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Hurt/Discomfort - Entry 2: Pumpkin Positive

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A/N: If I'm updating so soon, that can only mean one thing! I fucking hate editors. Also, I hate feeling like a bum with nothing to do. Moved to SC with the boyfriend, left a job I didn't completely despise, can't get into school for a year. Naturally, no one's hiring these days, so I just stay home and play house wifey wife -.-. I hate it. Someone needs to give me a part time gig so I have something to do again.

So what do I do? I abuse Bob. Hey, I'm not the only one. Since I posted the first chapter of this, someone gave Bob cancer. No kidding. It's there, Page 12 of the kink meme. He's that much fun to pick on. Me? I enjoy the more immediate concerns of blood poisoning. I realize I'm a fucking creeper. I grew up between a nurse aunt and a uncle dabbling in forensic sciences. Result? I got to visit the hospital AND see video/pictures of the body farm. And that was only my extended family. My immediate family is fraught with much scar-tissue, motorcycle riding, knife making, and teaching a nine-year-old how to fire a magnum (See also: antique poison collection, eating chicken fingers at biker bars, and frequent trips to the ER) - but that's an anecdote for another fic, or perhaps a fucked up autobiography - but I ramble and digress. Long story short, I became WAY more interested in how people got sick than in what made them better. And that's why I'm never invited to family reunions... wait. Got side-tracked there.

Oh, wtf, you people just want Bob-abuse and comedy.

Entry 2: Pumpkin Positive


            It was two hours and forty eight minutes before Wade got back. Bob knew, because the moment he walked into the range of the handheld, Weasel shouted, “It’s been two hours and forty eight minutes!”


            “Sorry, Weas – didn’t mean to keep you from that hot date with a box of Kleenex.”


            “Funny. Now can we hurry this up, please? I’m falling asleep here. Did you pick up what I told you to get?”






            “As in; ‘There wasn’t a Rite Aid in the fucking treetops; so, shut up, Weasel. I got mostly everything.’ ”


            Wade stopped in front of Bob, dropping a large blue sack off his shoulder and onto the ground. “I feel like a messed-up Santa Claus, or something. That or Bob’s been incredibly naughty this year. You holdin’ up okay?”


            The Deadpool costume was a little singed. There were at least a dozen bullet holes spaced out over his body. Bob could look through to his boss’s scarred skin and see that they had already healed up. It seemed awfully unfair. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. All things considered, he felt all right… but that infection talk Weasel had been going on about had convinced him that maybe he was wrong. “I’m kind of thirsty.”


            Wade unrolled the sack, which Bob realized was actually a tarp. There were all manner of things inside; duct tape, a mess kit, what looked like a hot plate. Wade selected a canteen and offered it to Bob.


            “Dehydration’s one of the first signs of septicemia,” Weasel said cryptically, giving Bob reason to pause as he reached for the water.


            “No it’s not. Dehydration would be from sweating, which would be from a fever, and that would be a sign of septi-whatever.” Wade pushed the canteen into Bob’s hand. “Stick to computers, Weas. I’ve got a good idea of what I’m doing. I had to know this stuff once.”


            “Don’t drink that, Bob,” Weasel snapped from the monitor, prompting Bob to drop the canteen. “And you haven’t needed any sort of basic first-aid knowledge for how long, Wade? I mean, what is that? That’s not surgical tape. Is that… is that duct tape?”


            Wade handed the canteen back to Bob, who held it much in the same way he would have had Wade just handed him a live bomb. “I’m improvising! All the good stuff’s probably at their base. The only medical kit I found was pretty much used up and… okay, maybe the last thing is kind of my fault. At least I found real gauze and stuff, right?” Wade picked up a roll of bandages by one end only to have it all fall from his hand like extra large confetti. “What the hell? Who saves scraps? We’re saving lives, not quilting!”


            “So? Some henchman probably just got a little overzealous with the bandaging and put back what he didn’t need. Don’t let that blow away. There might be something you can use.” Weasel studied the tarp, taking inventory of what was laid out there. “I don’t know what those are, but they aren’t tweezers. I think, maybe they’re used for cooking – and not to question your military training or anything, but aren’t you supposed to abstain from eating or drinking anything after a gunshot wound?”


            “Don’t drink that, Bob!” Wade slapped Bob’s hand, forcing him to drop the canteen again. “I don’t know. Maybe. How long does that last for?”


            Bob stared at his empty hand for a few moments, a little afraid to make any sudden moves with those two bickering. “You know what? It’s okay. I think I was only thirsty because of Weasel, anyway. I mean, a little while ago I kind of wanted ice cream too.”


            “You were eating ice cream in front of an injured guy, Weas?”


            “The Chinese food wasn’t very filling... Oh, just boil some water and get on with it.”


            Frankly, Bob was just happy Wade had come back at all – or had been. His initial relief at not being forgotten was fading fast. “Get on with what?”


            “Here, take these.” Wade ignored the question, handing Bob two pills instead.


            “What are they?” Bob tried to get a look at the medicine bottle, but Wade had already moved on to something else; namely struggling with how to work the hotplate.


            “Dunno.” Wade took to beating the hotplate with the butt of a gun. It sputtered sparks for a few seconds then began to glow a dull red. Satisfied, Wade set water on to boil. “There was a camp and some tents and some cots and this bag under one of the cots with old copies of Readers Digest and a really sinister looking vibrator and those pills – The label was faded but, my guess is they’re probably for VD. Henchmen are weird.”


            Bob looked at the pills in his hand and looked to Weasel who nodded. “It’s an antibiotic. It looks like one. Either way, it probably won’t hurt.”




            But Weasel wasn’t listening anymore. “Why was it sinister? Was it German? I bet it was German. Those things are terrifying.”


            “And why would you know something like that? …Yeah, I think it was German.”


            Bob eyed the pills a few moments longer then popped them into his mouth. He washed them down with water from the canteen exactly thirty seconds before panicking. “Oh, God, I drank water!”


            Wade and Weasel ceased their talk of German sex toys long enough to regard him quietly for a moment… but only for a moment. “Is that wrong though? I mean I know it’s wrong, but which part of it is wrong? That I think she looks hot dressed up as a Nazi or that she’s wearing a Hitler Youth uniform?”


            Wade considered the question as he laid the tarp out flat. “The Nazi thing. I mean, you don’t see people complaining about Japanese school girls. And, from what I’ve seen, they’ve done way worse things than the Nazis ever did. Though, I hear Hitler was into the occult, so he probably had people working on the Lovecraftian tentacle technology. C’mon Bob.”


            The abrupt change of subject startled Bob almost as much as being moved. He gave a yelp as Wade maneuvered him onto the tarp, the movement jarring his injured shoulder.


            “Be a man, Bob,” Wade scolded, already removing his expertly crafted Hanes-bandages. He wasn’t the most gentle of would-be field medics. Bob turned his head in the other direction, unable to watch – though he was sorely tempted to look when both Weasel and Wade made identical noises of disgust.


            It wasn’t a good noise. It was that hissing sort of inhale someone makes when they don’t want to tell the third party, “Sucks to be you.” Bob heard that noise a lot. He didn’t like that noise and, given his current situation, hearing it now was beyond terrifying. “What? What is it?” he demanded, trying to will himself to look but finding that his muscles refused to comply.


            It was no real surprise when Wade ignored him yet again. “How do I get to the browser from here?”


            “Top left, second button down- no, your other left – Yeah, that one.”


            Bob listened to the exchange, his mind immediately jumping to several very obvious and disturbing conclusions about what was going on. “H-he’s not learning how to do this from the internet, is he?”


            “Are you kidding?” Weasel asked with a humorless laugh. “He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. He’s on Web MD.”


            “Am not!” Wade snapped. It did little to quell Bob’s incoming panic attack. He knew something worse was coming. Something worse was always coming. “I’m on Wikipedia,” Wade amended quietly.


            Bob groaned, crying several combinations of the words “No” and “Oh, God” and “Mr. Wilson” until Wade interrupted. “I’m clicking the external links! There’s diagrams and stuff – stop squirming and shut up!”


            Wade’s assurances, if they were assurances, only made Bob more miserable; though, they did reduce his wailing to the occasional whimper. He jumped when he felt something cold and liquid on his shoulder. It smelled alcoholic and Weasel had to shout at Wade not to drink it once he’d stopped pouring.


            Several anxious minutes followed. Wade and Weasel were carrying on a conversation again, but all Bob could focus on was the ominous clinking of metal as medical instruments (that were possibly kitchen ware) were sterilized. Finally, Bob couldn’t keep himself from asking, “It just went right through, didn’t it?”


            “What are you- oh the bullet.” Wade was suddenly next to him again, putting something light and damp on his shoulder that was much too hot to be comfortable. “Yeah, it went right through.”


            Weasel seemed to have the inability to let Bob take any comfort in anything for longer than two seconds. “Are you sure? Bullet fragments can stay hidden until it’s too late. Obviously, we would have noticed by now if he had a punctured lung or something else along those lines – but, organizations like this buy cheapo ammunition by the gross. I seriously doubt the casing-”


            “They weren’t cheap!” Wade lowered his voice. “I mean, they didn’t look cheap, and I’m usually a pretty good judge of-”


            “Oh, Wade, you didn’t…” The way he said it, Weasel obviously knew he did.


            Bob forgot about not wanting to see what was going on. He faced Wade, staring at him with a blank expression as he tried to formulate the right words. “Mr. Wilson… you shot me?”


            “No,” Wade said immediately, trying to look busy as he studied a diagram on the monitor of the handheld. “Maybe… all right, yeah. I shot you; but it was an accident!”


            “Mr. Wilson, you shot me!”


            “I just said it was an accident! If anything, it’s your fault for wearing that uniform. All those Hydra uniforms look the same.”


            “We were fighting A.I.M.!”


            “Hey, I was fighting A.I.M. You went down before the fight even started.”


            “Because you shot me!” Bob didn’t get to be angry with people often. He took this opportunity to turn away and glare at the cave wall.


            “Don’t sulk. How many times did you get caught in my friendly fire when we were playing Army of Two, hmm? You should have known to get out of the way; especially if I'm manning a turret - not that I shot you with a turret. That was just for future reference.” Wade paused for a response. “Bob? Hey, Bob? What’s he doing?”


            “I think he’s giving you the silent treatment. It would be an ingenious way to deal with you, except you never seem to need a partner to keep talking. Just get started. Here, step four; if the wound is infected you’re supposed to first drain, ew, any puss.”


            Bob suddenly found himself feeling very nauseous. He glanced up in time to see Wade leaning over his shoulder with a cotton swab and a pair of kitchen tongs. “Cool,” he said, barely touching Bob’s shoulder before his patient had had enough.


            “No!” So much for the silent treatment. Bob pushed Wade’s hands away, sitting up despite his shoulder’s painful protests. “No, no, no! I feel fine! I feel great!”


            “Maybe you could give him the rest of that vodka?” Weasel suggested as Wade pinned Bob down, straddling his torso and planting an elbow on his chest.


            With his free hand, Wade reached for the cotton swab and tongs. “It’s all the way over there. If I get off him now, he’ll just run away and hide and die somewhere like your pet cat.”


            “That’s cold.”


            “Sorry, Weas. That was kind of personal, wasn’t it?” Wade leaned in close again.


The cold sting of metal sent a new surge of terror through Bob. “No! Ow! Stop it! You don’t know what you’re doing! Ow!” There was too much adrenaline running through him to register any pain, but he was sure it was there.


“MASH made this look so easy. Hold still, Bob!”


Bob twisted beneath his boss’s elbow. He squirmed and jerked until Wade’s hand slipped and he felt the uncomfortable shifting of skin that... really should have been better attached to the rest of his body. It hurt; not as much as Bob had expected it to, but enough to keep him from trying to escape again. He froze where he was, wrapping his uninjured arm around Wade’s leg and leaning his head against his thigh. “You’re going to get me killed,” he groaned, his voice muffled as he pressed close enough to the Deadpool costume to keep his eyes covered.


            “Probably, but not this time.” Wade was at least trying to be gentle – which, admittedly, didn’t mean much. It was painful, but mostly it was just incredibly uncomfortable, cold, and awkward. “You’ll be fine, Bob. I’m not gonna let you die. All right, so after I’m finished with this; what’s next?”


            “You’re supposed to probe around inside the wound, see if there are any more pockets of… gross.”


            “Heh… probe. Woah, Bob. Where ya goin’?”


            Bob was vaguely aware of Wade catching him from behind and lowering him back onto the ground. With his eyes rolling back into his head, it was a little difficult to be certain of the details.


            Wade actually looked pleased. “Great idea! You go ahead and pass out. That’ll make this a lot easier.”


            Bob obliged.








            It wasn’t as cold when Bob woke up; it was actually a little too warm for comfort. Bob pulled off his mask and gloves and rubbed a thin layer of sweat from his face. A lamp had replaced the glow sticks and, in the electric glow, Bob could see that Wade wasn’t there. Soft snoring from the handheld told him that Weasel was asleep. He was essentially alone.


            Bob sighed and inspected his shoulder. It appeared that Wade had found a use for the confetti chunks of bandages, after all. A wadding of fabric over the wound was wrapped in them; tiny bits of duct tape securing the pieces together. It was pretty good work considering that he had “improvised”. Bob considered thanking Wade when he got back then remembered that his boss had been the one who shot him.


            … But he still hoped Wade came back soon.


            Being alone made him nervous – not as nervous as the thought of waking Weasel up so that he would have some company, but it made him pretty nervous all the same.


            Bob picked up the handheld and watched the dark screen. He could make out the faint impressions of a lamp and an alarm clock; usual bedside, nightstand stuff. Thinking back to the snatches of conversation he’d caught between Wade and Weasel, Bob pressed the second button down from the left.


            The browser opened to a foreign online store. Bob couldn’t read the language, but it looked like German, and based on the merchandise pictured, he gathered that Wade had found the “sinister vibrator” and shown it to Weasel before leaving.


            “That is kind of scary,” Bob whispered to himself as he pulled up Google and proceeded to begin a search for The English Patient.


A/N: I have a good idea of where I'm taking this now; though I'm stuck between throwing in something overtly sexual or keeping things PG and "cute" in the romance department. Hrmm...
Current Mood:
melancholy melancholy
Current Music:
"Cherry Lips" - Garbage
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On July 3rd, 2009 08:15 am (UTC), violetjimjams commented:

Oh, man, I was a decent human until we hit Wikipedia. Then I just started guffawing and paused only to think "Wade, you jerk" about him shooting Bob.

I'm such a terrible person, but Dear God, Bob wears abuse so well. I swear, I'm not like this with other characters. Bob is special. He's like a little Voodoo doll. Made of Furbies.

Also, German vibrator? Google calls...
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On July 3rd, 2009 08:20 pm (UTC), wilde_shade replied:
Well, that's good. I mean - you give a guy cancer once, shame on the plot bunny. You give a guy cancer twice, shame on you.

And shame on me, because I'd probably still read it.
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On July 3rd, 2009 08:24 pm (UTC), violetjimjams replied:
Hah. I defy anyone to write a better Cancered Bob fic than is being written right now.
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On July 3rd, 2009 08:19 am (UTC), seiberwing commented:
Bob is like a Saturday Morning Cartoon chew toy for the universe, but he's all the more adorable for it. More now plz.
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On July 3rd, 2009 08:21 am (UTC), violetjimjams replied:
Saturday Morning Cartoon chew toy for the universe

That phrase deserves an icon.

Which I will steal as soon as anybody makes it.
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On July 3rd, 2009 08:31 pm (UTC), wilde_shade replied:
Agreed. Because of that, I need more of him... also, maybe a limited series. Are you listening Marvel? I'm still not happy about with Messiah War or that break in continuity with Merc With a Mouth #1! Appease me!
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On July 3rd, 2009 08:59 am (UTC), space_fight commented:
"The browser opened to a foreign online store. Bob couldn’t read the language, but it looked like German, and based on the merchandise pictured, he gathered that Wade had found the “sinister vibrator” and shown it to Weasel before leaving."

That whole rotation between serious medicine, wikipedia, and vibrators?

It was amazing.

Just so you know. :3
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On July 3rd, 2009 08:44 pm (UTC), wilde_shade replied:
Aw, thank you XD. When I think of serious medicine, I always think of vibrators... and sometimes Walt Disney's cryogenically frozen head... but mostly vibrators.
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On July 3rd, 2009 08:50 pm (UTC), wilde_shade replied:
I'm glad you're still enjoying it XD. I'm not sure about kitten-fluff, but it's Bob... so pathetic!cute is probably inevitable.
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On July 4th, 2009 06:09 am (UTC), wilde_shade replied:

Heh, I enjoy the thought of Bob initiating things. I'll have to see how it works out. I can be a little paranoid about trying to keep things IC.
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On July 3rd, 2009 10:57 pm (UTC), bloodyfire commented:
I feel sooo bad for bob. this is perfect and exactly how I'd imagine a sane person reacting to Wade's "medical" care.

I can't wait to see more, sexual or not I'm just loving poor wounded bob
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On July 4th, 2009 06:17 am (UTC), wilde_shade replied:
Thanks for the comment ^-^.

When I started writing the first chapter of this, I was sure more people would be iffy about reading Bob-abuse. I'm very happy and a little disturbed that I was so wrong.
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On July 6th, 2009 03:07 pm (UTC), violetjimjams replied:
We are sick people. A sick, sick fandom of sick sick people who love as sick group of sick in the head mercs.

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On July 4th, 2009 08:03 pm (UTC), inlaterdays commented:

Poor Bob. I love it. Poor Bob.

Duct tape! "Your other left!" Sinister vibrators!
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On July 5th, 2009 03:56 am (UTC), wilde_shade replied:
OMFG, your icon!

Yes, thank you for the comment and all that... but OMFG, your adorable icon!
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