Language: Because Deadpool
"I have a few questions," Wade said flatly, sitting across from Clint in full Deadpool gear with his pen in hand and tapping annoyingly against his thigh. "How old are you?"
"Why does that matter?"
"Because I asked."
"I don't see why my age should have anything to do with my relationship with (Y/N)," Clint retorted, glancing at you in confusion.
"Fine, you're old, moving on," Wade huffed, scanning his list of questions. "Is it true that your middle name is Francis?"
"Yes."
"I have a personal...extremely personal reason for despising that shit bag of a name, so from now on your middle name will be Percival. Now, what are your intentions towards (Y/N)? You know...of the carnal nature? Bumping uglies? Giving her the business? Riding the flagpole? Although, wait..." he paused, mumbling to himself, "that colloquialism would be better for Cap..."
"(Y/N)," Clint groaned, rubbing his eyes in complete frustration at the line of questions from your best friend, "I think we're done here. If he doesn't like me, or my name, or anything else for that matter, there isn't much I can do about it. And to be honest," he snapped, turning towards Wade, "I don't give a shit what you think."
"Oooh, so full of attitude, this one," Wade gasped, "I do like the little-dog-syndrome vibe that you've got going on here, bow boy, but if you're trying to attack the big dog, it's gonna take a lower hanging sack than what you're sporting there...sport..." he paused, looking quizzically introspective at his verbal faux pas.
"My sack hangs low enough, thank you very much," Clint spat in reply, ignoring your muted laugh from behind him. "I mean...ugh, fuck it, whatever. Listen, (Y/N) told me that she wanted me to meet her best friend, but I had no idea that this is what she'd be bringing home. What exactly is your super power anyway? Spewing verbal diarrhea?"
"Aw, poor wittle baby bird, did someone wuffle your feathers?"
"Wade, that's enough," you broke in. "Come on, Clint, let's go. I should've known that this was a terrible idea." You took his arm to lead him away, but he pulled back, taking a few steps to close the gap between himself and your friend despite your urging not to. "No, guys, don't make this into a big deal."
Wade stood to meet Clint and bring them standing toe-to-toe, each man with their hands firmly planted on their hips and their jaws set indignantly, though Wade's was harder to see through his mask. "Whatcha gonna do?" he taunted. "Peck me to death?"
"He's indestructible, Clint," you added, leaning in close to him, "and you're not."
"So?"
"Well, I kinda thought the implication would be fairly obvious," you replied in a confused tone. "Where did I lose you?"
"The hawk is generally regarded as one of the more intelligent birds, according to the always accurate Wikipedia," Wade paused, taking a step back to bring his hand to his chin as he thought, "I mean, they're no African Grey, sure, but they're not nearly as fucking stupid as you're making them out to be, Hawkeye. You're really degrading an entire species."
"Alright, you pleather-clad-cheap-excuse-for-knock-off-Incredibles-costume-wearing son of a-" Clint began but was quickly cut off, knocked back onto the ground by a solid hit that slammed the air from his chest. Wade straddled his legs to hold him in place, drawing back his hand to take the next strike.
"I would never wear pleather, you sick bastard!"
"Why are you slapping me?"
"Insulting the suit doesn't deserve a real hit," Wade stopped, his hands hovering above Clint's head. "I was kinda hoping that you'd have better material." He resumed his hits as Clint tried to roll and dodge away, but the number of slaps that connected far outnumbered the misses.
"Okay, shit...ow," Clint barked, "well now you're just poking me in the eye!"
"Your name's Hawkeye, genius, where did you think I'd aim?"
You had quickly given up on intervening in the lame fight between the two, taking a stand on the sidelines and leaning against a nearby tree as you watched. As they continued to slap at each other, rolling on the compound lawn and getting covered in dirt and the green of recently mown grass, you were joined by Steve, who looked equally as entertained as you were.
"Here," he said quietly, offering a bottle of water, "I see they've finally met?"
"Yep, and it's going about as well as would be expected."
The two of you stood silently for a few more minutes until Steve broke your concentration with his incessant chewing sounds right next to your ear. "Gimme," you said as you reached out and took his snack from his hand, taking a bite and handing it back with nearly nothing left. "Thanks."
"Sure," he chuckled, "didn't offer, but that's fine. How long do you 'spose they're gonna go?"
"You're such a fucktard, Barton!" Wade hollered, rolling onto his back and holding his groin with both hands. "I was playing nice!"
"Well, Clint's last resort is usually the cock shot, so I think we're about done."
Steve stared incredulously at the two men, with Wade still rolling in pain while Clint stood over him in a victory that was about to be quashed once his opponent regained his senses, though he had yet to realize it. "So, Barton actually won?"
"Oh, god no," you laughed, turning to leave, "he's just out of moves. Stick around though. You'll be able to say that you were there when Clint learned how to fly."