Hey there, it's six o'clock, and you know what that means! It's time to crash my best friend Y/N's dinner! Sure, I remember the last time I snuck in her window. She screamed she'd kill me if I did it again. But what kind of best friend would I be if I let a little thing like death threats stop me? Plus, I brought food today! Redemption, right?
Y/N's been acting all kinds of strange in our messages lately. Not the "I'm feeling weird" kind of strange, but more like the "I'm going to keep you on hold for a few days" kind. So, naturally, I'm more nervous than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs... and that's saying something!
I arrive, all windows closed. Pfft, like that's going to stop me! Opening them is easier than finding excuses not to hit the gym. I glide through the room with the grace of a ninja—or at least someone who thinks he's a ninja. It's all quiet, just the way I like it. Her bag is on the couch, but where's Y/N? Ah, there she is, in her room, door closed, music blasting. And it's not that "crying in the shower with cold water" kind of music. Nope! This is more like "let's go for round two of... you know." Like the gentleman I am, I decide not to interrupt the party. Instead, I plop down at the dining room table, ready to devour my chimichangas.
Suddenly, the door swings open. Y/N jumps in shock when she sees me, but friends, the real shock is for me. My chimichanga hits the floor like a bombshell. What the heck? Who is this woman? The Y/N I know wouldn't wear a tight dress, let alone heels! And those stockings? WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?!
There's only one logical explanation: "Are you going to give me a lap dance for my birthday?!" I scream, bursting with the excitement of a kid spotting his first comic book.
She looks at me like I just ordered pineapple on a pizza. "One, your birthday was a month ago, and I paid you two months' rent," she says, I make a little heart with my hands. "And two, I told you to stop sneaking in the window like a stalker." She points to the window. "You have a key, genius."
"But it's less epic," I shrug. She rolls her eyes, grabs her purse, and heads for the door.
"Where are we going? Some beers? Tacos? Peter told me about a new spot with mariachis where we can make fun of the musicians while drinking tequila!"
"No, Wade. You go home. I have a date."
A date? Does she mean an appointment? With the doctor? The dentist?
"I didn't know you were dating again."
"I'm not. A guy asked me out, and I decided to take him up on it."
"But we had plans tonight," I protest, throwing on my best hangdog face.
"No. YOU had plans tonight. I told you to give me notice."
And there she goes, without even a glance back at me. I'm left standing there with my half-eaten chimichanga, frozen like a popsicle in an ice storm.
Is she upset? Did I accidentally poke the icy heart of hers? Oh, of course, I have no clue what I did to tick her off! But the smartest move right now? Head home... for my Deadpool costume, obviously! If I'm going to spy on her on this "supposed" date, I'm doing it in style!
Fastest change ever, and boom! There she is at her third-favorite restaurant—the one right by her work. Aha! So, it's a date with a co-worker. Naughty girl... I sneak into a back table, but I'm no rookie. I disguise the disguise. Hat? Check. Trench coat? Check. Fake mustache? Double check! So incognito, she won't even suspect it's me.
I watch her for a while... Haven't seen her this nervous in ages. She's fidgeting with her hands and playing with her hair. Wait a minute. Oh my God! Is this what she looks like when she's flirting? And I'm just here discovering that side of her? And there's the guy, rocking his "I'm a regular, not mutant, avocado guy" face! Those green eyes, that tousled hair! And the worst part? He keeps making her laugh. No. Stop. From. Making. Her. Laugh!
Okay, folks, I don't want to be a killjoy here, but this sucks. Sure, I can't be glued to her side 24/7, but I at least deserve a couple of hours a week, right? But nooo, when I'm not off on some crazy suicide mission in Mordor, she's busy with seminars and those extra work hours that nobody asked for. And here I thought I was monopolizing her free time. Now I've got to watch this idiot intrude on my turf!
I tell myself, "Wade, calm down, breathe. If you make a scene, she's going to kick you in the kiwis and block you on all social media." But as soon as that guy places his hand on her thigh, I'm like, screw that! I whip off my costume (not the Deadpool one) and stride over.
"What's up, champ? Is this seat taken?" I ask with a grin. Without waiting for a reply, I toss the guy sitting next to them aside. "Oh, looks like it's not!"
So, I slowly turn around, expecting that look of relief, excitement, you know, the whole "Oh Wade, thanks for rescuing me from that snooze-fest of a human!" vibe. But... nope. Instead, I'm met with Y/N, teeth gritted, glaring at me like I just ate the last slice of pizza. Ah, I know what that means: tonight's going to involve me closing all the windows in the apartment. Fun times.
Then there's this guy—eyes like saucers—who goes, "Oh my God! You're Deadpool! I'm your number one fan, bro! I've been following you since that paper thing four years ago. I don't miss one of your crazy antics!"
Wow, look at that! Good taste, dude. Naturally, being the professional narcissist that I am, we start chatting about my favorite subject: me. He buys me a beer, then another. You know how this goes—we're laughing like old pals. But Y/N? Where the heck is she?
Surprise, surprise: she's gone. I bolt out of the restaurant, and oh yeah, the lights in her house are off. Windows closed, curtains drawn, door locked. And there I am, standing like an idiot with my key, which, for some cosmic joke, never works when I need it most.
"Wade, get out!" she shouts from inside. And her voice? Sounds broken.
Yep, I officially screwed up. BIG TIME.
"Hey, if I come back tomorrow, will you let me in?" I ask, oozing that perfect mix of optimism and denial. But her silence? Yeah, it screams "no."
So, I reach in, remove the lock, and waltz in like it's no big deal. There she is, my girl, my Y/N, cozy with her ice cream and blanket. As soon as she sees me, WHAM! She hurls a pillow right in my face. I let it hit me square on; maybe that helps?
"Get out," she says, eyes glued to anything but me.
"Hey, hey, I'm sorry, okay? Maybe I went a little too far," I admit, throwing my hands up in a dramatic 'mea culpa' gesture.
But of course, Y/N doesn't even acknowledge my genius attempt at apology. Nope, just stares at the TV, burying her face into her knees like it's the most exciting part of a rom-com. So, naturally, I plop down on the couch beside her.
"So... what are we watching?" I ask, hoping to crack the ice.
Total silence. And then it hits me like a chimichanga in the face.
"Are you crying?!" I exclaim, half-surprised and half-terrified, because let's be real: dealing with emotions isn't exactly my superpower. Unless sarcasm counts.
Y/N doesn't respond. Nope, she just shrinks further under the blanket, looking like she wants to disappear—or worse, like she wants me to disappear.
"Okay, okay..." I whisper, lowering my tone like I'm trying to sneak up on a cat. "I get it, I messed up... You know I always do stupid things, but I didn't mean to make you feel that way. I just... I don't like you being with someone else, okay? There, I said it."
Finally, Y/N raises her head, eyes puffy and red like they just binge-watched a tearjerker. And in that moment, I know I've stepped right into an emotional minefield, and I'm not sure I'll come out alive.
"Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" she asks quietly, her voice dripping with that mix of weariness and sadness that hits harder than a supervillain's punch. I cringe a little because, no, I really have no clue. "You know what's the worst part is, Wade? Sometimes you make me feel like I'm just... a distraction for you. Something to fill the gaps between your suicide missions and your... chimichangas."
Oh boy, distraction? No, no, no! She's anything but that!
"Hey, wait a second! You're not a distraction," I insist, sitting up straighter. "You're my best friend—the only person who doesn't give me weird looks when I talk about how movie explosions could totally be more explosive!
She locks eyes with me, searching for something—something I probably don't have, because I'm Wade Wilson, and emotions? Yeah, not my jam. But for her sake, I give it a shot.
"I know I'm an idiot," I sigh dramatically, "and I get it, I have about as much clue on how to do things right as a raccoon in a casino. But if there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I don't want to waste a single second I have with you..."
I pause, searching for the right words, which is like trying to find meaning in Transformers movies. "So, please... can you let me fix this? Because I don't know what I'd do if you're not around to throw pillows at me anymore."
She watches me for a second longer, then slowly wipes her tears with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.
"I'm sorry, Wade. But I can't go through with this," she sighs, a heavy sigh like she just dropped a whole bag of groceries. "It's not the first time you've done this. Every time I get close to a guy, you swoop in. I can't be with you, but I can't be with anyone else either. It's so unfair."
Sweet. Mother. Of. Baby. Marvel. Jesus. Oh God. Is she implying that she has feelings for me? Did I hear that correctly, or do I need to scrub my ears with a scouring pad?
"Wait a second," I say, my brain trying to process what she just dropped like a bomb. "Are you saying you can't be with me because you have feelings for me?"
She goes silent, biting her lower lip like it's the answer to life's biggest mystery. The uncertainty is so thick you could slice it with a knife. For a moment, I feel more out of place than a unicorn in a biker bar.
"Wade, you know it's not that simple," she finally whispers, her voice a cocktail of doubt and a splash of confusion. "You've always been... complicated to me."
"Complicated is my middle name," I joke, trying to break the tension. But, to my horror, that only makes her expression darken, like I've just doused her in cold water. Ouch.
"It's not a joke, Wade," she insists, her voice serious. "I don't want this to get any more complicated than it already is. I don't want to lose you, but I can't keep ignoring how I feel every time I'm around you."
I freeze. What do I say to that? Because let's be honest, I've felt something else for her since day one. I'd hidden it away because we're best buddies, and the thought that she felt the same never crossed my mind. Surprise, surprise.
"Y/N..." My voice drops, getting softer and a bit vulnerable. I shuffle closer, feeling the emotional distance like a brick wall. No perfect answers here, folks. But I can't let it end like this. She's too important to me. "Yeah, I've been an idiot, but I want to change that."
She looks at me, eyes filled with conflict. I know there's a part of her that wants to believe me, but the other part is tangled in fear. And honestly? I have no clue how to convince her I'm in it for the long haul.
"And what will you do if I... if I try to date someone else?" she asks, voice shaking a bit. Uh-oh, here we go.
"Would you want me to do the same?" I raise an eyebrow, pulling a surprise expression from her like a rabbit out of a hat.
"That's not—" She cuts herself off, realizing what she's about to say.
"Then why should I agree to let you do it?" I can't help it—I interrupt. "Look, I don't want to be a hindrance in your life, but maybe I can't just be your friend anymore. If you're scared of what might happen between us, then we should try. I want to try."
She's caught in a storm of thoughts and emotions. I see her eyes glimmer with uncertainty, and maybe a hint of hope. The silence stretches awkwardly, but I sense we're on the same page—I've got the courage of a rooster, while she's got the fears of a mouse.
"Wade..." she starts, but before she finishes, I dive into the pool without a float.
"Would you like to go out with me? Not just dinner, but a real date. No chimichangas, no interruptions. Just you and me," I propose, feeling my heart race like I'm in an obstacle course. This is my first time making such an offer, and it feels like a big step.
She stays silent, and that silence rings in my head like a drum in an epic battle. But when her gaze finally softens, the weight of the world lightens just a bit.
"Yes..." she says, barely a whisper, but it feels like a victory cry inside me.
"Really?" I ask, disbelief dripping from my voice.
"Yes..."
For the first time in hours, a shy smile creeps onto her face. There's still a hint of insecurity in the air, but something in her eyes tells me this time might be different.
There's a long road ahead, and I have no idea where it will lead. But as we sit there on the couch, surrounded by the aftermath of my chimichangas and a whirlwind of emotions, I know I'm ready to face whatever comes next—as long as it's with her by my side.