Owner	Pose
Deadpool	Deadpool sat on the black leather couch, elbows resting on his knees, staring blankly at the dimly lit room. The city lights from outside filtered through the massive windows, casting long, jagged shadows on the floor. His suit, once red and black, was now streaked with dark patches, blood, most of it not his own, and the acrid stench of gunpowder still clung to the material like a second skin. He didn't care about the mess. Not right now. His mask was off, tucked beside him on the couch, revealing the ugly scars beneath. His face was pinched with frustration, eyes wide and unblinking, like he was waiting for something. Or maybe just trying to remember what happened. There was no sound except for the soft hum of the city below and the occasional creak of the building settling. The apartment was quiet, too quiet. He shifted uncomfortably, a flicker of panic crossing his face, but it faded just as quickly as it came. He was sure the owner of this apartment wasn't home. There was no way she could sleep through his arrival, no matter how careful he had been, sneaking in through the balcony, using the shadows to his advantage. The place smelled like money and privilege, but all Deadpool could focus on was the blood drying on his gloves. It wasn't the first time he'd been in a mess like this. But tonight felt different.
Natasha Romanoff	There was the sound of keys jingling outside the front door. A moment later, that door opened to allow a woman to enter. Her blonde hair was cut in a bob and her features would be unfamiliar. Her body was curvy in all the right places, shown off in a little black dress with silver accents. She carried a small matching clutch and her shoes were strappy silver stilettos. Multiple silver bracelets jingled on her left arm as she closed the door behind her. Then she froze, blue eyes locking on the figure on the couch as she took a deep breath in through her nose. That carried the scents of blood and gunpowder to her. One would think she might scream. Instead, she reached behind her for the door handle, as though to make a hasty exit in the hopes he didn't see her. The bracelets impacting sent that tinkle of sound through the air again and she mentally cursed, careful not to let a sound escape.
Deadpool	Deadpool didn't need to look up when the door opened. The soft click of high heels on the floor was enough to tell him someone had entered. The jingle of silver bracelets followed, sharp and unmistakable. He stayed seated, staring at the floor, his body slouched with exhaustion, the weight of what he'd done pressing on him. He could feel her presence behind him, but he didn't move. He didn't want to see what her reaction would be. The worst part wasn't a scream, he could handle that. It was the look, the judgment. The knowing look that always followed him, no matter where he went. "Don't," he muttered, his voice rough. "Just... don't. I'm not here to hurt you, I swear." He didn't bother turning around, his eyes locked on the floor instead. "You can just, just call S.H.I.E.L.D. Or whatever." His chest felt tight, like he couldn't breathe properly. His gloved hands fidgeted at his side, twitching toward his mask, but he stopped himself. The bloodstains were still fresh, and he didn't want her seeing his face. Not now. Not with the guilt eating him alive. "I know what you're thinking. I'm not here for trouble, but... trouble's kind of my thing," he added with a weak, hollow chuckle. "Sorry for the mess." It wasn't about the recognition. What mattered was the guilt, the gnawing feeling that he'd crossed a line tonight. He'd hurt someone innocent, and nothing, not even his usual humor or mercenary violence, could drown that out. He couldn't undo it, and he didn't know how to move past it. He could barely stand to be in the same room with himself. "Look, I didn't come here to fight," he said quietly, hoping his voice wouldn't crack. "I could really use a drink."
Natasha Romanoff	That had her pausing with her hand on the door handle. A moment later, she dropped that grip. The sound of the heels would be heard again as she walked through the living room toward the kitchen. Not a word spoken. No actual judgement on her face, though he seemed sure it was there. That's what guilt would do to a person. Though she had no idea that's what was going on. Yet. She poured a glass of vodka, the bottle pulled directly from the freezer because good vodka should be served at 0 degrees. Anyone that told him differently should be shot on sight. A second glass was poured as well then she put the bottle back in the freezer. She moved back to the living room, offering him one of the glasses before sipping from her own. Then she set her glass down and reached up to remove the mesh mask that was hiding her features. A moment later, it was obvious who she was. Even though he already knew. The wig followed and her short red hair was revealed, which she finger combed to give it a little bit of body since it had been under the wig so long. "Need to talk or just be?" she asked as she moved to prop her foot on one of the chairs nearby, unstrapping the shoe and letting it drop to the floor. She made sure she was at an angle where he wouldn't be getting any sort of view except from the side. Then she followed suit with the other foot, leaving her standing barefoot and shoes laying haphazardly by the chair now.
Deadpool	Deadpool watched her as she paused, hand on the door handle. He didn't blame her for hesitating, hell, if he saw a guy like him sitting in her apartment, he'd probably have his finger on the speed dial for 911. He half-expected her to slam the door and bolt, but instead, she dropped her hand and walked past him, heels clicking against the floor like it was just another night. No scream. No shock. Huh. Maybe I'm losing my touch. She didn't say anything, didn't ask why he was there. He figured she knew better than to waste time on the obvious. People usually assumed he was a threat the moment they laid eyes on him, and they were right, most of the time. But not tonight. o O ( Guess I'm not a threat. Just a walking disaster. ) His gut twisted as he watched her pour herself a drink. Vodka, straight from the freezer. o O ( Good choice. Good taste. ) He almost smiled, but that wasn't happening tonight. She came back, offering him a glass. He reached for it without thinking, taking a sip and letting the cool burn settle in his throat. He didn't want to talk. Didn't want to be here, even. But the silence stretched between them like a chasm, and eventually, her mask came off. His brain had already recognized her, but it wasn't until she took the wig off that it really hit him. Of course it's her. Who else would it be? He couldn't decide if that made this better or worse. She was in control. She had everything together. He, on the other hand, was a goddamn mess. Deadpool sighed, running a hand over his head. He could barely meet her eyes. She was too calm. Too... normal. "Yeah, no," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. "I don't know. I think I need both, but I'm really good at screwing things up, so I'm gonna go with the 'just be' part for now. But hey, if you want to talk about how bad I suck at life, I'm all ears." He took another sip, trying to keep the shakiness out of his voice. His eyes dropped to the floor. "Sorry for the mess."
Natasha Romanoff	She plopped down in the matching black leather chair that was set near the couch, with an end table shared between the two in a corner position between them. As she sat, she tucked her feet under her in a comfortable way, casual as though there wasn't a masked man known for being a mercenary that would take killing jobs covered in blood sitting on her couch. Well not her couch. SHIELD's. She figured he knew it was her from the start since he had suggested calling SHIELD when she entered instead of saying the police. She couldn't be sure of course. But she didn't want there to be the masks between them since he had his off. Thus her revelation. She took another sip of her vodka before setting it aside again. Holding the glass in hand would heat it up faster, thus better to let it sit at room temperature since that would be a slower warming process. "It's leather. It'll clean up. And you don't suck at life. You make choices, just like the rest of us. Do I always agree with those choices? No. But considering my past, I'm the last person to ever be passing judgement on you. I can't help but notice you are not your usual loquacious self tonight though. Something I need to go deal with? Or some of my people?"
Deadpool	Deadpool shifted uncomfortably on the couch, trying not to look at the glass of vodka she had handed him. It wasn't that he didn't want it, it was the only thing keeping him from tearing into his own brain right now, but it felt too clean, too normal for the mess that was going on in his head. His mind was racing, running through the same series of images: the Bianchi family, the gunfight in Jersey, the kid. Terzo Fiorentini. Jesus, kid's only twelve. He watched her sit down across from him in that ridiculously calm way, feet tucked under her as if there wasn't a blood-covered mercenary across the room that had just screwed up beyond belief. She didn't seem rattled. She never did. He almost envied that, her ability to keep it all together. It wasn't like that for him. Never was. The silence stretched, and the weight of the situation hung between them. Her apartment, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s apartment, whatever, the walls felt like they were closing in. "You really gonna give me the whole choices speech, huh?" he muttered, shaking his head, a bitter laugh catching in his throat. "Yeah, I made a choice. The wrong one. But, you know, that's kinda my thing. I pick the wrong side of the line every time." He took a sip of the vodka, though it didn't help. Nothing did. "Didn't ask for this job, didn't ask for any of this, but when you get paid to take out the Bianchi Family, you don't exactly have time for moral reflections. You just go in, do the job, and leave. Simple. Except now I've got this kid's blood on my hands." He could still see it, the way the boy had crumpled. How he tried to help, how he'd taken that bullet in place of the kid, only for the round to slip through him and still kill him. Deadpool squeezed his eyes shut for a second, trying to block out the image, but it wouldn't go away. The sound of the gunfire, the way the kid's eyes went wide with shock, the way everything had gone wrong. "I don't need you to agree with my choices," he muttered, lifting his head to look at her for the first time. There was no point in hiding it now, no point in trying to play the tough guy. He had a kid's blood on his hands and that was all that mattered. "I just need to figure out how to deal with it. What do you do when you kill a kid by accident? 'Cause I'm fresh out of answers, here." He set his glass down a little too forcefully, the vodka sloshing in the cup. He wasn't angry at her, he was angry at himself, but it was hard to even look at her right now without feeling like an absolute failure. "And no, I don't think I need to deal with anyone else's problems right now. Just mine." He couldn't help but chuckle bitterly. "Not like you don't have enough of your own, huh?"
Natasha Romanoff	That brought a hint of a smirk to her lips. "I don't have problems, just solutions." Which was a lie. He knew that himself. But it was easier to deny it than admit otherwise. She had no idea what he was talking about with the Bianchi family but she was able to piece together from the few details he was providing. He had taken a job. Wipe out a crime family. Big job but in a the world of criminal enterprises, that that uncommon really. Bianchi wasn't one of the bigger players in the game and there were only a few that might have it out for them. Natasha could count them up on one hand. Narrowed the field for her to look at later. But for now, she was focused on Wade. Kill a kid by accident. So he hadn't fired the shot. Probably made it harder for him. It was easier when one pulled the trigger themselves, as awful as that sounded. At least then it was a choice, a decision made and lived with. Or not. But he said by accident. She wasn't sure how unless the kid was caught in the crossfire maybe? She couldn't know the details if he didn't share them so she could only work on that hypothesis. "You can't save everyone." She let that hang in the air a moment before continuing. "That's something I had to accept early on when I joined SHIELD. I wanted so badly to atone for my past that I tried too hard for perfection, to be sure no one ever died on my watch that wasn't supposed to." A sip of the vodka. "It's impossible. So you just deal with it. You shove it down in a dark hole in your brain and keep putting one foot in front of the other. You can't feel guilt for it since it was beyond your control. If you are someone who believes in fate, that kid would've died whether you were there or not. It was their time. Doesn't make you feel better, of course. It's never that easy. But it's something that you can use to help get you through the darkness to the other side again."
Deadpool	Deadpool took another sip of the vodka, trying to drown the feeling that was creeping up his chest. She had a point, he supposed, he couldn't save everyone. He had a habit of trying to, though. Hell, he'd even tried to save that kid tonight, but it hadn't worked out. 'You can't save everyone,' she said. It wasn't an excuse, just a fact. And hearing it... stung less than he thought it would. Usually, when someone told him that, it just made him feel worse. But not now. Maybe it was the way she said it, like she'd been through the same kind of mess. Maybe it was the fact that she wasn't looking at him like he was some kind of monster. Whatever it was, it made it a little easier to breathe. He leaned back, running a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the weight of the guilt that had been sitting on him ever since the kid died. "Yeah, fate," he muttered, trying to muster up some of his usual sarcasm. "Sounds like a joke. But I guess, maybe I could've done something different." He rubbed his face with his hand. "Maybe not. But, y'know, it's hard to not think about it. Hard not to blame myself." He glanced up at her for a second, trying to keep his usual tough-guy act up, but it was slipping. "But hey, what do I know? I'm just the guy who screws everything up." He forced a weak chuckle, and then took another drink, hoping it would be enough to quiet the thoughts in his head. The silence between them felt less heavy now. He wasn't sure why, maybe it was because he wasn't being judged, or maybe because she hadn't told him to stop feeling bad about it. Either way, he found himself leaning back into the couch, dropping his usual act for once. "I'm not used to this," he said quietly, glancing at her with a small smirk. "Not used to talking like this. Usually, I'm the one throwing people out, not... having a conversation." He paused, and then added with a forced laugh, "Guess that's what makes you different from everyone else." It wasn't much, but for the first time tonight, it felt like he was starting to get through it.
Natasha Romanoff	"I've been in your shoes. More than once." She couldn't save them all. In fact, she was more of a monster than he would ever be. She had used people as tools to get to others. Including children. If he knew that, she doubted he'd be so understanding about her. Thus why that was one of thousands of secrets she held hidden from others, just shadows in her memory that she refused to let take over. Though the red was there. Always there. The ledger would never be balanced. She knew that. No matter how much she tried to lie to herself. "Of course it's hard. A lost life is a tragedy, especially that of someone just starting theirs. But it's just a part of it all. Fate. Chance. Bad luck. Whatever one wants to use to get them through to the other side." She paused to take a big swig of her vodka then looked at him squarely in the face. "Feel bad. Cry if you need to. Then move on. Otherwise, you'll drive yourself insane." That smirk he knew was there again. "Moreso than you already are." A playful wink, trying to make light of the insanity comment and try to draw his mind away from the shadows he found himself engulfed in.
Deadpool	Deadpool nodded, taking another gulp of the vodka, letting the burn settle in his chest. "Yeah, I get it," he said quietly. He'd seen plenty of people go through worse than him, hell, he had been through worse. But this... this was different. There was something about a kid getting caught in the crossfire that felt like a punch to the gut every time he thought about it. "Fate, chance, bad luck," he muttered, half to himself. "Just a nice little mix of all three, right?" He laughed, but it was dry, hollow. "You don't even get a say in it." When she spoke again, though, something clicked. Feel bad. Cry if you need to. He let that sink in for a moment. It was okay to feel like shit. It was okay to not have all the answers, or to just be a mess sometimes. He didn't have to keep pretending he had it all together. He didn't have to fix everything. And the idea that it was all just... part of the deal? That helped, too. The guilt wouldn't go away, not right now, but maybe he could start dealing with it instead of drowning in it. He took another drink, but this time, it was a little easier to swallow. Maybe it was because he wasn't alone in it. Her smirk and wink caught him off guard, and for a second, he almost smiled for real. "You're one of a kind, you know that?" he said, leaning back and letting out a soft chuckle. "I've met a lot of people. Some are just plain evil. Some are so messed up they make me look like a saint." He raised his glass in mock salute. "Then there's you. You're the real deal." He winked back, the sarcasm returning, but there was a little less edge to it. "So yeah, I guess I'll just cry myself to sleep and then move on. At least until the next accidental kid murder happens, right?" He relaxed a bit more, realizing how much better it felt to talk to her. He wasn't used to opening up, hell, he didn't even know why he was doing it now, but it felt like maybe she was one of the few people who got it. She wasn't judging him. She wasn't pulling the "well, you chose this" line that people usually threw at him. She just... listened. And didn't expect him to be perfect. He let out a long breath. "Guess I should start taking your advice more often, huh? You're right. If I don't get over it, I'll end up crazy... or crazier, anyway." He grinned. "But hey, at least it'd make for some interesting conversations." He leaned forward, pushing aside the part of him that felt like a failure and replacing it with something close to gratitude. "Thanks. I didn't think I'd actually feel better after this. But talking to you... I don't know, it helps. Feels good to not be, you know, alone in this mess for once." He paused, his expression softening a little. "You're... not so bad, Romanoff. Maybe I'll stop thinking about ways to kill you after all." He chuckled, but this time, it was more genuine.
Natasha Romanoff	"Oh, don't go doing that. What fun is it if you can't plot the murder of a friend from time to time?" It was a joke. Right? It had to be. The smirk was there but it was kind of hard to tell with that delivery, even with the mischief in her eyes. Because Natasha could be whatever she wanted to be in an instant. Was she being genuine? Could he tell if she was? Few people really could if she didn't make it obvious. "Besides, got to keep me on my toes. After so long in the business, I may be getting sloppy and that will lead to me ending up in a grave. Look at me giving you advice and talking to you instead of trying to make you feel worse. People will think I've gone soft if they knew." And that sounded genuine because it was. She knew she accepted a lot with Wade. But he also was a lot more than people gave him credit for. They knew the mouth. And the ADHD sort of tendencies. They rarely ever got a glimpse of the man behind it all. The man who had his own pain and trauma and dealt with it the only way he knew how. She could understand that in a personal level. It might be why she'd accepted him as she had for so long. "Though I do suggest burning that costume. Not at the moment and definitely not in the apartment. But when you get home, throw it in a firepit or something. Get a new one."