sv fic post: East of the Sun part 30
5/12/08 12:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: East of the Sun
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Lex/quite a few people, eventually clex of course
Rating:R
Word Count:2537
Summary: Lex learns about trust and love from an unlikely source.
Notes/Warnings: my version of the swing era.
This section contains hints of violence.
Many, many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
danceswithgary expert hand holder, brilliant beta and super patient person. Big boo-boos are strictly mine.
Alex fumed as Wade blew smoke rings and watched him. After a long minute, he said, "I told you, your time was yours until I called. I called."
"Yes, but…the band. I can't just leave because you want me to." Alex closed his eyes. Of course Wade expected him to do just that. Granted, this whole business had been a lot less horrific than he'd expected, Wade was even strangely rather kind…in his own way. "Listen, I know that you're in charge of the club, I know what you say goes, but when it comes to the band itself, Walt is in charge, and I have to defer to him. I'm sorry but you see that, don’t you?" Alex looked at Wade, willing him to understand, and Wade did look thoughtful. He nodded slowly, and Alex gratefully stroked the back of his hand, wanting to thank him by gifting him with an affectionate gesture. Wade watched his hand with a little smile.
"You understand that I don't mind these…dates…with you," and that was almost the truth. So far, he'd had two letters and a picture from Jules, contact, just like Wade had promised. And it went beyond that…there'd been an evening or two that they talked about current events like regular people before…before. Wade liked listening to the radio, and liked for Alex to sit with him. They ate dinner together a few times, and Wade made sure his chef prepared something that Alex liked. Wade could be a nice guy. And the sex…was okay. Not too bad. Nothing he couldn't handle or hadn't engaged in before with other partners, and survived—
He turned his face to the window, watched the street rush by. The few pushcarts out on the streets lent garish color against the mostly gray snow, the sun glittering on the rare clean patch of snow blinded him; his cheek was chilled by the cold pushing against the glass…his thoughts flew like the streets, his life, his brother…Clark….
Wade spoke, his soft voice rolling over Alex. "So, New Years. After the gig in the club, you've got an appointment with me. Whoever you've got lined up for that evening...be done by one o'clock." He went silent again, and Alex didn’t speak. No reply was necessary.
The car stopped in front of the building where Wade held an apartment. He had separate addresses for different needs. There was his family home with wife and children, his business address, and this one. Alex stepped out and to the side, as the driver held the door for Wade. He followed him up the stairs and into the luxurious apartment.
Wade was quiet, taking his coat off and handing it to Alex, who raised an eyebrow but took it. He could hear the radio in the other bedroom towards the back of the apartment. Wallboy was here, he always was. Usually, he took care of butler duties….
"Come here." Alex turned from the closet. Wade was sitting in a yellow club chair in the living room with his legs spread wide, one hand resting on his unbuttoned fly, and a small smile on his face. Alex didn't hesitate—he dropped to his knees in front of the chair, and moving Wade's hand aside, released his dick from the cotton briefs. As always, Wade smelled of…nothing...cotton, laundry soap…the faintest hint of roses. With lips and tongue, Alex worked to bring him fully erect. Wade's dick rode against his palette, back and forth as he bobbed his head. He kept his eyes closed to avoid meeting Wade's, relaxed his throat, about to sink down when he felt something hard, cold, jab him in the corner of his eye.
"Hey."
He opened his eyes and found himself looking into the barrel of a gun. It moved closer and closer until it pressed painfully against his left cheek bone, dragged up and across the bridge of his nose and jammed into the inner corner of his right eye. There was a click. "You…don't tell me what to do. Mistake. I'm not your friend."
Wade jabbed the gun tighter against his eye, pushing Alex's head back, back—stars flashed and blew in the darkness behind his closed eyelids. His heart slammed in his chest, he felt sweat forming under the metal. He pictured his eye bursting like a grape squeezed under a thumb, swallowed hard. "Okay," he gasped. "M'sorry." The pain disappeared, the pressure of the barrel lessened, and Alex barely got a breath before Wade cupped the back of his head and pushed him down. Alex sucked him off with the gun barrel pressing against the middle of his brow.
He was wiping his swollen mouth when Wade pulled him to his feet, and growled against his cheek, "I could put a bullet in your eye—or I could put a bullet through your hands. Don’t forget." He kissed him, shoving his tongue into his mouth as if he were trying to find himself inside. He smirked and whirled Alex around, and pushed him towards the bathroom. "Wash yourself—I'll wait in the bed."
@@@@@@
Clark watched the sedan pull away from the curb, stared after it long after it was impossible to see. Pete came out and laid his hand on Clark's shoulder.
"Clark, man, I didn’t know. I—but it's probably business, right?" Clark looked at Pete, and Pete swallowed. "Yeah…bullshit."
Clark sighed and walked back into rehearsal, ignoring the look Walt gave him, concentrated on smiling and laughing with Chloe. They practiced 'Green Eyes,' and Clark imagined gray eyes to help him through it.
Eventually, Walt declared himself happy with the song change, broke down the problems with that day's rehearsal, warned Alto Sax to stop showboating because it was going to end up with him under the El with a hat on the ground and a boot in his ass. "Okay, Chloe, Clark, that tune's a real showstopper. Unh—say Clark—this is a—you know—a love song—I'm telling you, the look on your mug?—more threat than pash—"
Chloe nodded, "Jeepers yeah, C.C., I thought you were going to bite my head off! Did I do something, say something. Heck, don’t make me guess—"
"Oh no, Chloe, you were great, you're always great. I'm just…just kind of beat. Walt, can I go now?"
"Free as a bird, C.C. Go."
@@@@@@
not too fast, not too fast…Clark reminded himself over and over as he trotted over to the coat rack and grabbed his from the rest, remembering at the last minute to put his gloves and hat on. It was late afternoon, and the street was a little too busy for Clark to take the chance of speeding to Alex's place, besides, he was pretty sure he wouldn't be there—Mr. Mahaney didn't look like the kind of guy who'd have an informal meeting. They were probably at some swanky restaurant, something a little more upscale even than the Luxor. Clark slowed down and strolled along the streets, waving at the faces familiar to him. He knew most of the shop keepers along the streets that intersected Bessolo Boulevard, not to mention most of the cops. He waved at one of them now, a mounted policeman crossing East 66th. He waved back at Clark and his mount whickered and dipped her head. They were easy-going, friendly and usually Clark would stop to chat briefly but today, he had something important to do.
He followed the loop Bessolo took around Centennial Park, before it straightened out and headed in the direction that eventually ended in Suicide Slums. Alex's apartment was quite a few blocks from the Slums, Pete's folks house, not so much. The neighborhood was still nice where the Rosses lived, and the newly minted American, the immigrants who lived in those neighborhoods, made the streets colorful and fascinating—they might not have had a lot of money but they were still full of hope and belief in the Metropolitan melting pot. Clark knew that a few more blocks north, winding down to the warehouse district, it was a different world. The Slums crowded up against the factories, train depots and warehouses that were Metropolis' lifeblood. He knew first hand how poverty and despair could crush the light from peoples lives …Clark shivered a little. It was quiet now--the Slums tended to be quiet in the day and he planned to take advantage. He stopped on Alex's block and thought about stopping in the little café Alex had taken him to before Christmas, but no, he wasn't going there again until Alex took him. He settled for a sausage and pepper sandwich from a push cart, and a bottle of crème soda. He sipped tentatively and winced…he wasn't sure he liked it all that much but it certainly wasn't going to hurt him. He bought a paper from a newsstand and flirted boldly with a tall dark-haired boy in a killer camel hair overcoat who was movie star handsome and flirted right back…Clark grinned. He'd watched Clark buy a sandwich, and kept watching as Clark walked away. He stopped at the corner and looked back—the guy was still watching him. Clark figured he should have been ashamed of his interest, and a few days ago he might have been but…hell, if he had an interest in men instead of women, who was to tell him it was sinful or wrong for *him*? Clark snorted. His business was his own.
He parked himself on Alex's stoop. He unwrapped the sandwich, opened the newspaper to his favorite section, folded the paper in half and half again and settled in to eat and read his current favorites, Flash Gordon and Tarzan. He liked them because the stories were exciting and the artwork was great and not in the least because they were both hunks. Mostly not because they were hunks…he grinned to himself, and bit into his sandwich.
@@@@@@
The sun was dropping behind the rooftops, it was getting dark. The streets were nearly empty, and he'd read all parts of the paper including every single item in the classifieds and Alex was still out. Clark had hashed and rehashed what he'd say to Alex when he finally got home--that he knew Pete and he weren't a couple, and to *stop* not looking at him, and this time, he wanted a real kiss and just what the hell was up with Mr. Mahaney? Walt never left the club with him and he was the leader of the band--hell, he never saw *Mr. Louis* leave with him, and he *ran* the Luxor, plus the day to day of the Al-Kazar. Besides, he really didn’t like that Mr. Mahaney, he had eyes like a rattler.
It was full dark before Clark finally decided he'd had enough. He'd deal with this another day—tomorrow. He gathered up his newspaper and trash and was poised to speed home when he heard a scream. The sound came from blocks away--Suicide Slums. The scream was a woman's--down there, at this time of night, it was probably a street walker—Clark was up and running before he'd even finished thinking about it. He ran fast, at the top of his speed, fast enough that the world froze. It was like running into a stage backcloth--everything was still, silent, and frozen into place and he was embarrassed to admit how good it felt to have his own private world….
The warehouse district was dark even in the day—at night it was frightening, the sky crisscrossed with elevated tracks, the buildings seeming to tilt together over the roads. Here, in the gloom and filth, people the city wanted to forget tried to eke out an existence, any way they could.
He followed the screams to a spot under the El, and there she was, a woman surrounded by a pack of jackals with human faces. They were laughing, taunting her, saying terrible things, promising to do awful things to her. Clark could never understand why people wanted to hurt each other so, why the strong, instead of helping the weak, preyed on them—it made him angry. It was unfair.
*This* was unfair. The woman was scared and weak, a tiny scrap of a thing compared to the men toying with her. They pushed and slapped her, blocking her escape from their circle. Clark felt the blood burning in his face, felt his mouth pull down into a ferocious frown. Those jerks needed a lesson, and he was the one to give it to them.
He swept around them at his top speed in rapidly shrinking circles. With each loop around, trash and dirt whirled high into the air; the confused thugs staggered and fell into each other. He slowed to punch one, and the jerk flew through the air, landing in a garbage bin with a wet crack, howling with pain. Clark broke another one's wrist, hissing," G'wan, try to take someone's hard earned cash with that busted mitt, you goon." With a grim little smile of satisfaction, he whirled and grabbed another of the mooks by his collar before he could make a break for it. "Trying to run, hunh? Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, and leave defenseless little girls alone, you creep!" Clark slapped the mug, splitting his lip and sending a tooth flying.
In quick succession, he left his mark on each jackal, stopping short of causing permanent damage but just by a hair. He wanted these guys walking around, an advertisement that in Metropolis, crime didn’t pay. He yanked a metal signpost out of the sidewalk, and bent it around the unconscious goons.
The whole incident happened in the blink of an eye—to the victim, it must have seemed as if an invisible force buffeted the thugs but…Clark sighed. He couldn't take a chance on her having seen who'd saved her. He sped to her side, a grey and black blur, and tapped her gently on the forehead. He caught her as she fell, knocked out cold. A search of her handbag yielded an address and he breathed a sigh of relief. He'd left people in churches before but he preferred to bring them to the safety of their own homes. The goons he left tied up in a metal bow with a note for the coppers. They were on their own.
He was going to have to do something about hiding his identity . He'd thought about not hiding but came to the conclusion that if he did that, he'd have no life of his own. He knew people. If they were aware that the 'Metropolis Angel' was Clark Kent, the life he was living now would be over, snowed under by a million petty requests from folks who could probably help themselves, buried by demands that he fix this, or make that happen or—or—squeeze coal into diamonds like some Arabian Nights genie. No thanks. He looked down into the care-worn face of the woman he's saved this evening and grimaced…he was pretty sure knocking people out like that couldn’t be good for them…
part 31
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Lex/quite a few people, eventually clex of course
Rating:R
Word Count:2537
Summary: Lex learns about trust and love from an unlikely source.
Notes/Warnings: my version of the swing era.
This section contains hints of violence.
Many, many thanks to
danceswithgary expert hand holder, brilliant beta and super patient person. Big boo-boos are strictly mine.Alex fumed as Wade blew smoke rings and watched him. After a long minute, he said, "I told you, your time was yours until I called. I called."
"Yes, but…the band. I can't just leave because you want me to." Alex closed his eyes. Of course Wade expected him to do just that. Granted, this whole business had been a lot less horrific than he'd expected, Wade was even strangely rather kind…in his own way. "Listen, I know that you're in charge of the club, I know what you say goes, but when it comes to the band itself, Walt is in charge, and I have to defer to him. I'm sorry but you see that, don’t you?" Alex looked at Wade, willing him to understand, and Wade did look thoughtful. He nodded slowly, and Alex gratefully stroked the back of his hand, wanting to thank him by gifting him with an affectionate gesture. Wade watched his hand with a little smile.
"You understand that I don't mind these…dates…with you," and that was almost the truth. So far, he'd had two letters and a picture from Jules, contact, just like Wade had promised. And it went beyond that…there'd been an evening or two that they talked about current events like regular people before…before. Wade liked listening to the radio, and liked for Alex to sit with him. They ate dinner together a few times, and Wade made sure his chef prepared something that Alex liked. Wade could be a nice guy. And the sex…was okay. Not too bad. Nothing he couldn't handle or hadn't engaged in before with other partners, and survived—
He turned his face to the window, watched the street rush by. The few pushcarts out on the streets lent garish color against the mostly gray snow, the sun glittering on the rare clean patch of snow blinded him; his cheek was chilled by the cold pushing against the glass…his thoughts flew like the streets, his life, his brother…Clark….
Wade spoke, his soft voice rolling over Alex. "So, New Years. After the gig in the club, you've got an appointment with me. Whoever you've got lined up for that evening...be done by one o'clock." He went silent again, and Alex didn’t speak. No reply was necessary.
The car stopped in front of the building where Wade held an apartment. He had separate addresses for different needs. There was his family home with wife and children, his business address, and this one. Alex stepped out and to the side, as the driver held the door for Wade. He followed him up the stairs and into the luxurious apartment.
Wade was quiet, taking his coat off and handing it to Alex, who raised an eyebrow but took it. He could hear the radio in the other bedroom towards the back of the apartment. Wallboy was here, he always was. Usually, he took care of butler duties….
"Come here." Alex turned from the closet. Wade was sitting in a yellow club chair in the living room with his legs spread wide, one hand resting on his unbuttoned fly, and a small smile on his face. Alex didn't hesitate—he dropped to his knees in front of the chair, and moving Wade's hand aside, released his dick from the cotton briefs. As always, Wade smelled of…nothing...cotton, laundry soap…the faintest hint of roses. With lips and tongue, Alex worked to bring him fully erect. Wade's dick rode against his palette, back and forth as he bobbed his head. He kept his eyes closed to avoid meeting Wade's, relaxed his throat, about to sink down when he felt something hard, cold, jab him in the corner of his eye.
"Hey."
He opened his eyes and found himself looking into the barrel of a gun. It moved closer and closer until it pressed painfully against his left cheek bone, dragged up and across the bridge of his nose and jammed into the inner corner of his right eye. There was a click. "You…don't tell me what to do. Mistake. I'm not your friend."
Wade jabbed the gun tighter against his eye, pushing Alex's head back, back—stars flashed and blew in the darkness behind his closed eyelids. His heart slammed in his chest, he felt sweat forming under the metal. He pictured his eye bursting like a grape squeezed under a thumb, swallowed hard. "Okay," he gasped. "M'sorry." The pain disappeared, the pressure of the barrel lessened, and Alex barely got a breath before Wade cupped the back of his head and pushed him down. Alex sucked him off with the gun barrel pressing against the middle of his brow.
He was wiping his swollen mouth when Wade pulled him to his feet, and growled against his cheek, "I could put a bullet in your eye—or I could put a bullet through your hands. Don’t forget." He kissed him, shoving his tongue into his mouth as if he were trying to find himself inside. He smirked and whirled Alex around, and pushed him towards the bathroom. "Wash yourself—I'll wait in the bed."
@@@@@@
Clark watched the sedan pull away from the curb, stared after it long after it was impossible to see. Pete came out and laid his hand on Clark's shoulder.
"Clark, man, I didn’t know. I—but it's probably business, right?" Clark looked at Pete, and Pete swallowed. "Yeah…bullshit."
Clark sighed and walked back into rehearsal, ignoring the look Walt gave him, concentrated on smiling and laughing with Chloe. They practiced 'Green Eyes,' and Clark imagined gray eyes to help him through it.
Eventually, Walt declared himself happy with the song change, broke down the problems with that day's rehearsal, warned Alto Sax to stop showboating because it was going to end up with him under the El with a hat on the ground and a boot in his ass. "Okay, Chloe, Clark, that tune's a real showstopper. Unh—say Clark—this is a—you know—a love song—I'm telling you, the look on your mug?—more threat than pash—"
Chloe nodded, "Jeepers yeah, C.C., I thought you were going to bite my head off! Did I do something, say something. Heck, don’t make me guess—"
"Oh no, Chloe, you were great, you're always great. I'm just…just kind of beat. Walt, can I go now?"
"Free as a bird, C.C. Go."
@@@@@@
not too fast, not too fast…Clark reminded himself over and over as he trotted over to the coat rack and grabbed his from the rest, remembering at the last minute to put his gloves and hat on. It was late afternoon, and the street was a little too busy for Clark to take the chance of speeding to Alex's place, besides, he was pretty sure he wouldn't be there—Mr. Mahaney didn't look like the kind of guy who'd have an informal meeting. They were probably at some swanky restaurant, something a little more upscale even than the Luxor. Clark slowed down and strolled along the streets, waving at the faces familiar to him. He knew most of the shop keepers along the streets that intersected Bessolo Boulevard, not to mention most of the cops. He waved at one of them now, a mounted policeman crossing East 66th. He waved back at Clark and his mount whickered and dipped her head. They were easy-going, friendly and usually Clark would stop to chat briefly but today, he had something important to do.
He followed the loop Bessolo took around Centennial Park, before it straightened out and headed in the direction that eventually ended in Suicide Slums. Alex's apartment was quite a few blocks from the Slums, Pete's folks house, not so much. The neighborhood was still nice where the Rosses lived, and the newly minted American, the immigrants who lived in those neighborhoods, made the streets colorful and fascinating—they might not have had a lot of money but they were still full of hope and belief in the Metropolitan melting pot. Clark knew that a few more blocks north, winding down to the warehouse district, it was a different world. The Slums crowded up against the factories, train depots and warehouses that were Metropolis' lifeblood. He knew first hand how poverty and despair could crush the light from peoples lives …Clark shivered a little. It was quiet now--the Slums tended to be quiet in the day and he planned to take advantage. He stopped on Alex's block and thought about stopping in the little café Alex had taken him to before Christmas, but no, he wasn't going there again until Alex took him. He settled for a sausage and pepper sandwich from a push cart, and a bottle of crème soda. He sipped tentatively and winced…he wasn't sure he liked it all that much but it certainly wasn't going to hurt him. He bought a paper from a newsstand and flirted boldly with a tall dark-haired boy in a killer camel hair overcoat who was movie star handsome and flirted right back…Clark grinned. He'd watched Clark buy a sandwich, and kept watching as Clark walked away. He stopped at the corner and looked back—the guy was still watching him. Clark figured he should have been ashamed of his interest, and a few days ago he might have been but…hell, if he had an interest in men instead of women, who was to tell him it was sinful or wrong for *him*? Clark snorted. His business was his own.
He parked himself on Alex's stoop. He unwrapped the sandwich, opened the newspaper to his favorite section, folded the paper in half and half again and settled in to eat and read his current favorites, Flash Gordon and Tarzan. He liked them because the stories were exciting and the artwork was great and not in the least because they were both hunks. Mostly not because they were hunks…he grinned to himself, and bit into his sandwich.
@@@@@@
The sun was dropping behind the rooftops, it was getting dark. The streets were nearly empty, and he'd read all parts of the paper including every single item in the classifieds and Alex was still out. Clark had hashed and rehashed what he'd say to Alex when he finally got home--that he knew Pete and he weren't a couple, and to *stop* not looking at him, and this time, he wanted a real kiss and just what the hell was up with Mr. Mahaney? Walt never left the club with him and he was the leader of the band--hell, he never saw *Mr. Louis* leave with him, and he *ran* the Luxor, plus the day to day of the Al-Kazar. Besides, he really didn’t like that Mr. Mahaney, he had eyes like a rattler.
It was full dark before Clark finally decided he'd had enough. He'd deal with this another day—tomorrow. He gathered up his newspaper and trash and was poised to speed home when he heard a scream. The sound came from blocks away--Suicide Slums. The scream was a woman's--down there, at this time of night, it was probably a street walker—Clark was up and running before he'd even finished thinking about it. He ran fast, at the top of his speed, fast enough that the world froze. It was like running into a stage backcloth--everything was still, silent, and frozen into place and he was embarrassed to admit how good it felt to have his own private world….
The warehouse district was dark even in the day—at night it was frightening, the sky crisscrossed with elevated tracks, the buildings seeming to tilt together over the roads. Here, in the gloom and filth, people the city wanted to forget tried to eke out an existence, any way they could.
He followed the screams to a spot under the El, and there she was, a woman surrounded by a pack of jackals with human faces. They were laughing, taunting her, saying terrible things, promising to do awful things to her. Clark could never understand why people wanted to hurt each other so, why the strong, instead of helping the weak, preyed on them—it made him angry. It was unfair.
*This* was unfair. The woman was scared and weak, a tiny scrap of a thing compared to the men toying with her. They pushed and slapped her, blocking her escape from their circle. Clark felt the blood burning in his face, felt his mouth pull down into a ferocious frown. Those jerks needed a lesson, and he was the one to give it to them.
He swept around them at his top speed in rapidly shrinking circles. With each loop around, trash and dirt whirled high into the air; the confused thugs staggered and fell into each other. He slowed to punch one, and the jerk flew through the air, landing in a garbage bin with a wet crack, howling with pain. Clark broke another one's wrist, hissing," G'wan, try to take someone's hard earned cash with that busted mitt, you goon." With a grim little smile of satisfaction, he whirled and grabbed another of the mooks by his collar before he could make a break for it. "Trying to run, hunh? Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, and leave defenseless little girls alone, you creep!" Clark slapped the mug, splitting his lip and sending a tooth flying.
In quick succession, he left his mark on each jackal, stopping short of causing permanent damage but just by a hair. He wanted these guys walking around, an advertisement that in Metropolis, crime didn’t pay. He yanked a metal signpost out of the sidewalk, and bent it around the unconscious goons.
The whole incident happened in the blink of an eye—to the victim, it must have seemed as if an invisible force buffeted the thugs but…Clark sighed. He couldn't take a chance on her having seen who'd saved her. He sped to her side, a grey and black blur, and tapped her gently on the forehead. He caught her as she fell, knocked out cold. A search of her handbag yielded an address and he breathed a sigh of relief. He'd left people in churches before but he preferred to bring them to the safety of their own homes. The goons he left tied up in a metal bow with a note for the coppers. They were on their own.
He was going to have to do something about hiding his identity . He'd thought about not hiding but came to the conclusion that if he did that, he'd have no life of his own. He knew people. If they were aware that the 'Metropolis Angel' was Clark Kent, the life he was living now would be over, snowed under by a million petty requests from folks who could probably help themselves, buried by demands that he fix this, or make that happen or—or—squeeze coal into diamonds like some Arabian Nights genie. No thanks. He looked down into the care-worn face of the woman he's saved this evening and grimaced…he was pretty sure knocking people out like that couldn’t be good for them…
part 31
Tags:
(no subject)
5/12/08 09:02 am (UTC)wade rulzeeeeeeee!!
*serves you right, alex, after confusing and dazzling poor clarkie so much *g***.
haha, so he is starting to play hero, only soooooooooooooo much wiser than our clark kent!!!!!!!!!!!! they were aware that the 'Metropolis Angel' was Clark Kent, the life he was living now would be over, snowed under by a million petty requests from folks who could probably help themselves, buried by demands that he fix this, or make that happen or—or—squeeze coal into diamonds like some Arabian Nights genie
yesyes!!!
now all you need to do is, rescue alex too! but only after lettiing wade having more fun with hiM!
(no subject)
5/12/08 08:34 pm (UTC)*G* This Clark is going to be a lot different than that other Clark. He's not that worried about consequences as SV Clark.
Heh! You know I'm not killing Wade that quickly!