ᴋɪꜱꜱ ᴍʏ ʀᴏᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɢᴜᴛꜱ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ

The thing about living at Professor Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, also known as the X-Mansion, also known as the place where a teenage girl with a healing factor and a lot of emotional baggage lived under the watchful, metal eyes of Colossus, was that it was never, ever boring. Especially when Wade Wilson decided to grace you with his presence.

“Knock, knock, little dudette!” a voice sang from your bedroom doorway, followed by a rapid-fire rat-a-tat-tat against the wood.

You didn’t even look up from your sketchbook. “The door’s open, Wade.”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that? The anticipation! The dramatic flair! It’s the difference between a microwave burrito and a five-star meal.” He burst into the room in a swirl of red leather and unearned confidence, a crinkly paper bag held aloft like a holy relic. “I come bearing gifts from the outside world! Things that will make Colossus’s rivets pop with disapproval!”

He dropped the bag onto your bed, and the smell of greasy, glorious, chemical-laden goodness filled the air. You peeked inside. A jumbo bag of sour gummy worms, two cans of Dr. Pepper, and a DVD copy of Die Hard.

“You brought me sugar, caffeine, and Bruce Willis. Are you trying to get me to marry you?” you asked, a genuine smile finally cracking your focused expression.

“Only if we can have a montage wedding set to ‘Careless Whisper’,” he deadpanned, collapsing into your desk chair and spinning in a slow, dramatic circle. “So, what’s the sitch? Been blowing anything up with Negasonic? Practicing your brooding face in the mirror? I heard it’s a required course for all X-Men trainees.”

You shrugged, turning back to your sketchbook. “Just drawing.”

Wade, being Wade, couldn’t stand not being the center of attention. He leaned forward, trying to get a peek. “Ooh, let Uncle Wade see. Is it a portrait of me? A tasteful nude? Because I’m flattered, but I think my contractual obligations with Fox might prohibit it.”

You rolled your eyes but tilted the sketchbook his way. It was a detailed drawing of a phoenix, rising from a tangle of thorny, black vines.

He was quiet for a second, which was always unnerving. “Heavy. I like it. Very symbolic. The thorns represent the soul-crushing ennui of teenage existence, right?”

“Something like that,” you murmured.

His eyes, however, had drifted from the sketchbook to your arm. It was a hot day, and you were wearing a tank top. He wasn’t looking at your bicep or your elbow. He was looking at the faint, silvery lines that crisscrossed your forearm like a pale, tragic roadmap.

You saw his gaze, and your arm immediately jerked, tucking itself against your stomach, hidden from view. Your whole body went rigid.

The playful energy in the room evaporated. Wade stopped spinning in the chair. He didn't make a joke. He didn't make a crass comment. He just sat there, his masked face unreadable.

“Hey,” he said, his voice suddenly stripped of its usual manic showmanship. It was just… Wade. Soft. Careful. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?” you mumbled, not meeting his eyes.

“Hide. Not from me. Never from me.” He got up from the chair and moved to sit on the edge of your bed, a respectful distance away. He gestured to his own masked face, then to the red suit covering every inch of his body. “Kiddo, I am a walking, talking, wise-cracking monument to skin that looks like a topographical map of the moon. You think I’m gonna judge you for some lines?”

You kept your arm pressed tight, your jaw clenched. “It’s different.”

“Is it?” He tilted his head. “Enlighten me. How?”

You finally looked at him, your eyes stinging with the threat of tears. You hated this. You hated the vulnerability, the way your throat closed up. “Because yours are… they’re from being a hero. From fighting. Mine are just… stupid. From being weak. From being so messed up in the head that the only way to feel better was to…” You trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Wade was silent for a long, long moment. Then, he did something unexpected. He reached up and pulled off his mask.

Your breath hitched. You’d seen his face before, of course, but it was always a shock. The mottled, textured, scarred landscape of his skin. He looked at you, his eyes, the only part of his face that was still perfectly him, were full of a sadness so profound it hurt to witness.

“You think these are from being a hero?” he asked, his voice a low rasp. “Sweetheart, no. Most of these are from me being a dumbass who got cancer and then made a deal with some back-alley chucklefucks to stick me in a machine that was supposed to ‘activate my mutant genes’ as a cure. They just turned me into a human avocado that can’t die. The rest?” He pointed to a particularly nasty cluster on his cheek. “Pain tolerance tests. And these ones on my neck? From a fight where I was literally just trying to survive to get back to someone I loved.”

He leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Scars aren’t about how you got them. They’re not medals of honor for the ‘right’ kind of pain. They’re just… proof. Proof that you were hurting. Proof that something happened. And the fact that they’re scars and not open wounds?” His voice cracked, just a little. “That’s the part that gets me. That’s the part that makes me wanna find Past-You, whoever wasn’t there for you, and have a very stern, katana-filled chat with them.”

A tear escaped and rolled down your cheek. He saw it and his expression softened into something unbearably tender.

“Look at me,” he whispered. You did. “When I look at these,” he said, gently tapping his own scarred cheek, “I see a mess. I see the guy Vanessa looked at and tried her damndest to still see as beautiful, but who she had to learn to love all over again. I see the guy who scares kids at the grocery store. But when I look at yours?” He shook his head, a genuine, warm smile appearing on his ravaged face. “I don’t see that at all.”

He reached out, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His rough fingertips gently touched your arm, coaxing it away from your body. He traced the faintest line on your wrist, his touch as light as a feather.

“I see a warrior,” he said softly. “I see someone who was in a battle so dark, so lonely, that the only enemy she could see was herself. And I see that she fought it. Every single day. And she won.” He looked from your scars to your eyes. “She won. Because she’s here. She’s drawing phoenixes and hanging out with a mouthy mercenary and making Colossus’s metal butt clench with her foul language. She won, and I am so obscenely, stupidly, cosmically glad she did. Because if she hadn’t, I never would have gotten to meet the most awesome, talented, resilient kid I know.”

The dam broke. You let out a choked sob and launched yourself at him, burying your face in the rough leather of his shoulder. He didn’t flinch. He just wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight, one hand cradling the back of your head.

“I gotcha, kid,” he murmured into your hair. “I gotcha. Let it out. This is a judgment-free ugly-cry zone.”

You cried for a while, the kind of crying that leaves you hiccupping and exhausted. Wade just held on, a solid, surprisingly comforting presence. He didn’t try to shush you or fill the silence with jokes. He just let you be.

When you finally pulled back, wiping your nose on your sleeve, he grinned, though his own eyes looked suspiciously bright. “There she is. Now, that’s what I call a cathartic release. Better than a colon cleanse, and way cheaper.”

You laughed, a wet, snorting sound that made his grin widen. “You’re so gross.”

“It’s my superpower.” He grabbed the bag of gummy worms and ripped it open. “Here. Emergency emotional support sugar.”

You took a worm, chewing thoughtfully. You looked at his face, really looked at it. You saw the landscape of his pain, the texture of his battles. And you heard his words echo in your head. When I look at yours, I see a warrior. You looked at his scars, and for the first time, you didn't see something ugly.

You saw proof that he was a fighter, too. Proof that he’d been through hell and had clawed his way back. Proof that he had survived.

“Wade?” you said.

“Mmhmm?” he asked, his mouth full of red gummy worm.

“You know how you see my scars?”

He nodded, swallowing. “As the coolest battle wounds ever? Yeah.”

“That’s how I see yours.”

He froze mid-chew. His eyes widened, a flicker of the insecurity he’d just described flashing through them. “What? These old things? Please, they’re a dermatological nightmare.”

“No, they’re not,” you said, your voice firm. “They’re proof. Proof that you went through something horrific and you’re still here. You’re still the funniest, most annoying, most caring person I know. You’re still Wade. So when I look at them, I don’t see a mess. I see… you. All of you. And you’re pretty great.”

He stared at you, utterly speechless. For the first time in his life, Wade Wilson, the Merc with the Mouth, was completely, utterly silent. He just looked at you, his eyes wide and vulnerable and filled with a kind of awe.

He blinked rapidly, then cleared his throat gruffly. “Well. Shit, kid. Now who’s making who cry?”

He quickly pulled his mask back on, hiding his face. “Okay! That’s enough emotional nudity for one day! Time for the main event!” He grabbed the Die Hard DVD and waved it like a flag. “We’re gonna watch John McClane save Christmas, we’re gonna drink our body weight in Dr. Pepper, and we are NOT gonna talk about our feelings for at least the next two hours. Deal?”

You smiled, a real, genuine smile. “Deal.”

He popped the movie into your laptop and settled onto the floor, leaning his back against your bed. After a moment, you slid off the bed to sit next to him, your shoulder pressed against his.

Halfway through the movie, during a scene where Hans Gruber was being particularly smarmy, Wade spoke without looking away from the screen.

“Hey, kid?”

“Yeah, Wade?”

“For the record?” He paused. “You’re pretty great, too. The greatest. The ‘best there is at what you do’ kind of great. Even if what you do is beat yourself up. Stop that, by the way. You’re too cool for that crap.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “I’ll try.”

He put his arm around you, pulling you into a side hug. “That’s my girl.”

That was what your mind focused on most days. You had been sent to the void because nobody remembered you anymore, because nobody loved you enough for your departure to be significant, because you didn't raise the numbers, simply because you weren't important enough.

You sometimes wished you had been a teen idle. Would they have remembered you if you had gotten the prom queen title?

Wasn't youth supposed to be beautiful?

You were living with Wade, Logan and Mary Puppins in Blind Al's appartment. Had been living with them for a while, but it maybe was the first time you had been truly alone in here.

Blind Al had bingo night, Logan was off drinking in the bar down the street, and Wade was walking Dogpool. You were alone.

You didn't like the silence that had settled on the lived-in appartment. Didn't like how still everything was. How everything had it's place in the appartment yet it felt as if you were just a piece of a different puzzle kept in the same box.

You were very conscious of your heartbeat —feeling each thump against your ribs. You could feel the way it's rythmic started to sped up little by little for the longer you stayed in silence.

You recognised the dull feeling starting to claw low at your gut, creeping up until it got a grip of your stomach —almost making you feel queasy. Until it reached your heart.

And squeezed.

And with that you were back with the same energy buzzing low beneath your skin, with your brain slowly starting to whisper things —harmful things. In your ear.

You were sitting on the couch, facing the TV yet there was no show on. The screen as black as the void starting to grow within you.

Your eyes dipped low to the exposed skin of your legs, there were a few fading purple bruises on your skin —like accidental splatters of paint on an empty canvas. You had managed to pass them as accidental bumps against furniture, nobody had pondered if the hits had been pruposeful.

And at that you were suddenly on your feet, driven by an anxiety that didn't quite seem fitting or yours. As if something bad would happen if you didn't do as your brain was telling you to.

Nobody was home. It was okay. Nobody was home. Nobody would see. It would be okay.

Before you even knew what you were doing, processing what you were doing, your hand was around the handle of the kitchen uttilery drawer. You pulled, the clinking sound of metal from spoons and forks sounding distant —as if underwater.

Then, you were sitting on the floor, back against the kitchen table and knife in your hands. You traced the sharp blade against your skin, not quite cutting yet, the cold making gosebumps grow on your skin.

And then you sliced.

You could feel the stinging of your skin breaking under the blade, but you didn't care. It was a need to do it, you didn't even stop when the metallic scent of blood whafted into your nostrils, nor when the red started to taint your skin.

Your hands were shaking. You were shaking. Driven by an anxiety that wasn't quite real, feeling trapped in a body that wasn't quite yours, feeling the pain that didn't feel real enough.

You just stopped when you heard a startled gasp from behind you.

Just like that the knife —bloodstained. Was on the floor, the clinking sound echoing in the kitchen. Eyes wide and head snaping to see who it was at the door.

Being met with Wade standing there, still with his Deadpool suit on, staring right at you with the white in his mask's eyes wide.

The man saw the way your hand reached behind you, finding support on the cold floor, and he catched onto the clear signal that you were about to flee.

"hey—hey hey, no. None of that, no." his voice was firm, stern, acting in control even if he didn't have a fucking clue on what was going on. "oh god, does the writer want me to have a heart attack or something? gezz-"

He muttered some words under his breath as he quickly tugged off his red mask, walking over to where you were sitting and crouching right infront of you with a strained smile. Talking to you right now was going to be like talking to stray dog, right?

"okay, give me the knife, pumpkin', c'mon"

He stretched out his palm, making a grabing motion for visual, as he stared at you expectingly. You were far too confused and equally scared of his reaction to protest right now, so you simply reached for the bloody knife and placed it on his open palm with shaky hands. "alright, good, very good" he hummed.

Then, he was uncrouching for a small second to place the knife on top of the table before crouching down and this time actually sitting next to you on the floor.

"now, c'mere sweetums" he whispered before he opened his arms and pulled you into a hug. His gloved hand on the back of your head, fully enveloping you with his body.

When his warmth surrounded you, it was as if that stupid fog that had been clouding your mind all day —that numbness— had dissipated, and you felt yourself choking on a sob before starting to cry in his arms.

He held you all the way through, craddling you and whispering gentle praises in your ear. His voice was softer than usual, gentler, and without a single sexual innuendo.

It was odd for him to be like that. But it was also odd for you to have acted the way you did and that had worried him sick.

Your tears slowly dried up, sobs quieting down into soft sniffles, when you felt the warmth from his breath puffing against your forehead. It was a fleeting second, you looking up with your teary eyes and being met with his brown eyes, before he was pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. 'The writter is so gonna have to make me a real ass in the next fanfic to compensate this' he thought to himself.

Once you had calmed down, he gently moved your face out of his chest. Hushing and sushing you when you let out a little distressed noise at the separation.

His hand settled for staying tangled in your hair, his thumb gently rubbing circles under your eye —wiping away the tears. Before he spoke.

"you calm now, cupcake?" he whispered, breathed out, softly. He didn't know what had driven you into self-harming so actively, but he wasn't about to trigger anything by speaking in a loud voice right now.

At your little nod and "uh-huh" he noded his head and sighed in relief before smacking another kiss on your forehead.

"alright babybird, up you go" he huffed out, voice straining in the last three words by the effort of picking you up into his arms. "we're gonna clean those boo-boos, yeah?"

When the little baby-voice he put on got a small chuckle out of you, he finally smiled for the first time since he had walked into the appartment to the tacky smell of blood.

"hey, kid"

"yeah?"

Once he had set you down in the bathroom, wet rag tenderly wiping away the blood in your raw and damaged skin, he dared to speak again.

"your skin's not paper, so let's not cut it, 'kay?