Warren & Wade | Thursday Morning (backdated)

[x-deadpool.livejournal.com]

Warren catches Wade off guard in the kitchen. Things are... awkward.


Another day, another refusal to drive back into the city. Warren found that it was easier to just stay in the suite provided, and do whatever work was required of him via telephone or email. He could work from wherever most days, and why not do it in the relative comfort that the Mansion provided?

Plus, their coffee was amazing.

Impeccably dressed, as usual, he sauntered into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of ever present coffee. There was only one other person in the kitchen, someone that he vaguely remembered as being named Wade Wilson. Warren only remembered him because their initials were the same. WW. The other man was engrossed in a magazine, so Warren said nothing, simply mixed his coffee with an obscene amount of sugar before casually walking over to the table.

Noticing the catalog, he raised an eyebrow. "Shopping for a suit from a catalog?" He made it sound like it was a dirty word. "Are you poor?"

"Not hardly, Flyboy," Wade answered absently. Then everything about him seemed to still for an infinite second before he reached for one of the two ridiculously large sandwiches on a plate in front of him, took a bite, and flipped a page of the magazine. Sometimes, when they caught him off guard, it was almost like the frankenberrycat people were the right people. He knew they weren't, but sometimes - sometimes. Still, reality hadn't shaken on its foundations, the world hadn't crumpled around them, so he figured the nickname slip wasn't a thing that would ruin everything all over again. "Getting ideas," he finally finished, swallowing the bite of sandwich and taking another.

Warren hadn't even noticed the nickname. Instead, he was trying to process why someone would a buy a suit unseen. "You can't get ideas from a picture," Warren stated. "At least not for a suit. There are so many factors to take into consideration: texture, fabric, color... and don't get me started on the fit. A proper tailor is indispensable." ‎

"You're the second person to tell me that about the tailor. Clothier." Wade made a slight negating motion with the hand turning pages in the catalog. "But this is me, not getting you started on anything."

Too late. Warren had a slight obsession with fashion. This was the type of conversation that he found interesting. "What are you looking for in particular? A business suit? Something to entertain clients in? An image of wealth? Actually, most importantly: do you have a budget?"

Wade, sandwich still in hand, turned slowly on the stool upon which he sat so he could look at the other man. "I'm a mercenary. I've been a mercenary for thirty years. I never have a budget."

Warren's smile widened. "Then I believe it is my sincere duty to introduce you to the world of tailored suits. Pricey, yes but you can't compare." He took a sip of his coffee and set the mug down. Warren turned around and asked over his shoulder, "What do you see?"

"A very cunningly hidden pair of wings," Wade answered flatly. "Please go away." This was harder than he'd thought it would be. But this Warren wasn't like the other one, the one Wade had joked with and been friends with and and slept. It wasn't such a problem with Wanda or Lorna or the others. But for some reason - for some reason this was difficult.

Warren furrowed his brow before straightening himself up. In a very polite tone, he apologized. "I seem to have offended ‎you. That wasn't my intention." He picked up his mug and gave a slight nod. "Have a nice day." Warren returned to his spot near the coffee machine and wondered what exactly had happened as he topped off his coffee.

It was unfair of him and Wade knew that, he did. He just couldn't bring himself to take back the request. Not yet. Not for a long moment as he sat there on the stool, sandwich in hand, and stared blankly at the floor. He'd been able to handle the others. He'd been able to deal with them and their new quirks and their different ages and everything. But this might just be the straw that broke off the containers in his brain he was using to compartmentalize.

He took a slow breath, ran through half a kata in his brain, and then said, voice still a little flat, "I'm sorry. It's been a rough few weeks. Please, tell me about suits. I could use all the help you can give."