1086/I Miss You

I Miss You
Date of Scene:	10 April 2020
Location:	Steve's Room - Avengers Mansion
Synopsis:	Wade visits Steve in his room, and they do drawings and YES WADE GETS A HUG.
Cast of Characters:	Wade Wilson, Steve Rogers

---

Wade Wilson has posed:
There's some evidence of a break-in.

Not on the door, the door is fine. Except for being unlocked. So there's that.

Inside, there are other markers. The picture of Sarah Rogers has googly-eyes attached to it, as does the framed picture of P. Carter.

The placemats from the table have been relocated to the coffee-table in front of the couch.

The charcoal pencils in a stack on the deck have been replaced with specifically red crayons.

The lights seem to be set to a low fluttering strobe.

There's a tie on the door handle to the bedroom.

The shower is on.

Steve Rogers has posed:
Wiping off the back of his neck with a white gym towel, Steve in a pitted grey t-shirt and black running sweatpants is glad to return to the sanctity of his room. Time for a nice shower and some relaxing, maybe some sketching -- a memory has been haunting him to be put to paper. He reaches for the doorknob and instead of the second's wait for the tech to recognize his thumbprint, he finds it...

...open.

"Jane...?" The man's voice peters out as he enters the room to find it in its current state. His hand drops off the door's handle to hang limply along his side, the other still raised in a frozen toss of the white gym towel over his shoulder. The...lights are...blinking, and those are...crayons? Googly eyes on his pictures?! "<<What the hell...?!>>" hisses the Captain in Gaelic, now eyeing the tie on the door dubiously.

Then, it clicks. A quick striding over to the bedroom door and he flings it open.

"WADE?!" His voice only breaks a tiny bit at force of volume kept in check.

Wade Wilson has posed:
There's singing, but it isn't from the bathroom. The bedroom, instead. Why not.

Wade is yelled at, but he had all this singing prepped, so there's singing, with one finger held up in a 'just wait for it' motion. Index finger, if it's important.

    ~~ "Where are youuuuuuuu?
    And I'm so sorry
    I cannot sleep; I cannot dream tonight
    I need somebody, and alwaysssss
    This sick strange darkness
    Comes creeping on so haunting every time
    And as I stared I counted
    The Webs from all the spiders
    Catching things and eating their insidesssssss!"

Then there's a Wade! He comes trotting out of the bedroom towards Steve, in just two, and only two, things.
    1. A towel
    2. Mask

THANK GOD OR WHOEVER YOU WORSHIP FOR THE MASK AM I RITE?!

Unfortunately the towel is a hand towel. So that could have been more ideal. It blocks enough, and yet also nowhere near enough. Wade's body is a travesty useful only to save cash on needing a stomach pumped. You could have ingested poison, right? He'll handle that need for you.

"You're just in time to scrub my back," Wade prattles, upbeat, and attempts to steal Steve's gym towel with spare left hand. Right hand is on his own towel, and ideally should stay there.

Steve Rogers has posed:
Ding-ding-ding, Steve Rogers, you are correct, it is the one and only Wade Wilson! Show him what he's won behind the curtains!

Steve is very glad for the hand-towel and, as the Merc with the Mouth sings on, the super-soldier is very pointedly looking towards the ceilings, his brows knitted and something like a pained smile barely oozing onto his lips. When Wade goes to take the gym towel, Steve moves a step back and finally blurts out a hysterical, airy little laugh. The gym towel, damp with sweat, now belongs to the masked vigilante/bardic afficianado.

"Wade, I think your back is fine," he opines, hands now held up before himself. "There's the wooden scrub brush with the soft bristles if you need to get between your shoulder blades."

Wade Wilson has posed:
"Permission to use Captain America's special scrubby /brush/? I cannot wait," Wade answers immediately, though he does try to grab-jump-grab at the gym towel as it's moved into a keep-away movement here and there. It's a game.

"Okay, fine, keep it, but you are getting a snap of MY towel after I'm out," Wade decides. And then pauses. "Can I borrow some shorts? Maybe some socks?"

"Or possibly a shirt?"

"...If I were going to prioritize, let's put socks first because my feet are cold, and then maybe the shirt, it could be /long/, right. And pants are often optional but I feel like they are ... okay maybe they are first on the list? You seem like a chap that has a thing for pants staying on people." Wade, distracted, but friendly in his chattiness.

Wade Wilson has posed:
"Optionally, I could also use some duct tape," Wade says, abruptly, not even waiting for Steve's pose, which is very rude.

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Most of society is big on pants staying on people in most circumstances, yes," Steve agrees as he remains standing there, arms lightly crossed. "'nd yes, Wade, you can borrow some short, socks, 'nd a shirt. No problem. I'll leave 'em on the bed for when you get out."

He turns to go walk over to one of the chest-of-drawers he uses for comfortable, lounging clothing. "You go finish your shower, Wade," he says with a waving gesture towards the man aimed while his visual attention is focused on picking out various articles of clothing. He adds, clearly trying not to lose track of the enviously calm tone of voice, "'nd there's no duct tape around here, it's downstairs in the kitchen."

Wade Wilson has posed:
"There's a massive rip in the cheek-side of my suit and I decided to spare the public a view of which they might never recover. Keeping that special for the Avengers here. Well, not /so/ special. I don't entirely keep track of who has seen my bare ass any more than a lot of other things that exceed the rating that I am abiding by at the moment," Wade chatters.

Perk!

"Downstairs. Kitchen!" Wade begins to walk to the door. Duct tape is a Quest. One can almost see the '!' mark appear over his masked head. "I shall find a roll of pristine Duct Tape. Do you have any side-quests available? Perhaps you need four Asgradian earlobes?"

Steve Rogers has posed:
Steve straightens and turns, expecting to see the Merc by the bathroom door still.

Nope, he's making his way towards the bedroom door and out into the Captain's living room quarters with just a handtowel around his waist. "Wade?" The man's name is pitched with a touch of the Captain's intensity now, like a shepherd calling out to a flock. "Wade, the duct tape can wait, there's clothing right here." Indeed, bundled across the super-soldier's forearm, a collection of orange basketball shorts, a white t-shirt with the Nike swoosh across its chest, and a pair of gold-toe socks. His wince finally shows, proof that he can't ignore the...bloody span of cancer-laden back from the nape of the neck and down.

And no, the handtowel doesn't cover much of the hips sector. "You need any first aid...?"

Wade Wilson has posed:
Wade turns around, giving Steve a confused look. "Like, for my emotional scars?" Wade asks, approaching now, coming over, but not really paying attention to the clothes. "My hurt feels? They do feel raw. So, how considerate of you. Maybe. I do suffer so," Wade pines, lifting one hand to flick nonexistant tears away from the eye-areas of his mask.

"I will accept a cuddle in or out of the shower, then. Prepare the snuggle." Wade attempts to pat Steve's forearm but does get shepherded into the bathroom. He has a big bloody mark from neck down, mushy with blood, but hard to tell if he's injured. It looks like he was laying in a puddle of blood on his back, and then stood up and it dripped down the backs of his legs into his boots and -- okay let's stop being descriptive.

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Uh..." Steve can't bring himself to wreck the man's misinterpretation of his concern and so, after being patpatted on the forearm, he simply watches Wade walk back towards the shower. The volume of blood on the Merc's back is frankly a little obscene and the Captain's brows knit eloquent of further worriment about the 'WHY' of the blood's existence.

Somebody clearly forgot to put down newspaper.

"Clothing'll...be on the bed when you get out, Wade," Steve calls as he lays the bundle of shorts/t-shirt/socks upon the cleanly made-up covers. He makes a mental note to replace the scrub brush once it's done being used. That was, after all, a lot of blood. He then retreats out to the living room and sighs, hands on his hips. The googly eyes are carefully removed from the pictures and slid away into one of his work-desk drawers. Where the charcoal pencils have gone off to, only Wade knows, but when the Merc emerges, he'll find Steve attempting to sketch with the red crayons. It's...a fascinatingly different process and he's even got his head tilted, tongue peeking out trapped to one side of his mouth, as he works.

Wade Wilson has posed:
Don't worry, there's more to that song from before. Wade hops into the shower, and even through the closed (okay, mostly closed, it's ajar unless Steve fixes it), comes beautimus singing!

    "Don't waste your time on me,
    You're already the voice inside my head (I miss you, I miss you).
    Don't waste your time on me,
    You're already the voice inside my head (I miss you, I miss you).
    Don't waste your time on me,
    You're already the voice inside my head (I miss you, I miss you).
    Don't waste your time on me,
    You're already the voice inside my head (I miss you, I miss you).
    Don't waste your time on me,
    You're already the voice inside my head (I miss you, I miss youuuuuuuuu)."

The chorus just repeats over and OVER until Wade is done, with a section of 'BRUSH BRUSH BRUSH BRUSH' in the middle wherein Steve can probably picture his scrubby-brush in that mix of cancer-vomit skin tabs and bloody ripped mush.

/Sexy/.

But then the water shuts off, Wade bounces across, drippingly because his towel was tiny, to the bedroom to get all orange and Nike swooshed.

"I'll react to your drawing thing in a seconnnnnd," Wade calls.

Steve Rogers has posed:
Steve, serenaded, tries not to laugh the entire time as he's sketching -- otherwise, the crayon would bounce around the page and jar the picture he's fleshing out. He looks up at the call from the bedroom and then over his shoulder and then back at the page. Another frown is aimed at the mostly-closed door between the living room and bedroom. How...?

"Okay!" he calls back before adding after a moment, "Your suit by the bed, do you...want that in a bag or something...?"

It had been a mess, the suit.

Wade Wilson has posed:
"You mean paper or plastic?" Wade calls back loudly while he gets fully into the orange. "I feel like a prison inmate in all this orange," Wade adds, but emerges, out into the area Steve is in, plunking his butt down into the chair next to Steve, one elbow on the table nearby, chin parked on lifted hand, looking at the artwork.

"I'm thinking plastic might contain the blood better, though mostly it's all dried," Wade answers, in a very lucid tone. He's in the items Steve left out for him, including comfy socks, and has removed his mask, which leaves him awkwardly facially scarred but clothed like a normal hoomin bean. Roadkill flavor.

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Proooobably plastic then," Steve agrees. It'll contain the mostly-dried blood better, yes. He makes a mental note to borrow one of Tony's little Roomba robots on full biohazard sanitation scrub mode in the general six foot radius of where he last saw the suit.

The sketch is then rotated towards Wade and the Captain lifts his brows. "What'd'ya think? Different seeing it in red, isn't it?" It's the Statue of Liberty from memory, all flowing lines and crowned repose of concern, ever-watchful across the Atlantic to the far shores of distant continents...in red crayon.

Wade Wilson has posed:
"Is that all from memory?" Wade asks, absolutely seeming impressed, leaning forward to get a better inspection of the whole of it.

"I gotta ask.... why red crayon?" Wade wants to know, without seeming to actually remember or have much idea about why Steve would have chosen red crayon as the media choice. "Let me see what I've got," Wade offers, getting up. "Oh wait. Plastic bag?" he asks, holding up to wait for plastic. The suit is still oozing into the carpet at the moment.

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Yep, from memory. Been sketching for years." Quietly pleased by his audience's reaction, Steve smiles to himself. Then appears a little boggled. "Um. Sure, gimme a sec, there's gotta be a bag around here somewhere."

Setting aside the sketchbook and red crayon with nub worn down in use, he then rises to walk over to the small kitchenette-like section of the room. A stoop and he rustles around in one of the side cupboards to come out with a fairly large-sized, deep plastic grocery bag. "Stash 'em as trash can liners," he explains as he walks over and offers it out to Wade. "Should be big enough to fit all of your suit in it."

Wade Wilson has posed:
"Can I draw?" Wade asks, waggling the crayon he has since picked up. "I mean, I /can/ draw -- although I think there's some critics that will argue over whether or not I /should/ draw -- but /may/ I draw. I don't mean on your picture, obviously, that'd be more rude than other rude things I've already done today," Wade adjusts.

But then there's plastic, and Wade accepts it, looking down into it as if cleanliness mattered or something. "Okay, first thing's first. Goop in the bag. Consider my offer to draw. It could be worth a lot someday. Unlikely, but stranger things have happened to me."

Steve Rogers has posed:
Rolling back a few steps, Steve then nods, hands rested on his hips.

"'m not stopping you from drawing, Wade, sure. Book'll be right there when you get back, crayons too," the man replies, attempting to be ever polite in the face of the sheer ludicrous unpredictability of the Merc. "If you need an extra bag for the suit, let me know." He reaches to scratch at the back of his neck where sweat from exercise has dried. Itchy, yes, but he'll wait until Wade's gone to see what became of his shower.

Wade Wilson has posed:
"Well, I can just wear whatever does't fit in the bag," Wade says, shrugging, as if that were entirely acceptable. He carries the bag off into the bedroom without regaling Steve with another burst of chatter, but there's way too much noise in the bedroom just for putting a suit in a bag.

But Wade's return will show why. He is now not just in the orange, but is also fully loaded up with all his weaponry. And it is a very bizarre sight. The mask is back on, and just about all the hard gear: guns, knives, swords, the utility belt of POUCHES (because Liefeld)... and then the bloody baggie.

"I do have charcoal. I feel like maybe it's yours? I'll leave it with you when I go," Wade says, in a puzzled, partially /apologetic/ way. Whatever his intent with the crayons isn't apparent to him now. "Also these stickers might be yours." They're from THE FORCE AWAKENS!. Clearly Steve's.

Wade returns to sit with a plop, and the charcoals are returned, unharmed, with a pet pet of Wade's palm and a ginger little smile. He's trying.

Steve Rogers has posed:
By the time Wade returns, the Captain has poured himself a glass of water and is just setting it down on the small four-person table tucked up near to the kitchenette. He glances up to see the amalgamation of borrowed clothing and usual paraphenalia to have a moment of relief at NOT having a mouthful of water when the full sight hit him.

"Charcoal probably is," Steve agrees very mildly and walks over to collect up his suddenly-reappearing pencils. They go away into a wooden box lined in velvet, like an oversized matchbox, and then sit aside on the work-desk. The stickers are held up and Steve smiles despite himself. "These are great, Wade, you go see the film?"

Wade Wilson has posed:
"I think so. It was a while ago. I adore lightsabers. I had one, once. A real one. Red, though, which is not really the color that I felt should be mine in my heart. I'm thinking I'd be purple, like poor Samuel L. Jackson. I haven't seen the new one, so don't spoiler me on it. Though I guess we are well outside of spoiler time that would be reasonable for a normal person. I talk about Mandalorian though. I require a little Yoda stuffed backpack like I require a consistent supply of air," Wade declares. "Which is not actually all that much, so maybe more than air right now, at this moment."

Wade attempts to lean over the drawing pad with a red crayon. He politely flips to a NEW page, and begins to doodle. Wade's stick figures mostly. "Red and Black; it's like you know me," Wade prattles, charmed, moving fingers in a 'let me have black' motion.

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Haven't seen the Mandalorian yet, is it any good?" Curious to see what turns up on the blank page of the sketchbook, Steve lean in and slightly overtop to watch what shows up. When Wade asks after a charcoal stick, the Captain smiles to himself yet again. One of the work desk drawers opens with a soft sliding sound and plucked out is a charcoal stick rather than a pencil, offered out to Wade.

Along with what appears to be a well-used artist's rag for wiping darkened fingers on should the need apply.

Wade Wilson has posed:
Wade has created two stick people. They are either playing a great game of leap-frog, or maybe something more naughty. Since it's Deadpool? .... both.

Both is good.

He slides his artwork to Steve. It's a commemmoration of one of their first meetings (at least In Deadpool's mental reality) where he got a piggy-back ride from Steve. The Deadpool on top seems extremely happy, with a huge smile. Steve-stickman doesn't seem as upset as the real one was at the time. Rose-colored memory glasses. Wade then signs it and sits back, flipping the charcoal neatly in his hand as if it were a knife, and offering it butt-first back to Steve. "Feel like you forgot us for a while. Gotta put a stop to /that/."

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Dunno, you stopped randomly teleporting into my room." Even as he takes both the offered artwork and charcoal stick, Steve realizes what just came out of his mouth and what it's encouraging, even unintentionally.

Oh well.

He continues regardless as he puts the drawing utensil away once more. "Nobody could forget you anyways, Wade. You're singular." And by his tone, the Captain doesn't mean it one bit unkindly of the Merc in his prison-orange and Liefeld belt. The artwork gets propped up against the back of the work-desk, its gentle arcing lean keeping itself upright in defiance of gravity. "There. Now when I work here, I'll be able to see it," he says of his decision to place it as such.

Wade Wilson has posed:
Wade sits up, and tap-taps one finger to his cheek, looking upwards, as if deep in rapturous thought. "That is a true statement. I did stop being so random related to my visits. Maybe I just needed to reset my brains. A few bullets to the old brainpan, stir the little grey cells around," Wade says, but stretches some, resting both forearms on the table with a plop.

"It's not great art, you don't have to show it off," Wade laughs. "Not gonna be all sad-panda if you hide it the instant I leave. Consider it like .... a greeting card," Wade decides. "keep it around for a few months until the guilt of keeping it out of obligation of sentimentality is less than the realization that it probably is just finally going in the trash."

Steve Rogers has posed:
"It'll stay there for as long as it needs to." Admittedly, the blond super-soldier still huffed the tiniest laugh at the brutally realistic take on yearly cards. "If it gets moved, then it gets moved, but not unless it needs to be," he assures the Merc. Then leaning against the work desk with the meats of his hands rested on the edge for fingers to hang down, Steve sighs.

"Got a meeting to get to soon at the Triskelion, however, so you mind teleporting in another time? I'll be sure to have beer in the fridge. Remind me again what you like? Reds? Blacks?" Pleased with himself, Steve grins just enough to dimple all ghostly-like.

Wade Wilson has posed:
"I ENTIRELY MIND," Wade declares, huffy. "My feelings have not gotten their cuddle, they are still shattered like a bashed femur upon the concrete," Wade says, in an oddly specific example.

"One hug, and I'll begone?" Wade barters. "No tongue."

"...Wait."

Oh well.