Oa, Guy had decided long ago, is a place where weird things happen. And he doesn’t mean “weird” in the coincidence category of you run into someone who knows your brother when you’re four states away and at a gay bar, but weird. Like, “superheroes are all fucked up in very special ways” sort of weird. Or maybe “wanting to see Kyle naked because he’s hotter than anyone ever” sort of weird. Or even “wanting to see Kyle naked because he’s your best friend, and you’ve been having the wet dreams of a fifteen-year-old” weird. Oa, Guy has decided, is basically the place people end up to see the kind of weird that can only happen in a universe as varied and fucked up as where he lives.
So when a guy in a red and black suit with some massive fucking swords walks into the bar, Guy barely even notices.
“Beer,” the man says, and then he looks back and forth like he’s casing the place badly or like there are people on either side of him trying to get his attention.
Guy hands him a beer (the first he grabs from the cooler under the counter), and then he walks away. There’s an arm wrestling match, a game of darts, and something involving luminescent goo going on around the bar. A guy in a red and black outfit isn’t noteworthy.
“You should have sex with him.”
It happens when Guy’s getting the man a second beer, and he stares at him for a moment. “What?” Guy asks, not exactly against his will, but definitely not because he wants to. He asks, he thinks, because this guy has an aura of I’m a fucked up battle weasel, and it makes Guy pay attention.
“You should have sex with him.” The man repeats, and he looks from side to side again, like he’s got angel and demon dudes on either shoulder. “Kyle.” The man states like it clarifies things. “You should have sex with Kyle.”
Guy blinks. He looks at the clock. He considers the shot he had an hour ago and remembers that was just whiskey; not that hallucinogenic shit that the Lantern from 3812 got him to try that one time. “The fuck?” he asks. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m Deadpool.” The way he says it makes it sound like he thinks it makes all the sense in the world. “And you should really fuck Kyle.”
Guy blinks again. “The fuck?”
“No, The Deadpool,” the man in red and black says. “You know? Badass mercenary? Able to kill anyone? Deadpool?”
“I have no idea who you are,” Guy replies, and he can’t see the man’s face through his mask, but he’s fairly certain he’s pouting.
“Stupid universe rips,” the man—Deadpool—says. “Making me feel inferior. If I had a shrink—“
“And what do you mean I should fuck Kyle?” Guy interrupts. There’s a sudden bubble of silence that tells him he’s been entirely too loud, but at the same time, who the fuck is this creep, and who does he think he is, acting like he knows what happens in Guy’s dreams?”
“I was sent by the fangirls,” Deadpool says seriously. He takes a long pull of his beer, and looks left and right once again. “You should really fuck Kyle.”
Deadpool shrugs, finishes his beer, and stands up. “They think it’s hot, yo.”
Guy—for a third time—blinks. “What?”
“Two dudes…” Deadpool points at Guy, looks around the bar, doesn’t see Kyle, and makes a general gesture with his hand, “boinking…” He points his index finger and slides it into the hole he makes with his other hand, “makes the fangirls all hot and stuff. So, you know, do him. Or whatever.” He turns and waves over his shoulder, walking out of the bar while Guy blinks, yet again, because he doesn’t know what else to do. At all.
Kyle comes out from the kitchen, a damp towel in one hand and water splashes on his jeans and t-shirt. “What the hell—”
“Do you want to have coffee?” Guy asks, turning to face him. “Or tea or dinner or whatever that leads to sex?”
Kyle blinks—Guy can’t make fun of him, given his recent exposure to the reaction—and then he grins. “Wanna just skip the formalities?”
“Yes,” Guy agrees. “Yes, I do.”