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07 May 2009 @ 08:24 pm
With The Best Intentions [Marvel]  

Title: With The Best Intentions

Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, manner, or form, own Wolverine, X-Men, the Marvel universe, or the characters said universe contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Marvel. No infringement is intended.

Fandom: Marvel

Characters: Wade Wilson (Dudepeel/Laserpool/Whatever flavor of fried you prefer), William Stryker

Continuity: Movie

Warnings: General movie spoilers. Minor, but there.

Summary: From the right perspective, it could be an answer. And Stryker had just the right perspective on the whole matter.

Author’s Note: AW YEAR I SO TOTALLY SET OUT ON /COQ/ (for great justice and anon) AND FAILED HORRIBLY WROTE SOME PRACTICE PR0NS.  It’s my newest failboat. Whatever. Also, titles. Should probably think up decent titles.

 

 

--

 

 

The first thing to occur to Stryker that morning was: it’s quiet.

 

This, in and of itself, was an amazing feat, a silence unprecedented in the history of their interactions – no clever quips, no babble, no vague innuendo to be so carefully overlooked. Wade simply sat in his chair, and blinked slowly, lethargically, fingers spasming in time with his heartbeat, a dutiful little soldier awaiting his orders. He looked tired, grey around the edges— but that might have just been the lighting, harsh and white and piercing like any surgeon’s office was supposed to be. No, he couldn’t be unwell; the tests had been extensive. He was in excellent physical condition, barring the obvious little anomalies. They would be fixed soon enough, no need to even spare a thought over such inconsequential trivialities as ‘incurable’ and ‘terminal’ when one had the means to make a more or less immortal machine.

 

And it was still so blissfully, beautifully silent.

 

Stryker smiled, and shut the door behind him with a soft click. “Why, good morning, Wade. And how are you feeling?”

 

Wade blinked. And blinked again. His lower lip twitched, just a little, just marginally, but the medical grade stitches held firm, and he stilled again. The IV line in his arm shivered with another involuntary twitch, clear liquid dribbled down the tube.

 

From the right perspective, it could be an answer. And Stryker had just the right perspective on the whole matter.

 

“Good, good—that’s good,” Stryker bobbed his head, glancing through his clipboard notes as if he understood what they meant, and took a seat opposite. “We’re glad to have you back, Wade. It’s so nice to have the team back together, don’t you think? I’m pleased you were so willing to volunteer for this little project.” On something very like impulse, he leaned forward, and patted the incapacitated man fondly on the knee. “It means a great deal to us.”

 

Wade’s eyes dropped lazily down, watching with all the careful intensity of a vegetable. Stryker left his hand where it was, squeezing indulgently. The silence lagged on, and on, and on, in a wonderful, unbroken chain. Utter and complete control, the kind Stryker had never had over his subjects, his unit – it made everything so much more… sharp. Defined, as to where he stood, who took the lead, who followed.

 

The second thing to occur to him that morning was far less wholesome.

 

“It means, if you will, a new age; a rebirth of the human ideal. Why fear what we can replicate, improve, at a whim?” He stood up abruptly, tucking his clipboard resolutely beneath one arm. His other hand he kept on Wade, dragging it up his thigh, along his belly, and at last to rest in the hollow of his clavicle. Stryker smiled, benign, and used his thumb to gently redirect that dead-fish stare up. “You’re part of that, Wade. A very great part.”

 

A blink, meaningless as the plodding rhythm of his drug feed.

 

“That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Wade. You always know just what to say,” Stryker tapped his forefinger once, twice, against his chest, before continuing on his dragging exploration, circling in much the same manner as a fine art critic would a particularly fine piece of sculpture, keeping on hand on Wade at all times. The round muscle of the shoulder, up along his throat and jaw and skull to almost ruffle his hair, fondly, paternally, dotingly. “This is the first step, that first, trembling step forward to take back our rightful place in this world. Control, conquest— the collective dream of mankind since the first caveman picked up a rock and started the idea of war.”

 

Stryker traced down along the curve of an ear, slipping along the lobe and to the cheekbone, following the defined ridge along until he slipped down, to brush over the stitches where only Wade’s lips should have been. The change in texture was a little shocking, a little surprising, and he lingered there a few moments, exploring the feeling. “This is for the greater good. You’re becoming more than what you were. We’re going to make you… perfect.” He abruptly knelt between Wade’s knees, hand on each hip, and beamed up at that blank, empty face. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Can you even hear me in there?” His thumbs rubbed tender, reassuring circles, pads catching on the rougher fabric of Wade’s fatigues.

 

The fingertips beside Stryker’s head gave a very pointed – if feeble – convulsion, the tic becoming something more than the sum of its motion, and that alone was more than Stryker could have ever hoped for. He rested his forehead on the top of his own hand, chin brushing on Wade’s inner knee intimately. “I bet you can. I bet you can hear every word and it’s driving you crazy,” Stryker scratched him, musingly, tilting his head a bit more, to set his lips against Wade’s leg in what could be interpreted as a kiss, if one were feeling charitable. His eyes fluttered closed, and for a few moments, he sat in absolute peace, just breathing, like this was all somehow normal, admissible. 

 

Stryker doubted Wade had known the significance of this, of all of it – the man had always been painfully shortsighted, existing from moment to moment, order to order. But then, that was why control was going to be handed over, wasn’t it? A weapon was useless without a handler, and worse when left to its own devices. You could never trust where exactly it would turn its attention, or to who. It was safer, this way. Better for everyone.

 

And that made this moment all the more precious, because it would not last. 

 

“Were you surprised, when Victor came for you?” Stryker’s voice was soft, a raspy whisper more suited for confessionals and pillows than military laboratories. “Drunk on cheap booze and waiting to die by inches – that’s enough to make anyone a little crazy.” His fingers curled into claws, digging in sharply. “Believe it or not, I know about crazy. I know all about it.”

 

Above him, Wade simply watched, with only the vaguest impression of interest.

 

“This will make us close,” Stryker suddenly soothed where he had hurt, petting over the divots his fingers had left gently, contritely. “Closer than anything you’ve known. I’m going to remake you. I’m going to fix you, fix everything. I’m going to make you better.” And he grabbed hold of Wade’s forearms, and leaned up to plant a trembling kiss on his forehead, lips dry and hot, reverent. “We’ll be just like family.”

 

He rocked back on his heels, releasing his death grip like he wasn’t entirely sure why he had held on in the first place, and stood up again. His palms slid over his crisp uniform, smoothing it back into place, and he settled back into a mild expression. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Wade. Monitoring your progress. I’ll to be very, very close to this project.”

 

Wade stared up at him, and his lips twitched just enough that it almost looked like a scream.

 

Movie comments (microscopic-spoiler, I suppose): Alright, so, the first thirty minutes? Great. Awesome, loved ‘em (I lol’d a bit at Childvine’s rage face). It was everything after that that I went “WHATWHATWHAT” at. But, hey, should not have gone in expecting closer to comic-verse. Still.  Needed more of the other mutants (WHY DID MAVERICK AND BOLT NOT INERACT FFFF-), but it was a Wolverine movie, so... yeah. Unrealistic expectations, self. 

And the great thing about time-skipping movies? Lot’s ‘n’ lot’s of room for interpretation and fill-in-the-gaps fic. And trying to cheer up anon and encourage Deadpool movie. It is my new purpose in life. I guess. Or something. I dunno.

 

WOOO YEAH I’MMA TRAIN.

 
 
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