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It was a typical Saturday morning, with Scott Pilgrim [first year university, on winter break, hungover as fuck despite drinking very little] sitting on his floor reading comics until his headache went away and Wallace Wells [first year university, also on winter break, possibly still inebriated after drinking a whole lot] half asleep in Scott's bed.
The snow fell softly outside Scott's window. All in all, it wasn't a bad way to start the day.
Scott picked up one of his favorite issues of Wolverine (Marvel was better for hangovers than DC, and he always liked the ones with Sabretooth) and was halfway through it when Wallace said, "I've got it."
"Why are you sleeping in my bed again?" Scott remembered coming home from the party, a little. The reason why Wallace had chosen to come home with him was a little less clear. It usually was.
"Because I got drunk," Wallace said, cheerfully. "My house is further away. And my parents don't like me anyway. So I stayed at your house."
It did make sense, when Wallace put it like that. Scott still wasn't quite sure how it had all happened, but the logic was certainly sound. "Do my parents know you're here?"
"I think so," Wallace said, rolling over on to his side. "I think your mom said hi. Or your sister. You know. Whichever. A girl, anyway."
Scott chewed that over. "Did my parents know you were drunk?"
Wallace frowned thoughtfully. "Dunno."
It probably didn't matter. Scott's parents loved Wallace. Scott half-suspected his mom wanted Scott or Lawrence to come out of the closet and marry Wallace someday. Wallace could probably come in to the house naked and hallucinating and they wouldn't care.
"Anyway," Wallace said. "My idea. You'll love it. It's brilliant."
"What idea?"
"The one I was just talking about." Wallace rolled onto his stomach. "Our future, Scott Pilgrim. Our future."
Scott put Wolverine down. "What about our future?" Scott's future plans had mostly been try to suck less at music and don't flunk out of university, but he was open to other ideas.
"I told you. I've got it." Wallace put his chin on his hands. "The solution to our problems. Our plan for the future."
Scott squinted at him. He wasn't aware they had problems to solve. "Are you still drunk?"
"It's possible, but that's not the point." Wallace waggled a finger at him. "You'll never have a future if you don't listen to other people's plans, Scott. God knows you're not capable of formulating any plans on your own."
Scott sighed. "Fine. What's your plan?"
"Look at us," Wallace said. "Good-looking, well, me anyway, white, middle-class, respectable. From good families. Trustworthy. Friendly. Who would ever guess we'd be--"
Scott narrowed his eyes, unsure if this was a Typical Wallace Plan (usually acceptable, sometimes brilliant) or an Incredibly Dumb Wallace Plan (rare, but when it happened, exactly what it said on the box). "We're not robbing banks, are we? I'm not robbing banks. I'd panic. I'd probably shoot myself in the foot."
"Don't be stupid, Scott," Wallace said. "We're going to be secret agents. Spies. Double-oh-seven. Licensed to kill. Or at least maim."
"Yep," Scott said. "You're still drunk."
"Wouldn't you want to be a secret agent?" Wallace's eyes got dreamy. "Think about it. Money, guns, sex. Like James Bond, only with more cock."
"I don't want to think about cocks, Wallace."
Wallace closed his eyes and sighed reverently. "Speak for yourself."
"Besides, we're Canadian. Do we even have secret agents?"
"I think so. And anyway, we can work for the Queen. It's beautiful: a queen working for the Queen." Wallace blinked. "Not that I really think of myself as a queen, but--"
"You're insane," Scott said, getting up. "And possibly an alcoholic. Is it possible to become an alcoholic at nineteen?"
"A lot of awesome people are alcoholics," Wallace said. "Besides, James Bond drinks all the time. You probably have to hold your booze to be a spy. Keep your cover maintained." He nodded to himself.
"Then you're not going to be a spy," Scott said.
"Very funny. I could totally learn to hold my booze. I mean, the amount I drank last night, I probably shouldn't even be alive. And if I was a spy, I bet I could have awesome sex with Q. 'Q' could stand for 'queer,' right?"
"Isn't he a little old for you?"
Wallace shrugged. "They probably age him up for the movies. The real Q's probably young and hot. I bet he wears those little wire-rimmed glasses...."
"I'm gonna see what my mom's making for breakfast," Scott said, getting up and walking to the door.
"Awesome," Wallace said. "See if she made pancakes."
"Pancakes. Sure."
"Blueberry. I bet 007 likes blueberry pancakes."
"I'm sure he does," Scott said.