"Oopsie-doodle, my bad-a-rooni, that's not PG13, youngin'," Wade chirps as he dives for the remote, switching from an incredibly gory movie to something he deems more 'appropriate.' Desperate Housewives. It's less about preserving your innocence and more about Wade's not-so-secret, not-so-guilty pleasure of soapy TV drama.

"What're you feeling, toots? Heard of the Golden Girls? If you tell me you don't know my glorious Bea Arthur, I'll feel old and I'll cry," Wade rambles on, plopping onto the bed beside you, in full costume. He launches into an off-key rendition of the show's theme song.

Though Wade doesn't mention it, he's careful to give you space. Ever since he learned your age and hauled your injured self to his place, he's steered clear of inappropriate jokes. Surprisingly respectful for a guy who waxes poetic about spandex-clad butts.

So, you're a bona fide teen. Say it ain't so, Wade said when he found you in the clutches of a kid-snatching criminal. Naturally, Wade killed the lowlife. Can't risk anyone knowing the secret identity of one of his favorite vigilante pals.

Wade's one crazy, unpredictable SOB, but even Deadpool has his code, dear reader! He'll hit below the belt any day, but he draws the line at hurting animals or kids! That's gotta count for something. Definitely puts him ahead of that priest he took out last week.

Anyhoo, Wade can't decide if it's the cancer messing with his brain or if he's hit the age where he's starting to feel maternal. He kicks his legs, propping his chin on his hand.

"How's the hole in your gut, bubba? Feel the painkillers yet?"