive.

"Deal," Wade says, sounding pleased.

"So how'd you get into the building? Upper window?"

Wade seems reluctant to answer. "Yeah, pretty much." Weasel only has a brief moment to wonder what that's about before Wade segues off into a comparison of the two rocket launchers. It's an old discussion, rehashed several times before, but Weasel listens patiently.

* * *

Because it's nearer, by tacit agreement they take the subway and head to Weasel's place. Weasel thinks about what that means, that they've known each other so long they don't have to discuss shit out loud anymore.

Well. Not practical things like journeys or destinations, anyway. Wade's mouth keeps running, just not about anything important or relevant.

When they get to Weasel's apartment, Weasel tosses down his keys. Wade follows him inside, glancing around. Chiana runs up to rub against Wade's legs.

"Thought you kept the cat at your other place," Wade says as Chiana winds around his calves.

Weasel glances back at them. "I'm in New York full time now, so it made sense to bring her over." Wade really hasn't been over in a while if he didn't know, Weasel realizes.

But then, Wade's been distracted and isolated of late.

In London, Weasel had an elderly neighbor who was happy to feed Chiana and put out fresh water once a day when he wasn't around. But he doesn't know anybody in his building in New York, and he's not sure he'd trust them if he did. So he can't travel as freely now. But he hasn't been doing much merc work himself lately, just the weapons dealing and the freelance computer gigs, so it's working out okay. And after tonight, he's swearing off direct merc stuff for a good long while.

Wade bends down to pet the cat. "Oh yeah? You selling the flat in London?"

"Nah, I'm keeping it. I might go back at some point." Weasel kicks off his shoes, peels off his socks and slides his feet into his white bunny slippers, which he had the presence of mind to leave by the heating register. He always feels more secure wearing his bunny slippers, and they're nice and warm and fuzzy on his feet. He's comfortable wearing them in front of Wade, too. Wade never mocks his bunny slippers, he says they're too easy.

"That's cool. Isn't it funny how the British call apartments flats? I mean, what's flat about them?"

Weasel leaves Wade to get comfortable and heads into his bedroom.

"Hey, successful rescue efforts call for libations. Got beer?" Wade's voice sounds muffled from the other room. Weasel hears Wade go into the kitchen.

"Yeah, it's in the fridge," Weasel calls back. Wade knows where the beer is.

The clock reflected on the ceiling says it's 3:29. Weasel's still too wound up to be sleepy, though. Weasel puts his bag on the floor and pulls out his laptop, putting it on his desk. He stashes the data key in his sock drawer and turns around and Wade's standing right behind him, finishing a can of Guinness. Weasel jumps.

"Jesus, Wade, make some noise, would you?"

Wade crumples the empty can in his fist and tosses it on the floor, putting his hands on Weasel's shoulders. Weasel regards him steadily, not flinching. He doesn't say anything about the beer-can-flinging either, even though he does not live like a slob like Wade does.

Wade's voice drops to a register lower than normal. "So you're okay, huh? No boo-boos I should have a look at?"

Weasel shakes his head once. "Nope, I'm good." He's not. Now that the adrenaline and the subsequent rush have worn off, he feels rattled. But no physical harm done, thank god, and he's not about to tell Wade the truth about how shaken he feels.

"Well, good. Want to... " Wade quirks his spandex-covered head at the bed.

Weasel thinks about that. Wade did save his life. Not that he owes Wade, or anything, but... yeah, Wade saved his life tonight. Plus, sex might make him feel better.

"Yeah, okay."

He opens his mouth to say maybe he should have a beer first, but thinks better of it. Wade could easily take that the wrong way.

Sober sex with Wade. He can do this. "Take off the mask though."

He waits for Wade to ignore him, expecting to have to unveil Wade himself again. But after a moment, Wade lets go of his shoulders, reaches up hesitantly and pulls it off.

Weasel unzips his jeans, not breaking eye contact. Wade shucks off his costume.

Weird that this weird situation with Wade can make him feel desire, Weasel thinks as he takes off his shirt. Cause... he's stone cold sober, and he remembers with a sinking heart how fucking sore he was for a week after last time.

Well, maybe not a week. By the end of the fourth day the ache was pretty much receding. Still, it was a long time to be walking funny. Weasel'd felt like he was traipsing around with a "MY BEST FRIEND FUCKED ME" sign on his back.

Maybe it's the aftermath of the near-death experience. Maybe it's cause he hasn't slept with anyone since the thing with Wade a couple weeks ago. Either way, he's already half-hard. Wade steps forward, pressing their bodies together and grinding into his hips, trapping Weasel's cock between their bodies. The breath goes out of Weasel in a rush.

Yeah, he's up for this. When he thrusts back, Wade pushes him back onto the bed. Weasel scoots himself backwards, and then Wade's on top of him, kissing him.

When Wade teases his entrance with two fingertips, Weasel spreads his legs a bit wider, willing now. Wade's smiling a little, almost smirking, but he doesn't say anything. Wade pushes a slippery finger in and it hurts, but not as much as the first time, probably because Weasel's more on board with the plan this time around.

"Ow," he can't stop himself saying when Wade starts to replace fingers with his cock. But Weasel knows this time that he can do this. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and focuses on making himself remember the exquisite internal pleasure that started around the time the pain went away.

Then Wade's drilling him all over again, and except for the fact that Wade is still very much a guy and Weasel is totally taking it in the ass again, it is 100% awesome.

Wade does his same rambling thing as last time. "...and I was like, it's totally not gonna look right. But they didn't listen. The feet are bizarre and small, like Barbie feet, you could never stand up on them in real life. And everybody's grotesquely disproportionate. You know I like muscles, but you can't go overboard with that shit. The only really cool thing about that style is the guns. Cause the guns, Weas. The guns are huge. Makes you wonder what he's compensating for though, am I right?"

"Ungh," Weasel says.

Happily, Wade again seems comfortable with having a one-sided conversation.

Much the same as before, after a few minutes Weasel decides he wants more control. He pushes upwards at Wade's shoulder and interrupts him. "Roll over."

Wade looks amused but stops babbling about someone named Zircher (whom Weasel's never heard of; he sounds like an imaginary hero). Wade grabs Weasel by the hips and rolls them both over so Weasel's on top. Weasel starts riding him, slowly at first but enjoying the newfound feeling of agency. If he has to be the one who takes it, at least he can still be on top. In no time he has Wade bucking up under him.

Then Wade closes his eyes and stops talking, and Weasel's floored by a moment of clarity. Wade's thinking of him. Cable. Weasel's not sure how he knows this, but he knows. At first, Weasel isn't sure how to feel about this revelation, but he ultimately decides it's probably inevitable, since Wade is recently bereaved and clearly kind of grief-stricken, in his insane way.

And Weasel - Weasel doesn't care. Cause it's just sex. He never breaks his rhythm.

When Wade's eyes eventually open, a strange, almost embarrassed expression flashes across his face. Wade puts hands back on Weasel's hips, guiding him. Soon Wade's helping to lift and bounce him, urging him faster with numerous lewd suggestions. Weasel strokes himself, cause dirty talk is dirty talk. It turns him on. And it doesn't hurt that Wade has a soft, vaguely feminine voice. Another thirty seconds of agonized, working-for-it pleasure later, and Weasel's coming all over Wade's stomach and chest. He manages not to scream this time, which is good, but the orgasm is every bit as fantastic as he remembered.

Weasel goes limp, and without asking Wade flips him back onto the bottom. Wade's heavy on top of him, and it's strangely hot all over again. Weasel closes his eyes and drifts on the pleasurable feeling of being fucked.

* * *

Weasel wakes up at 10:27 with a morning hard-on. Wade's lying on his side and snoring softly. Not cuddling him, which is a good thing. Weasel's really not sure he likes that. Even awake, being spooned by a guy is a little too mushy and gay. Particularly Wade, since Wade's muscular and dominant and kind of manly, for all that he had a boyfriend from the future and a crush on Rob Lowe. Spooning with Wade makes Weasel the bitch pretty much by default.

Priorities, people. To this day, Weasel can still hear his Chem II prof at ESU in his head. Though Weasel doubts Professor Lee ever had gay sex versus gay cuddling in mind when he said his favorite catchphrase.

Weasel pushes the sheet down the bed and looks at his friend. Wade's ass is bumpy with a nasty-looking nest of tumors. Funny how the tumors come and go, Weasel thinks. For all that Wade's body stays exactly the same, fixing and recreating itself when necessary, his skin is constantly in flux from the cancer. Weasel wonders if Wade feels different on the inside, too.

Weasel splays an oustretched hand against Wade's leg. Weasel has long fingers, but Wade's upper thigh is so muscular Weasel's hand doesn't even reach halfway around. When Weasel strokes idly from his thigh to his butt, Wade wakes up, twisting his scarred head around sleepily.

The bottle of lube somehow got under Weasel's pillow during the night. Weasel picks it up, not sure exactly what he's thinking. He's having a sudden demented whim. The kind of whim that makes him question his own grasp on sanity and his usually unerring sense of self-preservation.

He wants to fuck Wade.

"Ever do this with anyone else?" he says, his voice coming out rough. "Besides him?"

Wade absorbs the question in that confused, recently-awakened way, and his gravelly voice sounds for all the world like that of a 2-packs-a-day female smoker. "Yeah, of course. Wait, what are you asking? I've gotten with chicks. Lots and lots of chicks. Hot ones. That what you wanted to know?"

"You ever fuck him instead of the other way around?" Weasel silently uncaps the bottle and squirts some on his fingers.

Wade blinks but doesn't look at him. "Are you kidding? Of course, all the time. Have you seen my dick? Nate couldn't get enough."

Given the whole world savior gig, Cable would seem the type to be egalitarian about such things, Weasel thinks philosophically. And they're probably all sexually enlightened and feminist and open-minded in the future. He could see Nate and Wade switching off. If he cared to think about that too hard... which... he doesn't.

Wade jumps when Weasel touches his entrance with a wet finger. For a moment Weasel's sure he's going to get stabbed a second time, but he doesn't stop, and Wade doesn't attack or otherwise turn over and kill him.

"Hey, waitjustaminutetheremister. I see where this is going," Wade mumbles. But he lies still while Weasel fingers his ass; he doesn't pull away or put an end to it, and Weasel takes that as permission to continue. His excitement ratchets up a notch, and his cock is already hard as granite and leaking at the tip. Last night's scare must have driven Weasel utterly out of his mind, because he's extending one long finger into Wade's ass, finding the spot that makes Wade jerk and massaging it. He adds another digit.

"I dunno about this," Wade says doubtfully. "Nate was a total stud. I'm pretty sure letting you top could in theory make me less of a man."

"I'm not going to tell anybody, believe me," Weasel replies. He angles his fingers and presses the spot harder. Wade makes an inarticulate noise in his throat. Weasel adds more slickness.

Inspiration hits Weasel like a song, and he leans down. "C'mon, you can pretend I'm him," Weasel whispers into Wade's ear, and Wade moans and rolls onto his stomach, his legs parting swiftly. Slut, Weasel thinks, but while he might have woken up crazy this morning, he's not nearly insane enough to say something like that.

Wade can handle a little pain, but Weasel will be gentle, or at least gentler than Wade is to him. He withdraws his fingers and sinks inside at once. Wade cries out, and it occurs to Weasel he probably should have oiled up his cock, too. But it's too late now. Wade's tight but obviously experienced at taking it, and any hurt Weasel does him is going to be pretty much instantly fixed anyway.

Gratifyingly, Wade's insides feel every bit as textured as the rest of his skin, lumps and bumps translating clearly into sensation for Weasel's cock. The feeling is pretty much exactly what he imagined. It's novel. And he's topping. Weasel thrusts harder, reveling a little bit in the experience. Wade moans under him.

Weasel fucks steadily and thinks about whether Nate would have more often been rough or tender with Wade. Nate seemed the type who'd be gentle, but Wade can certainly handle rough and more than rough. Nade was probably either, both, or somewhere in between, if they were together a long time, and Weasel can only assume they were. He clasps Wade's wrists, holding them against the bed, and it's just like with Val, just like with a woman. Good, as he moves his cock in and out. Weird, but good.

Weasel likes being on top, and he'd be willing to bet Nate probably did too. Wade's much less prone to babbling when he's being fucked. No quieter, though. Wade's moaning almost constantly, with every thrust.

"Use the TK," Wade groans. It takes Weasel a couple seconds to decipher what he said, and once he figures it out, it throws him for a loop. Cause what the fuck did Cable do with his telekinesis during sex, and how the hell is Weasel supposed to emulate that?

After another second, he decides he pretty much can't. Instead, he pulls Wade back onto his knees, reaches around and starts to jerk him.

In the end, Weasel's not intentionally rough, but he doesn't hold back. He fucks Wade hard.

Wade screams Nate's name when he comes. Weasel's startled for a sec, cause no one's ever called him by somebody else's name in bed. But he mentally shrugs it off. After all, he did tell Wade he could pretend, even if he didn't really mean it. Or, he meant it, but he didn't realize Wade would be quite so open about it. Loud, too. But the weirdness factor doesn't stop Weasel from enjoying himself.

Wade seems quiet and subdued afterwards, and Weasel wonders whether he's having regrets. They lie in bed for a while. Weasel has blackout curtains, so unless he turns the lights on, the room stays pretty dark no matter what the time. Within a few minutes Wade's fallen back asleep. Weasel lies awake and thinks.

He thinks about the exes he can count on one hand and about the various women he's paid to provide this service. He thinks about Val's wafer-thin body, the texture of Wade's skin, and how hot Wade feels on the inside. Weasel hasn't had a sexual experience with a normal guy yet. Not that he wants to. Val and now Wade are quite enough.

Weasel grimaces, cause when he stops to think about it, this is twice in a row and however good it feels, Weasel doesn't want his sex life to become a sausage fest. He needs to get with a chick, stat. Maybe call Marlene or Gretchen. Or both. A threesome to break the gay cycle.

But not this morning. He dismisses that train of thought, because right now Weasel feels contented and rather peaceful. Dominating Wade was satisfying in all kinds of ways, and the idea of calling Marlene appeals to him only in the way that eating better or exercising sounds good. A great thing to do tomorrow, or maybe next week, or whenever he has the energy. But not right now. Right now he doesn't feel like doing much besides lying languidly in bed, thinking and listening to Wade breathe. Idly, he ponders thoughts of coffee and breakfast.

Wade sleeps until Chiana wanders in, jumps up on the bed and starts meowing for food. Weasel watches as she nuzzles Wade's ear and mrows. Wade pushes her away, but she doesn't take the hint.

Weasel's getting hungry too, anyway. "Bagel?" Weasel asks.

Wade yawns, stretches. "Yeah, sure."

Weasel gets up. He can tell already he's going to be as sore or almost as sore as last time, but it doesn't bother him that much this morning. He puts on boxers, his fuzzy bathrobe, and his bunny slippers. He goes into the kitchen and starts a pot of the coffee Wade always mocks so mercilessly.

"Wanna watch tv?" he calls back towards the bedroom. Weasel knows of no better way to smooth over awkwardness in a relationship than by watching tv.

Wade comes out wearing his boxers and blinking in the light from the windows. He perches on one of the stools at the kitchen counter. "Okay."

"There's a new Lost, a new Supernatural, new Daily Show and Colbert. Unless you want to watch the latest Battlestar. I've already seen it, but I need to watch it again..." Weasel trails off as Chiana jumps up on the counter to headbutt Wade.

Weasel watches, bemused. He doesn't know why Chiana likes Wade so much.

Then again, he doesn't know why he likes Wade so much. Weasel's exceptional at math and physics, brilliant with computers, has a strong grasp of English grammar and spelling for a tech nerd. All around, he's a genius. But deep down, a little part of Weasel knows that if he were truly smart, he would get the hell out of Wade's life.

Pretty disloyal thought, especially after Wade saved his bacon last night, but he can't help but have it now and then when he spends time with Wade. Part of him is still amazed he didn't get stabbed again for daring to touch Wade in the bad place this morning. Definitely one of the riskiest stunts he's pulled in a while. He hadn't realized he was that desperate to stick it somewhere. He can chalk it up to the near-death experience with Bullseye, but he needs to get laid more, he thinks ruefully. And do some careful soul-searching and evaluation later about whether he has a subconscious death wish. Maybe take an online quiz.

Weasel busies himself getting Chiana's breakfast, which successfully, if temporarily, distracts her from her mission to get Wade's attention. He sets the dish of cat food down on the counter. Weasel's more fastidious than the average bachelor, but he doesn't mind Chiana eating on the counter.

"Lost is too confusing," Wade says calmly, petting Chiana while she eats. "Like, confusing just to be confusing. On purpose, for no good reason."

"Supernatural then?"

"Well... I guess the demon babe is pretty hot," Wade concedes. "All right."

"I like Bela. Butter or cream cheese?"

"Both. Who's Bela again?"

Weasel slices a couple of bagels and puts them in the toaster, then rummages in the refrigerator for the cream cheese, the butter, and the cream. "The artifact-dealer merc lady with the British accent."

"Oh right. Yeah, she's hot."

Wade pauses, scratches his neck. "Hey wait, I thought Dean was the one who gets you wet."

Back to the gay jokes. Weasel sighs and gives Wade a look, not sure why he's even bothering.

"So, I was thinking of going back to Agency X," Wade says suddenly. Weasel looks at him, serious now, and listening more intently. "Hayden gave me paid leave, after... you know." Wade's expression changes, and for a second Weasel imagines he can almost see Cable's shadow hanging over Wade, but then he continues. "Which was super-cool of him, especially considering it's Hayden and what a brain-stealing asshole he is, but it's getting old. Last night made me realize I need something to do again, you know?"

Weasel nods.

The coffee machine clicks off. "Ugh, your coffee," Wade sighs. Wade sounds pained, but Weasel's fairly certain it's put on. Wade always drinks his coffee, however much and creatively he complains about it. Weasel pulls two mugs from the cupboard. "I should have let Bullseye kill me," Wade adds snarkily, and Weasel cracks a little smile as he dumps cream into his cup.

Wade's gonna be okay.
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