Doug, Marie-Ange, & Wade | Tuesday Evening (backdated)

[x-deadpool.livejournal.com]

Wade's sorting through his accumulated mail for an alias, Marie-Ange is helping - and then she gets to the fancy envelope.


Wade frowned at the massive box he'd gotten in the mail the day before, knowing it was full of other mail that'd accumulated for one of his aliases. He paid some very nice postal workers to keep track of his PO boxes. When they reached a certain number, they boxed it all up and shipped it to a different PO box that Weasel kept track of and then forwarded to one of Wade's New York safe houses.

"Jeez," he said, slicing through the tape keeping the top of the box closed. He grinned over at Marie-Ange, then reached for his glass of orange juice and said, "So how many lingerie catalogs do you think'll be in this one?" He checked the piece of paper laying atop all the correspondence inside and said, "All of it addressed to... a Mister Gabriel Bartholomew Smythe-Janson."

"How many were in the box for Edgar Wellington? I think it will be the same number but more high quality. Perhaps some for men too, I think your Mister Smythe-Janson of the New York..." Marie-Ange had been sorting through a pile that she'd pulled from the box, tossing ads and credit card offers into a wastebin, and putting anything that needed to be opened on the table, but now she held a thick cream-colored envelope, with the address written by hand in perfect calligraphy in the darkest black ink. It was almost a work of art, and a shame to open it. "Well someone quite likes you, or wants you to send them a very expensive wedding gift." She waved it at Wade.

Halfway through sorting out the bills he was going to have to pay on behalf of Mister Smythe-Janson, Wade glanced up and and then half frowned. "Aw man, not another one of those - I've gotten like eight in the last sixth months. Open it up and check out the letter inside the envelope - it's got black wax. Who does that anymore? I mean, I'm old, dude, but not even I'm that old."

Dutifully, Marie-Ange opened the outer envelope, high-quality for sure but designed for shipping, and retrieved the inner envelope, which as Wade said was sealed with black wax, and addressed again in the same perfect calligraphy. She ran a fingertip over the wax and then rubbed her fingers together, and then turned the envelope over again. "No return address. It seems someone must assume you would just know who is sending this."

She cracked the wax seal, and made a very small noise, almost "oh." but tiny, as though all the surprise had been shaken out of her. Then she set the letter down, picked up the envelope and stood. "I will be right back."

She didn't give Wade time to do more than blink before she was out the door.

Marie-Ange still had carte blanche to come walking into Doug's apartment at any hour, day or night. So Doug was not exactly startled by her storming through his door. The parchment in her hand, on the other hand, and the blistering string of French swearwords, definitely caused him to blink and step back. Halfway through a loud "look at this what is the meaning of this" his brain caught up and he realized what she was holding. He took it from her hands and turned it over, blinking. "Who is Gabriel Bartholomew Smythe-Janson?" he asked her, sensing he wasn't going to like the answer.

"One of my aliases," Wade answered, shoulder propped against the door of Doug's living room. "An older one." He'd followed Marie-Ange, then listened to her fairly emphatic-sounding French, and replied when somebody said something in a language he actually knew. "I'm guessing that's not just a really fancy lingerie advert, huh?"

Doug snorted, amused despite the seriousness of the conversation. "Well, that depends on how you define 'lingerie advert', given Emma's idea of formal dress for functions." The parchment was heavier in his hand than just its actual weight. "So this Mr. Smythe-Janson has been invited to attend a Hellfire Club social event as a guest of the Black Court. Which then begs a number of questions, hence..." He waved a hand to encompass Marie-Ange's emphatic entrance to his apartment and torrent of angry questioning.

He grabbed a notepad off the corner of his counter, and a pen, and began in a businesslike fashion. ~Don't think about the elephant in the room~ was an undercurrent in his mind. "Okay, question one. Well, really, the overall question is 'why?'" He put that as a header, then continued. "So first real question - why is the Black Court interested in Mr. Smythe-Janson? Next - is it possible they know that Smythe-Janson is an alias for Wade Wilson, extra super-duper-fly BFF to Doug Ramsey, White Knight?"

"If not that, do they know that he is associates with any of us? Wade has worked for us, what if it is the connection to Remy, or me?" Marie-Ange grabbed the notepad out of Doug's hands and added those questions. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. "Wade, where did you get this identity? What was it for? Could this be Weasel trying to be funny?"

"Smythe-Janson's a reclusive playboy - or he was a playboy, now he's a recluse. He was a real person before I bought his identity. Some kind of boating accident that allegedly left him horribly disfigured so he took all his money and retired to a compound in the Alps. Or maybe Spain. Crap, I don't remember, I just check his mail. Old money, from the dossier I got on him before buying. He is actually dead, though," Wade said, frowning consideringly. "But I highly doubt anyone would connect him with any of you given his supposed proclivities now involve laying in bed switching porn channels and being horribly bitter about his face."

Doug grunted, then made a long grab for a tablet sitting on the edge of his counter. A few taps, some two-thumbed typing, and a look of intense concentration followed. "Okay, family history, very minor nobility a ways back, family estate, yadda yadda...ah. Looks like his parents and grandparents were occasional attendees at social functions of the Club back in the day. So it's almost certainly a legacy thing, and not related to me." He blew out a sigh, a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in, and his shoulders relaxed fractionally from the way they'd tightened when Marie-Ange had put the parchment in his hand.

Marie-Ange had been circling Doug's living room, and dropped onto his sofa with a huff of breath. "So probably not you, still possibly me, if they know that Mister Very Long Name is actually dead, or infirm, yes?" She kicked her shoes off, tucked her feet under her, and let the pencil she'd pinched from Doug wander over the notepad. "Wade, how strongly did you plant the rumors of him being .. bugger, like the disfigured pig fancier from Hannibal. With the lesbian sister."

"Mason Verger," Wade answered without actually thinking about it. She'd made him watch that show. "And I didn't. The point is to make people think he's alive and somewhere I'm not. So I know he's dead and Weasel knows he's dead and the dude who sold me his identity knows he's dead but that dude's not gonna say anything cause he knows I'd raze his operation to the ground if he did. Not to mention everyone else he's sold identities to - bad business. So Smythe-Janson's 'people' have been keeping up the premise that he's a reclusive playboy with a couple in the 'know' about his horrible disfigurement and various other injuries."

"So three...now five people know about it being your alias. I think we can rule out it being targeted, which means it's just his family connections." Doug tapped his finger to his chin, considering angles and possibilities. "I can put out some feelers the next time I'm there, see if that's the case," he offered hesitantly. He was still a bit twitchy about the perception of his allegiances.

"I think better that quickly. If it is because someone has realized that Mister Ridiculous Last Name is actually dating me, or taco besties with you, then we should eliminate that loose end quickly." Marie-Ange doodled on the page - a woman's face with dark hair and bee-stung lips, and then began blacking out the whole face with a pen. "I do not want to have to even think about telling Remy that his ex-wife has decided to harass Wade. Grumpy Remy is not fun for anyone."

"Dude," Wade said, shaking his head. "I can just burn the alias. I've got other ones. Lots of other ones. Smythe-Janson can die in a fire. Like, a legit one. I'll just have his manor explode or something. It'll be tragic. The weird letters will go away."

Marie-Ange frowned, lips thin. "Except. Except that - he is useful. Sheamus-Jericho..." now she was going to get the alias' last name wrong over and over on purpose. "If they do not know he is you, it would be a way to get you into a function if we ever needed you to be there. I am sure it would not last for long, since you are seen with Doug and someone there knows your face but it would get you in the door and past a doorman, to have an invitation."

"You want me to actually pretend to be Tommy Do-Dad Jr. for a party full of big, bad Black Court people?" Wade asked, an amused smiling curling up the corners of his lips. "Am I allowed to kill any of them?" It was an idle question, but the mercenary did flick a throwing knife into his palm from his wrist sheath so he could fiddle with it.

"Well, not tomorrow, or next week but I think wiser to not burn the alias if we could use it, yes?" Marie-Ange said. "I am not sure about the killing. Doug, is there anyone on the Black Court that you would like to see gone who is not the king or queen?"

The names Belladonna Boudreaux and Sebastian Shaw were already on the tip of Doug's tongue when Marie-Ange added that last clause, and he frowned in a pouty sort of way. "Why put those limits on it?" he asked darkly. "But yes, at least a few on any given day. That slime Porter, if he ever shows his face again, for certain."

"Feeling a little blood thirsty, are we, Douglas?" Wade half-smiled. "Noted, though. I'll hold off on burning the alias, then - but what should I do with all the letters they're sending me? Won't they get suspicious if I never respond? And what happens if they just stop sending them?"

"Eh, don't worry about that part," Doug told him. "I'll just whip up a little polite reply that implies you're out traveling most of the time, and not much on orgies anyway, and that should keep us clear until we need you to pop up like a machete-wielding jack-in-a-box." He grinned viciously.

"But without the creepy noises," Wade advised. Then he grinned. "I guess 'let's get this party started' isn't really an accurate war cry in this case. So uh... let's... delay this party for as long as possible?"

"That." Marie-Ange pointed out. "Does not make for good club music at all."