#deadpool2016

There were two clear options, fight or flight. Neither one was particularly appealing. But you were damned if you were going to let them take you in again, turn you back into a slave.

“I’m not here for a fight, Sweetheart.” He said calmly, as he rose from the couch and instinctively you edged your back against the door.

He held up his hands, showing that he had no weapon. Like he needed one. You had seen first hand that his body itself was enough of a weapon. You had wondered whether lacking the ability to feel he had become more machine than man.

“So why are you here then?” You ask, trying to steady your breathing as he continues to advance towards you, his stance open and inviting as if you were friends. But you can see the calculation in his eyes, watching your movements closely, ready for you to run.

“Can’t a doctor check-in with his favourite patient?” He asks with a quirk of his eyebrow and you let out a laugh. Unable to remain silent on the absurdity of the whole situation. “Share a drink reminisce?”

“One, calling yourself a doctor is a little generous don’t you think? And, two, I am far from your favourite patient.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he replies with a smile, his eyes roaming over your body in a way you haven't noticed before. A way that creates a tangle of heat in the base of your stomach.

You focus again, pushing any of those ‘notions’ from your mind and coming back to the fact that he has advanced again, only a mere steps away and you still don’t have a plan, your gaze was drawn back to the knife block, out of reach.

“But maybe it is a little more than that.”

Of course, it is.

“Someone has been looking for me,” his jaw clenches and you revel a little in the thought that something has managed to get under his skin, “a frustrating little worm in a black and red suit.”

Now that rings a bell, in fact, the other night while you had been at Sister Margaret’s a man in one of those ridiculous superhero costumes had been asking around for someone. Swearing about revenge and retribution for what someone had done to him. You hadn’t paid too much attention, the bar usually attracted a few crazies in amongst the regulars but this one had been particularly determined to find a man called ‘Francis’.

“Wait, you’re Francis?” It was starting to come together now. He must have been part of the project as well, it was not surprising that Ajax was on someone’s kill list. You ruin numerous lives it is bound to catch up with you sooner or later.

“You’re the guy he is looking for?”

With that last question, the smirk is wiped from his face. His enhanced reflexes allow him to move quickly to box you in, his arms braced on either side of your body up against the door. His eyes dark as he stares you down.

Your heart is beating wildly and you struggle to maintain your focus. If you are to have any chance of surviving this encounter you need to remain calm.

“He was here?” There is a distinctive edge to his voice now, the casual friendliness no longer present.

“No,” you say, quickly shaking your head. “Not here. At that bar on the other side of the city, the dodgy one with the smart-arse bartender. It’s a good place to pick up jobs.” You explain quickly your mouth running away from you. Hoping that once you let him know that his trip to your apartment has proved fruitless that he will leave and you can start to immediately look for another apartment.

But he doesn’t shift his stance, leaving you blocked and trapped. His head tilts as he looks over you, and you feel even more nervous under his gaze.

“Still making use of those gifts then,” he smiles as his finger traces over your shoulder, travelling down your arm in a movement so slow and delicate it’s intention is explicit.

"Maybe you should give me a little demonstration?" He cocks his head to the side, examining you looking for a sign of weakness or hesitation, you refuse to give him the opportunity.

"How do you know I'm not already?" you quirk your eyebrow as your fingers twist just slightly. Your breathing remains controlled as you speak, taking satisfaction in the confusion in his eyes.

"Sometimes I forget that you can't feel anything. Not even the knife I've currently got pointed at your back. In between your L1 and L2 vertebrae if I 'm correct, but then again I'm not the doctor here. Now maybe this knife isn’t sharp enough on it’s own, but I’m sure I can put enough telekinetic energy behind it to sever your spinal cord."

Instead of retreating or freezing in place, he lets out a laugh.

“You have changed haven’t you?” You freeze as his fingers trace across your cheek, “Where is my timid little mouse?”

You turn your face away, breaking the contact as it stirs feelings you are not in the mood to confront tonight.

“She was lost after that first kill.” You admit, even though it was a blur, you remembered the look in their eyes as life fled their body as the results of your actions. A simple twist of your fingers had been all it took to snap a neck.

“Would you kill me?” amusement tinges his voice which makes you blood boil urging you to push the knife further.

“If I had to.” You tell him, even though the simple answer should be yes. Those years were stolen. Even though they were years that you would have never had otherwise. Ajax or Francis had always been an enigma to you. Never giving anything away of himself during your sessions.

You rise to your toes so that you can attempt to match his height. “You don’t hold the power here, not anymore.”

A smile broadens across his lips as he looks almost impressed.

“You know it wasn’t a complete lie when I said you were my favourite patient. Quiet, yes, but one of those spirits that are hard to break, I had to work hard to trigger that mutation. I had thought maybe after your mutation that you may work beside me, at the Workshop.” He sighed, “But a telekinesis mutation, much too valuable on the private market. Not that you have suffered for it. It looks good on you. And now that you are a free agent.”

You search his eyes for what was the truth and they were just as cold and unreadable as ever. Could he actually be deluded enough to think that you would join him?

“Drop the knife, Sweetheart,” he whispers in your ear and you are reminded of all the times he would call you that, even before he snapped the cold metal collar around your neck as you were delivered to who would be your handler.

‘That’s it, Sweetheart, hold still for me.’ The last thing you heard until your surroundings before everything became faded and blurred.

“Or I can make you drop it,” he warns.

You want to laugh at his continued blind confidence in his own abilities even in his vulnerable position. But you are cut off by his lips pressing against your own.

Even though you could feel the tension in the air, his kiss takes you by surprise. It may have been unexpected but it is in no way unpleasant, and you can chastise yourself later on your poor decision making as you move your lips against his.

You hear the knife clatter to the floor, your concentration is broken, as his hand grips your hip.

You can still taste the wine on his lips as your tongue darts out to trace across his bottom lip.

You should stop this, should push him away from you with your mind or body, whichever feels like cooperating, but there is a part of you that craves this. Perhaps the part of yourself that was twisted and moulded by the Workshop itself.