Flakey-O's and Pyramids (Wade Wilson/Kate Bishop)
“I’m here for a job,” the grape woman says.
[who wears that much purple?]
What happens next is beautiful. It’s the kind of beautiful that was Wade wishing he could record it, and play it back later.
Buck’s hand lands on her knee and slides up, and grape girl grabs his index finger and middle finger, jerking his hand up and off of her, bending them back towards Buck himself.
Grape Girl doesn’t even look up.
“That is not my job,” she bends the fingers back farther without even looking up from her tablet. “And even if it were, I did not give you permission to lay your grubby hands on me.” Back, back the fingers go, pop, pop go the joints and Buck is howling on the floor. “Now go to a sit down restaurant, get yourself something to eat. Do not flirt with your waitress, do not leer. Tip her fifty percent. I will know if you haven’t.”
{violent shade of purple for a violent shade of woman}
Buck scampers off and Weasel is staring at Grape Girl, slack-jawed.
“Can you—can you read minds?” he whispers in horror.
He’s probably thinking about fucking Grape Girl.
[We are, too, but that’s not really the point]
“What?” GG looks startled, like she hadn’t realized Weasel had been watching. “Oh. Fuck, no. I just have jet lag,” as if that explains everything. “My jet lag is jet-lagged.” She scrubs her face with her hand, and now that he’s closer, Wade can see the wrinkles in the sharp lines of her suit, the way her eyeliner isn’t simply artfully smudged, the slight frizz to her hair. It should make her less terrifying; it doesn’t.
“Wade Wilson, I presume,” Grape Girl says without even turning around.
“Oh, you’ve got to be psychic,” Wade says. “Really? Come on.”
“I can see your reflection in the glass behind the bar,” she sighs. “And honestly, all I can see is a man in a stalker hoodie, really it was just a hopeful guess.”
“Good guess.”
“I’m actually here to see you,” she says, turning on the bar stool to look at him. She can’t see much because he ducks his head and pulls the hood down. “You got a table or a corner we can sit at?”
He gestures to the back corner.
“Lead the way,” her lips twist into what might be a smile when it grows up.
“What are you drinking?” he asks as he steps over a drunk.
“Coffee.”
“Oh, no you don’t want drink Weasel’s coffee unless you want your tastebuds to kill you in your sleep.”
She throws a look over her shoulder.
[nobody in their right mind willingly drinks coffee made in a bar]
Grape Girl takes the booth that puts her back to the wall and gives her a clear view of the exits.
“Tequila, then.”
{I think I’m in love}
“I have a job for you,” she says.
“I’ve never turned tricks before but I’m happy to give it a try,” he responds.
Grape Girl slow blinks at him, slow enough that he thinks she might actually fall asleep.
“If it’s okay with you, I’m just going to put a pin in that and get back to you later with a witty comeback.”
“Make it a come-on and we can talk.”
“Don’t push your luck.” She actually smiles at him. “So why the unibomber hoodie?”
“You don’t want to see.”
She looks about to disagree when Weasel brings over a bottle of his less-cheap tequila. “Seriously, lady, he’s just looking out for you.”
“Thank you,” she says, staring at Weasel until he leaves the bottle and goes back to the bar.
“My name is Kate Bishop,” she says without warning. “I’m Hawkeye. And I need a man with your skill set and your lack of scruples.”
{an Avenger?}
[she’s scarier than the other one]
“Scruples?” He does it just to see how she’ll react, pushing his hood back slowly as he pours them both shots. He looks up and she’s studying his face, not with horror, more with a distant curiosity that she’s not trying to disguise. Not like she wants to stare and feels like she needs to hide it.
[it she’s really an Avenger she probably has a strong stomach?]
“What happened? If I’m allowed to ask.”
“Cancer. And then a mutant healing factor.”
“Ah,” she accepts the shot glass. “I have a few mutants on my team. And aliens.”
His mouth drops open and she grins at him, tossing the shot back. “You have to get up pretty early in the morning to shock me, Mr. Wilson.”
“Oh, please. Call me Wade. Or Deadpool. Mr. Wilson is my mother.”
{ooh, a one-eyebrow raise. Talent.}
“This is where we have a line break and skip ahead,” Wade informs her. “Because the job isn’t important.”
“Ooo-kay?”
“So, you have my number,” Wade pulls his hood up to shield from the gazes of passerby as well as the drizzle. “And you’ll call me when you need someone dead.”
“That’s not—“
“I’m kidding, Girly-Bird. Relax. Just like Frankie Goes to Hollywood.”
She rolls her eyes and then half-salutes him, walking down the street. “The superheroes of New York thank you.”
[don’t ask it]
[Wade. Don’t do it. She’s an actual hero. You don’t want to know.]
{do the thing. DOOOO ITTTTT.}
“Do you think I’m a hero?” he makes sure his voice carries.
No, it doesn’t just carry. It looks like it slices through her, his question. Do you think I’m a hero?
She looks like she’s trying to think of what it really means to be a hero.
“I think,” she turns to face Wade fully. “Despite your best intentions—yes, you are.”
He tilts his head at her, not quite sure he heard her correctly.
“You’re a hero, Wade Wilson. Deadpool. You might not want to be, and you might not be the kind of hero everyone wants—though you might be the one they need,” she concedes with a shrug. “Yeah. You’re a hero.”
“Huh.” Wade Wilson, Deadpool, looks at her, mouth dropping open slightly. “I never—uh. I feel warm inside, and like—light? Is that supposed to happen? Does that happen often when you talk?”
“Oh,” she takes a step closer to him as if pulled in. Wade rocks forward as if pulled by the same invisible thread but unlike Kate, resists, rocking backwards. “My question never felt like that before.”
“You’re—you’re my answer,” he says, awed. “Wow. I thought that Pyramid thing was just a bit.”
Kate Bishop, Hawkeye, smiles at him. It’s not one of those toothpaste-perfect smiles—her eyeteeth are a little crooked. He wonders why she didn’t have braces {she’s rich enough she could have afforded them} but the imperfection is endearing anyway [endearing? Maybe she just didn’t want braces as a rebellion—]
“Hello, Question,” she extends her hand to him.
He stares at it for a moment before shaking. Her grip is strong {oooooh} and confident as he responds with, “Hello, Answer.”