Cable gets the call on his burnerphone. It’s his apartment’s management and could he please pick up the packages that are accumulating in the locker area as soon as possible?
Cable asks, “What packages?” but goes downstairs and finds out a small sea of brown cardboard boxes flooding in the mail area of the lobby. The desk manager there - Farhad - looks up from his book wearily and asks if he’s Nathan Summers.
“Yeah,” says Cable. “I didn’t order any of this.”
“Sign here please.”
Cable does so. “I didn’t order any packages.” It’s only thanks to Domino that he knows how any of this even works. All his knowledge of Amazon comes from history lessons decades away.
“They are addressed to you so now they are yours,” says Farhad, no longer looking up from his book. His mind projects not getting paid nearly enough for this shit loudly.
Cable sighs and drags all fifteen boxes upstairs in two trips.
Once back in his apartment, he scans the boxes with his AI to make sure there are no obvious traps, bombs, or tripwires he's about to detonate. Not a lot of people know his address, but he has given out his real name and he's going to have plans shortly. Better not to lose a habit.
He opens the first box. There's a smaller box with pictures of a banana-shaped object shown slicing a banana into even slices. It's labeled 'Hutlzer Banana Slicer'.
It's stupid. It has one use only. The package is bright and cheery and smells like plastic. And Cable knows exactly who's responsible.
"Wade," he growls under his breath. The box crumbles slightly in his grip.
Two weeks ago, Wade exhausts all his usual go-to porn and cycles onto his next favorite between-jobs activity: window-shopping Amazon. (Wait, is it Window-shopping if he's using a Chromebook? Well, if the writer doesn't know, Wade sure as hell doesn't.)
"Al, do you know anyone who needs discount quilting needles with the tops shaped like cat ears?"
"It's two AM, dipshit."
"Well, why are you still up?"
"I'm getting my nightcap." There's a glass of either water or Everclear in her hands as she shuffles towards her bedroom.
"Al, do you know anyone who needs-"
"I was gonna say a nice block of cocaine, but if you don't want any, I guess-"
"Go the fuck to sleep, Wilson."
But Blind Al shuffling off to bed in her moth-bitten slippers doesn't solve Wade's problem of who he's gonna buy this junk for. Because not buying it is not an option, but Blind Al's threatened to call the hoarding helpline if she trips over one more Death Star popcorn maker box. ("It's not about the popcorn, Al. It's a collector's item! So I'll be able to fence it! In like 20 years! Then I'll make 200 dollars! You'll see!") So now he's gotta buy this shit for other people, and that can be a pretty hard sell. Weasel lasted the longest and even he cut Wade off after buying him 5000 ladybugs in a box. In fact, Sister Margaret's kicked him out for a whole two weeks. Until Wade forgot and stumbled back in after a week and got his face slammed onto a mason jar full of the ladybugs they were able to collect. But after that, all was forgiven. (Wade still thinks he has ladybug shells in his teeth sometimes.)
But he has to buy something. His fingers are itchy, his head is wired, he's ready to clack his keys and give out his credit card information.
Oh, of course. He knows exactly who he needs to harass at ass o'clock at night with a bunch of stupid shit.
He bullies Dopinder to give him Cable's address, despite Dopinder's complaints about the hour. (Wade doesn't care, this is so fucking important. He needs to do this, Cable needs this from him, and it has to be done tonight.) It takes Dopinder ten minutes to hack into Weasel's bounty hunter database to find whatever personal information Cable gave the man, and badabook, badaboom, Wade has a room number (and a street address, too).
He throws in a bottle of 'Liquid Ass' and the kitty cat quilting needles wink at him just as he clicks the 'Confirm Order' button. Wade hasn't had a high like this in a while.
The next mission, Cable doesn't say a word. Well, outside the usual "get a move on, dipshit" but that's practically a courtesy from Cable. Deadpool drops all sorts of puns and Cable reacts to precisely none of them.
Except for when Wade asked if his favorite type of sweater is cable and got a mouth full of techno-organic fist for his troubles. (Worth it.)
But he doesn't tell Wade to stop, which outside the bedroom equals enthusiastic consent in his book.
"Domino, what color Crocs should I get Cable and should I get him matching socks? They're half-off."
"Camo, and why are we buying Nate shoes?"
"His name is Big Fucking Metal Wire, not Nate and it's Crocs. Everyone deserves a pair."
Domino squints. "Is this your shopping addiction thing Al was telling me about?"
"Excuse me!" Wade lurches from his chair. The laptop falls off his lap and nearly crashes down to the ground but Domino catches it, the lucky bastard. "First of all" - Wade starts counting off his fingers - "it's not an addiction, because I'm not acknowledging it. Second of all, it's my way of giving back to the economy since my income's under the table and I don't have to pay taxes on what I don't report. Third of all, I do not deserve the condescension in your voice, because I have only ever bought things I need."
Domino folds her arms and just looks at Wade. "Really."
"Yes, really," huffs Wade.
"So this coffee mug," says Domino as she picks it up from the arguably cluttered counter, "with a shelf underneath?"
"It's for fondue for when I need self-care for myself and nobody else. There's a candle that goes with it...somewhere"
"Like these bacon-bourbon-scented candles?" She picks one up from next to the coffeemaker. "How necessary are those?
"Sometimes, Al's relationship with the baked beans goes through rough patches. Also, we have a coffeemaker?"
"Also yours, asshole," mutters Al as she walks out of the bathroom.
"And I don't think you've cleaned it since the first time you used it," answer Domino, giving a sniff and wincing. "I think that's black mold, Wade."
"Or the decayed carcass of black mold because it's been there for so long," replies Wade, perfectly reasonably. "It looks exactly the same, I think."
"Ugh. Okay, how about all these Funko Pop knockoff figurines? Are those the Golden Girls?"
"They're for brightening the place up! Even Al needs some cheer in her life."
"Lord knows you never fucking do it," mutters Al as she fills the fondue cup with whiskey. Domino looks like she's going to mention that it's 3pm, but she tactfully doesn't.
"So you're trying to brighten up Nate's place."
"Cable's place, thank you, and no, I just wanna see the look on his face when he discovers things like the Hutzler Banana Slicer."
"Shame, he could really use a shower curtain."
"He doesn't have a shower curtain?" That conjures up so many images Wade is not ready to have on a Tuesday at 3pm. "Wait, how do you know that? Have you been to Casa del Racist? Why wasn't I invited?"
Domino shrugged. "He needed help figuring out whether to get a bank account. Turns out there isn't any money in the future. He asked me to help. Probably because I'm not a total dickhead."
"I would totally fuck up his security questions, you're absolutely right." Wade still gets the twinge in his stomach at the thought of Cable using Domino as his go-to for future questions. Wade can help. Wade can be nice.
"You could just ask to go over there, you know," says Domino. She leans over his computer, sees at the selection of shower curtains covered in overlapping pictures of Nicolas Cage, and shakes her head. "You don't have to pull his pigtails to get him to like you."
"What do you know about pulling pigtails and recess shenanigans? You were in the torture orphanage."
"Torture orphanages still had cliques." Domino shrugs. The Price Is Right jingle plays and she checks her phone. "My ride's here. Please don't get him the Crocs."
"Oh, I'm absolutely getting him the Crocs," Wade assures her as she heads out the door.
The next mission, after Wade has sent fifteen packages to Cable, the angry garden gnome finally responds to Wade's jabs. "What the fuck did you send me a banana slicer for? What's the purpose of it?"
"It's in the name, dingus. And good, you finally noticed the pile of packages outside your door. You realized the big brown boxes with your name on it belonged to you?"
"The lobby holds them so I didn't know, asshat. Why did you send me all that shit anyway?"
"Because I thought you needed it."
"Why do I need bacon-scented lip balm?"
"Because everyone loves bacon, duh. And that's our origin story, the first moment of sexual tension between us."
"Jesus fucking Christ."
Later, after they've mopped a gang leader's corpse all over an old factory floor, Cable mentions in passing, "I don't do bacon, by the way."
Wade feels his mouth drop open. "I'm sorry, what?"
"No, I heard what you said, but even the Canadian in me is wondering what the fuck you just said. Bacon is God's gift to mankind to remind us that we can have some good in us. Especially our tummies."
Cable grunts and start wiping the blood off his pistol. The Awesome Gun lays slung across his back. Even that and the cape can't hide the ripped-as-hell shoulder muscles underneath. Cable looked like his name through and through. If there was an inch of fat on him, it all went where the sun don't shine and get a fucking grip, Wade Wilson.
"Are you a vegan?"
"Do you hate eating Bambi or Wilbur or something? Do they have meat in the big, bad future?"
"Yeah, and it's fine. I eat meat. Just not bacon. Or pork, if it can be helped."
Wade blinks. "I'm sorry are you telling me that Nathan Cable Gun-Daddy Summers is fucking kosher?"
"Aliya was." Cable doesn't look up. Wade isn't even sure he heard the right words. "Aliya is."
Right, because Cable sacrificed the chance to see his wife and daughter alive again to save your stupid, stupid ass.
Wade swallows. Several excruciating minutes pass. Or maybe it was just thirty seconds. Wade doesn't look at his watch. It'll drive him insane. "I'll take the bacon lip balm back." Cable grunts and it almost sounds like a positive. "But you're getting something else instead."
"Why, Wade?" asks Cable. And for the first time in this whole conversation, he looks unflichingly at Wade, like his Terminator eye is a diamond drill burying itself in Wade's skull. The thing is, he's not even trying to intimidate Wade right now. He just wants to know.
Wade doesn't know how he of all people ended up best buds with the most sincere fucking man in the world.
"Because someone needs to introduce you to the best the 21st century has to offer, and it sure as fuck ain't gonna be just Domino. Have you even had Taco Bell yet?"
Cable shakes his head, his eyes narrowing, probably because Wade is grinning like it's Christmas morning.
He grabs Cable's hands. "We're going," he says emphatically, "to Taco Bell, right fucking now."
(It ultimately wasn't his best plan, because Cable's never even had a taco before and the motherfucker devours a CrunchWrap Supreme like it's the best thing he's ever had and Wade is falling for this garbage disposal of a man and oh shit did I think that out loud?)
It goes like that for weeks, Wade finding some tasteless, tacky, or just bugout insane thing on the internet and sending it Cable's way. Cable's an incredible person to shop for because he has no cultural touchstones whatsoever. If Wade were a better man, he wouldn't buy a sixteen-pack of Frasier quote tee-shirts, but then how else would he get the grumpy cyborg to watch at least one episode? (Cable finds it horrendous, but the man wears a Nazi undercut and a fanny pack so what does he know about taste?)
And Cable, confoundingly, unnervingly, and irritatingly, makes no comment about any of it. Not the pizza flip flops, the Beer Belly fanny pack, the "Go Fuck Yourself I'm Coloring" coloring book, or the paper plates that read "Happy 95th Birthday". When Domino forwards him a whole set of pale penis-shaped plushies with smilies, Wade rips the duct-tape stitches holding his torso together with his laughter and immediately orders one for every remaining member of X-Force. He gives it to them in person at Sister Margaret's and Cable sighs like a man twice his size when he sees it. But after they all get drunk off their asses (Wade for an astounding 30 minutes after he downed an entire bottle of vodka in one go), it's still tucked under his arm as they get in the cab. (Not Dopinder's; he's the new caretaker of Sister Margaret's after Weasel dropped out for some interstate bullshit.)
And if that doesn't tickle Wade's aggressively cancer-ridden heart, nothing ever will. But he'd rather attribute it to indigestion. At least for now.
"So he's probably just throwing it out."
"Cable. Jesus, Domino, stick with the program, that's the only person I've been talking about this whole story. Did I say that out loud?"
Domino snorts and rolls her eyes. "You think Nate would really throw out everything you've given him? Do you know how much you've given him?"
"No. Yes. Kinda?" Technically it's all backed up in his Prime account but he doesn't look at that. But he knows that his credit card got declined for a fucking iced coffee at Starbucks the other day right before his last bounty hunting gig paid off, so it's making a bigger dent than Wade is used to. Jesus, does this mean he has to start budgeting like an adult or packing lunches for work or - he shudders - making his own damn coffee?
Then it hits him. That kind of long-term planning means he's not going to stop buying bullshit for Cable. Shit, he doesn't even want to stop. It feels good in a way. Not in any healthy way, of course, but still.
"I mean, I'm expecting it to be thrown out. It should all be thrown out. What's he going to do with a butterfly starter kit anyway? Or breast enhancement cream with some brand name printed in Papyrus font?"
"You should find out, Wade," says Domino unhelpfully. "He might be throwing it out, I wouldn't know."
"What, no late-night mano-a-mano, two-to-tango parties at Nate's place anymore?"
Domino gives him a look. "Is that really what you thought we were doing? Jesus, Wade."
"What? Why not? He's done the horizontal turkey jive at least once. He's gotta be missing the loving embrace of a pair of boobs since he left his wife." For you, Wade, he left his wife for you.
Domino's mouth drops open. "Wait a second, are you jealous?"
Wade freezes. God, why the fuck did he take his mask off?
"Oh my god, you are. You are totally jealous."
"No, I'm not, okay? I'm not. What's there to be jealous of? He's Cable, he'll rip my balls off and wrap them around my neck in a Christmas bow."
Domino grimaces at the mental image. "You know I don't swing that way, right?"
Wade pauses. "Huh."
"I don't swing either way actually," she clarifies with a shrug.
"So that just leaves me and Colossus to pick up all the babes, and Colossus is probably saving his virginity for Lady Justice, so ha! I win!" Wade claps his hands in triumph. "Does Cable know you're an ace in the hole, in more ways than one?"
Domino snorts. "Yeah, he does. There's nothing keeping you from him, aside from you being a coward."
"Yeah, how about a dead girlfriend and a no-longer-dead wife?" replies Wade, trying (and probably not succeeding) to not sound bitter. To be fair, Vanessa in his dreams (visions? connections? convenient plot device?) did address their open relationship and told him not to fuck Colossus. She said nothing about Cable. Then again, he hasn't died since the Essex House so he hasn't asked her.
Hmm, he should think about getting in touch with her.
That's when a bullet sails through the front door and directly into Wade's brain. He barely hears Domino start to say, "Ah, shit."
Vanessa's behind the transparent barrier when he visits their apartment in the morning light. She's visibly pissed. "You could've avoided that bullet, you know, if you weren't having a little pity wank just now."
"Well, I wanted to see you again soon," replies Wade, grinning, "and now I don't have to apologize for the stain on the couch. Well, this one at least. So, look, honey-"
"You wanna fuck the other metal man I forgot to forbid at the end of the movie."
"I..." It hurts much more than he expects when she puts it baldly like that. "I'm not- I'm not forgetting you. Ever. I could never forget you. And I doubt Cable even feels the same way, and he has a kid and I-"
A finger pushes through the barrier and presses against his lips. He kisses it softly, closing his eyes to fight back the tears. "You've never seen the way that man checks out your ass when you're walking away," Vanessa says with a sad smile. "I can't step between that." She brings her hand to cup Wade's cheek. He leans into it, pretending it's warm. "You have a chance for a much longer happy ending than we got. Please don't throw that away."
"But I-" Wade starts to say, but he feels the real world pulling him back. He memorizes her face again as quickly as he possibly can.
"We'll bone again someday, Wade." Vanessa blows him a kiss as he's tugged back into the real world.
He wakes up propped behind his couch, Domino crouched on one side of him holding a pistol and Al curled up on his other side, hands over her ears. Wade drags Al in between his legs so his torso can absorb the bullets that she cannot. Once Domino gives him a gun, they keep the intruders off their couch (Wade recognizes them as members of the gang that he took down on that one assignment weeks ago, fuck, he must've left a brother alive or something). Then Cable arrives - his knight in techno-organic metal and inexplicable grease - blowing up their getaway cars and making sushi of the remaining fuckers.
It doesn't take very long, but Wade and Al are still going to need to lie low somewhere ("There are meat chunks and dead-man's-shit all over your bedspread, Al, you're not sleeping there tonight.") until Wade and Cable secure the apartment and make sure no one's coming back. Al goes with Domino, Wade and Cable load the bodies (and the more cohesive of body parts) into Cable's pickup truck ("Are those metal testicles on the trailer hitch?") for disposal, and Wade calls Dopinder for a clean-up crew. By the time everything's done, it's twilight, Wade's exhausted and Cable's leading him back to a weird apartment building instead of dumping his ass at a Motel 6.
"Oh wait, I recognize this address," says Wade sitting up.
"Oh, good." Cable rolls his eyes.
When they enter Cable's studio apartment, Wade feels like he's going to pass out. "Holy. Fucking. Shit."
Wade hates Cable's face right now. It looks astonishingly innocent. It doesn't even look different from his normal expression, but somehow it's more insufferable than usual. Especially since he knows exactly what's wrong with everything in this scene.
A pair of sea-bass oven mitts lies on the counter next to the 16-oz bright-pink bullet juicer that looks just enough like a vibrator that Wade was tickled by it. Next to the electric tea kettle is a Coffee Bukkake ground coffee bag ("Go Ahead...get some in your mouth!") and a "Show Me Your Kitties" mug. And Wade is absolutely afraid but 100% sure that the book open on the counter is the 50 Ways to Eat Cock chicken recipe book.
"I did not get you that cast iron pan, did I?"
"No, Neena did," replies Cable smoothly as he puts his guns away and takes off his boots like he's a reasonable person in a reasonable situation. Not a person sitting in an armchair with a penis plushie behind him and a box for a coffee table on which sits the All My Friends Are Dead book, the "Go Fuck Yourself I'm Coloring" coloring book and a cactus.
"Who bought the cactus?"
"What the fuck's on your windowsill?"
"The butterfly starter thing," answers Cable.
"You kept that, too? Seriously?"
"Some of them are gonna hatch soon." And sure enough, there are little caterpillar sleeping bags hanging from a tiny fake tree surrounded by little munched-up pieces of spinach. Cable shrugs and then walks to his bed for something. Wade takes the times to sprint to the bathroom and - yeah, there it is.
"You don't even know who Nicholas Cage is, you monster!" wails Wade at the goddamn shower curtain, more horrific in life than online pictures could ever give justice to. "God, and you kept the Face-Butt towels! And the fuzzy cute panda toilet seat cover. And the fucking shotgun plunger."
"It doesn't work that well," calls Cable from outside the door.
"Well, no fucking shit - ha! - given it cost like nine dollars or something. That's less than a Panera sandwich. See, that's really where the apocalypse must begin: the rise of nine-dollar sandwiches."
Deadpool ducks out of the bathroom. Cable's in the kitchen pulling some food out of the fridge. Wade hopes it's food, but it looks like chicken breasts and some vegetables. Well, so much for ordering in Taco Bell.
"Rising food prices, that's where it starts," continues Cable. He's rubbing the chicken with some herb mix. Wade doesn't even think to tell Cable that he can't taste shit anymore. "The cost of food rises, and the rich don't notice because they're so fucked in the head by the thrill of consumer culture that they don't notice the poorest of the poor starving, the oceans choking on their garbage, the coastlines drowning. Then corporations buy out the government and- what the fuck are you staring at?"
"Absolutely not the way those sweatpants hang off your ass, that would be weird, I was staring at- oh God. Oh sweet bondage-loving, subby boy fucking Christ, what are those?"
Cable follows Wade's gaze down to his own feet. "You bought them, dumb fuck," he growls at the camouflage-patterned crocs that Wade is currently gaping like a fish at. "They're comfortable. Better arch-support than any shit I've seen in this fuckin' century. Will you stop staring?"
"No," gasps Wade. He takes off his mask so he can breathe through the aneurysm he's having right now. "I don't know if I'm going to shit my pants or cry blood, this is the best-slash-worst thing I've ever seen."
Cable snorts. "You keep acting like I wasn't supposed to use the shit you sent me."
"Because you weren't, you T1000 freakshow," Wade all but shrieks. "You were supposed to throw it away, return it, regift it to your wacky uncle at Christmas. That's what everyone else does!"
There's a moment where the only sounds in the apartment are the city streets out the window and the sound of chicken and green shit sizzling on the stove. And maybe Cable's breathing as he just looks at Wade. It lasts for barely a beat but it's a beat too long and Wade's going to fucking explode in the silence.
"Well, I guess I don't," replies Cable with a shrug. "Dinner's ready."
They eat on the paper plates that read "Happy 95th Birthday" and with plastic silverware. "I'll get you the real shit," says Wade, "cuz I'm sure you're the guy who's gonna wash these when we're done."
Cable is conspicuously silent, but the corners of his mouth do a cute little upturn and Wade groans.
Cable - okay, Nathan - doesn't have a computer Wade can borrow because he uses the library like a nerd. (Also apparently he got himself a nice-looking fake birth certificate and a real-ass passport and that's how Wade learns that Nathan can read minds, the fuck?) So over the next few days, Wade has to physically go and buy everything else Nate needs to properly fit in the 21st century, like shampoo ("No, you can't just use soap to wash that hair! No wonder your hair is all gone on the sides." "I cut it that way, dipshit." "That's what all the baldies say.") and laundry detergent and non-poop-emoji-patterned toilet paper ("This chafes your ass into oblivion, what the fuck, Nathan, why do you use it?" "Got it from you, asshole."). He goes out wearing sunglasses and baseball caps and a hood like he's Ryan Reynolds avoiding the paparazzi. He bitches about it to Nathan, too.
"Then why do it?" asks Cable.
"Because sometimes the Wicked Witch doesn't want to feast on the screams of small children," replies Wade in a not-bitter voice, lying non-bitterly on the couch. (Nate apparently found it for free on Craigslist.)
Cable shakes his head. "I never gonna understand that about your generation. All the hang-ups on appearance. Even for socks and shit."
"The candy-cane stripes do look fetching on you," affirms Wade as he sulks on the couch. "So what's attractive in the future? Am I a seven again because I still have skin?"
Cable grunts. "It's more about what you can do. How fast you can sew up a wound, dispatch an enemy, clean a gun. That shit."
Wade hums. "That how you met your wife?"
Wade half-expects to get capped in the ass for that after a second or two of silence, but then: "She was a medic. We fought the first time we met. I didn't think I was that injured and she just pushed me onto a cot and swore my ass up and down as she stitched my side. One of the very few people who went toe-to-toe with me when I was angry."
"Ness was like that. Some guy at a bar smacked her ass and she twisted his nutsack like a Christmas cracker and I nearly came right there."
Cable barks a laugh. Wade tries not to stare at the way his Terminator eye glows. "That sounds like your type."
"The best way to my heart is through the balls," agrees Wade.
Silence falls for a few minutes. Then Cable settles into the armchair and looks at Wade. Like, really looks at him, like he can see his soul. It would probably be more meaningful if he weren't wearing camoflauge crocs and candy-cane socks. "Character is also something attractive. Things like loyalty, bravery, and compassion."
He seems to be trying to make a point. Wade gives it a shot. "Hmm, so what you're saying is, I'm a four on a good day in the future, even though I have skin, and I should bow down before the superior ten."
"You're attractive by twenty-first century standards, too, you know, in case you need to pump that ego up even more."
"You fucking moron, I was talking about you."
"I- what?" Wade sits up from the couch, confused as all hell. "What?"
Cable rolls his eyes (well, eye), stands up from the armchair and steps directly in front of Wade. Then the crazy son-of-a-bitch climbs into Wade's lap, brackets Wade's head with his ridiculously cut arms, and looks him in the eyes. He smells like gun powder and iron and a bit of B.O. because he still doesn't remember to use deodorant. Wade is afraid to breathe it in because he just might die from lust on the spot.
"Have you really not figured it out by now?" murmurs Cable - Nate - in his ear. The growl goes straight to Wade's dick. Wade tentatively puts his hands on Nate's rock-solid waist.
"I think I'm getting the picture," whispers Wade. He's still so afraid: afraid this is a joke, that Nate's going to bash him in the nose if Wade dares to close the distance; afraid that they're both just doing this to fill the holes in their hearts with whatever flesh offers itself freely; afraid that Vanessa will take it back, that Nate will take it back, and they'll have to pretend this never happened.
"Stop thinking," says Nate, and Wade tastes ozone as he draws their mouths together.
"Two questions," says Wade as they lay in bed later. "First, you could have anyone you want. Like, anyone you want. Why me?"
Wade doesn't know where to look at the guy because if he doesn't look into Nate eyes, he has to look at that mouth, or those ripped shoulders, or his washboard abs or the really fucking thick cock that's only beginning to go down. ""I knew from the moment I saw you that you were going to be a distraction," replies Nate evenly.
"Well, yeah, I'm the first guy you ever met in this century and you imprinted on me like a baby duckling, but that doesn't mean you can't have literally everyone in this city eating out of your hand every night of the week. So why keep me?"
"Because no one else is you, Wade."
Wade is not going to tear up at that answer, he's not. "I should've known you have garbage tastes. I should've never bought you any of this shit."
"Too fucking bad, idiot." Nate yawns. "What's your other question?"
"Oh yeah, did you seriously make a quilt out of the tee-shirts I sent you?"
"You're actively trying to kill me," whines Wade. "I shacked up with the biggest home-ec nerd the world has ever seen."
Nate grunts into his pillow. Silence falls for a few minutes.
"Okay, one last, itty-bitty question."
A growl. "What."
"Can we fuck with the crocs on?"