#like no offense… i will never take the mask off. its how I fuckin survive

[littlest-bugz]

Does anyone else go thru phases where you don’t want to talk to anyone?

Like,,, I love you so much, but I just need to RECOUP. I need my alone time so I don’t have another breakdown.

[durrzerker]

Taskmaster: The Line. Chapter 3: Misunderstandings

Hey all, sorry for the delay on Chapter 3! I was moving! New place, happy to get back on the weekly schedule.

--

I swear to god, this happens every time I try to do something nice, Taskmaster thought to himself as he desperately ducked back from another swipe of Wolverine's claws. Laura Kinney had been coming on hard and fast for nearly thirty very long seconds by now, assaulting him with the unique blend of ferocity and finesse that he'd come to characterize her fighting style as. He had battled her before, and he knew her moves well by now, but that doesn't fix his broken ribs; he's having a difficult time. "Damn it, Kinney! I told you, this wasn't ME!"

He couldn't afford an offense right now. It was a lot easier to survive if he focused on the assault underway. He use his photographic reflexes to read her movements, the familiar and new alike, predicting each blow. A claw thrust is deftly blocked at the wrist, pushed upward by his own; he didn't know if she was aware his shield was true vibranium, and he didn't want to play that particular card unless he absolutely had to.

Wolverine swung her boot towards Taskmaster in reply. He made a sour face behind his mask and fell back, pirouetting and lifting his sword to intercept a kick at the shin, forcing her to stop lest she lop her own leg off.

"Your word means nothing, Taskmaster." Laura's tone was biting. "The first time we met, you shot my sister - my KID sister."

"I thought she was a fucking midget!" He replied in reply, exasperated.

Damn it, that came out wrong. Why was he so bad at this? Furious at his comment, Wolverine was swiping both arms across, one after the other, in a tightly guarded rush. She wasn't berserk - he could see the clever way that she was guarding herself during each swing, keeping her balance in a manner that allowed her to lunge backwards if he finally countered - but she was clearly furious, and his comment hadn't helped.

Taskmaster took another step back into the alleyway, but soon he was hitting the fence. Quick as he was, Kinney was just as fast; he couldn't climb fast enough to avoid getting claws in his back for his trouble. Sighing reluctantly, he finally committed to fighting back, even as he made another plea for her to calm down. "I MEANT I don't hurt kids, damn it - Alchemax gave me bad intel on that job! Said they were just mindless defects." Wolverine was coming at him again, and with nowhere else to go, Taskmaster made his move. She went high, so he ducked low, feeling the air from the swipe of her claws passing over his head. It hurt his damaged ribs to be crouching this low, but it was necessary. Lifting his shield up, he uncoiled his legs like a spring, crashing into the woman hard enough to send her flying until she landed in a backwards roll. While she was shockingly strong for her size, Taskmaster was as well - and had over a hundred pounds of muscle on her. As far as advantages went, it was a small one; he'd seen her take down bigger people than him. Still, he could use it when fighting defensively.

"Yeah? What do -you- think, kids?" To her credit, Wolverine wasn't ignoring his words outright. Watching him warily, she spoke over her shoulder to the children that she'd mistakenly thought he was kidnapping. He'd been watching them confer for awhile, and truth be told, he wasn't all that surprised when Mara replied, jabbing a thumb behind her at her injured comrade, "Taskmaster broke his leg."

Rounding on Taskmaster, Wolverine lunged again.

"God DAMN it, you little brats! What's that all about?! I was helping you!" But he knew exactly what this was. The kids, coldly pragmatic like only trained assassins could be, were waiting to see how this played out; whoever won would be more useful to them, and they had no compulsions about letting either Wolverine or Taskmaster get injured - or worse - finding the answer to that question.

"Cold-hearted little shits..." He didn't have much time to ruminate on it, though. Now that he'd actually hit Kinney back, she was stepping up her game. An onslaught of swipes and kicks, turning her into some kind of bladed whirlwind, forced Taskmaster to give up what little ground he had gained with his shield thrust. Catching her wrist on one roundabout swing, the mercenary pivoted at the hip; thrusting his elbow back, he locked and flung her over his shoulder in a rare technique he'd borrowed right from Shang-Chi. Truth be told, that was one of the only martial artists he trusted to be useful against Laura; he was pretty confident that relying on many of his usual moves would get him killed, because as good as those people were? She was better.

Case in point, he'd barely released her when she was springing back at him, having landed in a crouch and adjusted her momentum with so much speed and force that it had surely broken her ankles - a cost she could afford, a move that even he couldn't copy. "Damn!" Tony barked, turning as best he could. A claw aimed for his sword arm sank instead into his collarbone, causing him to yelp in pain as the kinetic-absorbing fibers were pierced like paper by her adamantium. Forced to drop his weapon as his muscles started to seize, Taskmaster glared at Wolverine, lifting his now one good arm up at her. "Yer making a mistake, Kinney...I'm the only hope these kids got."

"You're really sticking to that story, huh?" She asked. "I might even believe you, Masters; I've never known you to keep fighting like this when you couldn't win...but I don't trust you enough to risk children over. I won't kill you, but I can't let you take them. Honestly...I'm sorry." She looked it, too, hesitating ever so slightly; and then she closed in, little more than a blur.

"Yeah...me too." Last time they'd fought, he hadn't taken her seriously. Maybe it had been her size, or her youth, or just the fact he'd been leery of that whole job; but he'd paid for it when Wolverine had surprised him with her foot claws, burying one of them in the center of his friend. He'd promised he wouldn't make that mistake again; live and learn. That was the only motto that mattered. He really hadn't ever seen someone who fought quite like Laura Kinney, and when Taskmaster found someone THAT impressive, there was only one thing he could do.

Wolverine swiped her claws upwards, looking to cut the straps of his shield right off his arm; Taskmaster could see the precision and finesse of the blow, but he was already in motion. With incredible flexibility for a man of his size, the bulk of his body shifting in a downright feminine way, he pirouetted backwards away from her strike. As her blades cut only air, Wolverine widened her eyes in surprise; she recognized that move, but too late.

The retracting boot-claw that Taskmaster had installed, a perfect mimickry of Laura's own, unsheathed directly into her jaw, spearing its way up into her brain. As the other end emerged from the top of her skull, she went limp, and then a sickening squelch filled the air as he ripped the blade free.

Barely finishing out the backwards flip, Taskmaster staggered on landing, nearly collapsing. "Ergh...damn, that hurts to do with a broken rib. Sorry, Kinney...but you'll be up and at 'em in a few hours. Not much that can keep you down." With that, he finally started to rise, rounding on the children. "As for -you- little opportunistic gremlins...really just wanted to wait and see who'd win that one, huh? I try to help you, and you sic the fuckin' Wolverine on me. Maybe I -should- just leave you here."

"...We're still waiting," Adeja replied, looking past him.

"Wha--?"

A few hours? Apparently not. Half her face missing, brain visible through her pierced skull, Wolverine leapt atop Taskmaster's back; before he could even react, her claws were pressed to his throat. She was a sickening sight, scalp peeled and one eye completely blind -- but she was healing fast, and clearly  "I suppose I'm flattered," she said, her voice slurred some due to the fact that it was still healing from the hole that he'd staked through it. "You thought I was worth copying."

"I never settle for less than the best," Taskmaster replied honestly.

"Well, thanks. Still, you missed one detail: I would -never- have turned my back on an opponent with a healing factor."

"...Me either," Tony said through gritted teeth, glaring at the adamantium pressed against his neck. "But I can't have these kids running off in Bagalia; there's a thousand ways for them to die here. Was afraid they'd get spooked after seeing me stake you and bolt."

Narrowing her eyes just as the damaged one regained its sight, Laura dropped off his back. "...You're actually serious. You really are trying to help them. Never thought I'd see Taskmaster, of all people, put himself at risk for someone else." Setting her jaw, Wolverine pulled her cowl off, unable to get it to properly sit on her head thanks to how torn up it was. With alarming speed, she redirected that stern energy towards the mischievous children.

"You withheld critical information. You made me hurt someone who was trying to help you - and help me. What do you have to say for yourselves?"

Mara replied without hesitation, "He probably deserved it."

Pursing her lips and glancing sidelong at Taskmaster, Laura shrugged a bit. "I can't really argue with that. Sorry, Masters. Regardless, can you keep going? Looks like I got you good there."

"Ah, don't flatter yerself," Tony replied. Big words, considering he was prodding thoughtfully at the place she'd stabbed him and wondering how long it'd be until he could lift that arm again. "I was injured way before you got here."

"I'm not sure that's the braggadocio you think it is."

"Ah, shut up. I can keep going. You're going to help, then?"

"I'm going to help -them-, Taskmaster. If that means tolerating your presence in the meantime...so be it."

The two regarded each other for a long moment, tension in the air. Even if they'd found reason to stop fighting, it was obvious that they were a long way away from being friends. Before they could break eye contact, a groaning from between them drew both of their attention to the ground.

It was Black Ant, finally starting to wake from when Laura had ambushed him and knocked him unconscious. Rising into a sitting position, clutching his head through the cracked armor of his helmet, the LMD took one look at Laura muttered, "Just our luck. We stumble onto a bunch of kids and get jumped by the poster child of damaged children."

"Yeah, well, stay focused on the mission, Eric," Taskmaster proclaimed. That drew Black Ant's attention to him, then back to Laura.

"Jeez, you two really fucked each other up."

"Maybe, but she gets to actually heal hers." The throbbing of his shoulder had Tony envying, however briefly, Wolverine's healing factor; then he remembered what one had done to Deadpool and immediately got over that little sentiment."Get up, Eric. We lost a lot of time with this little distraction, and we gotta get moving."

Nodding in reply, Eric pushed himself up to his feet, wincing. "Damn...What'd you hit me with, a brick?" He asked Wolverine.

"...My fist," she replied simply.

"Right, right, adamantium."

"No, just my fist."

"Shut up."

As Taskmaster opened one of his pouches and grabbed a sewing kit, Laura stopped before the children. "You had your fun, but if you want to be safe, you need to actually listen to us from now on. No more playing tricks, and no more lying about who is hurting or helping you."

"We didn't lie. Taskmaster really did break his leg."

"...Even so."

Five minutes later, they were ready to set out. Taskmaster had crudely stitched up his wound - all the photographic reflexes in the world couldn't make self-surgery smooth - and Black Ant had recovered from his bout with unconsciousness. Surrounding the children in a triangle formation, Wolverine, Taskmaster, and Black Ant set out towards the center of Bagalia City.

None of them were aware of just what was waiting between them and their destination.

[himbowelsh]

For BabeRoe: Five times Babe caught one of his friends wearing his clothes and very much minded and one time he didn't mind at all.

AN: these five times prompts always take me a long time bc, well, i’m essentially writing six fics, but i LOVE them and i love writing them!

The fault might lie with Babe, if he'd been idiot enough to leave his clothes lying around where anyone could pick them up. The thing is, he didn't. Bill is anal about keeping laundry in its proper place -- “in your drawers or in the basket, the hell is this, rocket science?” Babe doesn't get the chance to leave articles of clothing lying around anywhere except his disaster zone of a room, and if he somehow manages to leave something behind, it never stays there for long.

When he traces it back, his friends’ awful track record of pilfering his clothes starts with Julian.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Babe demands, striding into the studio (their glorified term for the rec room they all spend their time in when they want to hide from their responsibilities). His question is accusatory; he doesn't care. There is no good reason for Julian to be sitting cross-legged on the couch, soaking wet, in nothing but a pair of boxers and a sweatshirt.

Neither articles of clothing belong to him. Babe knows this, because he is the house’s unofficial Laundry Guy. He's dealt with Julian’s mess of a wardrobe to recognize when his friend is wearing his own clothes and when he isn't. Right now, he definitely isn't, because that's the same sweatshirt Babe wore to the movies a few days ago.

And those boxers… also do not belong to Julian.

“Julian,” he repeats when his friend seems too caught up in his phone to look up at him. “Where did you get those?”

“Hmm?” Julian glances up, looking surprised -- as if he’s just noticed Babe’s presence, the faker. He shrugs thin shoulders concealed in Babe’s sweatshirt and leans back into the couch. “I got caught in the rain. These were the only dry things I could find.”

The storm outside is a killer. It swept in out of nowhere, while Babe was lucky enough to be inside the house. He heard Julian stumble through the front door a few minutes later, but he never considered the implications of his friend getting caught in the storm until now.

Staring down Julian, wearing his sweatshirt and his boxers, he's not sure what to say. A part of him feels defensive; another part feels a little violated.

“You're wearing my boxers,” he emphasizes, as if this justifies every baffled emotion swirling through his head.

Julian glances down at them, shrugs, and twists his pale legs beneath him before returning to his game. “I thought these were Bill’s, to be honest.”

Bill doesn't wear checker-patterned boxers. Bill wears solid colors, the Italian flag, and (on rare occasions) briefs. Babe would love to not have to know this, but now he kind of wishes Julian did.

“Am I…” He pauses, hesitates, wondering if he's breaking some sort of unspoken friendship rule. Or just a house rule -- no one wants Julian going commando on their couch. “Can I ask you to take off my underwear?”

“Sure. You can ask.” Julian sounds almost bored, but when he looks up at Babe, there’s a smirk on his lips. “Don't mean I'm gonna do it.”

Torn between defeat and fury, Babe styles for the least-offensive option and just stalks away. He doesn't want to throttle Julian, but if he has to look at him wearing his underwear anymore, he's not going to be able to be held responsible for what he might do.

He loses this round. At least, he thinks, it's just one (weird) isolated incident.

He thinks wrong.

He’s just stepping through the door when he comes face to face with a sight he could have gone his entire life without seeing. (Okay, maybe not -- he’s seen it before, and he’s not happy about it but he knows it’s inevitable that he’ll see it many times again before he dies.)

“Dammit, Bill, will ya put some pants on?”

Bill waves a hand over his shoulder, not even bothering to glance up at Babe. He’s laser-focused on running the vacuum back and forth over a particularly stubborn spot in the carpet. He’s been whining about that stain for weeks now, ever since Julian dropped a taco (and then picked it up and at it). Today, he’s finally decided to do something about it.

While dripping wet, wearing absolutely nothing.

Babe shields his eyes and walks straight into the coat rack, because of course he does. It’s that kind of day. “I don’t need to see your bare ass!”

“I didn’t need to haul your stupid scrawny ass up to bed when you got wasted on tequila bombs, tried to go skinny dipping, and hit your head in the pool. Did I? Fuckin’ no, but I did it, because I’m a great goddamn friend.” Bill leans down to train the suction right on the stubborn stain. Babe feels like he’s been dropped into a very screwed up production of Macbeth.

“I swear to god,” he says, still fumbling to figure out where the stairs are with his eyes closed. He’s touching something that might be a fur coat, but could also be Spina’s chest. “If you don’t put some clothes on now I’m calling Frannie.”

“She loves my ass.”

“I’ll take a picture and send it to everyone, then.”

“I’ll strangle you.”

Babe doesn’t even know where his phone is, let alone which direction Bill’s standing. He also doesn’t want something that horrifying on his phone. It might melt, or explode, and none of his awful friends will buy him a new one.

“Bill,” he finally sighs, slumping in defeat. “Just put some pants on. Please.”

Bill considers this question for a long moment (way too long, in Babe’s opinion) before snorting. “There’s a t-shirt and shorts in the bathroom. I saw them when I got out of the shower. Go get ‘em.”

He’s so eager to not have to stare at his friend naked any longer -- and, frankly, to have an excuse to leave -- that Babe scrambles to the bathroom. He doesn’t look at the clothes he grabs off of the towel rack. All he registers is that they’re a t-shirt and shorts, actual clothing for Bill to wear so he doesn’t traumatize the nice old couple that lives next door. (The curtains were wide open. How the hell could Bill be doing that in full view of the whole neighborhood?)

He makes it back to Bill in record time, and flings the wad of clothes at him like he’s scoring a winning touchdown in the Superbowl. He keeps his eyes screwed shut until he hears the vacuum switch off and Bill sigh.

“There. I’ve got clothes. You happy now, Heffron?”

Babe finally risks opening his eyes, and doesn’t bother stifling his sigh of relief. The shirt is too tight and the shorts are too short, but Bill’s full moon is no longer offending everyone and their mother. Babe is content up until the moment he realizes something that kills and buries his good mood.

“Hey, those are my clothes!”

Bill just casts a wink over his shoulder. “You gave ‘em to me.”

The vacuum switches on again, drowning out Babe’s groan of frustration.

Of all the people he expected to stab him in the back, Spina was the most unlikely suspect. Spina is the nicest of them all. He’s loyal. He’s a stand-up guy. He has a closet full of comfy clothes all of his own.

Babe doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this.

“Spina! Buddy, you've betrayed me!”

Spina just shrugs, pulling Babe’s baggy sweater (which isn't quite as baggy on him) tighter around his shoulders. “It's freakin’ cold, Babe. Sorry.”

The heat has been off all weekend because someone (no one wants to say Bill, but two people pay the bills in this house and Fran has never missed one in her life) forgot to pay the company. This wouldn’t be such a bad thing, except it’s the middle of winter, and Babe is pretty sure humans need warmth to survive. If someone doesn’t get the heat turned back on soon, the rest of the house has made it clear that they’re going to murder that someone and use him as a human fire log.

So Babe can understand why Spina would be wearing a sweater, just not his sweater. “Come on. That’s the one Gene got me for Christmas!”

“Why d’you think I’m wearin’ it now?” Spina demands. “It’s the warmest thing in this goddamn house.”

Gene is from Louisiana, where the coldest they get in winter is still enough to melt ice cubes. His experience of northern winters have been nothing short of a horror story, so he’s become an expert in remaining a human furnace at all costs. He’s always wearing the warmest clothes, and he gives them as gifts too. Gene’s sweater might be the only thing standing between Babe and life as a human snowman, and currently that sweater is on Spina’s ungrateful back.

“Buddy, I love you,” he says, “but take off your clothes.”

Spina wraps his arms tighter around himself. He sees the glint in Babe’s eyes, and he’s ready. “I can’t do that, Babe.”

“Spina --”

“No!”

Spina lets out a yell as Babe tackles him. They both go tumbling off the couch in a ball of flailing limbs, hollering bloody murder all the way. When they hit the floor, it’s a wrestling match. Babe has got a good grip, but Spina’s not going down without a fight.

They wind up tearing the sweater, messing up the couch, and Babe smacks his head against the coffee table. When the stars clear from his vision, Spina is already sprinting from the room.

Well, at least they exercise is keeping them warm.

Just as Babe is starting to think he has the worst friends in the world, they still find a way to surprise him.

He steps out of his bathroom in full-on Spiderman regalia. He’s got the suit; the mask; even a tiny miniature “web shooter” that really sprays silly string everywhere. Smokey Gordon’s costume birthday bash is going to be wild, and Babe is ready for it.

He stops cold in the doorway when his eyes land on his two friends, clustered together in the middle of the kitchen. Liebgott is stooped over, his head buried in the fridge, muttering to himself as he paws through their leftovers. Grant has hoisted himself up on the counter, and is swinging his legs while munching on Bill’s favorite potato chips.

They’re both wearing Babe’s clothing.

Grant has stolen Babe’s favorite yellow and orange striped t-shirt, matching it with basketball shorts, with a bright red Phillies hat backwards over his messed-up hair. Liebgott is in a striped button-up, and wears a pair of skinny jeans that do not fit him at all. He has his hair slicked back, and looks all the more uncomfortable for it.

For a second, Babe can only gape. Then he tries to inhale, chokes on air, and remembers how to use his words again. “What the hell are you assholes doin’?”

Chuck raises a nonplussed eyebrow. “What’s it look like? We’re dressed up.”

If he’s being honest, Babe has no clue what the hell it looks like, but he knows one thing for sure. “You raided my closet!”

Liebgott emerges from the fridge, half a pickle hanging out of his mouth. “We’d agreed that we'd all go as each other. I'm Grant, can't you tell?”

“The correct question,” pipes up Grant, “is what are you wearing?”

Babe glances down at his (amazing) Spider-Man costume, then back up at his friend's again. His eyes are close to bugging out of his head at this point, but he doesn't care.

“If you're Grant,” he says to Liebgott, “why the hell are you in my shirt?”

“Because this guy wouldn't let me anywhere near his closet.”

“Do you think I'm an idiot?” Grant stares and Liebgott hard, daring him to answer. Liebgott opens his mouth, closes it again, then tries one more time before giving up. Grant smiles. “Not to mention, you're the one who left your door unlocked.”

“Yeah,” agrees Liebgott. Babe gets a very good view of the half-chewed pickle in his mouth. “Who's really at fault here?”

Babe gapes at them. His eyes swivel between Grant and Liebgott. He opens his mouth, makes some weird noises, chokes on his own spit, and realizes that nothing he says will make a difference. It's his own fault for agreeing to do anything with these two in the first place. Great as they are, Babe always winds up the butt monkey in their trio, and even though he doesn't like it, he also doesn't know what the hell to do about it.

Finally, he sighs. He's not going to argue; they've got a party to get to, dumb costume arrangement or not. “You like superheroes,” he says, pointing at Liebgott. “Now let’s move, I ain't gonna be late because of you idiots.”

He storms out of the house, Grant and Liebgott following behind him. Liebgott brings the pickle jar.

All he wants is a glass of water. A parched throat is the only thing capable of dragging him out of bed after a long, trying day spent learning to kickbox from Toye. (Babe relearned two things that he already knew: he is not made for kickboxing, Joe Toye is a beast.)

Swallowing stings, and his mouth is dry as the Sahara desert. When he finally manages to haul himself out of bed all his muscles protest. He knows he'll have one nice collection of bruises tomorrow, but he'll wear them like battle scars. They'll hurt like a bitch, but the defeat will just be a reminder of why he should avoid getting into the ring with someone who could probably benchpress him. (Not that Babe is one to shrink from a challenge, but Toye is his friend, thereby it's okay not to want to fight him.)

He stumbles out of his room on feet that feel like lead blocks, and is halfway down the hall when he realizes that he isn't alone. The hallway light is on, illuminating a figure standing in the doorway of the living room. A head full of curls is silhouetted against the dim light; a black t-shirt hanging just above to the middle of bare thighs. Babe blinks hazily for a moment, brain not quite registering what he's seeing, before he recognizes the person in front of him.

“Frannie?”

“Babe.” Fran’s silhouette is backlit against the dim hall light. She is frozen in place, torn between looking awkward and guilty. She does a weird side-step to block the living room doorway, which does nothing to disguise the oversized band t-shirt she is wearing. Babe’s eyes settle on the worn logo, and he feels a familiar exasperation creep over him.

“Tell me that's not my shirt.”

Fran hesitates for a moment before answering, “I’d love to.”

“Are you wearing anything under it?”

Another pause, too long to be interpreted as anything other than the negative that it is. Fran’s lips purse, and she tilts her head like she's considering the question. “Well...”

That's all Babe needs to hear. He holds up both hands, doing an about-face before he can see any more than he needs to. If Fran is standing there half-naked in the shirt Babe left lying around the living room this morning, chances are that Bill is just inside the living room -- probably less decent than Fran, filthying up the couch they all share.

It's par for the course for his friends at this point, but Babe is still disgusted.

“Oh my god. I'm moving out.”

“Good luck finding someone else who’ll take you,” Fran calls out to his retreating back. Then, after a beat -- “This shirt is really soft! What detergent do you use?”

Babe’s bedroom door slams behind him. He never gets his glass of water.

“Are you wearing my shirt?”

In the hazy morning light, it's hard for Babe to make out much; but the figure of Gene standing over the coffee maker, wearing nothing but an oversized Phillies t-shirt, is impossible to miss. For a second Babe isn't convinced he's really awake. It would be all to easy to dream of a sight like this.

Then Gene turns around, smiles at him, and Babe knows this is no dream at all. “Do you mind?”

In spite of himself, Babe feels a grin spreading across his face. He sidles into the kitchen, not bothering to flick the light on, and loops his arms around Gene’s waist. Gently, he presses Gene back against the counter and leans in to capture his lips.

Babe’s mouth is still dry. Crust stings the corners of his eyes. The both have morning breath, and Babe’s half-awake brain makes everything feel hazy and out of focus.

But he knows the contours of Gene’s lips as well as the back of hand. The taste of him, the hand cupping his cheek, the eyelashes fluttering against his own -- this is all very, very real. The best way to wake up is with Gene’s lips on his, Babe decides.

When they pull back, Babe can feel a small flush on his face. Gene’s lips are still quirked, like Babe’s told him a funny joke, but his eyes are gut-wrenchingly gentle.

“G’morning to you too, cher,” he mutters, and Babe grins.

His boyfriend can wear his clothes any time he wants.