It was a slow night at Sister Margaret's, as was typical on a Tuesday. The crowd was there more for the drinks than for the dancers, so Domino was busy at the bar and the girl on stage was only giving a half-hearted performance to a techno version of "Call Me Maybe." Weasel was propping up the bar because there was little else for him to do when the crowd was so sparse. Wade was seated at a barstool nursing a glass of whiskey on the rocks with a worn skeeball token in his left hand, his thumb rubbing over the letters stating No Cash Value.

Priceless. That's what Wade considered it, at least.

"You should have told me you wanted your Jameson watered down," Neena said as she propped her elbows on the bartop across from him.

Wade glanced up at her and said, "Huh?"

She smiled. "You should go home. I think we've got things covered here."

"I don't know," Wade said as he looked toward the stage. "I think Krystal might need help fending off the ghosts of horny men who died here over the years."

"We need to bring back Tuesday night Lady's Night," she said with a mischievous smile. "Get you up on that pole and show everyone how you work it."

"I am quite good on a pole," Wade said, though his expression didn't match the humor in his voice. "And my calves look amazing when I wear my platforms."

Neena smirked and said, "You should try that line on Cable."

Wade shook his head and looked back at the token in his hand. He liked talking to Nate. He really did. But when Wade got home, the old pain was there and he just couldn't figure out why he'd been happy earlier. Then he felt guilty for feeling happy. Finally, he just pressed his face into Vanessa's pillow and willed himself to sleep.

"You have texted him, right?" Neena said, practically laying her head on the bartop to get Wade to look at her.

"You're supposed to wait at least two lifetimes, or you seem over eager," Wade said flatly. Then his brow furrowed and he said, "What exactly did you tell him about me, anyway?"

She got out her phone and navigated to the Tinder app and opened the profile she made for Wade under the name Deadpool. She handed him the phone.

Wade read out loud, "Deadpool, 41. A good man with a good heart looking for friends. Don't be a weirdo, because that's my job." He looked at Neena and said, "What the hell kind of sad panda bullshit is that? Fuck. You could have just…" Then he noticed the picture that she used. Or rather, noticed what was missing. "You cropped out Ness?"

"It was your best picture," Neena said. "You're actually smiling."

Wade shook his head.

"You should text him," Neena said, deftly avoiding his question.

Weasel took an interest in the conversation then and said, "Text who?"

"The guy from Tinder," Neena said as she straightened up. "Older guy with the eyepatch."

"Oh, yeah," Weasel said, and it was only somewhat convincing that he was following the conversation.

The furrow deepened and Wade glared at Neena as he pointed at Weasel. "Did he know about this little caper?"

"Yes," Neena answered as Weasel said, "No."

More than likely, Weasel was only partially paying attention, if at all.

Wade sighed. "Guys, I do appreciate what you're trying to do here, but—"

"You guys were talking like you'd known each other forever," Neena said, giving him a knowing look. "And whether you're willing to admit it or not, you were actually happy on the ride home."

"That's not the point," Wade said. He scrubbed a hand over his face and said, "I don't think I'm ready for any kind of a relationship with anyone. I…" He shook his head, feeling the emotion rising and stinging at his eyes and burning his throat. "No one can replace her, and you can't just fucking remove her like she was never there!"

"According to John James and Russell Friedman, the goal isn't to replace what was lost, but to heal from the wound so that you can once again open your heart." Wade, Weasel, and Neena turned to Buck, who continued from his barstool, "You need to do the work to process all of this grief, Wade, so that you can move forward. It does not dishonor your memory of Vanessa to open your heart and allow yourself to have feelings for someone else. You don't want to replace her; you need to complete yourself."

Wade's face scrunched and he said, "Who in the fuck even asked your opinion, Buck?"

Buck put a hand on Wade's shoulder. Wade glared at the hand, then looked up when Buck said, "All this anger is just unresolved grief trying to come to the surface. The sooner you let it out, the sooner you can start to heal."

"Jesus tits, no more talking," Wade said as he shrugged off Buck's hand. He stood and said to Neena, "And don't ever try to set me up with someone again, or next time we spar, I'm not pulling my punches."

"I'll still stomp your ass," Neena called after him. "And you don't pull your punches!"

With a middle finger raised, Wade walked out the side door of Sister Margaret's. It was raining, a nice steady rain that caused Wade to pull the hood of his jacket up. He thought about going to the corner store, buying a pack of cigarettes and chain smoking his way back into the cancer ward. It was a stupid idea and far too time consuming as a method of suicide.

He ended up in a small park that was halfway between work and home and plopped down on a bench with peeling paint. At some point, he wasn't sure when, he stopped being able to cry over Vanessa. Most of the time, he was either pissed off or numb.

It all was so sudden. When he was hit with the big C, Vanessa was right there to help him through all of the tough days when he struggled with the treatments and spent most of his days vomiting or in agony. She never shied away when his hair fell out or when the growths and lesions left his face scarred and pocked. Vanessa was a rock by his side.

And then she…

Wade shook his head and took out his phone. A couple taps, and he navigated to his phonebook, scrolled to the entry for Cable and clicked the Trashcan icon. The question popped up, Are you sure you want to delete this entry?

His finger hovered over Okay.

Neena was right, but fuck her anyway. Still, she was right. Wade really did enjoy talking to the guy. Somehow, it felt like they were kindred spirits. Truth be told, it was easier to talk to someone like Nate because Nate didn't know his history. He didn't know that Wade just lost the love of his life (who also happened to be good friends with all his friends). Neena lost someone she'd known since Kindergarten. Al loved her like a daughter. They all grieved the loss, but Wade… Wade didn't know how. When Vanessa died, it felt like he'd lost a limb. He made that comparison many times.

He thought about Nate and wondered what he would think about the analogy.

Wade hit the CANCEL button, then opened a text message. He typed:

Me: This is Wade. I know I said I'd go to that game, but I am in a shitty place right now in every sense of the word. I have days where I don't want to live let alone pretend to be functional. This is what I am. I am barely sane, so whatever Domino told you, it was probably bullshit. I'm a clusterfuck in human form.

After a moment of hesitation, he hit SEND and slouched down on the bench to let the rain hide any other droplets that may have gathered on his face.


Nate walked into the terminal in Atlanta with a stiff neck and grainy eyes. He'd been driving several hours and miles past what the Department of Transportation regulations considered safe and healthy. Then again, DoT regulations were made up by a bunch of idiots in offices who probably didn't know the difference between their ass and an air brake. At the dispatch window, he handed over his paperwork and updated logbook, then with his duffle bag and shaving kit slung over his shoulder, he headed outside to wait for the Uber to take him to the hotel.

Askani Transportaion was a decent company to work for, compared to others he'd signed on with over the years. Good benefits, decent mileage, plenty of vacation time, and they provided rooms for their drivers when a layover was necessary instead of having to sleep in the bunk. The next load wouldn't be ready for another 12 hours, and he would be paid for his time sleeping. The only thing on Nate's mind was a hot shower and clean sheets.

The hotel was only a couple miles from the terminal, and Nate was put into room 41. Outside doors, which always felt less secure, and as soon as he was inside he shuffled around the chairs to add an extra layer of protection that the deadbolt and slide lock didn't provide. This was a habit that Irene begged him to break, but he just couldn't. She didn't understand, and his paranoia was one of numerous reasons she cited as grounds for divorce.

Once certain no one was going to come through the door, Nate headed to the sink outside the bathroom door and took off his shirt. Next, he removed his prosthetic, unbuckling the straps and shedding it with a sigh of relief. He'd had it for years, and the soreness had gone away for the most part. It was a good fit, overall. The best he'd had in the last 20 years. Semi-articulating, and a perfect match in bulk and symmetry to his good arm. He removed the socket and padding and massaged the skin beneath a moment before dropping to the floor to do pushups.

This was his routine. Sitting in a diesel all day paid good money, but it was hard on the body in ways most didn't realize. Drivers were prone to high blood pressure, blood clots, and other bullshit because it was so sedentary. Thus, he exercised. The push-ups also helped keep his good arm in shape. So did the weekends helping at his dad's farm, chopping wood and bucking hay. With one arm, he outworked most people with two. Mind over matter, he told himself. He was always able to bend his matter to his will. That was the easy part of recovery.

The hard part, and what he still struggled with, manifested in his need to lock and block doors.

Once he'd built up a good sheen of sweat and had his heart pumping, he shaved and took a quick shower to get rid of the of the sweat and grime. By the time he was out, he saw a missed call from his daughter, Hope. He sat on the end of the bed in his boxers and a clean t-shirt and dialed her number.

She answered with a happy, "Hey, Dad!"

"Hey, sweetie," he said softly. "How was driver's ED today?"

"We just did dumb stuff, like signals. Who doesn't know how to use a turn signal?" she complained.

Nate laughed. "Lots of people, apparently."

Nate taught her how to drive when she was 10 years old, and had her pulling trailers at the farm like a pro by 12, much to her mother's disapproval. Hope was practically a natural.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Atlanta," he answered. "At the hotel. Should be heading home sometime in the morning, or whenever they get the trailer loaded."

She sighed. "Mom said she's giving me the Touring Sedan."

Nate chuckled. It was a sound few people ever heard. "The Touring Sedan is a fine first car."

"I'd rather have a truck," she said, and it kind of made him proud. "Are you going to bring me peaches?"

"Wrong time of year," he said, unable to stop smiling. "But I'm going to be on this run at least until October, so when they're in season, I'll bring you a giant box straight from the orchards."

She asked, "Do you think I can take a trip with you when summer school's over?"

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Nate said, though he hated it. When Hope was little and he and Irene could still tolerate each other, they would take long trips over the road. He would work out deliveries to take them to interesting landmarks and National Parks. Hope liked to play in the bunk and roam around all the compartments. Those were the best trips because he didn't have to leave anyone behind. She cried every time he had to leave, and it always broke his heart a little. Bringing her along on a trip now, without Irene there to escort her around the truck stops, felt like a gamble he didn't want to take. And truthfully, he knew Irene would say no.

When the judge awarded Irene primary custody, Nate understood the reasoning. His job meant he was only home on weekends, and sometimes he had to be gone for several weeks at a time. Still, he spent every possible minute he could. Sometimes he was lucky to be home during the week to watch her judo matches, and he even got to attend the orchestra concert at Christmas—a first since she started playing cello. He saved up his sick days and personal days to compound his vacation time so he could take a month off in the summer, and the two of them usually went to Nate's family farm in the northern part of the state. It wasn't how he imagined being a father, and he hoped that she understood he did it all for her.

"If nothing else, we'll go visit Grandpa Scott and Grandma Jean," he said finally.

Hope sighed dramatically and asked, "Do they still have that mean rooster?"

"I think they ate him," Nate said, again smiling when Hope cackled.

There wasn't much conversation after that, and they hung up with the customary I love you's, a good night, and a promise to call again soon. Talking to Hope was the highlight of his days. She was always sending him texts, memes, and pictures because it was hard to know when he would be awake or sleeping. It was better now that everyone had a cell phone and signal was just about everywhere. In the early days, he had to use pay phones and could only call home a couple times a week. Now, he was never out of contact.

He plugged his phone into charge and flopped back on the mattress to stare at the ceiling. At some point, there had been a water leak, judging from the brownish stain in the corner. He closed his eyes and was just about asleep when his phone pinged. He cleared his throat and pushed himself up, only belatedly realizing he was laying on top of the hotel bedspread.

He expected a message from either Hope or dispatch. Instead, it was a message from Wade. He raised an eyebrow and tapped it to view.

Wade: This is Wade. I know I said I'd go to that game, but I am in a shitty place right now in every sense of the word. I have days where I don't want to live let alone pretend to be functional. This is what I am. I am barely sane, so whatever Domino told you, it was probably bullshit. In the name of full disclosure, I'm a clusterfuck in human form.

Nate read it over a couple times, finding that it was oddly refreshing that Wade was so honest—even if it didn't seem accurate. He liked to joke, but Nate could see the pain that was underneath it all. It was familiar. There was a reason that, despite the oddity of how they became acquainted, he found himself interested in knowing Wade Wilson. He didn't have many friends who weren't drivers, and most of his conversations lately started with, Hey dad. Which, yes, he absolutely loved his daughter and he looked forward to every conversation with her, but it would be nice to have someone to talk to about things that had nothing to do with road miles or pop artists.

Before he could say anything, another text came through, and Nate realized that Wade was clearly having a rough night.

Wade: The thing is…I found my soulmate. I found her, and she was killed. And that is not something you just get over. It's been two years, and it still hurts like it was yesterday. I know that Domino meant well. I know she did, but it just hurts so much to even think about. I may never be ready to be anything but a friend. I don't even know if I can be a friend. I feel like you deserve to know.

A sad smile settled onto Nate's mouth as he started typing. Strange as it may be, the pain is what made the most sense to him. Some days, it felt like his whole life was defined by varying levels of pain with only brief glimpses of what appeared to be happiness. Hope was the only bright spot, really.

Me: I understand pain. I'm not going to say I know what you're going through because that would be bullshit. Pain is different for us all, and you need to deal with it on your own timetable and not that of your friends. I am sorry for the part I played in Domino's scheme. She did not give me the full picture, and I would not have gone along had I known. If that affects your view of friendship with me, I completely understand. Still, I am glad that I met you and if you are still up for it, I'd like to have your company Saturday, game or not.

He hit send and sighed as he settled back against the pillows and turned off the bedside light.

Domino, or whatever the hell her name was, admitted that she made the Tinder account in Wade's name. Initially, he told her to fuck off. Then he thought it was some kind of scheme. Half the people who'd contacted him either wanted money or were just assholes. He planned to delete his account. But for reasons that even now he could not articulate, he decided to meet this man and play along with his strange friend.

The thing was, he didn't expect to like Wade. It was possibly the best conversation Nate had in maybe a decade. The guy didn't spend all his time staring at his arm or scars. He made eye contact and actually understood Nate's sense of humor. Not to mention, Wade was funny. Nate wanted to know him better, but he also knew that Wade had every right to be pissed.

Ping!

Wade: I'm not mad at you or her. Dom's heart was in the right place. It's me. I'm not in the right place. But I do like the idea of a friend. I wasn't kidding when I said that, specifically about you. As long as you don't give me the pity eyes. I hate that shit.

Me: I don't do pity, so you're in good hands.

Nate thought about it for a second, and sent a follow up.

Me: Or good hand.

Wade: LOL! Okay. Yeah. We can totally be besties.

A smile creeped across Nates face.

Me: I hope your night gets better. I'm exhausted. Been driving way too long and about to go to sleep. But text me any time you need to. I may not reply right away, but I will reply.

Wade: Thanks, Cable. Sweet dreams and all that.

Me: You too, Wade.


Still in the rain, Wade was smiling and the only moisture on his face came from the sky. After a moment, he tucked his phone in his pocket, got up from the bench, and headed home with footsteps that felt somewhat lighter.