Hello Asshole
People don't just knock on the door. Like, that's not a normal thing that happens; Bro sure as hell doesn't knock at the door to his own fucking apartment, and who else is gonna come when he's not here? Nobody. Literally nobody.
But yeah, you're the only one home right now. And despite all the evidence that it shouldn't happen, somebody just knocked on the fucking door.
You're not very good at reacting to unusual stimuli, so for a moment you just stare at the source of the offending noise from your upside-down spot on the futon. That did not just happen. Nope. No one's out there. Wait, shit, this is probably some kind of test Bro's setting up for you. Of course it is.
Well, what the fuck would he want you to do, if this is a goddamn test?
Answer the door, probably, you decide when whoever the fuck's there knocks again. The fact that this time it's seven knocks in a distinct five-and-two pattern just confirms that this is some kind of joke thing.
(Just because you know it's either a joke or a test or both doesn't stop you from locating the nearest sword, leaning it up against the wall by the door where it's within easy reach. Better safe than sorry.)
The fact that the guy standing there with his hand up to knock again is dressed head-to-toe in black and red leather with not one inch of skin showing kind of throws you for a loop.The upside is that you seem to throw him for just as much of a loop, though; he just stands there for a second, tilting his head to one side and just staring down at you.
You give him a reasonable amount of time to start the script that Bro must've given him, then decide that he's not gonna do that. Actually, going by that getup, you guess you might've been wrong about what's going on. "Dude, if you're here to fuck my bro, you kinda fucked up your dates."
"Ooh, if he's the guy I think he is, he's hot in a fucked-up way, but no." The guy's tone really doesn't match the full-face hood at all; he sounds flippant, sarcastic, amused, literally anything other than the stoic-ass dom voice that you really expected. He shakes his head slightly, digs around in a pocket that you also didn't expect to exist in that outfit, and comes up with a crumpled piece of paper, holding it out to you. "This guy, right?"
You take the paper even though you can already see that it's definitely Bro's picture on it, black and white and with the low quality of an old-ass printer that needs either a serious overhaul or just plain old retirement. God, he looks pissed in this pic. You're not really sure why he'd send this one to a potential hookup...
"So am I at the right place or not?" the guy asks, before you can ponder that question a bit longer.
"I mean, I guess, but your timing's shit. He's not here." And hasn't been for like a week. (Nine days. You always keep track of how long he's gone.)
"I'm fine with waiting." And the arrogant son of a bitch steps forward, and your dumb ass steps back because he's tall, okay, he's closer to Bro's size than yours and he moves like he knows you'll get out of his way. It's a fucking intimidation thing, you can't prevent your reaction to it even if you should be able to, and two seconds later he's in the apartment and shutting the door behind him without even fucking asking if he can come in.
If this is a test, you're pretty sure you just failed it. "Dude, what the fuck?"
"Hey, don't swear at me, kid—you're like ten, shouldn't you be in school right now?"
"I'm thirteen and I'm fucking homeschooled, asshole." He's already headed further into the apartment; you dart in between him and the door and cross your arms, blocking his path to the kitchen with a level of efficiency that can be called minor at best. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"
Despite your expectations, he doesn't immediately shove you out of his way. What he does do is huff, mirror your irritated posture, and move his head in that tiny unconscious way people do when they're rolling their eyes. "Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously! I don't give a fuck if you're Bro's new fuckbuddy—"
"Which I'm not—"
"—you can't just come in here and expect me to let you do whatever the fuck you want!" The next thing you're gonna bring up is gonna be the fact that you have a sword. It's gonna sound stupid as shit, but you're perfectly capable of proving that it's not an empty threat if need be. "Who. The fuck. Are you?"
The guy laughs. "Oh my god."
"What?"
"You've got to be like the only thirteen year old in America who doesn't know who Deadpool is."
Oh hell no. Oh hell no. Oh hell fucking no. There is no fucking way that this dude's Deadpool, this is one hundred percent one of Bro's weird setups. This is a fucking joke. This is not fucking happening.
The idiot who thinks he's Deadpool takes this opportunity to gently nudge you out of the doorway and slip into the kitchen. Not exactly a place you want him to be. (Honestly, though, this whole fucking apartment is a place you don't want him to be.)
"Hey—you get the fuck back in here!"
"Nope." He scoops up a smuppet that you thought you banished to one of the cabinets, examining the thing's vacuous face for a second before poking curiously at the plush rump. "...is this what I think it is?"
"It's a smuppet."
"So...a weird sex toy." He flicks at the smuppet's bulbous nose, feeling the material it's made out of. "A really weird sex toy."
You're so not dignifying that with an answer. You don't think about what your bro uses the smuppets for, other than hurling at you and leaving in prominent places around the apartment. Nope. Not thinking about that at all. Not one bit. You will, however, comment on him trying to stuff it into one of his pockets.
"Dude. It's not gonna fit."
"Hey, I specialize in making things fit places they shouldn't. What's your name, anyway? I only got the last name from the lady who hired me; can't exactly just call you Strider, can I?"
"Fuck you."
"Hi there, Fuck You, I'm Deadpool!" He switches the smuppet from his right hand to his left and holds his hand out to you like he expects you to shake it. Yeah, you're not doing that. After a minute he seems to realize that you're not gonna cooperate, shrugging and going back to poking at various bits of the smuppet's anatomy. "Okay, fine, I get that you're not all that into touching. Cool, whatever."
"You do know nobody can tell if you're sulking under the mask, right?" (That's a lie. You can totally tell that he's sulking.)
"I'm not sulking." Finally, the guy gives up on forcing the smuppet down into his pocket and drops it back on the counter. You take this opportunity to grab the damn thing by one spindly arm, shove it into the cabinet under the counter with the rest of its plush brethren, and force the door shut again.
When you look up, the weird Deadpool cosplayer's standing in front of the fridge with one hand on the handle. Even through your instinctive spike of alarm, some part of your brain takes note of the fact that he's even got the dual katanas strapped to his back. Maybe the thought process of damn, he's pretty accurate with this getup is what takes up the time that you should be spending warning him about what he's about to do, because you open your mouth and know you're too late to stop him opening that fucking fridge.
He pulls the door open and everything inside (swords, knives, a couple shuriken because why the hell not) tumble right the fuck out. It's ungodly loud, and you can't help but flinch down, shut your eyes for just a second, and then flinch again because you flinched in the first place even though you really don't need to, Bro ain't here, it's fine.
So yeah, you kind of don't see the exact impact, but you look up and the guy's staring down at the knife in his arm. Like, you know that one, it's a shitty ornamental dagger that Bro ordered off some cheap website, spent a week sharpening until it could cut through meat like butter. You know that knife, how long it is, and at least four inches of it are buried in this guy's forearm.
Oh, god. You fucking freeze.
"Well," the guy says, in an utterly unperturbed tone, "that sucks."
When he reaches up for it, your voice comes back. "Wait, shit, don't do that—"
Too fucking late. He jerks the knife out, and blood sprays across everything in front of him.
It's a good thing that your brain will, given enough of a problem, just kind of turn off. This amount of blood counts as a fucking problem, which means that you almost pass out, but then things in your head get weird and calm and you kind of take a mental step back while your body yanks a drawer open, grabs a dishtowel that's already got your bloodstains on it from a strife cleanup sometime in the past, and pulls the stupid fucker's wrist down so you can reach his arm to wrap the towel around the cut. He's still gonna bleed, nothing you can do is gonna really stop that, he needs to go to the fucking hospital—
"Ow."
"Yeah, ow, why the fuck would you—"
"Just let go, kid, I'm fine."
You open your mouth to protest that he is the exact fucking opposite of fine, that this is called going into fucking shock, and close it again as he peels your hands off his arm like you're not putting as much pressure on the wound as you possibly can. He's fucking strong.
He's also not bleeding anymore.
This is the moment when you accept that yeah, this ain't a cosplayer or some weird crazy dude. This is Deadpool.
You accept that, and at the exact same time you drop the towel and bolt for your room.