Breakfast and Nietzsche
You only kind of wake up at first. Like, just enough to be aware that you exist, form a couple half-coherent thoughts, one at a time.
First thought: Damn, I'm not in the bathtub.
Second thought: Why the actual fuck would I be in the bathtub?
Third thought: Shit shit SHIT—
Honestly, that last one is less a thought and more an almost tangible wave of alarm that's got you gasping for breath and trying to scramble at least kinda upright. Which is a lot more difficult than you expected, on both counts—your chest is too fucking tight and you're tangled up in the blankets. Why the fuck are there even blankets? You pulled those off, took them into the bathroom, which means—
"Dave, hey—whoops!"
Deadpool steps over and grabs your shirt in the exact moment that you overbalance, pulling you back onto the bed. Which is great, you don't really need yet another concussion, but the feeling of fabric tightening around your neck ain't really doing any favors to your mental state.
Then again, it's a nice trigger for your ability to cram all that panic down into a tight little box in the center of your chest and lock the fucker shut. That still means you can't quite breathe, but you can manage to get yourself untangled from the blanket, and in another half a minute or so you can speak.
"Hey."
"Morning." Deadpool—wait, no, his name's Wade, you should use his name—Wade pauses and blinks, glancing over at the microwave. "Yeah, I can say that, it's still morning."
"If you say it when it's not morning, it's ironic." God, where the hell did you leave your shades? Is he going to say anything if you get up and start hunting for 'em? Might as well find out. And maybe keep talking. That's definitely a good idea. "Like, you gotta admit there's something to be said for totally fuckin' disregarding actual linear time, just pick one and keep using it? Good morning, oh it's nine o'clock at night? Too fucking bad, it's morning now. Have some eggs."
"I mean, I have most of a Waffle House breakfast for you. Does that count?"
"Seriously?" Okay, you have to put your very important search on hold for long enough to give Wade a dirty look. "C'mon, Rose's been telling me about how she's been trying to summon the ghost of H.P. Lovecraft or some shit in Waffle Houses for like, years."
Deadpool raises an eyebrow. Just one. You're kinda impressed; you've been trying for years and you still haven't managed to get enough specific muscular control to do that. "So you don't want the possibly cursed food."
"Are you kidding? Of course I want it." Wait, your shades are gonna be in the bathroom. Of course. And hey, Wade doesn't actually follow you when you head in there, just plops down on the bed and kinda watches you until he can't quite see through the doorway.
Makes it easier to talk to him, actually. "So...I kicked you out of bed last night?"
"Nah, I needed to get up and move. You just motivated me." Fuck, he sounds so calm about it. Like, really calm, not just quiet about being annoyed. (You think.) "You seemed to sleep better there than in the tub, anyway. No more obvious dreams."
"Dreams?" Okay, apparently you stashed your shades in the drawer under the sink. Like, you remember doing that, it's just a weird feeling to still find them there. "I don't dream, dude."
"Hey, you're the one who came out of there ready to fight me off, kiddo. You yourself said it was a nightmare."
...huh. No, you don't remember any of that.
..You frown, shove your shades into place, and grab your laptop. The blankets in the tub can wait for later; right now you step back out of the bathroom, stuff the computer back into the bag, and look over at Wade.
"Didn't you say you had some maybe-cursed breakfast?"
He does, and after you eat you gather up the couple things you actually brought in last night and head out to stash them in the van. Well, not in the van. The guy last night (whose actual fucking identity you've decided to just not think about right now because, well, Spiderman) dropped off a different vehicle.
It's the only car in the parking lot, and you still just stare at it and then look around for something else. No way did he bring something that shiny.
"Nope, you had it right the first time." Wade laughs, ruffling your hair as he steps around you. "Kind of wonder if he called in some of his favors with Stark for that, or some of mine?"
"Uh, both?" Like, you seriously think that the black four-by-four is roughly equal in value to a nice-ish house. "What the fuck?"
"Hey, I know people that know people." He shrugs and pulls the door open, turning to give you a look that's easily translatable as are you coming or not?
You guess you are.
Your bag'll fit by your feet, you think, but only if you slide the seat all the way back. That takes a bit of fiddling with the set of switches on the side; you end up hunched over next to the car, with your head down and the whine of the lil' motors that move the thing back and forth in your ears...so you nearly don't hear the first cracked caw.
Nearly. You nearly don't hear it, which means you do hear it. You hear that caw—your name—and you gasp and straighten up so fast that behind you Wade hisses the fuck word under his breath and grabs for one of the katanas still strapped to his back.
"No!" Grabbing his wrist is possibly the dumbest thing you can do; number one he's stronger than you, and number two he could totally grab the weapon with his other hand, cut you and handle whatever he sees as a threat after. You don't give a fuck. "Don't you fucking touch him—"
"Okay, okay, chill?" Wade shrugs, raising both hands a bit. The fact that your deathgrip on him doesn't seem to phase him even a little bit is kinda terrifying. "Who am I not touching, exactly?"
"I...fuck." You let him go and turn around, looking for whichever crow called for you. Fuck, maybe you heard wrong. Maybe it's just a common crow-sound, maybe they never actually gave you a name—
Then a very fucking familiar black bird dives down off you don't even know where, and yeah Deadpool tenses because it looks like she's gonna attack but he doesn't move, doesn't give her any reason to not land on your shoulder. Her talons dig into your skin a bit as she steadies herself, but it's worth it.
"Holy shit. Neet..." How far is it from here to Houston? How the fuck did she even get this far?
"I feel like 'neat' is an understatement here." Wade's staring at the bird on your shoulder with utter fascination; when he holds out his hand, she instantly pecks at his fingers.
"Neet, quit—no, dude, it's her name. Neet. Nietzsche." You thought she was a boy when you asked Rose for suggestions; crow babies are just screaming balls of feathers and skin, it's not like you could tell. By the time she built a nest literally right outside your windowsill and laid four eggs in it, it was kinda too late to change her name. "She fucking—she followed me, dude..."
Neet caws and takes off as you lean against the car and reach up to push your shades up enough to wipe at your eyes. Fuck, you shouldn't have moved that fast...
When you get your sight cleared enough to look up again, Wade's got his arm out like he's a goddamn falconer, and Neet's perched comfortably on his wrist. From the soft crooning sounds she's making, he just got adopted.
Thank fuck. If she'd decided that he was an enemy... "C'mere, Neet. Right here."
As the crow hops from his wrist to your shoulder, Wade digs in his pocket and comes up with a still-wrapped but hella crushed pastry. It looks like it was probably one of those cookies that come in packets of one or two; when he rips the plastic open and dumps the contents into his palm, Neet seems pretty pleased with how they taste.
"Uh...she's gonna peck you if you feed her like that," you have to point out. Actually you probably shouldn't be putting that in future tense; she's totally already packing him, just trying to get as much of the crumbs into her beak as she can. That's gotta hurt.
"Eh, it's fine." Wade shrugs, shaking the crumbs that're left together into the center of his palm so Neet can get the last of them. "Will she ride in the car? I mean I can probably steal a cage from somewhere if being in a moving vehicle freaks her out, but—"
"Wait, we're taking her?" Fuck, you thought you'd need to bargain and maybe beg to make sure she was brought along. But even before you finish asking, Wade's nodding.
(You might be about to cry again.)
"We're definitely not leaving her, so yeah, we're taking her. Speaking of which, you ready to go?"
"Yeah." Thank fuck for binary questions, so you don't have to manage more than one word. Also thank fuck for the fact that Deadpool goes around the back of the car instead of the front; that gives you time to give your eyes another hasty swipe, as you coax Neet onto your wrist instead of your shoulder, and from there onto the center console so you can get in and get your seatbelt on.
She's hopped onto your lap before Wade's got into the driver's seat, cocking her head to give you a birdy glare that suggests that you'll lose fingers if you try to ditch her again.
Honestly, you're just fine with that. No fucking way is she getting out of your sight, ever.