#im applying for some tenure track stuff and they will HEAR ABOUT these ideas

[legobiwan]

Esoteric thought for the day: the Super Paper Mario menu screen theme is textbook modal mixture (bIII, bVI, N6 chords) and I am already salivating at the idea of including this in future theory class curriculum.

[master-sass-blast]

Decisions, Decisions.

Hi. Welcome to angst.

Summary: You join up with part of the X-Force and Frank Castle, alias the Punisher, to rescue a group of mutants being trafficked to Hell’s Kitchen. Things go wrong, however, when you get shot in the leg and wind up having an episode during the mission.

Rating: M for mentions of gun shot injuries/injuries in general, swearing, and angst. Lots of it.

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader and Nathan Summers x Wade Wilson.

@marvel-is-perfection

(Side note: Frank Castle is my new hyperfixation. HOLY SHIT HE’S SO HOT. I don’t have any fics for him planned any time soon, but yeah. Jon Bernthal is a snacc.)

“Forgive yourself for not having the foresight to know what seems so obvious in hindsight.” -Judy Belmont.

“--but that was before I back-flipped over the crocodile pit--”

You snort as Wade dives deeper into his latest story about a hit on a zoo manager that had participated in the distribution of child porn, and try --again--to get the band-aid you’ve been fiddling with for the past two minutes to apply to your elbow without sticking to your fingers. “Okay, you’re making this up.”

Wade makes a noise of fake offense and places his hand on his chest. “You dare to suggest that would hyperbolize the latest and greatest tale of my prowess as a mercenary?”

“You hyperbolize burning toast in the morning.”

“Well, see if I share my snacks with you ever again!”

“Oh yeah, I’m so worried about not having access to your shitty fruit snacks --for fuck’s sake!”

“Is everything alright?” Piotr, in his X-Men suit and in full armor, treads into the kitchen with an expression of concern.

“Oh, yeah. I’m just having trouble with this fucking band-aid is all.”

He chuckles and walks over to where you’re positioned at the counter. “Let me, moya lyubov’.”

In that moment, two things happen.

First, Piotr gets the band-aid onto your elbow on his first try. The fucker.

Second, Nate walks through the back door, trailed by--

Wade lets out an excited gasp. “Spank Me Daddy! Fancy seeing you here!”

Frank Castle, alias ‘The Punisher,’ closes his eyes, makes an expression of barely concealed annoyance, and turns on his heel. “Nope. ‘M out.”

“No, you’re not.” Nathan catches Frank by the back of his jacket and yanks him into the kitchen. “I put up with him on a daily basis; you can manage for one job.”

“You’re crazy enough to date ‘im. That’s the difference.”

“What’s going on?” you ask, frowning. You knew that Nathan mentioning a job meant that he was placing another part of his plan to save the world into place, and that he had teamed up with Castle before if a mission happened to put them on the same path, and that if Nathan came to the X-Mansion it was because he needed the X-Men’s help--

But ‘job’ plus Frank Castle --of all people--plus the X-Men?

You couldn’t figure out how it all fit together in his head. Frank’s self-appointed tenure as the Punisher set him at pretty heavy odds with the X-Men’s no killing rule, and you were pretty sure a man like Frank wouldn’t hold any appreciation for the X-Men’s strict adherence to that rule --not all that different from Wade, all things considered.

“There’s a team of human traffickers that have been running between Europe and the States,” Nathan explains. “They’ve a got a shipment of mutants coming in tonight, at one of the docks in Hell’s Kitchen. We’re heading in tonight to make sure they get rescued in good order.”

“Okay,” you say slowly before pointing at Frank. “And you’re joining in because?”

“He owes me a favor,” Nathan says with a smirk.

Frank rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “Only way I’d ever get within ten feet of Wilson.”

“Aw, Super Top, I’m hurt!”

You do your best to hide a grin --and fail, if the look that Frank shoots you is any indicator--and nod. “Alright. When do we leave?”

“I am not sure this is good idea,” Piotr says, ever the advocate for caution. “Hell’s Kitchen is entirely different game than most of us are used to working. We would be out of natural element --not to mention that things would likely devolve into senseless violence.”

“You really gonna look me in the eye and tell me that a few traffickers are worth keeping around?” Frank growls.

Yupp. Just like Wade.

“I am concerned about safety of my team. I am well aware of your reputation, Mr. Castle. You have extensive history of high collateral damage.”

“So does Wilson, but you let him live here. You got a point?”

“Domino’s already agreed to join in, as has Wade,” Nathan interjects before a nastier argument can break out. “All we were looking for is for your’s and Y/N’s help.”

Piotr frowns. “Again, I am not sure that is good idea.”

“Don’t want to get your hands dirty by doing some actual fucking work?” Frank asks, brow arched and expression unimpressed.

“They’ll need one of the jets to get everyone evacuated quickly,” you say before Piotr and Frank can start arguing again. “And if you’re there to break open whatever’s being used to carry the trafficking victims, the job’ll get done that much faster, which means less chances of unnecessary deaths. Plus, if I go, I can do some high altitude reconnaissance; that’ll help everyone be that much safer.”

Piotr’s frown doesn’t lift. “Moya lyubov’, I still disagree. Even though you are using good logic and reason, Hell’s Kitchen is entirely different beast. I think it would be best to stay clear.”

“Babe--” you reach out and latch onto one of his hands, steel cool to the touch against your skin “--we’ve done stuff like this before. It’ll be alright. Besides, there are people who need our help, and I can’t look away from that.”

He considers, mouth pressed into a tight line, then relents with a sigh. “Khorosho. But only to make sure you stay safe.”

You squeeze his hand --which isn’t much of a squeeze since he’s armored up, but the sentiment of the gesture remains unchanged. “Everything’s gonna be alright, big guy. You’ll see.”

It’s a --thankfully--warm summer’s night as you fly over the dock in question, high enough that you won’t be seen.

It’s easy enough to see the group of men at the far end of the dock. Just like Nathan said, there’s a crane offloading a few small shipping containers from an unmarked boat, setting them onto semi trailers while men holding assault rifles watch the process and the docks.

On the far end, closest to the city, you can see Nathan, Wade, Piotr, Neena, and Frank working their way through the maze of shipping containers already stacked on the concrete pier.

“How’re things looking?” Neena asks.

“They’ve got three containers offloaded and on the trucks so far. I can see about fifteen different guys, but I don’t know if that’s all of them or not.”

“I guarantee it isn’t,” Frank growls under his breath over the wireless headset system you’re all hooked into. “No way these assholes are leaving the ship empty while they’re offloading.”

You hear Piotr mutter something under his breath in Russian that you know --by now--means he’s lecturing Frank on his language, and smirk. “Yeah, well--” There’s a loud crack, and you yelp as a bullet whizzes past your elbow. “Shit! What the fuck!”

“Myshka? What is it?”

“Fuck, I’ve been spotted. I--” Before you can finish your sentence, something that feels like a fucking school bus hits you in the leg, knocking you back. You can feel air rushing past you, whipping your hair around, then let out a scream when you realize you’re falling. “Shit!”

The air current you whip up keeps you from splattering into a pile of goo, but the landing is still none too gentle.

You groan, gasping as you try to push yourself upright. Your entire right leg is screaming with pain, and you can hear the cacophony of worried voices in one ear as the sound of gunfire hits the other.

“Y/N! Myshka, where are you? Are you alright?”

You push yourself into a sitting position, crying out in pain as you sag against the metal wall of a shipping container. You place your hand on your aching limb, as if that would numb some of the pain, and your stomach churns when your palm comes away wet and warm.

Blood. Dark, dripping, warm--

“I’ve been shot,” you wheeze, hand shaking as the shock starts to set in.

Nathan swears in your ear. “Get to a safe place. Get back to the jet if you can.”

“I got hit in the leg; I can’t fucking move!”

“I’ll get her,” Neena says over the earpiece system.

You can hear the traffickers shouting, footsteps smacking against the concrete as they track you down.

You’re also suddenly aware that the wind is whipping around you, nearing gale forces despite the completely clear skies.

When you look up, there isn’t another graffiti covered container sitting in front of you. Instead, all you can see are thick stands of trees.

“Fuck.” Your head’s spinning from pain, panic, and blood loss. “Guys, I’m--”

“I know, kid,” Nathan grunts. “Try to stay calm. Domino, stick with us. Wade, go get Y/N.”

Memories, the present reality, and black spots all swim in your vision. You’re shaking from head to toe, hissing with pain every time you jostle your leg. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck-

A man carrying a rifle walks around the corner of one of the shipping containers.

You don’t have time to think or call for help. All you have is one insane ‘Hail Mary.’

You close your eyes and let the episode take over.

You come to in a hospital room.

Not one of the clinic rooms in the X-Mansion, but an actual hospital room; white walls, fancy monitoring equipment, special bed, the whole nine yards.

You grimace as you swallow at the dryness in your mouth. Your body feels heavy, like it’s been filled with lead, and your head feels like it’s been stuffed full of cotton balls.

You manage to loll your head to the side and see Piotr snoozing in the chair next to your bed. You try to say his name, but only manage to make yourself cough.

He wakes up anyway, coming to with a sharp inhalation of breath that’s followed by an adorable snort. He lurches forward, rubbing at his face, then fully comes awake all at once when he sees you peering at him. “Myshka. You’re up.”

The amount of reverence and relief squeezed into those three words nearly makes you cry. You try to shift towards him, reaching for him.

“Nyet, nyet, nyet.” He gets up quickly and sits on the edge of your bed. “You need to stay still. You were very badly injured.”

You swallow on nothing again and grimace. “Can I have some water?” you croak.

“The nurse said you could, but only few sips.” He picks up a styrofoam cup with a bendy straw poked through the lid and holds it for you. “Little sips. No gulps.”

You do as instructed, taking a few baby sips to alleviate your parched mouth and throat. “What--” you cough again “--what am I doing here? How long have I been out?”

“You lost...” His face strains with grief and concern, and it takes him a couple minutes to get his composure back. “You had episode, and lost great deal of blood. We had to bring you here for surgery.”

“But the healers at the mansion--”

“You almost died on the jet,” he says quietly. “Twice. We... we needed experts. Resources beyond what the clinic has. Professor Xavier’s family helped build this hospital; he sent us here.”

Once again, the Xavier fortune opens doors. “How long have I been out?”

“Only about... twenty-seven hours. Once they got you stabilized and sewn up, the doctors said your recovery was likely.”

You nod, then lift your hand to his cheek. “Are you okay?”

He sighs, and takes your hand in his so he can press his lips against your fingers. “I am now.”

Another twelve hours pass --most of which you spend sleeping, thank you painkillers--before anyone else shows up.

You’re watching TV when Piotr walks in, vase of flowers in hand, trailed by Nathan and Wade. “Cable and Deadpool are here.”

You file the use of the merc names away for further review; you’ve known Piotr for a while now, enough to know that he uses formalities as a way of keeping polite distance between himself and people he’s unsure of or uncomfortable with.

Or, as you suspect in this case, keeping a wall between himself and the two people who are most likely taking the brunt of his anger.

You smile up at them anyway, happy to see them and that they’re in one piece.

“How’re you doing, kid?” Nate asks as he sits at the foot of your bed, squeezing your blanket covered foot affectionately.

“All things considered, not too bad. I can’t feel a damn thing because of the painkillers, I get pudding with every meal, and I have de-facto control of the TV remote.”

“Living the high life!” Wade nods his approval. “Can’t say I’m not jealous.”

Piotr opens an envelope holding a small card and hands the card over to you. “From Mr. Castle.”

The inside is mostly blank, save for a few lines of heavy-handed print.

Sorry you got caught so hard in the fray. Glad you’re alright. See you around.

You can’t help but smile a little at the artless courtesy. “Well, that’s nice of him.”

“The world’s most fantastic dom and he understands the basics of social etiquette,” Wade chirps. “What’s not to love?”

You chuckle --and Nathan smirks and rolls his eyes--but you can’t help but notice the line of tension in Piotr’s shoulders.

You can tell he’s holding back the urge to send both men packing, to take control of the situation and protect you from... from whatever it is he thinks you need protecting from.

You make a mental note to commend him for his restraint --and interrogate him about what’s got him so upset. For now, you’re just going to sit back and enjoy Wade’s antics and your painkillers.

You’re released back into the care of Xavier’s a few days later, with very strict instructions for what you can and can’t do, and a rigorous physical therapy list.

You don’t have to wear a cast, fortunately, but you’ve been assigned to a wheel chair until further notice. It’s the middle of summer, and you’re off all training and missions until further notice, which leaves you with an assload of nothing to do.

And, with all your free time, you wind up thinking. A lot.

You haven’t really ever had an opportunity to make yourself into something. Growing up, your parents had controlled every single facet of your life. You hadn’t had hobbies, hadn’t had friends, hadn’t had freedom. You’d barely seen anything outside of your family’s house, save for church on Sundays and your mad dashes for freedom that always ended with someone dragging you back to your prison.

You hadn’t been anyone back then. Just a shadow of existence, trying to survive in a vacuum.

You’re someone now. You work as a teaching assistant during the school year, train with the X-Men, and occasionally help the X-Force with missions. You draw, play video games, cook, and do whatever strikes your fancy or curiosity. You have a family, friends, and a partner that you love from the top of your head to the bottoms of your toes.

But if you can’t get your episodes under control...

No. That’s not the right way to look at it.

The trauma that’s shaped you --and whatever’s happened to your brain that makes your episodes manifest the way they do--is a part of you. It doesn’t define you, and it isn’t you, but it’s still a part of your life. Even if you can get a diagnosis, there isn’t going to be some magical pill that takes everything away.

You’re always going to be at risk of having the episodes; maybe not as much as you are now, definitely not as much as you were before therapy, but it’ll always be there. It’ll always be a variable in your life.

There’s still a lot you can do, but running missions? When you’ll be in the thick of a fight, when you’ll be surrounded by your friends and family, when you won’t have the option of a safe room and careful reintegration to keep you and everyone else safe?

Piotr kisses the top of your head, jolting you out of your reverie. “It’s time for next dose, dorogoy.”

You smile at him in thanks, take the painkillers and eat the protein bar he’s holding out to you, and pat on the deck couch cushion next to yours. “Come sit with me, big guy.”

He does, careful not to jostle you. “How are you feeling?”

“Bored.”

He chuckles and kisses your temple. “It will all be over eventually.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve, uh, actually been doing a lot of thinking. About my future and shit.” You take a deep breath when he makes a noise encouraging you to continue, and spit out what’s been on your mind for the past few days. “I don’t know if I can do missions anymore. Like, not from an injury standpoint, just, like... at all.”

“Why is that?” he asks after a moment of processing, unfailingly calm.

“I kinda realized... the episodes are never gonna go away. I don’t mean that I won’t get better,” you say quickly when he opens his mouth to affirm you and build you up. “But they’ll always be there. A background possibility. I mean, diagnosis or not, there’s not gonna be a magic bullet for it. Even if we can get them to go into remission, there’s still always the chance that something’ll trigger one.”

Piotr nods hesitantly. “You’re... you are not wrong.”

“Well, I mean --I lose total control of my powers. I’m a danger to others and to myself.”

A truth that had been grotesquely, painstakingly illustrated to you in the aftermath of the most recent series of incidents. Not only had you been shot, but you’d nearly destroyed your vocal cords and lungs from the screaming you’d done. The healers had ended coming to the hospital mid-surgery, just to help stabilize you.

Not to mention the trafficker’s you’d disintegrated during it all --and some of the victims that had been accidentally crushed.

Because there were always casualties. Always.

“I’m a liability to others, no matter how well I learn to control my powers or how much therapy I go through. No matter what diagnosis and treatment I do or don’t find. That’s... that’s always gonna be there. And... and it’s pretty clear we can avoid most of... of whatever triggers it here. Or in regular life. And that, with the safe rooms and the fact that I’ve gotten better at recognizing when one’s coming, I can be around people without being a risk to them or myself.”

Piotr nods. “Agreed.”

“But missions... it’s harder to avoid the triggers because I can’t control the environment. There aren’t any safe rooms. I just...” You let out a ghost of a laugh. “It’s not rational, Piotr.”

“That is also very true.”

“But... I like doing missions. I like being the good guy. A hero. I like helping people. I really like kicking ass.” You grin when he chuckles. “And, I mean, isn’t it true that we’re all one step away from snapping? That any of us could lose it, or lose control of our powers? I mean, I’ve made it through missions without episodes, on and off the serum, so does that mean I shouldn’t throw away all of this over one bad mission?”

Piotr stares out at the lawn and puts an arm around your shoulder as he ponders your questions. “I think that is only something you can decide. You are right that any of us could lose control --many trainees do at some point. And you are right to be cautious in regard to the nature of your episodes and the technical --likely--permanence of them.”

“Yeah.” You grimace. “There’s no real easy answer to this, is there?”

“Nyet. I imagine this will take great deal of consideration on your part. But, I believe that whatever you decide will be the right choice.”

You smile, touched, and let your head rest against his shoulder. “Thanks, babe. I love you.”

“And I, you.”

You sigh, contented. “Man, Wade is going to be a pain in the ass while I’m in this wheelchair. He’s already threatened to leave things on high shelves just to torment me.” You frown when you feel Piotr tense and look up at him. “What? What’d I say?”

His mouth quirks to the side as he rubs at the back of his neck. “About that...”

“You’re leaving?”

As it turns out, you haven’t been the only one thinking about big decisions. During your recuperation at the hospital, Wade and Nate had decided to move out of Xavier’s and into a location that better suited their needs as mercenaries --and better support their views on how to handle the world.

Code for the X-Men finally had enough Wade and Nate’s morally gray ethics and gave them the boot, you think as you gawk at the duffel bags and boxes sitting by the front door.

“For once, I’m with her!” Scott says, just as shocked as you --albeit for entirely different reasons. “Nathan, you belong here with us. Not with --with--”

“Where I belong is with my partner,” Nathan growls, emphasizing the word ‘partner.’ “You kick Wade out, you kick me out. End of story.”

“Nathan, you’re not thinking rationally.”

“Yes, I am. As much as I can respect what you do here, it’s not what I stayed behind to do. I have a mission, and if I’m going to succeed I need to be able to work outside a strict set of rules.”

“Look, if this is about the whole gay thing--”

“It’s called bisexual, Scott. I suggest you get used to saying it.”

“I don’t have a problem with it, I just don’t understand why you’d shackle yourself with... with...” Scott gestures to Wade haphazardly. “That!”

Nathan goes deadly stiff, techno-organic eye flaring as he glares at Scott. “‘That’ has a name. I suggest you use it.”

“Ooh,” Wade says when Scott flinches. “Do that again, Nate.”

“But --you!” Scott sputters.

“This isn’t up for discussion,” Nathan says, voice heavy with finality. “Now, I’d appreciate it if you left. I need to talk to my kid.”

You tilt your head back to watch Scott go. “Damn. That was impressive.”

“You learn it pretty fast while fighting a war.” Nathan kneels in front of your wheelchair. “You gonna be okay?”

You nod, chest suddenly tight with emotion. “Yeah. I always am --or find a way to be.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in a grin. “That’s the spirit.” He hugs you as best he can. “Love you, kid.”

You sniff. “Love you too, Dad.”

Wade groans when Nathan steps back. “I hate good-byes. Do we have to do this?”

You don’t even try to blink back the tears welling up in your eyes as you reach for him. “C’mere.” You wrap your arms around his neck when he bends over, stretching as much as you can without standing. “I’m gonna miss you.”

He squeezes you carefully. “I’m gonna miss you, too.”

“You better visit.”

“Well, who else am I gonna watch Nailed It with?”

You squeeze him one last time, then let go so he can pick up his duffel.

You and Piotr walk --well Piotr wheels you out, but the sentiment is the same--the two men out to Dopinder’s cab, and watch until the cab pulls away and drives out of sight.

He kisses the top of your head and hugs you when you start crying. “It’ll be alright, myshka.”

And it will be. Despite the pain, you know everything’s gonna work out. You’ve got your friends, your family, Piotr.

You’ve got yourself. You know who you are, what you’re doing, what you’re about.

You’re gonna make it just fine.