Netflix and Chill

March 08, 2018:

Deadpool hangs out with Rocket, mostly against Rocket's will.


NPCs: None.

Mentions: Phil Coulson


Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

They thought they had seen the last of Deadpool? Well, maybe they just hoped and made a few prayers. Or maybe they forgot about it entirely.

Unlikely, Deadpool is many things, and memorable is up there due to the level of obnoxiousness.

At any rate, he's back. Under the ship. AGAIN. This time, on hands and knees, with a very bright flashlight, searching around.


Rocket slept in today, spending the previous night tracing alien signals and the better part of the earlier morning fiddling around with the salvage. If there's something nice to come out of being stuck with Coulson as their new parole officer, it's that he's given the Guardian leave to play around with any acquired and interesting salvage that can be potentially weaponized.

Yawning as he comes down the ramp, the raccoonoid looks around as he wanders over towards the mini-fridge set off to one side, only to pause as he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Nose wrinkling, he turns to pull his rifle out from under the couch, slinking around the side of the Milano as he expands the thing to its full size, nearly his own height.

"I'll give ya to two before I start shooting," he says as he levels the thing at the flashy light bearer.


"I might need more than two, spirit—-Rocket," Deadpool speaks up quickly, but in a big show, drops the light and lifts both hands in an overly extreme surrender motion. The light drops and spins around on the floor, a flashing strobe for a little bit. And, the ninja's hands bump into the ship. Because this guy can just not stop cracking his head or knuckles on it, evidently. But not as hard, this time.

"But I /do/ appreciate the warning this time. I need my ears. Well, no, my eyes right now. And maybe yours. But not in my hand all gooey and sticky-like, but more like in use. Have you seen a contact lens?" Deadpool asks brightly.


Scowling as he now confirms just who's skulking (crawling?) around under their home, Rocket sighs and lowers his rifle. "You're still here?" he asks dryly as the rifle compacts with a click.

"….seriously? You wear contacts? -better question, how'd you lose somethin' like that when you got a mask on?"


"Just got back. I'm glad I was missed. I missed you too. I didn't get to watch you sleep," Deadpool sighs deeply, sleekly sitting against his heels, hands loosely dangling now in front of him against knees. For being a weirdly emotive dude, he has some creepy balance.

"No, no; I lost my Pokmon-go Plus. I remember seeing a contact near it before I got /distracted/," is the clearly very reasonable explanation. "It's clear with a bit of blue." A pause. "The contact. I don't think Pokmon Go pluses come in any colors other than red and white."


"…." Rocket's brow twitches at that. He's…not going to ask. Instead, he slings the rifle over his shoulder, you know, just in case he needs it.

He doesn't have to really duck beneath the ship very much himself, but he continues to give Deadpool a funny look. "…okay, yeah, I got no idea what you're goin' off about," he mutters, shaking his head as he turns to resume his trek to the fridge.


"You're in good company with the rest of my friends," Deadpool cheerfully assures him. And uses his foot in a twitch under the flashlight to flip it up into his hand and continue to look, humming some tune or other. It will evolve into actual stage-whisper style singing after about a minute. "A heart soooo true; our courage will pull us through, you teach me and I teach you—-YAY!!"

He found it. He comes out from under the ship with a swagger, with the object in one hand and phone in the other, re-syncing them. "If somebody does come hunting a contact, they won't want it back by the way, there's gravel in it," Deadpool shares, attention on his phone for the moment.


"You have friends?" he comments idly as he swings the fridge open to start rooting around its messy stock.

The sudden exclamation startles Rocket enough that he bangs his head on the top of the mini-fridge. Wincing, he rubs at the spot as he looks around the door to glare over at the excitable one. Squint. "That's it?" Some kinda game device or something, he figures. It looks like a toy. Probably is.

"So in other words, reclaimed." He pulls out a beer and a box of leftover pizza that had been crammed into the space, nudging the door closed with a foot as he sets the box on top of the fridge to peek inside just to make sure something's left inside.


"I know right? I'm amazed myself. But I have a dynamic and elastic definition of friendship," patters the ninja. Attracted by the conversation - well, by the deadpan commentary related to him, if not conversation, he trots over, finishing the sync, and slips phone into one pocket, and the small toy (yes, accurately toy) into another pocket, hooking thumbs into entirely /different/ pockets on the pants of the tactical suit, and evidently feeling invited on over, because he does.

"Digging the space guns. Do you also have light-sabers? Because reasons, that don't include cutting anyone's hands off. Okay, they actually do."


The box is carried over to the microwave, the beer placed on top while Rocket eyes the microwave door and the box he holds in his hand as though trying to work out some mathematical equation. He doesn't bother to look over at Deadpool since he can clearly see him out of his peripheral as the guy wanders on over.

"Nah, no lightsabers. Swords're more Gamora's thing anyway," he says as he wanders over to the fridge again and pulls out a paperplate. Sure, maybe that's not the place to store those but no harm in it, right? And they're all in the same place as the stuff you put on them anyway.


"Please tell me Gam-ora is a hot, amazon alien chick with multiple breasts and minimal clothing," Deadpool requests, "And not like, a slug-thing that's kept in the bathtub because it oozes pus, with minimal clothing. Because that goes better with my head-canon for your badass crew."

Deadpool has since walked past the microwave towards their little theater set-up, in the casual manner he has, if nothing else, been consistent about. Ninja-man has guns all over him, but also the dual katana at his back. Are those grenades? Theme: everything and a grenade.


"Gam? Oh, she's hot. Average number of breasts. She'll also split you in half with a blade if she don't like you. Just ask Quill." Rocket does pause to make a face as he looks back at Deadpool. "…I don't even wanna know where the other idea came from." It came from the red nutjob's head, that seems about the fairest explanation.

Now punching in numbers on the microwave now that he's loaded it up with the measly slice of pizza he'd found yet untouched in the box, the raccoonoid eyes Deadpool as he goes to take a tour of their makeshift hangout space. It's not that he hasn't noticed the guy's loaded with his own arsenal of weaponry. Makes Rocket feel all the more justified to have his rifle and sundry explosives on him.


"I don't even bother with anyone that /can't/ split me in half. Turn on. Introductions are now necessary," is the wistful return about Gamora.

Deadpool bends over and looks into their entertainment system, whatever that may be. He doesn't touch. He starts to. And swats his own hand. "Bad 'pool, you are a /guest/. You ask. And in a nice way. Big smiles, like you mean it," he says to himself in a not-entirely-quiet but sort of quiet fashion, seeing as the microwave might drown him out a little. It isn't like Rocket missed anything. Half of Deadpool's chat could be muted and it wouldn't matter most of the time.

"Mayyyyy I?" Deadpool asks, with grabby hand gestures at the entertainment, and a probably confusing amount of restraint. Chaotic ninja.

"Are we going to Netflix and chill?" Sounds like a trap.


"…right. Has anyone told you you're crazy?" It's more asked out of curiosity since Rocket's pretty sure it's something repeated on occassion. Or begs to be.

Watching as the pizza turns about in the microwave, he seems to be trying to ignore Deadpool's antics by the couch. The entertainment system's basically a laptop hooked up to a projector so that on the offhand that someone might actually decide to complain about they're being camped out here, they can pack up relatively quickly.

At the question that finally gets directed his way, Rocket waves a hand dismissively before jabbing his finger at the microwave to open its door once it's started to beep. "Why are you still here anyway? Didn't get run out by the suits or they just give up?"


"It's my redeeming characteristic," chimes the merc-ninja-crazy-hybrid without turning around. He's on the laptop now. Changing the screensaver and background picture. But also logging into Netflix. It's obviously not his own account, as the chances of him being actually named 'Anita Bang' are low.

"I'm still in the middle of a game with Phillip. It's his turn and he takes for-ev-er. But only one can rule the world."


"Uh-huh." Whatever that means. Rocket shrugs, taking a swig from his freshly cracked open beer can. He wanders over to squint at the screen as Deadpool pokes around on the laptop. Well, at least he's using a different account and won't be littering their suggested titles with strange things. Of course, one might figure that Gilmore Girls and Disney movies brings up some strange enough suggestions.

"If we're talkin' about he same Phillip, I think that guy just likes playin' the long game," he says around a mouthful of pizza. Classy.


"He even takes too long in 'words with friends'. I mean, how long does it take to spell something that isn't going to get censored," Deadpool snorts. A mouthful of pizza is hardly the rudest thing he's ever encountered, and isn't even on radar. "….well he still takes longer than I do." So there.

Deadpool flips movies quickly, ends up trying to decide between a few. Ends up with Pulp Fiction. Or Fight Club. Or the Matrix. Or Saw. Or Jurassic World. Or Trolls (it's so brightly colored!). The 'watch it again!' list is full of adult movies, just above his current ponderences. "What quotes do I want stuck in my heeeead," he wonders aloud.


"Yer a mercenary, right?" the small Guardian asks as he peers between the computer screen and Deadpool. "Slow week?" Why else would he be bumming around on their couch watching movies? That's about how things usually go with the Guardians if they're not out gallavanting.

He shoves the rest of his pizza into his mouth and turns back towards the Milano. Didn't exactly agree to the chillin' part, after all. He's got a laser cutter to see about fixing.


Deadpool settles on 'Stranger things'. "MMMmmmhuh," Deadpool answers when being asked about his job, and proceeds to bum on the couch, with a graceless flop. See? Entirely belongs here. He picks up a piece of popcorn that bounced near him. Looks at it. Carefully replaces it.

"Perks of the whole self employed thing. I make my own hours. Or days. Or this week. Just stuff one big job in, then lots of vacation. It's like on Deadliest Catch. I think they fish and freeze their balls for like for two weeks and then do drugs or whatever for the rest of the year. Besides, I have no real recovery downtime, so I can spend it here, instead of drooling in a hospital bed."


Wise choice. Never can be sure how old the popcorn is that one finds on/in the couch.

"Oh yeah. Can definitely relate to the self-employed thing," Rocket agrees as he drifts back around the Milano. Although being freelance for S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't ensure a steady paycheck, but at least they have free parking. But that's fine since Rocket and Groot have always been of the enterprising sort. …although lately they've had to find other things to ply their trade to since the money they'd made from selling what stock of fine wines they'd acquired from Zatanna's magical liquor cabinets has gone to an inevitable trickle.

"Terran medical insurance sounds like crap anyway," he comments amidst a few metal clangs from within the ship.


"Medical insurance wouldn't touch me with a ten foot pole. Even if I begged for just a one-foot one of a mild caress. Which makes no sense. But cancers of the everything scares people," Deadpool shares openly in a flippant tone in return to Rocket. The theme song from Stranger Things blares, in all its 80s magnificence. Deadpool is also on his phone now, again.

Playing a game at first. He also somehow is eating something he pulled from his bag. Thin Mints, of a girl scout type. And then, "Ooooo, do I spy a /rescue/ job? I like being a white knight," Deadpool observes of his phone. Rocket had reminded him to MAYBE check for jobs. "Oh. Maybe kidnapping. …Same category."

A pause. "Why on earth are YOU parked here? If you're SHIELD I'll eat -all these girl scout cookies." What a threat. "I'd park in like. The Bahamas. Tan my cheeks."
He'd slid the mask up to nose to eat a cookie. And all that that entails.


They have a most excellent alien speaker that does indeed blare some wonderful sound. Eat your heart out, Sony. Of course, if things get too loud then usually the neighbors complain, neighbors in this instance being the agents next door.

"What???" Rocket calls out, barely hearing Deadpool over the theme song. He pokes his head back out of the ship. "Eh, naw, not SHIELD exactly. But uh, we're not allowed to go anywhere without 'em knowing. And if somethin' comes up where we might be best applied, then they pay us." He finishes off his beer and crunches the can, tossing it towards a trashcan and ending up nowhere near it as per the clinky-clatter of it on the floor. "Anyway, at least having the ship parked in here means we don't have to hide it out in th' boonies anymore."


"I BET what you did to get leashed was worth it," Deadpool fantasizes, rotating upper torso around towards the rough vicinity of Rocket. And eating another cookie. Rocket's not in range to get a visual on Deadpool's exposed lower face, and that's just as well.

"Were you hiding from your stalkers in the boonies? I get /that/. You can only shoot stalking fans for so long before switching hands, and then the bodies just stack up anyway, it's a mess in the /yard/, and the rental fees for bulldozers? -don't get me started." Too late.

"Sounds similar to my deal, though. Thrown the dirty laundry with questionable stains. It isn't MY fault if sometimes the bleach eats the whole shirt. Make do naked, right?"


"Eh, maybe in a sense. I mean, we did run into a few Sakaarans a couple'a times. …and then we almost blew up a forest but that was not entirely our fault."

He completely breezes over the subject of why they were even under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s watch to begin with, but he figures the details aren't any of Deadpool's business. "Hah! Yeah, somethin' like that, I guess," Rocket laughs as he ducks back into the Milano.


The music continues, and then turns into the actual show. The commentary constantly going from Deadpool is either drowned out or the guy actually went quiet. Which may be more disconcerting than the constant rambling. If, and when, checked on, Deadpool isn't in view on the couch.


It's about ten minutes in when Rocket begins to wonder. Sure, the guy might have been caught up in watching the show, but after all the chatterboxing? Looking up from his work, the raccoonoid steps back towards the ramp to look out towards the couch again.


Well. Should he worry?

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