Author's Note: This is a crackfic project that interrupted my normal working schedule over Christmas break and demanded to be written down. I'm still working on "Order Up," and plan to go far with it; however, when the crack bug bites, what're you going to do?

Because this is just pure and straightforward humorous fun, I played fast and loose with timelines and things. I don't know if Deadpool is in the eighties with the Joes, or if the Joes are in the '00s with Deadpool. Frankly, if I tried to make sense out of this, I think my brain would explode. Please accept it as an inconsequential fluff piece, and don't bother to read any deeper. :)

Fandom: Deadpool/G.I. Joe crossover

Rating: T for some language

Disclaimer: G.I. Joe and all associated characters and concepts are property of Hasbro Inc. Deadpool, Siryn, and all associated characters and concepts are property of Marvel Comics. I derive no profit from this. Plase accept this piece in the spirit with which it is offered—as a work of respect and love, not an attempt to claim ownership or earn money from these intellectual properties.

Silence is Golden

by Totenkinder Madchen

A secret base in San Francisco, 8:23 PM:

"Soooooo . . . you come here often?"

" . . . "

"Guess not. I mean, it's kind of a dump anyway, right? 'Course, that's just my opinion. If it was yours, I'd have to, y'know, kill you and everything. No hard feelings, right?"

" . . . "

"I mean, a man's house is his castle. Okay, sure, it's probably the kinda castle where there's shrunken heads hanging from the walls and no toilets and stuff, but that's just my style. I'm a trendsetter that way. Hey, give it time, right? Five years from now, everyone's gonna want the blood-and-guts look. 'Course, it'll be all passe and boring by then. I'll probably have moved on. Gotta keep ahead of the curve, right? What do you think the next big thing'll be? Hawaiian? I hear leis are making a comeback."

" . . . "

"Pretty much the only way I'm gettin' lei'd. Hah! Get it? Lei'd?"

" . . . "

"Hey, look, pal, just because you're all tied up and stuff doesn't mean you have to give me the silent treatment. I mean, I had this one old lady prisoner for years, and she knew how to make interrogations and torture sessions fun. I mean, she put itching powder in my tights one time. Do you know how embarrassing it is, trying to fight off a giant demon with a bad eighties haircut and scratch your junk at the same time? Seriously. Show some spirit, dude!"

" . . . "

"Wade, I dinna think he'll talk."

"Shhh! Don't say my name! We're undercover, remember?"

". . . yuir wearin' yuir shirt wi' 'To Wade, love to my biggest fan and please give the dog back, Bea Arthur' on it."



* * *

It hadn't been a good day for Scarlett and Snake-Eyes.

Chances were, Scarlett reflected as she tugged fruitlessly on her bonds, that the Jugglers were behind this whole mess. They'd been trying to get more leverage on Hawk for ages. Washington politics were getting dirtier all the time, and it was no secret that the Jugglers had tried more than once to put G.I. Joe on missions that weren't in anybody's best interests. Hawk was holding firm against them, but there'd been a couple of underhanded attempts already. And anyway, Scarlett couldn't imagine that their current captors were at all connected to Cobra.

For one thing, she couldn't imagine a masked Cobra agent uncapping a bottle of Yoo-Hoo while arguing with his girlfriend five feet from the prisoners.

"Wade . . ." The Irish woman sighed, crossing her arms over her green Spandex leotard. "When I said I'd give us another chance, I remember sayin' somethin' about y'not gettin' us into any more foolish messes."

"Awww, c'mon, Red," 'Wade' said, turning away from the captured Joes for a moment and pulling up his mask to take a drink. "Aren't you the one who also said we should do something fun?"

"I meant . . . go someplace. See some o' yuir friends, or just go out. Y'said y'liked the aquarium--"

"Uh, ixnay on the quariumay. They kinda banned me after that whole time-traveling episode. I guess having a living portal guy barf pink time mucus over the penguin display convinced 'em I wasn't all about the wonders of exploring the undersea world."

"Wade, focus." The red-haired woman sighed again, a little more exasperatedly that time. Scarlett might have almost felt some sympathy for her, woman to woman, but she was too busy focusing on trying to work her left hand free.

She and Snake-Eyes were both upright, shackled to racks of pipes on the dingy wooden wall, and poor Snake really looked the worse for wear. Scarlett still couldn't believe what she had seen: their captor, the same one who was currently babbling about "his hair, I swear to god, it was like the evil offspring of Velcro and a cornfield", had had his arm cut off by the ninja and then knocked Snake-Eyes unconscious with it. Then he'd stuck the arm back on, kicked Snake in the ribs, made a horrible pun about "the right to bear arms" . . . and then she didn't remember anything.

The whole situation was some awful mix of frightening and bizarre.

And the constant chatter wasn't helping, either.


Scarlett flinched in her restraints as the woman's voice echoed off the walls of the room, making her ears ring.

"Jeez, Terry!" Wade yelped, clutching his masked head. The half-empty bottle of Yoo-Hoo flew out of his hand and barely missed Scarlett's head by an inch, splattering her hair and face with chocolate milk. "Bite my head off, why don't you? Or, y'know, don't. That's good too."

"They have government tags, Wade!" Terry shouted, pointing to the heap of Joe gear lying on the floor. "High-level stuff! Even m'father never had clearance this high!Y'stupid bastard, y've gone an' kidnapped a pair o' secret service spooks!"

" . . . so?"

"Din't y'even think t'ask when y'got this job?"

"Uh . . ." Wade scratched his head. "Look, there's no right answer here, is there? Guy with a suit turns up carrying a big briefcase of cash, no strings attached, no penalties if I accidentally break 'em a little. What would Jesus do?"

That seemed to do it. Terry flung up her hands in despair. "I'm goin'," she growled, turning on her heel. "Don't bother callin' until ye've thought about what ye've done. An' so help me, Wade Wilson, if y'touch one hair on their heads wi'out a damn good reason, I'll take y'r big head off myself before the government does it for you!"

"Terry!" Wade shouted. "C'mon, Red! Irish! Honey! Babycakes! Sweetie! Hot Lips! I . . . "

The door closed behind her before he had a chance to add any more endearments. Swearing, the mercenary rounded on Scarlett.

"What in the name of the Great Gazoo is the problem with you women?" he demanded. "I can't do anything right! Or is it just a redhead thing? 'Cause if it is, I should probably shoot you right now. I don't need two crazy broads nagging my ear off."

Scarlett bridled at that. Her eyes narrowed, and she could already feel a nasty retort forming on her lips—but her left hand still wasn't free, the mercenary had a large number of weapons, and after the way he'd acted during the ambush she could guess he was ready to carry out his threat. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the battered Snake-Eyes tense. He would be trying to dislocate the bones of his hand, she guessed: that was a good trick for slipping shackles, albeit one she'd never been able to copy.

She swallowed her insults. If Snake-Eyes was going to slip free, she had to do her part by distracting Wade. Their captor was powerful and skilled, but he also had the attention span of a chihuahua on a caffeine high. Although the chihuahua would probably be easier to reason with . . .

Oh, great. Now she was doing it.

"I think," she said cautiously, "it might've been the 'Hot Lips' that did it."

"Oh, hey!" Wade said, suddenly cheerful. Scarlett's stomach flip-flopped as he slid a fresh magazine into his gun, but at least the safety was still on. "Y'all a Joh-ja gal, then? Land sakes, honey! Whut's a nice gal like y'all doin' way up here with us damn Yankees, then, huh?"

Scarlett winced, and for once it had nothing to do with the pain. Wade's Southern accent was terrible.

"Right now," she ventured, "the only thing I'm doing is hanging around."

"Hanging around—oh, I get it. Cute." Wade aimed his gun at the ceiling and absentmindedly shot a hole in it. Judging by the pattern of holes already there, this was his favorite pastime. "But y'know," he added, instantly morose again, "this is a bummer and a half. I mean, I've got carte branch to do whatever I want to you guys. I do mean anything. And I don't even have a cart. Or a branch. I could get one, though. It's not like they guard the parks or anything. I could go out to Golden Gate Park, break down a tree or something, steal one of those hot dog carts that sells the footlong 'dogs . . . you know, the kind where you don't wanna know what they're made of 'cause it might've answered to the name 'Spot'? Anyway. Where was I? Oh, right. I could do anything to you. We're talking pliers, red-hot needles . . . and I've been looking for a way to use up all the Geritol and crap that Blind Al left behind. And . . ."

He paused, shaking his head. Scarlett, horrified and fascinated in spite of herself, couldn't stop the question.


"And I've been trying not to. Sorta. Kinda. Maybe. Not really. But, y'know, it's definitely on my to-do list." Wade scratched his masked head with the muzzle of his gun, making Scarlett wince. "'Cause the girlfriend says I shouldn't. And I'm trying. But then she goes and gets mad for no reason at all, and now it's really hard not to just shoot you both right here. Do you see my problem?"

The problem, Scarlett would later reflect, was that she was used to dealing with the Cobra brand of madness. Cackling, obsession with snakes, attempts to take over the world . . . that kind of madness was flamboyant, true, but it was also pretty much humorless and a little easier to predict. Wade jumped from topic to topic like a kangaroo with a pouch full of bees—god dammit, she was doing it again. She wondered if insanity was catching.

"I think I do," she said cautiously. All she could see of Snake-Eyes was a black blur in her peripheral vision, but there was a tiny flex in his left arm, and Scarlett knew that he had begun the painful process of dislocating the bones of his hand. She had to keep Wade talking, and preferably, keep him from killing them. "But . . . if it's any consolation . . . women don't really get men, either."

"What? Why?" Wade said, waving the gun impassionedly. "It's simple! Hey, you read Cosmo, right? Of course you do. Hell, even I read Cosmo, but that was only because I was stuck in the dentist's office." He paused a moment, reflecting. "It wasn't a total loss, though. Turns out you can do a lot with a tank of laughing gas. But yeah, anyway. Cosmo, right? It's got those things like 'Ten Ways to Drive Your Man Wild in Bed,' and stuff, right? Look, government spy lady, you don't need to do any of that weird shit. All you have to do is be there. Though of course, the occasional moan regarding manliness or power is always acceptable too. Seriously, lady. You guys make everything waaay too complicated."

All right, it was a little funny. Mostly, however, it was making Scarlett seethe. She didn't take this kind of crap from Storm Shadow, and she definitely wasn't going to take it from a very large, homicidal man with an itchy trigger finger, the ability to regrow limbs, martial arts ability to rival Snake-Eyes and the power of life and death over both of them . . .


Discretion: it was the better part of valor.

"Conflict," she said. "Conflict is part of nature. It's what makes things fun, isn't it?"

Ah. Now that seemed to strike a chord; the mask creased, and she could tell that Wade had broken into a wide grin. "Well, yeah. I mean, if Red couldn't blow my head off whenever she wanted to, it'd be way more boring. And sleeping with a badass warrior chick kinda helps reassure me about my manhood, stuff like that. It's like Her Ladyship GaGa said, y'know? 'I want your lovin' and your lover's revenge, you and me could write a bad romance! I want your ugly, I want your disease, I want your everything as long as it's free, I want your love-'"

The mercenary stopped in the middle of his dance, which was good, because the hip-thrusts were getting incredibly awkward. "Hey, wait a minute. Has that song been written yet? Crap. What continuity are we in again?"

Scarlett blinked. There was no part of the last thirty seconds that made sense.

"Stupid crossovers. Yeah, it is fun. But then she wants me to be romantic or something, and that doesn't make any sense. You know what I got her for Valentine's day? A heart. Fresh and everything. And she screams. Jeez, it wasn't even human."

She didn't dare risk a glance, but she could tell from the corner of her eye that things were happening with the silent ninja next to her. Both arms were loose in their shackles, and he was almost finished with his legs, too. The insane Wade still hadn't noticed. Snake-Eyes was almost free, thank God. Scarlett thought she could feel her brain melting.

"Look," she said. "Every relationship is different. Maybe what she really wants is for you to be honest with her about your real feelings-"

There was the tiniest clink, a black blur shot past her, and suddenly everything got very busy indeed.

* * *

Terry had been having second thoughts since she'd stormed out of the house. Wade, saints love him, was no brain trust, but she had to give him credit: he'd been really trying.

It was no secret that Wade Wilson, also known as Deadpool, didn't have a lot of stable influences in his life. An EKG of his brain would probably reveal more holes than a rusty colander, and his artificially-induced insanity had only been compounded by a very complicated life. It had taken a lot of soul-searching, but Terry understood that she was one of the few things in Wade's life that his twisted mind could possibly count on.

And in some way, she loved the lunatic. Some days, she wanted to kill him, and Lord knew that he deserved it. But he was crawling his way, inch by inch, back from the brink.

Blind Al had been right. He was trying. She had to give him that.

About ten minutes' flight from the Deadhut, she made her decision and turned back. Wade would probably be eager to see her: when it came to her, he was one of the . . . well, one of the neediest people she'd ever known. He was like an excitable dog—manic, utterly devoted, and prone to humping your leg. When she walked back in through the door, he'd probably be all over her.

However, it wasn't so. The Deadhut was silent. Terry took a deep breath and crept towards the door of the prison cell, trying to keep light on her feet, ears listening hard and sonic scream at the ready. No footsteps, no screams, no insane babble . . . no breathing?

Oh, hell.

Dropping the pretense of coolness, Terry rushed into the room. The shackles were dangling loose, the prisoners were gone—and Wade's head was lying ten feet from his body.

No matter how often she saw that, she couldn't get used to it. Terry's hands trembled as she knelt down and picked up the head. "Oh, y'foolish man," she murmured. "If only y'wouldn't get yourself into these scrapes . . ."

Then, head cradled in her arms, she made her way across the blood-spattered floor to her erstwhile boyfriend's body. It was lying on its back, and Terry turned her eyes away as she settled the severed head, face-up, on the stump of the neck.

For a few seconds, there was nothing. Then, in one of the most welcome disgusting noises that Theresa Rourke had ever heard, there was a sick slurp as muscles and bones began reconnecting. The spine knit itself back together, the veins and arteries re-fused, and with a yelp of "Holy bodily mutilation, Batman!" Wade sat bolt-upright.

"I didn't even FEEL that one," he said indignantly to thin air. "It's not fair. I train for years and years, but do I get to do that freaky ninja shit? I don't think so. I-" The familiar voice stuttered to a halt as he realized that he was now face-to-belt with a familiar green-clad figure. "Red?"

"Yes?" Terry said. Her heart was still pounding in fear, but she could feel a smile growing on her face despite it.

"I . . . uh . . ."

And to her great surprise, Wade glanced contritely at the floor, looking for all the world like a scold schoolboy. "I kinda . . . um . . . I wanted to say something. Um. Sorry."

" . . . sorry?"

"Yeah." Wade jumped to his feet, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants. "You're . . . I guess . . . you're good for me, Red." One hand dodged out of a pocket to scratch at an ear uncomfortably. "And my head's a lot more together than it used to be. And I appreciate that. Really. It's just, you know, it's hard to say, because you know how it is with the crazy thing. And I didn't mean that Lucky Charms thing I said last night, either. Or the potato famine thing. And the Catholic jokes? All twelve of them? I didn't mean them either. But you gotta admit number seven was funny. And-"

He didn't get to say much more. Because to his surprise, and extreme gratification, Terry grabbed him by the collar of his ridiculous t-shirt and pulled him down into a heated kiss.

She might have noticed, in the ensuing business of clothes removal, that there was an odd papery crinkling noise coming from his pockets. But she would never find the reason for it, and that was because Wade would hide it and never ever admit its existence.

It was a note—written in a curving, elegant hand, one which Wade would happily call "girly" if he ever met its owner again. It had been handed to him just after a ninja with several injured limbs and a severe grudge had kicked his ass, and just before said ninja had chopped his head off with his own katana while he was still recovering from the ass-kicking. Which kinda sucked, incidentally. But in these circumstances, Wade couldn't resent something as minor as temporary death.

The note read:

Try telling the truth. That's always a good idea where fiery redheads are concerned.

Oh, and you might consider the "silent" part of "strong and silent."

Best wishes,


P.S. Goodbye.