8884/You are the best, Wade.

You are the best, Wade.
Date of Scene:	20 August 2019
Location:	Steve's Apartment
Synopsis:	Wade and Steve talk about murder and dating. Kind of.
Cast of Characters:	Deadpool, Captain America

---

Deadpool has posed:
Six messages of various gifs later, Deadpool picks one of Cyndi Lauper riding a polka-dotted giraffe of glitter.

< SORRY, WRONG PERSON > is added, texted.

< BUT IT STILL APPLIES.>

< SORRY CAPS. >

....

And then next, < What's up? You're not in your room. >

Captain America has posed:
Steve glances over as his phone lights up. It's resting on the small slatted wooden side-table on the back porch of his Brooklyn apartment. He's got a beer rested on his knee and his shoes kicked off to one side. Picking up the phone, he frowns down at it and then sighs. The drink is set aside and he texts back.

< No, at apartment in Brooklyn. >

He adds the address after a moment of consideration and flicking eyebrows, up and frown, up and frown.

< Join if you want. Have beers. >

Blip, off goes the text, and he sets the device aside again to pick up the bomber of stout once more. Yes, bomber. More to taste, since that's all it'll do to him. The night is warm, the cityscape twinkling, and the river reflects the wane light in faint glitters far beyond.

Deadpool has posed:
Wade doesn't have that location in his mind, so he takes a taxi. That's still a thing. He has a good time, chatting at the taxi driver, too, so he's bright and sunny in mood despite the night air when he's dropped off. Wade stops on the sidewalk, idly using his phone to find the address, and then immediately heads for one of the nearby buildings, to start to climb a fire escape after jumping onto a dumpster.

A YOWL of a surprised cat is the only indication about Wade's travels, as he climbs up, and hunts from a rooftop perspective.

It's not difficult, what with the address, to find the place and head over that way, unnecessarily up on the roof. As he closes, he automatically switches into a swift, stealthy stride. "Maybe I should have rung the bell," Wade comments to himself, pausing, and referring to his phone. "He didn't say to. We're good."

With that as the only warning, Wade suddenly jumps down from the roof, like a ninja. In this case, in normal people clothing (sweatshirt, jeans)-- except he does have his Deadpool mask on. "Ta-Da! I have come to commence companionable hangout time."

Captain America has posed:
Steve glances away from tracking the distant light of an airplane in and out of the night's scattering of clouds. The cat's not an unusual sound, but it's still a warning in itself. He leans out from his seat in his chair before 'hmph'ing to himself and settling back in again. Another deep swig of the stout and he side-eyes his phone. Nothing since his reply text to Wade.

At first, it sounds like pigeons purring to themselves, the subtle voice-like noises from the top of the building. The blond super-soldier reaches to rub at the side of his neck even as muses. Could it b --

One broad hand claps to his own chest as Wade's suddenly present. The chair scoots to one side with a loud scrape and Steve blinks hard before letting out a sigh. "Yes, Wade, you are," he acknowledges, glad to have not spilled his stout but for the elongated neck of the bottle. "Grab a beer." A finger extends from about the bottle to point at the small collection beneath the side table separating the two deck chairs, one taken, one free.

Deadpool has posed:
"I also brought some drugs, if you want to do some drugs," Wade says, while grabbing a beer, as if that were an entirely normal announcement. "I have to like, inject heroin into my eyes to feel much, but it can be worth it," shares the mercenary.

Wade moves over to the deck chair and climbs into it like a strange child, sitting cross-legged in the chair. He then overly dramatically hooks his other thumb under his mask and pulls it off with a florish -- and dump of mask next to him-- to start to put the beer to mouth ... only to find it not open.

With a laugh he opens it with an agressive twist in his bare palm, the leathery skin seeming to not mess with his ability to grip.

Captain America has posed:
"Thanks, Wade, but no thanks. Cocaine wouldn't make a dent even if I felt like it." Steve makes a face at the idea of injecting something //into his eyeball//, good lord, and covers the worst of it by sipping at his stout again. A cursory glance over at his guest finds the Merc more than capable of opening his own beer, so the offer to pop the lid with a super-soldier thumbnail is bypassed.

The Captain then slouches more in his chair. Certainly not in any fancy himself, he sports a simple t-shirt and jeans. He allows his attention to slip back to the expanse of the night-glittering city as a whole, more open from this vantage point by dint of the lower sprawl of buildings leading out to the riverside docks.

"Anything you want to report, Wade?" It seems the proper question to ask, given gems sometimes fall from the Merc's mouth when it gets to sprinting.

Deadpool has posed:
Wade shrugs some, "You gotta just ramp it up to superhero levels. You'd feel it," Wade assures. "If it didn't kill you. That's sort of a line to walk. I have failed to kill myself with a drug overdose, but I've had some amazing trips," Wade shares.

Wade hops to his feet and picks up the chair, to bring it over /closer/, to where the arm is almost overlapping Steve's chair's arm. Wade then climbs back into it, leaned over into Steve's personal space.

"Sure," he begins. It's relatively even in tone. "Lots of jobs out there for murder. Even an Avenger. Are you overly attached to Spider-Woman?" Wade asks, thoughtful.

Captain America has posed:
Wade gets an actual roll of eyes out of Captain Steve Rogers while he's occupied with moving the chair closer to his host. The Captain doesn't shift within his seat but for a slight lean-away of his head and dubious thinning of lips. Of course the Merc has news -- and the recipient is such a sucker for bringing more reasons to silently agonize into his life.

"I'm attached to all of the Avengers, yes, by not only proxy of their membership, but also because of the intentional good they bring to this city and the world." He squints. "You telling me there's a hit out on Spider-Woman?"

Deadpool has posed:
Wade watches Steve for a long moment. There's a perceptiveness in Wade's eyes for a moment, a sort of empathy, that normally can't be seen due to the mask. It comes with the horror-scape of Wade's face, so it usually is hard to see anyway. Like spotting a star in a field of horrifyingly bright fireworks. It could just be a spot on a retina.

"....Nooooooo," Wade says, in a clear way that screams liar. He drinks a lot of the beer, and then adjusts, more convincingly, "There's a hit out on a /lot/ of people. Some X-men...."

Captain America has posed:
Steve mirrors him, wearing an expression of patient, deadpan disbelief even though the fish-mouth pucker needed to keep from spilling beer down his front. The bomber is empty and he sets the bottle aside by his chair before reaching for his phone. He flicks it to life, enters a notepad screen, and his fingers fly across the touch-keypad for a second. Wade is given another expectant look.

"So, Spider-Woman, some X-Men, anybody else?"

The amount of calm he's projecting is almost a null for the effort it's taking him. Someone paying close attention in turn will catch the crackles of a loose wire of temper in the back of his true-blue eyes.

Deadpool has posed:
"Yeah, uhhh. Uhhh. Scarlet witch. Ummmmm. Rogue. Oh wait, she's X-men, so. Uh. Batman." Wade continues to look at Steve with concern and dismay.

"You have a giant sad," Wade observes. "Enough to where I can taste it from here. It's sort of strawberry and mint, which is NOT a good combination at all." A shudder follows.

"I prescribe a hug," Wade decides, and rotates his legs out of the chair, put his beer down, and then suddenly leans across to attempt to hug the Steve. "I am not a doctor but hugs help me too. You can pretend you're helping me. I mean. You are. So it's not even fake."

Captain America has posed:
A finger upheld about a centimeter from Wade's face attempts to pause him in turn. Steve then writes a few more names into the notepad before clicking the 'save' option in the upper right-hand corner of his phone's screen. His phone is then shoved into the pocket of his jeans with a shuffle in his chair and then he sighs. Heavily. Steve Rogers, champion sigher.

And leans into the hug offered to him by the Merc with the Mouth. He even reaches up to patpat Wade on the outer bicep, his features gone flat with what appears to be repressed exasperation.

"Life is difficult, Wade." It's an equally flat expression of frustration on Steve's part.

Deadpool has posed:
Wade adjusts to get some of the arm of the chair out of his ribs, and to settle more comfortably to be easier to hug. He also attempts to set his head on Steve's shoulder, but doesn't do anything weirder than that -- at least, not yet.

"Your life is hard? But you are perfect. That is hard to accept as true," Wade says. "Also I'm not going to hunt any Avengers. That should also make you happy; I'm one of the best, yanno. Here I am, bringing happiness."

Captain America has posed:
Settling the newly-opened bomber of stout against his opposite temple must be the soldier's attempt to stave off the approach of a headache. Wade probably didn't bring it on, but knowing of multiple listed hits, some on his own team members, did not make Steve want to drink any less.

If the situation were more dire, he'd go scrounge up the growler of Asgardian ale he has hidden away in the very back of his closet here. But...no...just bombers this evening, he reminds himself.

Wade, for once, is left to use Steve's bony shoulder as a pillow. Musculature only does so much to pad against skeletal framing.

"You are the best, Wade." Steve can be felt to nod if unseen, still looking out over the city. "But I'm not perfect, not at all. Lots of things I can't do." It's enough to make him grind his teeth.

Deadpool has posed:
"Maaaaybe I can help. Like if you need somebody fucked, I volunteer as tribute. Maybe. Depends who it is. And if they consent. I'm not a rapist," Wade whispers back, in a ramble of thoughts. "Although I have put my gun into-- you know what, I'm going to censor a little because I value our cuddle time, Stevie," Wade says, lifting his free hand to tap his own lips.

His other hand may have wandered to Steve's thigh, while still huddling in for, perhaps, human contact alone. There isn't any grabbiness to it, but decent self-control. Except maybe the thigh thing. If it's intentional.

"What is wrong? Tell ol' best buddy Wade," Wade coaxes. Coax coax.

Captain America has posed:
Very slowly, deliberately, with a firm pinch of fingers about each side of Wade's wrist, Steve directs the hand off of his thigh and back into Wade's personal space to be retracted. Then, he sighs yet again, still content to continue looking dead ahead.

"I'd hate to send you up against the main problem I'm dealing with right now. Not in your jurisidiction. If you've been doing anything to keep the Sentinel robots from further threatening innocents, you have my thanks."

Another sip of beer and Steve gets to tapping the base of the bottle on the chair's arm. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"A vacation seems like a dream."

Deadpool has posed:
Wade accepts the move of hand to himself to flip it around and redirect it to attempt to latch into a hug around Steve's bicep. It's probably a lot easier than the larger hug, though: of hugs possible, maybe the most platonic.

"Not really. I've planted some explosives in them, that's fun, but they're not really my /ideal/ target, being giant metal people, and I'm a gun and stab-stabby sort. They also have no appreciation of sass, just 'EXTERMINATE' and all. It gets /old/."

Captain America has posed:
This particular line of hug is apparently appropriate. Steve makes no further move to redirect any of the Merc's hands at this time. Bubbles rise up in the bottle as he drinks more stout. A small burp leaves him in a whuft of beer claiming to be oatmeal, coffee, and some chocolate, though the current drinker would be loathe to admit he can find that taste note within the alcohol.

"Any little bit you've done means more to me than you'd think, Wade." Steve finally turns to look away from the cityspace and towards the Merc instead. "X-Men thank you too, even if they haven't said it in person. You're making a statement in support of basic humanity -- of freedom and safety for all -- things I fought for back in the War. It's no little thing, making a stand like that."

Deadpool has posed:
"Ehhhhh," Wade says, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm not a mutant to them. It's sort of insulting. I should get ALL the targeting at my head. Wolverine does. Insulting." Wade nods quickly, and unwraps one of his arms to rescue his beer, already half distracted from the hugging thing. If Steve waits long enough, perhaps Wade will entirely uncling? A valid strategy.

"The X-Men have stopped being quite as harsh to me. It's good. I'm there a lot," Wade confides in a slightly overly loud whisper. "It's a secret but not really."

"I don't do well with teams. More of like a solo act or maybe a pal team-up. But I think I'm growing on them, like a wart."

Captain America has posed:
"You're persistent enough. I bet you could grow on anyone if you tried hard enough." Unfailing optimism and faith, ahoy, offered up from the Captain. He's noted the half-disappearance of the hug and makes no note to actively acknowledge it. If anything, the pressure and presence of the Merc, sack of cats he may be, is still simple human touch.

"Could stick a sign on your back that says, SENTINELS SHOOT HERE if you were really feeling your oats," the Captain quips drily, having taken a moment to square up an invisible piece of paper before himself within mirrored angles of thumb and forefinger. It meant momentarily seating the beer bottle between his thighs.

Deadpool has posed:
"After I blow one's arm off, they notice. It works out for all of us, really," Deadpool singsongs. "Honestly I just prefer to go after the little normal guys with them lately. Friends of Hoo-min-nim-ity," he says, with a poke of finger at the air with each syllable, as if he could puncture each little bit. With. A. Finger.

"I mean, to, you know. Arrest them." Right. Arrest. Wade's doing well, this evening, he's been self-aware and able to hold onto the conversation, along with an arm.

Wade replaces his cheek back to shoulder. "I do okay. Sometimes I miss Nat."

Captain America has posed:
"Keep up the good work then, Wade, if you're arresting those Friends of the Sentinels." Steve had smiled faintly at each punctutory punctuation of the Merc's fingers. It's the little weird things, after all. His smile fades before taking on a twisted, dubious light. Wade's given another glance, this one needing a turn of Steve's head.

"Natasha, huh? I keep forgetting you two were an item once." He falls silent and introspective for a second. Apparently, the revisited idea is still enough to make him wonder at the way the world falls into pieces and still into lines with the life-lines of its occupants. "Haven't seen her in a while," he admits. "Could text her if you wanted to. That's the blessing and curse of the modern age. Can't get no privacy." Momentary old fogey grousing, over. Beer is consumed.

Deadpool has posed:
"/You/ could also send her something from me. Maybe a smooch. We can telephone it -- I smooch you, you smooch her, it'll work out," Wade suggests, but the distraction works: Wade pulls his phone out, releasing Steve's arm entirely, and begins to text.

When in doubt, send a picture of Betty White having an alligator steak dinner. That'll show a message of true love. "SENT," Wade declares. And then begins to follow it with some more emojis.

A pause. Then a stormtrooper. "Because I MISS YOUUUUU," Wade adds aloud, while also typing it.

Captain America has posed:
A lifted rectangle in Steve's jean pocket, the phone is left entirely alone. Steve instead watches Wade at his task, his smile having returned again, mild and amused despite himself.

"She'll appreciate your sentiments, Wade. If you make her laugh though, I'll need proof, 'cause a laugh outta the Widow's rarer than a hen's tooth. I mean, I thought I hallucinated the last one...still half-sure I did, given it was right after I got kicked in the head. We were sparring." Upturning the bomber, the rest of the stout disappears and he sets the empty bottle beside the first. "She's got a whipkick faster'n a black snake."

Deadpool has posed:
Wade sits up quickly. "She replied," he shares, with a quick laugh. He offers his phone over for Steve to see, with an open, trusting manner.

Under the name 'STOP MESSAGING HER YOU LONELY FUCKER' is a reply from Natasha: < You know where to find me, silly. Steak sounds great if that's an invitation. Or are you asking me to kill an alligator for you? I can do that too. >

"Do I want steak? I could make a sex joke. Immediately a lot of sex jokes come to mind," Wade remarks. The talk of Nat's kicks seem to garner a purr out of Wade. "She kicks in the face like few others."

Captain America has posed:
Leaning over a little, the Captain indulges in being allowed to see what could have been a fairly private text exchange. His smile deepens a touch. "Yep, she really does. Think she loosened a tooth one time. 'm happy for you, Wade." The Merc ends up with a firm pat and shake of his shoulder before Steve leans back centrally into his deck chair again. "Go have dinner with her. Take her to a movie, treat her to something nice. Make your...make your jokes in-person."

Sans beer, the man's hands end up loosely folded over midsection. He lazily looks out across the city. "Something about a woman makes the whole world seem right," he murmurs, pinking a little at the ears. A soft laugh and headshake follows. "Don't mind me, Wade. Go get her."

Deadpool has posed:
"As if I needed encouragement," Wade chuckles, but then pauses, considering his phone. "There was a reason we stopped dating. Maybe I should look at the backscroll," Wade reminds himself. He taps both thumbs on the phone, which creates a lot of random characters, but then just shrugs about it.

< I am super ready to stab alligators after I change my clothes. ON MY WAY >

"Stabbing alligators doesn't mean sex," Wade says, aside. Wade slides to his feet, and slips his phone away. He brought his teleportation belt, of course, and peels up his sweatshirt to reveal it.

"But first!" Wade lunges in, to attempt to plant a smooch on Steve!

Captain America has posed:
Spurred to check his own phone, just in case -- for some reason -- he missed a text from his own gal, Steve pulls it from his pocket. It lights his face from below and his mildly disappointed moue. She must be sleeping by now, or busy working on the fall fashion line. As such, he's semi-distracted when he glances up at the Merc.

"I...didn't think it meant s -- !!!"

Flinching at the sudden influx of Wade's face at him, the kiss lands smack on Steve's cheekbone. It's prim and proper and entirely worth the way the Captain flails out in surprise towards the Merc, whiffing through the air at him.

"Wade, go kiss Nat! Go! Get!" Despite the reaction, he's laughing and red in the face, and nobody's been pushed off the balcony. There must have been a great deposit of trust in the mercurial Mercenary weighing into this.

Deadpool has posed:
"Your reaction makes me want to stick around and offer tongue," Wade says, charmed by the blushing and reaction. A grin follows: awkward, with Wade's awful lips and jaw, but the intent is good. Wade remembers to grab his mask and put it back on.

"But alas. Pass it on, earn that kick in the teeth!" Wade says, before tapping the button on his teleporter.

"Boop."

Wade said 'Boop' aloud. But also vanished.