Secret Vampire Spy Hungry For Canadian Mincemeat!
(That guy is totally ogling our ass,) Yellow crows.
Wade snorts in response, taking another mouthful of mystery-meat taco, and sneaks a peek at the little weirdo who'd been staring at him for the better part of an hour. The dude barely seemed out of his baby-fat years and was so pale the mercenary thought he might sparkle, if he stepped outside the Mexican joint they were in. Come to think of it, the dark-haired kid was sitting in a booth suspiciously shaded in indirect sunlight, and it looks like he's only ordered a glass of water. Maybe he's set his vamp sights on Wade's innocent buns?
(Don't be ridiculous. Vampires don't like munching on Americans.)
(We're Canadian, dumb-ass.)
(He doesn't know that.)
"Unless he's a spy," Wade manages to say around his half-chewed food, spittle flying onto the table. A passing waitress tosses him a dirty look, and he gives her his best shit-eating grin. She just about turns green at the sight but, in true New York fashion, flips him the bird before huffing away to deal with other customers. He decides he'll leave her an extra large tip. "That'd make him the worst spy ever!"
(Eh, I liked it better when I thought he was checking us out.)
(That's because you think with our dick, whereas I, the rational one -)
(You mean the boring one -)
"Ladies, ladies," he interrupts, spreading his hands out imploringly. "Can't a guy enjoy his tacos in peace anymore?"
(Oh, the humanity,) White snarks. (What difference does it make if the kid won't stop staring?)
(I bet he's just looking at our scars, anyway. Wouldn't be the first time.)
(Yeah right, no one could look at our mug for that long unless they want to kill it.)
(You have a point there!)
"I'll just ask him," he exclaims brightly, grabbing up the rest of his tacos and skipping his way across the room. You really can't miss where he's heading - no matter how jaded, the people of this city are still wary of anyone sporting a full-spandex ensemble making a beeline for them - but the maybe-spy keeps staring at him, apparently unconcerned that his mark has identified him. Sliding into the other side of the booth, Wade settles in and smiles. "So, you a vampire or a spy?"
The kid blinks. "Neither. I presume you're Wade Wilson?"
(Hey, he sounds like Francis!)
"Who's asking?" Wade finishes off a taco, licking his fingers obscenely. "I like to know who's out to get me, you know? Put names to the faces that pop up in my fantasies or my To-Kill list, but you look a little too young for either one of those. They just keep getting younger and younger, don't they?" he shakes his head in dramatic dismay, cursing the heavens and squeezing the life out of an innocent taco. He wipes the mess on the table and mentally raises the tip he's going to leave.
"I deeply regret coming here," the kid says candidly, looking cool as a cucumber.
"Well, you wouldn't be here if you didn't have to be, right? Don't worry, I get that all the time!" Wade waves a hand carelessly, gesturing vaguely to the empty space between them, and his voice unintentionally gains a hard edge to it. "But this won't turn out well if you're here to ice me, kid."
"Not today," the little guy responds mildly, as if he's talking about his awesome rock collection and not premeditated homicide.
(He's giving us the creeps,) White grumbles, none too happy about it. (We should just get rid of him.)
Wade tilts his head, ignoring the voice. "What's your name, kid? You wouldn't happen to be a 'Francis', would you? You sound like a 'Francis', and I don't have a good history with sissy-named British guys."
Said British guy raises a brow. "I'm Harry."
"Oh thank baby Jesus! The last thing I needed was a mini-Francis on my case. Seriously, that guy was an ass in my pain."
"I can imagine," Harry deadpans, delicately folding his hands beneath the table. Wade spares a moment to wonder whether the guy's holding a gun to his nads, Han Solo-style, and is understandably relieved when he just pulls up a single sheet of paper. Really, he doesn't want to ruin his three month no-kill streak - Spidey wouldn't hesitate to turn him over to the authorities or worse: revoke their bestie status. Then what would he have done about his pre-ordered friendship bracelets? At least he got free shipping. #AmazonPrime!
(Pay attention, you're missing the plot.)
"- and then I'll be on my way." Whoa, whoa, is he being hired for something? He really should work on making a better impression, but that could just be the author losing sight of his characterization. "What an amateur," Wade giggles to himself.
"Pardon?" Harry frowns.
"I didn't hear a word you said, Twilight," he admits, finally getting back on track. "You might wanna run that by me again."
The man's vacant expression doesn't reveal anything, and the mercenary finds himself a wee bit disappointed. Half the fun in interacting with other people is riling them up! Not Harry though, this guy seems like he has a stick up where the sun don't shine. Must be a British thing.
His attention is drawn to the sheet when the man slides it over. "Please fill out this questionnaire."
(A questionnaire? Boooring.)
(To think, we were actually intimidated by this kid.)
"Pffft," Wade stuffs his mouth with his last taco, chewing with his mouth open. "Won't make that mistake again."
"Have you filled out many questionnaires?" Harry drawls, crossing his arms. He resists the urge to giggle because, really, it isn't Harry's fault that he doesn't know about the boxes. "It won't take more than five minutes. Then we can both go our separate ways." He doesn't see where the kid pulls out a foot-long feather, the end sharpened to a tip, but he suspects it's not sanitary.
"Whoa now, don't tell that came from your -"
"The quicker you fill this out, the quicker I can leave. Please answer honestly."
Wade snickers to himself, taking the feather pen and trying to read the chicken scratch on the page. After a minute of turning the sheet this way and that, he ultimately gives up, shrugging to himself, and decides to just start doodling to fill in the empty spaces. By the time he gets to the bottom of the page, he's only answered two or three questions - and really, he doesn't know what's so interesting about which mythical creatures he prefers or what he thinks about the apparent 'missing bees' crisis - while the rest of it is covered in kick-ass drawings.
"There, my masterpiece!"
Harry snatches the page from his hands, folding it into a square and tucking it away without looking. "Thank you. I appreciate your cooperation."
Wade blinks at the suddenly empty air in front of him.
(I knew he was creepy.)