"Oh hey! You're home!"

Wade’s voice rang out from the living room, way too cheerful—forced, even. That was your first sign something was wrong. The second was the wet, stomach-turning squelch that followed.

Stepping inside, the sight that greeted you was... well. Typical, but still stomach-churning. A man dangled from the ceiling by his wrists, blood dripping steadily from deep slashes along his arms. His stomach had been opened up, intestines spilling onto the floor in a tangled heap. The rich, metallic scent of blood mixed with something sharper, something acrid.

Wade stood in the middle of it all, mask rolled up just enough to show that guilty little smile of his. He waved, as if that could somehow distract you from the absolute horror scene he’d created.

"Before you say anything, I am absolutely working on cleaning this up. Scout’s honor."

His tone was light, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he was watching you carefully, gauging your reaction. He always did that. As much as he acted like nothing phased him, like he didn't care what people thought, it was different with you. He did care.

"...Wade."

"I know, I know," he said quickly, raising his hands in surrender. "This looks bad. Like, real bad. But in my defense, this guy? He was working for Francis. And you know how I feel about people who work for Francis. And! I really tried to keep it, like, medium-level gory. Maybe even low gory, by my standards. I put down towels—okay, one towel—but it’s the thought that counts, right?"

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Wade—"

He was already moving, stepping in front of you like he could somehow block your view of the carnage. "Nope! No looking! This is not a thing for your adorable, way-too-pure eyes. Just—just gimme like, fifteen minutes, and I’ll have this all taken care of. Then we can do something nice. Like watch a movie. Or cuddle. Or both. And I promise not to make any murder-related comments while we do it."