After a cramped sleep between two filing cabinets, Deadpool back-cracklingly shuffled into his main office space at the crack of dawn, rubbing his stiff neck. "Ermph, feels like that night we spent with that contortionist in Romania."
[You mean the one with the beard?]
[From what I recall, she had two...]
"Yeah, but boy could that freak ever bend..." Deadpool recalled wistfully.
Taking time to fix Wolverine's fallen picture again, he surveyed the space proudly, his new domain. All was as it should have been.
Except that the landlord obviously forgot to turn on the heating.
[Geez! It's colder than your ex in here!]
"No kiddin'. My nips could cut through Emma Frost right now!"
Deadpool crossed the room for the thermostat on the wall beside the front door. Before he could flip up the little plastic casing shield, something clattered behind him. On instinct, he drew a katana from his back with an operatic SHING and whirled around in his favorite badass stance. The room was empty. Nothing out of the ordinary. Scanning his office carefully, that was when he noticed the picture on his desk toppled over.
"Goddammit, Logan," he whined, sheathing the katana before marching over. "Don't get me all excited like that."
[Cheap manufacturing these days, am I right?]
Deadpool fiddled with the flap stand and smartly set it down again. He pointed a finger admonishingly at Wolverine's sneering mug while backing away. "You stay. Stay!" Satisfied that the frame remained upright after a few seconds, Deadpool returned to the thermostat. "Alrighty, let's see here..." he muttered, checking for the problem.
[...You seein' what I'm seein'?]
"Yeah. Damn thing's busted."
The thermostat digital reader was displaying a very comfortable room temperature. But just like hips, air don't lie.
CLACK.
"Oh, for Stan's sake," Deadpool groaned, lolling his head back fussily. Back to the desk he went, wrestling with the flap stand and slapping it into place. "Remind me never to accept a gift from Reed again. Looks like Mr. Fantastic's too busy investing in Just For Men to spring for a decent frame."
[If by gift you mean that you nicked it off his desk.]
[And took Sue's picture out of it.]
"I did him a favor. Just look at this shit tier quality!"
The frame wasn't the most important dilemma on his dossier, though, so Deadpool left it alone for the moment. He turned around with the intent to put his new detective skills to the test: solving The Mystery of the Thermostat (c).
However, by turning around, he discovered that he wasn't as alone as he first thought. Beside the thermostat there appeared to be a smoky smudge that wasn't there before, hovering just in front of the office door. And it was moving. Pacing and wandering aimlessly in the entranceway was something Deadpool could describe as nothing else but a ghost. Really!
She was clearly a woman, and clearly clear. Well, semi-clear. There was a foggy, washed-out sheen to her overall image. Her clothes were in pale colors, and he at least knew for sure that he could see the green outline of his office fern straight through her sternum.
"...You think Kurt's got some extra holy water lying around?" Deadpool muttered.
The figure appeared to be in a bizarre state, like she was lost.
Her hair, which was styled in a blond bob, bluntly cut off just beneath the ear lobes. Muddy roots streaked the parting at the peak of her head, giving away her secret. Her overplucked half-moon eyebrows were rounded, acting like little umbrellas over her squinty, flat, blue eyes. Her lavender tank top was partially covered by an unbuttoned, dark denim jacket. Roomy, insulated, white track pants completed the lower half. Nylon polyester blend, most surely.
Deadpool would have noticed all of these if he hadn't been concentrating on the modest little peek of midriff at her belt line. Tease.
"Another hallucination, guys?" he wondered aloud.
[Hey, don't look at us! We ain't doing that.]
Weird. In that case, there was only one thing to do, then. Deadpool cleared his throat for attention. The apparition, or whatever she was, wasn't listening. Didn't even perk up her transparent head. She continued to pace pensively, arms crossing and then uncrossing, watching the floorboards.
"Ah-HEM," Deadpool coughed a little louder. He itched to just shoot a bullet through her to signal her attention (it'd just go right through her anyway and effectively do the job), but that door was made of the fancy stuff. Real wood, real varnish, real everything! If a new pinhole was going to zing right through it, there was going to be a damn good reason.
The mystery guest halted mid-walk in her tracks, alerted by Deadpool's throat-clearing. Almost curiously, she met his eyes sidelong.
"Hey. How's it goin'?" greeted Deadpool, with a casual flick of the wrist.
The ghost stiffened. Instead of answering what most would consider a fairly innocuous question, especially considering she was technically a trespasser, she peeked over her shoulder uncertainly at the office door, like Deadpool was speaking to someone past her.
"No, no, I'm talkin' to you," he confirmed.
The ghost's hair fanned out sharply as she swivelled back. Her beady eyes enlarged, every bit the picture of bafflement, and honed in on him. There was also dash of suspicion, one which Deadpool thought he didn't deserve.
Her lips were parting. "You...you can see me?" Her voice was so whispery and frail.
"Am I not supposed to?" Deadpool looked side to side briefly. "You're not exactly Sue Storm level right now. Probably more Semi-Invisible Woman."
The ghost marched forward in a rush, effectively closing the distance between the duo, bending pleadingly at the waist like she was suddenly overcome with a stomach ache. "No. No, say it again," she begged, voice airy and low. "I have to know. Can. You. See. Me?"
"...What, you didn't believe me the last time?"
The ghost's posture twitched upright, pin-straight, a reaction based purely on the fact that the response Deadpool threw her was personalized. She covered her mouth, stricken. Then, she lowered it slowly in near disbelief. "You're the first person to ever notice me," she said waveringly. "I-I don't know how long I've been wandering." Suddenly, faster than Deadpool could say personal space, she swooped in closer, now a manic apparition departed from the melancholy mood Deadpool found her in. "Please. I need your help," she said.
"Uh huh. So...are we talking Casper, or the head-spinning pea-soup puke combo?"
"Pardon?"
"Just figuring out what I'm dealing with here."
The ghost's apprehensive expression lost some edge. She blinked once blankly. "I mean you no harm, if that's what you mean."
"I've been told that before. Hold on a second...yes, I know, this went a lot better in rehearsal...she earns negative two points for the snaggle tooth, sure..."
Ghost Girl narrowed her eyes questioningly at Deadpool's rambling. There was no malice in her gaze (currently), but there was maybe just a controlled hint of subdued bafflement. The fact that Deadpool wasn't even looking at her despite the two of them being the only ones in the room spurred her to ask, "Who are you talking to?"
"My advisors."
"Advisors."
"Shh, shh, shh. We're in a meeting." He returned to his nonsensical blabbering at nothing. "...the cost alone to get rid of her would drain half our budget! You think Pest Control has a manual on this kind of infestation?"
The ghost straightened importantly. "Excuse me. Sir?" she interrupted, motioning to tap his shoulder but reminded herself how futile the gesture would be. "If I could put that...meeting on hold for a moment, I haven't got much time to waste. You mentioned your profession as a private investigator. I've actually been meaning to bring that up with you. If that's the case, you're looking at your first client." It wasn't just a statement, it was a bold declaration. A confident one at that.
Deadpool went silent. "...Excusez moi?"
"You heard me."
Whatever skittishness the woman displayed beforehand had evaporated. She stood with her arms akimbo over her hips, a sign that she was now impatient for a reply. Deadpool felt her pompousness was very undeserved. He was reminded of a nerd suddenly bestowed a six-month gym membership.
"Maybe she didn't understand me," muttered Deadpool, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. He snapped his fingers rapidly, as if fighting to recall something. Eyes alight, he instantly rediscovered what he'd mentally been searching for. "Ah. Perdão?"
"What?" She appeared honestly perplexed.
"извините?" Deadpool tried again.
The ghost squinted, lost for words.
"Oh, I'm sorry." Deadpool delicately spread his fingers over his heart in a dramatized, apologetic manner. "I was unaware you were speaking English, it almost sounded like you said you wanted to be my first client."
His otherworldly guest's eyes shifted like her point had completely sailed over his head. "Uh...yes?"
"Uh huh. 'Scuse me." Clutching the edges of his desk, Deadpool plopped himself onto its surface, crossing his ankles and spritely swinging them. He snatched the desk calendar right beside him and started flipping the pages, utterly absorbed in its contents. "Mm-hm, mm-hm, yes, oh, definitely not there, mm-hm, nope, the fifteenth won't work, candlelit dinner with Rogue, I can't cancel that again, nope, not there either, nope, nope times infinity—oooh, definitely not there." He then tossed the calendar over his shoulder, tilted his head sideways exaggeratedly, and shrugged with a struck-stupid expression that nobody could possibly see through the mask. "Sorry, babe, I'm booked solid! Can't help you."
"There aren't any marks on that calendar. And it's dated 2010."
"...No it's not."
"I sense unwillingness from you. I don't see what the problem is."
"...You seriously being serious right now?"
Ghost Girl crossed her arms again, impassable.
Deadpool sighed impatiently. "Look, lady, it's like this. You can't just suddenly appear in my pad willy-nilly, do-whatever-you-please, and expect me to listen to you. I'm running a legit business here. Look." He pointed emphatically at his workspace. "I've got a desk. I have no time to be chasing strange things in the neighborhood, you're gonna have to call someone else for that. I only deal with those made of flesh and blood. You wanna know why?"
Spooksalot stared blankly.
"I'll tell you why," Deadpool interjected before she had the chance to, "'cause flesh and blood is clothed in skin, skin is usually clothed in pants, pants tend to have pockets, and some of these pockets carry very fat wallets. You see what I'm sayin' here?"
"Surprisingly, no," she replied, a certain stinginess overcoming her.
Deadpool slumped. He hopped off his desk and glanced out of the office window, distantly contemplative. "Out of all the detective joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine."
"What?"
"Sorry, outloud. I do that sometimes, you'll get used to it. Wait, what am I saying?" He pointed to the exit behind her. "Out. Sorry for you being dead and all, but tough break, your name isn't on the lease. So unless you can somehow pay rent, you can't squat at my place."
"But you're a private detective aren't you?"
Deadpool's posture straightened proudly. "Sure am. Has my reputation preceded me?"
"I overheard you," she said flatly, none-too-pleased with his lack of professionalism. "I've heard everything you've said since you came here."
"...Could you put in a good word for me to your undead friends, then? I mean undead as in actually alive, not undead as in zombies or vampires or-"
"Enough!"
Deadpool raised his palms in surrender. "Whoa, jeez, okay, okay, calm down."
A spark of hope brightened her eyes. "So you'll help me, then?"
"What? I never agreed to that. Look, babe, I'm sure you're a swell chick and all, deserves her justice, never meant for this to happen, went too soon, blah blah blah, but this is way out of my jurisdiction. Your body having recently..."—his eyes roved her over from top to bottom—"...expired...kind of negates your existence from the law's point of view."
[You been talking to She-Hulk lately?]
[Quiet!]
"I have everything to give you, and you've got nothing to give me, is what I'm saying," he explained further. "So you see how this exchange isn't beneficial to my new 75"inch plasma screen T.V. with subwoofer and surround sound hook-up? So, to wrap things up, door's right there, Heaven's up there, see ya." He motioned a short, dismissive wave and carried on rummaging through his box, turning his back on her scandalized face.
It got awfully quiet back there.
[Ah, she'll be fine. A little tough love never hurt anyone.]
[Like your dad's form of tough love?]
[Burn!]
"I can pay you," she said evenly from behind him. Judging by the distance of sound, she hadn't moved.
"Not listenin'. You think I'm dumb enough to go along with your plan, just so that you can split town before you tell me where your treasure is buried? Get real, dead sister."
The ghost quieted again. Unaffected, Deadpool got back to work rearranging his leftover supplies. The nerve. Comin' in here like she owns the place.
Now, did the silver-ball clacky thing look better on the desk, right in client's immediate line of sight, or did it look more distinguished to place it on the shelf behind the leather chair? Within sight but not too blatant. Tasteful, but not boastful.
The office was cold, there was no doubt about that. But the chill creeping all the way down in the very bones of Deadpool's arms was achingly cold. Frigid. But airy like a breeze. A very similar sensation was hovering near his left ear.
The ghost's voice intoned low and grim, "Then I have no choice but to possess you,"
"Whoa, whoa, wait, what?"
Without invite, without even time for protest, the ghost leaned forward, entering into Deadpool's muscled back through the valley between his shoulders. He whooped and jumped as he felt his elbow joints stiffen instinctively. An emerging, icy tingle in his fingertips was gradually ascending to his heart. Then, the cold invaded his chest cavity in a spreading rush. The sensation was heavy, like an empty cavern filling with concrete. The intruding spirit melded into his body, partially disappeared inside.
"Hey, hey, whoa, easy, let's talk about this for a minute. If you wanted me inside you, all you had to do was-HRK!". It was as though someone flipped a switch in his body. One that shut down his entire nervous system. His sense of consciousness felt floaty, his head was the only thing he was aware of.
"Now, listen here," warned a threatening voice in his head. A female one for once.
[Hey, who's she?]
[Someone new in here? Aren't you going to introduce us?]
"Excuse me?" came the ghost's voice again, her tone suddenly less intimidating; more like intimidated now. "Who is this?"
"Oh yeah, forgot to tell you before you so politely barged in, Spookerella," said Deadpool, rolling his eyes up as though the party was going on in his forehead, "you've got company in there."
[Finally! We get to be part of the action. Can we touch her, Wade?]
[And smell her hair just a little?]
[Even though we have no sensory organs or orifices?]
[Please? Being abstract concepts and symptoms of insanity, we don't get to do much.]
Deadpool's commandeered hand slapped him smartly in the face. "Make them stop!" the ghost's voice demanded.
"Ow." He wanted to rub his cheek, but there was no possible way, it wasn't his anymore. His arm may as well have been chopped off. Again. "No can do, boo. They kind of come pre-installed with the complete Deadpool set, no refunds, returns, or exchanges. Sorry notsorry."
"Until you say yes, I'm not leaving!"
[Oh, you're gonna have a great time in here, you'll see!]
[We'll rearrange the furniture and drop some memories to make space for you.]
[First bicycle? Out you go! First contract kill? Who needs that?!]
You seem like the surly, no-nonsense type—Do we still need to know how to file taxes?—God knows we need a voice of reason to ignore—passcode to Avengers Tower—certain areas needing attention—are you a summer or a winter?—broker in some sort of system—advice, stay away from—organization—done in no time flat—par for the course, of course—but you'll get used to—the X-Men—bare-assed while skiing—some sort of mind-control ray—apple strudel recipe—
"Stop it! STOP IT!" the female voice screeched in his skull.
All at once, Deadpool sensed an acute awareness of his skeleton, muscles, and the blood coursing through them again. His body temperature let up a few degrees, and that numb feeling was leaving, exiting steadily out through his back.
Once fully released, he braced himself over the desk. A shudder crawled all the way up his spine. He snapped out his arms now that he could control them again, shaking her presence off as though some slimy residue had been left behind. "Hoo!" he exclaimed, chattering. "Refreshing." He shook his head as if he'd surfaced from an icy plunge, humming like a motorboat to warm his vocal chords.
Dearly Undeparted rounded on him, looking as though she too had shaken the leftovers of her experience off. "What the hell is wrong with you?!" Repulsion and legit curiosity rolled into one question.
Despite the most unwelcome bodily intrusion, Deadpool remained cool as a cucumber. "Nothing. Well, if you count the months of torture. And the voices. Plus the radical healing factor."
Ghoulie swiftly held up a hand. "No more. Just...no more. The less you say, the better right now," she warned testily.
"Well exyoooose me, princess, thought you'd want to get to know me better considering you just slithered in and took over."
In response, she glared at him. Hard.
"Uh-uh, that attitude ain't gonna fly with me, missy," sassed Deadpool, placing a hand on his hip and wagging an indignant finger at her. "You honestly think I'm gonna help you now after that little stunt? Tough luck. If you can't handle me at my worst then you certainly don't deserve me at my best."
[We so need to put that on our Facebook.]
"I still have the ability to haunt you," the ghost reminded, though she didn't sound as completely confident as before. Her advantage level was sliding down, becoming more and more on par with her adversary.
"Big deal, I know a guy who could exorcise your polterass in ten seconds flat."
"I'm not malevolent, I mean no harm."
"Says the chick who just decided to turn me into a marionette for kicks."
"Alright, alright, I'm sorry. I won't do it again," she contended, gesturing calmly with her hands. "Just...please. I'm asking you for a favor. I've been wandering for a long time. A long time. No one's acknowledged me, no one's even indicated that they could see or hear me. No one until you. You're the only hope I have. Help me?"
Something changed within her snotty demeanor. Like she'd finally given in to the cold her ethereal body was radiating. But her change had nothing to do with temperature. It looked as though years of exhaustion and sadness had finally caught up with her. She looked forlorn. Desperate.
Deadpool had pride in the fact that he was a hunky man not easily swayed by a face, whether pretty, pathetic, or otherwise—
[Damn right!]
—but for the first time since meeting the ghost, there was something sincere in her voice.
Still, a situation alone was not enough to entice him to sign on, not without some heavy moolah to make it worth his while. That was why he initiated this whole new one-man endeavor in the first place. When he first started his new Private Eye agency, he expected something a little more mundane, to say the least. Wayward husbands, insurance fraud, skipped bail (he noted to also add Bounty Hunter to his business card when he had the chance). Not some demanding talking fog who wanted him to play Sherlock Holmes for her benefit.
[Well, she's no sexy femme fatale like in the film noir's.]
[More like the sickneningly cute-as-a-button lollipop lickers with Shirley Temple curls.]
[Or barely-legal jailbait teenpop star.]
[Or Stylish Twenty-Something Barbie.]
Deadpool groaned. "How much?" he grumbled through gritted teeth.
"Huh?"
"How much?" he reluctantly stated more clearly. "As in, how much are you willing to pay?"
[Oh, oh, tell her to pay us in Ecto-Cooler! Haven't seen that shit in years.]
[Shut up, we're negotiating.]
"Does that mean you'll take me on?"
"Hold your apocalyptic horsemen, I'm not taking on your case yet. I ain't doin' this for free, so we're gonna find out whether this is worth my while. What have you got for me?"
If he was going to take her on, something good had to better come out of it. Something worth putting up with her undead shit. Fleshies were easy; they were controllable, they were trackable, and they were cautious because they had something to lose. Moreover, last Deadpool checked, money was non-transferable to the spirit realm. If she couldn't pay up—which there was a high likelihood of—he'd have a better, more solidified reason to refuse and finally shake her off. Freebies were a no go.
"Everything I have," the ghost stated firmly, some (after)life returning to her eyes. "I hid a box somewhere. Nobody else knew about it. Twenty-thousand in cash."
"Tweh-tweh-tweh...tweh-tweh-tweh..." Deadpool wheezed gluttonously.
"Help me solve my murder and it's all yours. Every last bit of it, I swear. I will tell you exactly where the box is the second this is all over."
Deadpool's knees knocked as he sank a few inches. Mentally slapping himself, he snapped out of his moneylust state. Twenty grand wasn't even close to the typical introductory asking price of private investigators! Still, he needed to play it cool. Hold out for more, maybe? Hey, she was dead, it wasn't like any of her possessions were going with her.
He straightened and cleared his throat importantly, adjusting a necktie that wasn't there. "Well, that's a start," he said. "But let's be honest, it's not everyday a private eye takes on a client from beyond the grave. Detective work involves hours of tailing perps. Research! Not to mention how much I'd have to drop on surveillance equipment, I mean—"
"A gold rolex, 14-carat diamond ring, pure pearl earrings," the ghost added desperately, "even the sapphire bracelet my dad gave me for my birthday. You can have them all."
A dark, wet stain was expanding on the blank mouth of Deadpool's mask. "Ohh," he muttered faintly, gripping the edge of his desk for support. "Ohh, I think I'm going to orgasm..."
[Hold up, hold up. Before you prematurely blow your load, this dame's load could be bullshit. How'd she get to be so loaded?]
Deadpool recovered and held up a finger. "My advisor brings up an excellent point. How do I know you're not making all of these up? You got an original Picasso and The Heart of the Ocean to throw in there, too?"
"My parents have money. A lot of it."
"And how can I confirm that?"
"I...I can't. Not like this." She opened her arms, briefly looking down at her wispy form. The hope in her eyes was draining. "You'll just have to trust me."
[Ooo, tick one for the 'dubious' column.]
"I'm gonna need some sort of deposit, ghostbabe. As a show of trust. You know how it is."
"But I can't bring anything to you. I can't carry objects, I've tried. I'd have to tell you where these things are. And look, I need a power play, too. How do I know you're even a real Private Investigator, hm?" She looked him up and down, as if Deadpool's get-up was only now cause for suspicion. "I can't research your credentials, and you're certainly not dressed like one."
"How would you know how a P.I. dresses?"
"I don't think red and black onesies are standard uniform. For anybody."
"I'm a trendsetter."
"See? See, this is exactly what I'm saying, we're both at odds here! Maybe you don't trust me as far as you can throw me, but I'm kind of having trouble on my end, too. But the difference is that I realize that I need you."
"Oh yeah? And what makes you think that I need you?"
She crossed her arms impetuously like a stern mother requiring an explanation to her destroyed living room. "If you want to score a big pay day, you won't just need me, you'll be begging for me."
"Kind of like how you did back there a few minutes ago?"
Haunts'R'Us threw another piercing glare, one that Deadpool had grown so accustomed to in their short time together that he thought she should seriously find a way to patent it. "I do not beg," she asserted proudly.
"Mm-hm, sure, sure, whatever floats your ghost, honey." He noticed her foul, smoldering frown. "Ehh, come on, lighten up, you're alright." He bumped his fist playfully against her shoulder, temporarily neglectful to remember her bodily configuration; his knuckles plunged in about two inches through her denim jacket, meeting a pocket of sharp air. Ghost Girl looked down at his fist flatly. Raising her gaze back on him, she perked a very unamused eyebrow.
"Erm, yeah," said Deadpool, removing his hand slowly, unclenching his fingers and shaking off the cold. "We'll...we'll make due with that."
"So?" demanded the ghost bluntly. "Do we have a deal or not?"
[Twenty-THOUSAND, dude! We don't even have to charge the hourly rate. That's like one case for the price of five! That's not even counting the extra, sparkly expenditures.]
Though Deadpool felt very much inclined to the deal of taking on a dead chick's cold case if only for the rewards, he still wasn't happy about it. You let one client bully you and call the shots, it's all downhill from there.
[Look on the bright side. Think of how great this will look on your resume!]
Ghostie, however, wasn't done yet. "Before we start, are you licensed?" she inquired.
Knew we forgot something... "Absolutely!"
"I know I can't sign any legal document..."
Score! "Don't worry, this is completely off the books, sweet thing."
"So you'll still do it?"
"As long as I get my money."
She placed one hand over her heart, the other in a scout salute. "I promise."
"Then you, my heartbeat-challenged friend, have got yourself a deal."
Holding out his red-clad hand, the two motioned a handshake to the best of their corporeal and non-corporeal abilities.
[This sucks! Our first client and we gotta work by the honour system?]
[Did you just spell it as 'honour'?]
[Uh, duh, 'course I did.]
[Isn't it 'honor'?]
[Dude, we're Canadian!]
[Right. Sorry, it's hard to remember sometimes.]
[It's the gun toting violence, isn't it? Throws everybody off.]
A/N: 4 Favorites and 7 Alerts? Guys, I'm blushing!
