Work Text
Earth-274777
New York
Peter sleeps soundly that night, exhausted beyond words. Coming back to his universe feels like his entire being had been wrung out like a wet towel; every carbon squeegeed, every oxygen shaken and stirred. Something something his body never belonging to another universe, something different laws of physics something something. Even his genius brain is still struggling to catch up.
It’s like a hangover for the whole body. Peter decides to leave it at that.
He groans when sunlight hits his face, uncomfortably warm on his cheek. He drags his sluggish body out of his creaky bed, almost crawling to the kitchen sink. There’s this thing he does when he needs to wake up: splashing icy, cold water into his face. It strangely works.
Sleepily, he fills the cup to the brim and unceremoniously dumps it into his face. He grunts as the water hits his face, and gets on with his usual schedule as he prepares for work. His Tuesday is packed: Octavius Labs at 8 AM and ESU at 1 PM. But before he goes to work, he swings by Aunt May’s window first, breathing a sigh of relief when he sees her resting.Deciding not to bother her rest, he arrives at work just in the nick of time and spends the entire morning dissecting samples and analyzing data at the lab, and soon enough, he’s gone back to his routine.
The routine being this: boring, nerdy, research scientist-slash-grad student-slash-part-time freelance photographer Peter Parker by day and patrolling as the web-slinging, crime-fighting Spider-Man at night. It’s exhausting, but he’s relieved to be able to go back to some semblance of normal (his version of normality, anyway) after two and a quarter of a day filled with absolute universe-hopping insanity.When he gets home, the sun is already sinking low on the horizon and he’s so tired that he almost misses one of his webs and very nearly topples to the hard concrete. By the time he’s close enough to his rickety bed, Peter is out like a light.
It looks like no time has passed; the lab report he was supposed to have started yesterday is still due this Friday. Plus, the deadline for the Spidey pictures that he’s supposed to send Jameson is tomorrow and so far he’s got two very bad, very blurry ones. Aunt May is faring roughly the same as when he left her that day. So far, nothing has changed.
Yet. (The margin for error is something that he isn’t sure whether to be relieved of or not.)He jerks awake, immediately looking at the time. 10:10 PM. Shit, he overslept! He swipes his backpack and puts on his web shooters.
He gets out of the fire exit and half-jumps, half-climbs to the rooftop, muttering to himself, “This is why you don’t take power naps after work, Parker!”
When he reaches the rooftop, he sheds his clothes and slips into his Spidey suit, giving it a sniff. He shrugs and puts on his mask, breathing in the familiar smell of spandex. He gives himself a running start, does a forward roll, and points his wrist at a nearby building. He whoops in delight, feeling more and more awake as he swings from skyscraper to skyscraper.Peter doesn’t think he could get tired of this feeling, even after a decade has passed. He propels himself upward and lands on top of the Empire State Building. He looks down and just breathes.
Way up here, the hectic sounds of the streets become muted, and the lights from the buildings twinkle. His enhanced senses slowly come to a lull. Being Spider-Man may have its drawbacks, but my God, this view.
He doesn’t think he could get enough of it.
For some reason, he could imagine Peter-One babbling about that Brooklyn cop sitcom again, and Peter-Two fussing with the loose thread in Peter’s admittedly, very old suit. (Which reminds him, he needs to buy new fabric.) He misses those guys, never mind the fact that they only got to know each other for a moment. He doesn’t know what the rule is when it comes to meeting his alternate selves, but he’s pretty sure you’re not supposed to be this attached.God, he is so lonely.
He shakes his head, chuckling at himself before taking out the police scanner from the backpack he webbed on the wall. He hangs around for a hot second before gliding down the streets upon hearing that a bunch of guys wearing Fantastic Four masks is robbing a deli.
Peter swings to the deli, snickering to himself while thinking of punchlines. When he lands on the ground, the FF wannabes are hissing at each other, frantically emptying out the cash register and the pantry.The owner’s eyes bulge out of their sockets when she spots Peter. He nods at her, and the tension seems to leave her shoulders.
“Johnny? Man, is that you?” He feigns surprise and inwardly laughs at the way the robbers almost jump. “I knew you were broke but you don’t have to resort to–woah!”
‘Human Torch’ throws a mug at him, which he swiftly ducks from. He eyes the owner meaningfully, and she seems to get the message because her eyes drift to the backdoor.
He tsks, “Hey, not cool! Which I guess is kinda your thing!”
A man wearing an Invisible Woman mask lunges at him, swinging his knife. Peter snatches it out of his hands with a thwip of his web, “Hey Sue, how are the kids?”
The man grumbles in annoyance and throws a punch, to which he stops with one hand, using his other hand to strike him on the jaw. He falls on his ass, groaning. The other two come for him, one of them brandishing a bat.“Nice bat, Mr. Fantastic!”“Shut the hell up!”Peter webs him on the forehead, and pulls, delivering a spinning hook kick to the side of his head. He falls, knocked out cold. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees the owner sneakily inching towards the door. ‘Human Torch’ stands up, and knees him on the stomach. Peter lets out a painful huff and falls to his knees, while ‘The Thing’ cracks his neck and growls at him menacingly. He pulls a gun out of his pocket.“Hey, big guy,” he coughs, “You look uh, not very rocky.”
“Do you ever shut your mouth?”“Dude, you should meet Deadpool,” Peter butts his head on the man’s chin, gets up, and backflips, striking him on the chest with his foot and sending him flying through the room.
Then, he shoots his webs at ‘Invisible Woman's face and ricochets himself, wrapping webbing on the thug’s body and kicking him to the ground. Then, he webs himself up the ceiling, creating momentum, and punches the remaining thug.
Peter hears the sound of the police siren from outside and he quickly makes work of webbing the FF wannabes and leaves.His relationship with the police is shaky, at best. Some of them cooperate with him, some hate his guts, while some think he’s grateful but wouldn’t hesitate to place the cuffs on him if permissible. It all depends on the precinct. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t work with cops full stop. Still, he doesn’t have any resources to do so otherwise. And if he were being honest, Peter is still holding out hope that there’s someone, even just one cop who is good enough, virtuous enough, honorable enough to deliver justice deserving the criminals he brought in. Just like Captain Stacy was.Just to be safe, Peter always bounces out of there before they arrive.
His night was uneventful after that; stopped a few drunken brawls, helped a few teenagers high out of their minds get home, and petted a bodega cat—normal New York shit. At some point, a kid throws a carton of grape juice at him. (Again, normal New York shit.)Peter just sighs and starts swinging back, ducking to the nearest dank alleyway, careful enough to shroud himself under the dark spaces as he strips himself off his suit, groaning at how sticky it feels under his fingers. Clad with a tank top, boxer shorts, and a pair of mismatched socks, he starts walking.
His place is only a few blocks away anyway, and he could use a walk. Besides, his suit folded up like this just looks like bundled-up pajamas. He’s willing to bet New York has seen stranger things than a man in his underwear, smelling faintly of grapes. (He knows he has.)The smell of tacos attacks his line of scent as he rounds the corner, making his stomach lurch in hunger. Before he can lament on whether he deserves a taco right now, a familiar, boisterous voice makes him pause.
There he is.Wade Wilson, with his vibrant red and black suit, armed with an intimidating pair of katanas on his back and with a couple of guns strapped on his utility belt. His magic pouches, he once called them.A wave of affection and longing almost makes him stagger on his feet. Just seeing him in that suit—looking less than impressive, scratching his butt—makes him realize just how much he missed him. He missed his loud, annoying voice, how easy it seemed for him to read Peter’s mind, and how he never missed their nightly rendezvous on top of roofs.“Wade,” he cringes how his voice catches, “Hi.”Wade turns around, turns back, turns again and does a second double take. He eyes Peter up and down and to his surprise, turns away snootily.“Sorry cutie, any other day, I would be super into this hipster nerd slash skater boi with an I you’ve got going on—devastating combo, by the way—I’m sadly not in the mood.”He starts walking away and Peter is left on the sidewalk, dumbfounded by the indifferent greeting. That’s… strange, but he figures it’s probably one of those jokes Wade likes to pull on him. He grins and hurriedly catches up with his pace.
He sidles up to him, bumping him on the shoulder. “Hey, you’re not gonna grab me one?”He stops and just looks at Peter. He’s so quiet that it unnerves Peter. Usually, at this point, his mouth is running a mile per minute.
Wade blinks at him, once, then twice. “Sorry, I’m still reeling. Are you, an ultra mega hot person with eyes that presumably work—not well I’m assuming, since, duh, glasses—talking to me? And ordering me to “grab you one?”” He puts air-quotations.There’s that loudmouth he misses so much. He rolls his eyes, using no doy voice, “Obviously.”“Why?” He asks, suspicious.“Because it’s what you do?” Now, he sounds confused. What’s going on here?“I do?”Shit. He might have been abusing Wade’s generosity and this is his way of telling him off.
“Haha, just kidding! Obviously, you don’t need to grab me one. You’re not my sugar daddy or anything,” Stop. Stop, mouth. “Like I need a sugar daddy or anything. As if! It’s not like I’m a broke dude who lives in a shitbox and has to juggle three jobs or anything.” TALKING OUT OF YOUR ASS, PARKER. “Anyways, how’ve you been?”Wade continues to stare at him, and when he speaks, his voice is syrup-like and dreamy, “Who are you?”“C’mon, Wade. I know I was gone for a while. Or not. I’m not really sure how that works. Anyway, you wouldn’t believe where I just went—”“Alright, I’m like 99% sure you’ve mistaken me for someone else. Is there another beloved anti-hero with a red suit named Wade? Do I need to go to the patent office?” He mumbles the last question to himself.Peter’s heart pounds. Something feels wrong “I didn’t see you tonight, while I was out on patrol.” he blurts.
“Patrol?” Wade makes a disgusted noise, “Are you like, a cop?”Something is definitely wrong.
“Nothing, never mind. Sorry to bother you.” Peter mutters, already walking away.
He has a terrible realization that the universe he came back to might not be the same one he left.
That interaction has bugged him all day. Even now, he’s thankful that it’s been a fairly peaceful night. Just a couple of drunks and attempted robberies. Nothing he couldn’t handle. No Deadpool. He hates himself for feeling disappointed. He’s gotten so used to having him around that it distracted him from patrolling today. He catches sight of red in the corner thinking it was him that he almost lets go of the burglar.
He keeps thinking about it. The fact that Wade doesn’t seem to recognize him.
The spell. That must be it.Peter’s not well-versed with magic or anything related to it. He hasn’t even encountered anyone who has magic in this universe (and hopes to God he never will) and he has no one to turn to that may be able to provide some answers. It remains unsolved, but his problem still persists.
Logically, he should be glad that no one knows Spider-Man’s real identity. Only God knows the amount of trouble he’s managed to get himself into by being too careless, too trusting with his identity. This should be good news for him, but the thing is, Aunt May already knew. Who he is, what he does. And he doesn’t want to put her through the lying and the manipulation and the endless worrying about where he goes in the middle of the night if he even wants to come back home at all.
It was the night after Scorpion’s big debut. He’d been too callous, and in return, he received a hell of a beating, acid burns, and a gaping wound on his back. He passed out on top of a building for an hour and when he went to his apartment, Aunt May had been there, waiting.Instead, she saw his kid bloody and half-dead. He will never forget her face that night; horrified and harrowed, one hand covering her mouth. He could not get in a word as she led him to the bathroom, gentle as ever. She stripped off his frayed suit and rinsed the dried blood off his body.Shame rolled off him; not because his aunt, the only mother he’d ever known was washing him off like he was still a child but because he had lied to her and here she still was; helping him lick his wounds.
After she patted him dry, she helped him limp to the bedroom, still not saying a word. He hung his head and let her take care of his broken body and she stitched his injuries with her steady hands. When she finished only then Peter finally gathered the courage to speak. He started with an apology, way long overdue. Aunt May never made a sound, but she looked at Peter as she listened.Peter told her everything; the bite, the murder of Uncle Ben, how Lizard and Electro and Mr. Stacy are all blood that is on his hands, how Harry turned into something monstrous and not even Peter Parker could have saved him. How he couldn’t save Gwen either, how he could still feel her every day, how he haunts every crevice of his room. He told her about Rhino and Chameleon, and how he’s taken the impossible burden of being this city’s protector, how he sometimes regrets doing so. He told her about the Fantastic Four and how they remind him that he’s not truly alone after all.
He told her about Deadpool, how he had been the most pleasant surprise out of all of this. How they couldn’t be more different, and somehow still the same. How Wade infuriates and scares the hell out of him, yet he can’t imagine what his life was like before he was in it anymore.
Now, it seemed like he was back to square one with Wade. Goddammit.When he finished, Aunt May just enveloped him into a tight hug, and finally spoke, voice shaky, “Peter, you don’t know how long I waited for you to tell me this.”“I know.”“I wanted to hear it from you,” her voice was stern but delicate, “And I don’t like that it took you almost dying to admit it to me.”“I’m sorry, Aunt May,” He said for the nth time that night. She just smiles, watery.Then, she pats his hands and stands up, heading for the kitchen to heat the latke and brisket. Peter sets up the plates. There are no more words spoken between them as they eat, but he knows that there is nothing to be forgiven.
Now there’s a huge chance that Peter might go through it again. It couldn’t be the worse timing too, what with Aunt May being in partial remission still. He palms his face and lets out a drawn-out groan.He’s been so deep in thought that he almost jumps when his Spidey senses start going haywire. He hears heavy footsteps and harsh breathing. Purely on instinct, he climbs up the wall nearby and starts following him, jumping from rooftop to rooftop. Faintly, he realizes that someone is following him.He sees him: a man clad in a full-body skinsuit, a long, dark purple coat billowing in the wind. His face is covered with a mask, two dark circles on his eyes, and a triangular one on his mouth. He jumps and reaches for a ladder and seems to glide as he descends to the floor. Peter swings to the opposite building, taking a closer look.
There. His coat seems to support his fall. He catches up to the woman he seems to be chasing, throwing a projectile. It seems to be a smoke bomb. The woman screams as she scrambles away from it, but it’s too late. Her eyes roll at the back of her head.
Peter points his wrist at the end of his coat and webs him to the nearest wall. “Oh, hey! You’re wearing a mask, too! Mask buds!”The masked man just growls at him, squirming. Peter snickers at the sight. Potentially dangerous bad guy squirming, butt hanging out. He stops laughing when the man reveals his clawed gloves and cuts himself off.“Oh,” he laughs weakly, “You have claws. Of course.”He dodges the first swipe of his metallic claws. Using the wall to his advantage, he propels himself forward, sliding under the Claw Guy’s arm.Once he’s behind him, he puts a considerable amount of his strength into striking him on the back with the heel of his foot. Claw Guy slams into the brick wall, leaving a dent in the wall.
He grunts his pain but is only deterred for a few moments. He prowls for Peter, alternating from scratching and kicking. Peter stops them with his limbs and his webs, barely ducking the claws. He shoots a web as high as he can and swings, delivering a kick in Claw Guy’s face, who staggers on his feet.
Peter takes his chance to wrap a web around one of the claws, attempting to pull it off. Claw Guy seems to realize what he’s doing since he grips the web and starts pulling Peter nearer. He uses his feet to slow him down and cuts down the string of web but he had been near enough that Claw Guy could get a punch in.
Pain blossoms on the side of his head and he feels a spurt of blood coming out of his nose inside the mask. Shit. Peter spares a brisk glance at the woman, still unconscious in the alley. Shit.
“Alright, enough playing around, Claw Guy,” he mutters before wrapping webbing around his torso.
Once it’s secured enough, he lifts it around his head. Claw Guy falls on his head and is instantly knocked out cold. He tries to pry the retractable claws off Claw Guy’s hands but they wouldn’t budge. Peter lets out a miffed exhale. It must have a lock safe of some sort.
He jogs towards the unconscious woman, carrying her with ease due to her small stature. He swings towards the quiet of the night.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The woman looks vaguely familiar, though Peter can’t place where she’s from.
He panics, trying to think of a place he could bring her. Usually, he would call an ambulance and wait until it gets here, but his intuition tells him otherwise. It’s not every day that he sees a masked man chase after an unwitting civilian. This woman, whoever she is, is in danger. Putting her in a hospital might not be a good idea.So where? Peter can’t bring her to Aunt May's home, where he's currently staying since her cancer returned. Clearly, her hospital room is not an option, as well. Not only would it stress her out, but it would also require telling her that he’s Spider-Man. Again. And he’s pretty positive it will be just the thing that might send her to her grave. Not happening.Johnny? Fantastic Four is on a mission.
Harry? Ooh, don’t open that can of worms.
Matt? Uhh. Maybe.
Somehow, he was already swinging in its familiar streets before he could even decide where, with the woman slumped over his back, wrapped tightly with webbing. His feet touch the metal stairs that lead to Wade’s apartment, so cold he could feel it through his suit. He pries the window open, like he does a million times, and lets himself in. The ever-lingering smell of pizza and Choji oil. He rips off the webbing wrapping himself and the woman and gently sets her on the couch.Something jumps at him, and he doesn’t miss a beat as he catches it with his arms. It lets out excited yips and starts sniffing him. Peter pats its golden fur, whispering, “Hey, Mr. Shuggums.”The mutt enthusiastically sniffs his masked face, tail wagging.“Yeah, I miss you too, buddy.”Wade’s steely voice cuts their reunion short.
“Don’t know if you’re brave or just plain stupid, but just a heads-up, I’m probably going to let my katanas decide first,” There's a sound of a blade being unsheathed.For dramatic effect, Peter presumes. He rolls his eyes fondly. “Also if you look to your right, guns!” Wade threatens cheerily.“It’s me,” Peter calls out, releasing Mr. Shuggums out of his grasp. God, he hopes at least Spider-Man and Deadpool are on good terms.He hears a comical gasp, “Could it be?!”
There are sounds of a toilet flushing and feet scuffling, and all of a sudden, Wade is across from him, mask still on but only pajamas covering his scarred body. “Baby boy! I didn’t know I scheduled a booty call tonight!”Relief floods him. There it is again: his body moving out of his own accord. Suddenly, he’s had his arms wrapped around Wade’s unfairly ripped shoulders, the comforting warmth of him, just him, bringing life into his body. The tension that has built stacks inside of him seems to just melt away.
Peter can hear his heartbeat, swiftly sprinting like a hare in the wilds, pressed against Wade like this. Even better, he hears Wade’s, too. Loud thumps, like a drum. He doesn’t think too much about these.Wade speaks first, his voice a pleasant rumble, “Not that I’m loving this, easily second best experience out of my life, and I kinda wish I didn’t ruin it by talking but uh, what’s going on?”Peter chuckles, looking up, chin pointing at Wade’s collarbone, “Only second best?”“The first was getting my first Mossberg 590A1, obvs.”“Right,” he finally lets go, “What’s with the guns?”“I’m spring cleaning, Spidey!”
He raises an eyebrow, “Is that why I haven’t seen you for days?”“Yep,” he replies, popping the p. “I’m Marie Kondoing this bitch. Also, forgive my French, but who in the ass is that?”“Shit,” Peter totally forgot about the UNCONSCIOUS WOMAN. “Um, I don’t actually know. She was being chased by someone. He threw a smoke bomb at her, I think? I didn’t know what to do. I figured you’d know, which as I am now just realizing, is probably a bad idea considering your healing factor.”“Aww, Spidey-babe! You thought of me.” Wade honest-to-God swoons, and slumps against Peter.
“Yeah, yeah. Do you know how to deal with this?”“Honestly, just let her sleep it off. She’ll be fine.” Peter glares at him. “I’m serious! I’ve inhaled many a smoke bombs in my days.”“Are you sure? She’s not… you know, enhanced like us,” he pauses, “Don’t quote me on that.”
“I’ll give her an oxygen mask if that’ll make you feel better,” Wade starts walking to his office, which Peter is dubiously naming since no way in hell that room in any way resembles an office.
Before he goes, Peter calls out, “Wait.”“Wh—oof.”
Peter crushes him into a quick hug before releasing him, “Sorry. Go on.”“Okay, screw that lady, what is going on with you? Are you okay? Are you dying? Did you hit your head or something? Do you have spider hypoglycemia or something?”“That’s not a thing.”“Well, you might be patient zero,” he says before gasping dramatically, “Is this a Make-a-Wish thing? Am I dying? Again? Did I just hallucinate the last 10 years of my life? Do I have cancer? Wait, I always have cancer.”“Just go, Wade.”“Fine, but this is not over, baby boy.”He does as he’s told. Peter was checking the woman’s breathing when without warning, she opened her eyes in alarm and started alternating from choking to coughing. “Deadpool! Can you hurry up a bit?!”“Coming, sweetums!” Wade comes out of his so-called office, donning his suit. He calmly places the oxygen mask on the woman’s nose, and Peter watches anxiously as she catches her breath. They let her take a few more puffs, then she slumps on the couch. Mr. Shuggums jumps on the couch and sniffs at her.“Are you alright?” Peter asks.
“Yeah. Yes,” she inhales shallowly, before looking around in alarm, “Where am I?”“Somewhere safe,” he says before Wade could butt in, “Can you tell me your name?”“Anna Maria,” she eyes the two of them, a look of skepticism crossing her features. She wraps her arm around herself, eyes landing on him, her features soften but there’s still tension with the way she holds herself, “Spider-Man? Where am I? How did I get here?”Peter tells her what happened, while Wade hands her glasses after glass of water and occasionally butts in with a joke and laughs at Peter’s one-liners. When he finishes, Anna Maria seems much more comfortable, pondering his words, half-heartedly petting Mr. Shuggums.They give her space to recollect herself and across the room, Wade bumps his shoulders, “Hey, was Claw Guy hot?”“How would I know? He had a mask, genius.”“But is he like Vega from Street Fighter hot? Or—” he groans in disgust, “—Freddy Krueger hot?”“Not gonna lie, he’s kind of like an unholy lovechild of you and Dr. Doom.”“Ooh, def hot!”“His name is Prowler,” mumbles Anna Maria. “He’s Octavius Labs’ go-to guy for you know, the occasional murder.”That’s why she looked familiar. Peter must have seen her around while he was working. “Why is Octavius Labs after you, Anna Maria?”She sighed, before muttering, “Because I invented multiversal travel.”
Peter and Wade’s heads whip to look at each other in twin tandem, and it takes a hot second for the implication to catch up in Peter’s mind. He shakes his head, “Wait, wait, wait, hold on, hold on, hold on. Did you just say multiversal travel?”“Like The One with the 124 Jet Lis?”“Rick and Morty?”“Mr. Nobody?”“Uh… Star Trek? At least, the reboot. I haven’t watched the original series.”“Heathen,” Wade says before gasping, “Oooh, is it like that time a totally foxy, female version of me, possibly played by Blake Lively or JLaw—although, that would totally be a
mystical library of confusion—destroyed Bea Arthur to defeat a Galactus version of me?”“Yes, yes, yes, yes, and what?” she patiently answers.“Ignore him,” Peter says, “Why would they target you for inventing multiversal travel? Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, get a promotion or something?”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” she pauses, eyeing Deadpool warily, then looking back at Peter with a questioning look on her face. Peter looks at Wade, who seems to realize her apprehension and starts standing up.
He raises a hand to stop him, eyes never leaving Anna Maria’s as he says, “It’s okay. You can trust Deadpool.”Wade is staring at him but he dares not look.
She nods and continues, “Octavius ordered me to work on time travel, I don’t know what for but she was insistent on it. I spent years of my life on it and was close to just giving it all up but then, it finally worked. A little too well, though. A week ago, we tested it and the guy came back with three different versions of himself in tow. It was a confusing mess. Not to mention, dangerous. So, I stole it. I didn’t want it falling into the wrong hands. That was like two days ago.”
Anna Maria runs a hand through her hair, distress evident on her face, “I guess they must have noticed their only pair of very expensive, very invaluable, and without a doubt, not government-sanctioned multiversal bracelets were missing already.”Peter ponders on this, then blurts, “What about blueprints?”
She closes her eyes, groaning in despair, “Shit. I didn’t even think of that.”Wade turns to him, maniacal glee lightening up his face, “You know what this means?”“No, Wade, we are not doing a heist. Stop suggesting that every time.”“But I want to steal a necklace with the help of underprivileged, hot women with nothing to lose and lot to gain! You know like Sandy in the Met Gala.”“Why is Ocean’s 8 your first thought when doing a heist? No, wait, let me rephrase that. Why is a heist your first thought for everything?”“Ocean’s 8 is my first thought about everything, baby boy,” Wade says, and his stomach flips. That damned nickname. It’s been a while since he heard it. Peter used to hate it so much, but now there’s always a smile being pulled out of him whenever he hears it, “And why not? Heists are fun! You get to play dress up. Like a boring nerd or a devil sticks-juggling drag queen or—“ A boring nerd. That’s perfect.“You know what, that gives me an idea,” he turns to Anna Maria, grinning, “Do you know where the blueprint is?”“Yes, I hid it myself. Why–?”“Do you think you could draw me a map?”
Sometimes, being Peter Parker has its advantages.Like the fact that he’s one of the most skilled research scientists in the building, and therefore he has clearance to labs that are otherwise restricted to most employees.There’s also the fact that appearance-wise, Peter Parker is the perfect unassuming, innocent civilian, with his thick-rimmed glasses (he hasn’t needed a pair for over a decade now, but it helps him blend in) and his too-big lab coat. If you prompted stereotypical nerd, Caucasian to one of those AI apps, it would put together a spitting image of him.
Anna Maria informed him that Octavius might have tripled security by now and the blueprints might have been placed in a more secure place now that she knows it’s missing. She told him of the building’s basement where he might be keeping some of the more… discreet projects the company’s spearheading.
Peter’s heard of this, of course. It makes sense that Octavius, known recluse and paranoiac, would have secret projects held in even secreter labs. There was an incident with a programmable arm—less of a sellable product, and more of a helping hand (ha)—from the manufacturing department where it had accidentally strangled an employee and had to be manually cut off from the source. Peter could only imagine the kind of tech he would have, just tucked away.She gives them a rough sketch of the basement, including its possible entry and exit, in which there’s only one for each.
And if Parker Luck has taught him anything, of course, it would not be easy—when did that term become about the Shakespearean levels of his parodiable setbacks and not just silly, little mistakes he made as Spider-Man? Probably when it started bleeding into his Peter Parker life.Anyways.Going in is easy enough. Peter enters the main lab, finger-gunning the guard, who shakes his head at his antics. No suit, just him and his trusty web-shooter.
It’s a light little thing, looking more like a stylish wristband than a medium-range weapon. Made of adamantium steel scraps, with enamel turbines, it is one of the more sophisticated types of web-shooters he’s invented. The cartridges can hold a liter of web fluid, which can shoot at almost 70 feet, the last time he checked. It’s virtually indestructible, takes a while to run out, and most importantly, inconspicuous.It also really helps that despite his awkwardness, he still has that residual, natural charm. He usually saves the witty quips when he dons the Spidey mask, but as Peter, he’s polite to everyone, can banter with everyone, and tends to fly under the radar if he wishes. He’s non-threatening, which bodes well for what he’s about to do.Stealing the blueprints. Now that he’s doing it, he feels like hyperventilating a little bit. Sure, he’s swiped a few things from bodegas, but his stupid moral code always forces him to come back eventually and pay for them.
Then, he remembers that Octavius sent a contract killer after her own employee and his resolve strengthens a bit.
Infiltrating a super secure facility is pretty much a normal day for Spider-Man but it’s not a daily occurrence for Peter Parker so he’s a little apprehensive than usual. He reaches the secret elevator to the basement and presses the button for the basement floor. It does nothing. He frowns, then notices the access control. Shit, he thinks passionately. It needs a key card. Naturally, he can’t use his own. He takes his leather-worn wallet from his coat pocket and takes out his trusty keycard, mostly referred to as where’s that Goddamn thing, sometimes affectionately called a goober. This little thing is crazy useful when he wants to break into the villain-of-the-week’s supposedly secret and dubiously secure lair.It takes a long time for the reader to scan it, worryingly so that Peter starts to sweat, but then, it turns green.
The elevator door opens and he’s greeted with a dimly-lit storage basement, only illuminated by green fluorescents and eerie, mechanical silence. There’s a faint smell of something sour and stale. Like mothballs being dipped in acetic acid. There isn’t much of anything, just a long hallway of storage. An analyzer with smoke marks, empty test tubes, and rows and rows of lab equipment and abandoned tech.
Peter recalls Anna Maria’s tip about a secret dumbwaiter they use to store some of the labs’ secrets. They have a handful of the dumbwaiter storages everywhere to her knowledge, but they’re not divulged to everyone, even with Anna Maria’s position.
He finally spots the door, which is obscured by a white curtain. It doesn’t even look like a dumbwaiter; it’s just four lines, all square and snug inside a wall. Next to it is a smart panel. He scurries toward it, fingers tapping before he even knows it.
Fortunately, it’s an uncomplicated but still sophisticated mechanism. The dumbwaiter only stores hardcopies, but Anna Maria says the dumbwaiter reads each file and stores a softcopy of each file that it stores.
Peter slides his fingers until he finds the right file. His eyes catch one of the file names: projgtwy.YAML. This is it.
This is what Anna Maria named the blueprint. Project Gateway. Just as he presses click, his spidey sense starts going haywire. Before the elevator door could even open, he’s already perched on the ceiling. He keeps his breathing quiet and even and watches as an employee sashays her way inside, humming nonsensically.
Peter can hear the faint music playing from her headphones. She passes the dumbwaiter over and Peter is just about to breathe a sigh of relief when she suddenly stops and turns, looking as if she’s forgetting something.
She pats her pockets and hums as she takes out a surgical mask. She doesn’t wear it, just slides it over her wrist. She starts walking away again. Peter lets out a sigh this time, which proves to be premature as the panel lets out a soft beep, indicating that the file has been found. The dumbwaiter door latches open with a soft hiss, and he could see a blue-on-white poking out from inside.
The employee stops again, head making a sudden jerk towards the direction of the noise. Peter is mouthing, “No, no, no!” to himself.She retraces her steps and pauses in front of the dumbwaiter, baffled as she mutters to herself, “The hell…?”
She prods around the panel and looks around the area as if looking for the culprit. Peter shoots a web to nick the blueprint as the door closes shut. The employee starts walking away again, looking back again suspiciously for one last time. As her footsteps grow farther and farther, Peter drops down gingerly on the floor, tapping the screen. It lights up. He takes out the keycard again, flipping it over and sliding the port out. He sticks it to one of the outlets, tapping his foot restlessly as the goober works its magic.
It is not just a universal bypass key that can grant him access pretty much anywhere because on the flip side, it has a retractable USB port that can serve him many purposes such as storing data, restoring lost or deleted data, and now, most importantly, corrupting data.The screen turns grey and a window pops out with a red error symbol. Peter grins. He pats the blueprint, still safely tucked inside his coat, and heads for the elevator. When the doors open, he walks away, feeling a little bold, a little reckless.
Maybe Wade was right. Heists are fun.“See you later, Arun!” he chirps as he heads for the doors.“Take care, Mr. Parker!” he replies politely but then does a double take. “Hey, wait a second, please.”Shit.“Do you mind if I check–?” he gestures at Peter’s ID.“Yeah, no sure, go ahead, man.”“I’m sorry, Mr. Parker. They requiring us to check clearance now because of the incident–”“What incident?” Peter asks innocently, following Arun to his desk. He eyes a distressed-looking intern carrying two coffee carriers, then to the man in a three-piece suit tapping impatiently on his phone beside him. Both are waiting for the elevator.
Jackpot.“Um, it is secret, sorry,” he answers sheepishly before turning his attention to the monitor.
Peter takes a quick look at the cameras and flips the switch on his web-shooter. A near-invisible, transparent string of web ricochets out from a wall to the side of the security camera, turning it ever so slightly.Then, without looking, he webs one of the coffee carriers the intern is holding and tips it to the side. Hot coffee spills on the other man’s expensive-looking leather shoes. The man curses loudly, while the intern apologizes profusely, looking close to crying.
Three-piece suit gets louder and louder and resorts to pushing the poor intern onto the floor. While Arun defuses the situation, Peter quickly swipes Anna-Maria’s clearance on the computer inside and breathes a sigh of relief when it passes through. When Arun comes back, he squints at the screen before flashing Peter a smile and tells him to get on his way.Peter smiles back and waits until he’s out of the building to click his heels in triumph.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Peter calls for an emergency meeting at Wade’s apartment, where they reconvene. Anna Maria had been staying there for a couple of nights now, in order to shake Octavius and her legion of assassins off her back. It’s only a temporary solution, just until the whole Octavius-potentially-inventing-something-that-could-have-unimaginable-repercussions-on-mankind blows over, and if he deemed the streets seem safe enough for Anna Maria. (Well, safer than the usual.) Peter, on the other hand, has to also shake off Wade’s whining and yapping all night long, which understandable, he has always dreamt of doing a heist for as long as Peter had known him. To find out that he had already swiped the blueprint before they could even plan it—Peter would be upset, too.
“This is unforgivable. You broke my heart, Fredo.”“Enough, Wade.”“I’ve never felt so betrayed! Which is ironic because I once committed treason. Okay, three times in a row. This was in the strange, wonderful land of Grenada.”“What about the time I beat you at My Little Pony: A Maretime Adventure?” He says, grinning."You did? When?" He could see the gears turning inside Wade’s head, brows scrunched up in confusion even with his mask on, “Wait. We played video games? Like together 1v1? With clothes on?”Right. Peter played video games with Wade, not Spider-Man. The grin drops from his face.
Peter sighs, “Wade, I wasn’t wearing my mask.
I was… in my civilian clothes. When I was heisting,” he does air quotations, “so I couldn’t… you know.”“Oh,” Wade looks away. “Right.”This is so not fair. Wade has no right to look that dejected when he already told him! He already knows! For four years! They’ve already been through this! It’s not Peter’s fault that Multiversal Hijinks ruined all their progress.
God damn it. Should he just tell him? Peter thinks that the timing is weird now, and would invite more questions rather than answers. Like why now? After all this time? And what is he supposed to answer to that?
Hi, Wade. My real name is Peter Parker. Yup. Your man-crush and idol Spider-Man is a lame nerd in real life. Sorry about that. Why am I revealing it now? Oh, actually, you already knew about it but a mystical wizard from another universe erased the memory of Peter Parker in all universe. Oh, did I forget to tell you that I travelled in the multiverse? Sorry again.
Fuuuuuck his life. Frustrated, he blows a harsh exhale. He remembers those months. They had known each other for a while now. Past him would reluctantly even call them friends. Past him would also keep Wade at an arm’s length, keeping the distance between at a wide berth. It’s strange, almost funny even. He had never let himself be close again, avoided it even, to someone like that since…Since Gwen. Since Matt. Felicia, almost.But with Wade, it was terrifyingly easy. He spent way too long of the time just finding reasons why he should hate the man. He’s a killer for hire, and he loves it. His morals are as loose as the screws in his head. He’s dangerous. He’s unpredictable. There’s no telling what he’ll do or say next. He builds upon his list of data about Wade Wilson, he didn’t realize he had begun adding ‘surprisingly insightful,’ ‘good with kids,’ and ‘utterly misunderstood’ in the myriad of bad connotations about the mercenary.
Leave it to Peter’s savior complex to find the man deserving of redemption in the bundle of chaos that is frickin’ Deadpool.
Who was he to talk to, anyway? He almost went down Wade’s path once.
The thing with the superhero business is that nobody ever tells you that it’s a lifetime thing. You wear that suit, you’re going to be wearing it until every facet of your life dies, and dies, and dies again. Nothing left, besides The Amazing Spider-Man. The Friendly Neighbourhood Hero. There’s no going out. It’s like making a deal with the devil, except you got diddly squat. It’s soul-crushing, utterly rewardless but it’s his responsibility.
He found that it gets a little easier with Wade around, though. You would think having the scary, mercenary Deadpool would be the worst partner in the superhero gig but he’s invaluable, once you get over the incessant flirting and word vomit.Thou shalt not kill. As a kid, it was one of the first things he learned in the temple. It demanded no explanation, no supplemental discussion. Peter knows this by heart. Even more so when he finally understood the temptation it holds, after Gwen had died and the world around him had dimmed.
Peter didn’t set out to get bitten by that spider. He didn’t have “crime-fighting vigilante” in his list of potential career and future lines of work. He didn’t choose to be Spider-Man, but Wade chose to don that suit and be Deadpool. And he should resent him for that. He had consciously chosen to be a mercenary, to kill people for money, to be compensated for basically assassination attempts. The worst part is he took pride in it.
He looks away guiltily from Wade. Then, he realizes that if Wade doesn’t remember him, much less his name, that means he also forgot everything else. The dead (and previously) girlfriends talk, the childhood talks, the sexuality talks, the mundane talks. The songs they jammed to, the late-night binge-watches, all the Mexican food, and the pizzas they gorge themselves on.
Gone. Erased. Meticulously plucked apart by some wild, occult force. Every part of his life that has a remnant of Peter scrubbed clean. They lost an entire year.
Well, Wade lost an entire year. Peter remembers everything. As far as Wade is concerned, Peter doesn’t even exist.Peter looks at Wade, mask scrunched up with concentration as he inspects the blueprint. He’s always so expressive. He remembers the moments when Wade would feel secure enough to lift a mask to show a part of his face, few and far between. His strong jaw, and scarred but full lips. That’s all Peter has, barely a handful of snapshots of the man underneath, blurry scarred skin in his mind’s eyepiece, hungrily devoured still. He might never see him again.
Peter feels it again; that treacherous thumping of his tender, fallible heart.He shakes his head. I am not thinking about this. I am not thinking about this. I am not thinking about this.
“Yoohoo, Webs?” Wade waves a gloved hand in front of him. “Is anyone up there?”“Yeah, sorry,” he mutters, looking around the room, “Where’s Anna Maria?”“Took a shower. Lookie here,” Wade points at the bottom of the print, where there are measurements and formulas written with faded graphite.Peter tries to decipher them, “Looks like estimates for a… bigger version of this machine? That doesn’t make any sense.”“What did I miss?” Anna Maria says, hair wet and wearing only a Deadpool t-shirt that looks like a dress on her. She’s also wearing Wade’s unicorn slippers, which amuses Peter.“Webs here snagged the blueprint. And it has scribbles.” Wade throws the roll of vellum at the scientist, who fumbles with it for a while before rolling it and inspecting the scribbles. She squints, puzzled.
“I didn’t write these.”“I figured,” Peter sighs, “They probably have a copy somewhere and they’re planning something big and ambitious. Not to mention, classified. Most likely unethical. ”“You really think so, Spider-Man?”“Call me Spidey,” they share a smile, “And yeah, it makes sense, doesn’t it? The secret lab, the attempt on your life. You stole millions, probably a billion worth of equipment but they’re not blasting it off in the news? They’re keeping it under wraps, and that is a major red flag.”“But those are the best kind of flags!” Wade cries. Peter, as usual, ignores him.The scientist sighs, rubbing her temple, “So, what do we do?”“Me and Wade are gonna figure it out. In the meantime, you just… yeah, just stay here and stuff.” he finishes lamely, then looks helplessly at Wade.“Oh, yeah! Mi casa is your casa. I have everything! PS5, Xbox, Wii, Switch, Atari, an exhaustive collection of all the Voltron episodes, not the Netflix version, that was dogshit—““True.”“—Speaking of Netflix, I don’t have Netflix anymore since they cancelled Anne with an E. But I have Max, Hulu, Disney+—oooh, meta—Prime Video, Peacock, what is Peacock? I have had the subscription since two years ago, still not sure what shows it has on. Is it just… peacocks?”Anna Maria tries to keep up with the mercenary’s onslaught of information. “Deadpool, I don’t want to watch TV shows—““Okay, well I have Spotify and Apple Music.
I still have a Zune… somewhere. Ooh, I haven’t listened to Taylor Swift’s third new album this year. Should we have a listening party or something? Are you a Swiftie, Anna Maria? Duh. Who isn’t? Are you hungry? If you get hungry,
I’ll get you groceries. Do you like pancakes? I can pre-make pancakes. Should last you a month. I also got porn—““The point is!” Peter interjects, “You have to lay low. We don’t know what Octavius has in store. Take advantage of Wade’s fully-stocked apartment.”“Just don’t go to my office.”
They all look at the door to Wade’s office, ominously lit in the corner of the room. He and Anna Maria share a concerned look.
“This is not a negotiation, isn’t it?”Peter and Wade give her twin headshakes. She stares at the two of them, and blows an impatient breath, “Fine. But I hate not being able to help.”He sighs in relief as Wade snorts, "Webs' mantra in life."Peter pinches his arm. He gets a giggly "ow" in return.
He turns to Wade, pulling him aside, ignoring the warm, hard ridges of his muscles under his palm. Satisfied with the distance between them and the scientist, he asks, “Did you find anything on this Claw Guy?”“It’s Prowler. Respect the superhero name, Webhead.”“Whatever, Captain Deadpool.”He gasps, “Rude, Spider-boy!”“I still think Claw Guy is better,” he pauses, “We’re getting off-topic again.”“Right. Turns out, I know the guy! His name’s Aaron Davis. One of the best in Sister Margaret’s. Best thief and con artist, that is. I didn’t know he did some killing on the side. Although, he did tell me something about a sexy proposition. But I thought that was just some fancy sucky-sucks. I wasn’t about to judge him for that. Love sex workers. Was engaged to one, actually.”“Oh. I didn’t know Vanessa was…”“Yeah, it’s how we met,” he says ruefully. His head tilts, voice surprised as he says, “How did you know her name's Vanessa? I never told you.”Shit. “You must have. You mentioned her a few times.”“Did I?” Wade says to himself as Peter’s heart lodges itself in his throat. His voice sounds far away already, which is usually not a good sign. Wade has these moments where his mental health would take a dip, even mid-conversation.
“I could have said it to him at some point,” He pauses,
“Well, I’m sorry that my memory is so bad due to raw-dogging my mental illnesses and never taking any medications or getting therapy for years!” Another pause. “It’s not my fault my writers are fucking idiots who can’t write for shit! They can’t even get my sexuality right.” A shorter pause, “ Yeah, I probably told him.”There is a quip about shutting White and Yellow up on the tip of Peter’s tongue but he bites it off. Spider-Man doesn’t know shit about Wade’s boxes, Peter does. Spider-Man’s knowledge about Wade’s mental health only covers what he’s read on the mercenary's dossier, which says, in all its explicit glory, that he’s deranged, temperamental, and all the other synonyms that they stick to a mentally ill, enhanced being. A liability, that’s what they all call him. Not once did he hear anything about providing Wade with the help he needed.
Peter, though? Peter knows better.He knows Wade’s Bad Days and Good Days. He knows how manic he can get. How depressed he could be. He knows about the voices; the boxes, he’d dubbed them. He hid for a while; and went on months without showing his face to Peter, only popping up when he’s “back to normal.” Peter tried to hate him for it if only it weren’t something he would do himself. That’s another revelation to him—how similar they are.
He clears his throat, “Is Davis still hanging around the bar?”“Sometimes,” Wade pauses, then his mouth stretches to a grin under his mask, “Why? You wanna bad cop, bad cop him?”
“You mean bad cop, good cop.”“There are no good cops, Spidey-boo.”“Deep. Anyways, not so much interrogate him, more like… ask him nicely?”“You’re a dirty liar, baby boy, that’s why I love you,” he drapes an arm on Peter’s shoulder, jostling his entire body and heart, “Let’s fucking go.”
Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Children has stopped being a school for about two decades now. When the owner demolished the boarding house, he kept one of the buildings and turned it into a bar. The rest of the lot was sold for commercial purposes, but a remnant of the old school remained still. Due to the school’s less-than-favorable reputation for holding delinquent children, the neighborhood it grew into naturally became less than wholesome. Not long after, it attracted equally unwholesome individuals like honey to a bunch of particularly homicidal flies.Now, Sister Margaret’s serves as a bar/dispatch center for mercenaries, assassins, and their ilk.
Peter has only been here once before, as Spider-Man, and it had been an…. interesting experience. What was supposed to be an evening of “experiment” (how Wade roped him into testing their respective healing factors when it comes to alcohol, he’ll never know) turned into a bar rumble and Deadpool almost winning the dead pool.It’s one of his fondest memories he has with the mercenary, surprisingly.“Weasel!” Wade yells as he bursts through the door, with Peter trailing behind him. “Two Cum Shots, please!”
Peter and Weasel sigh in unison. The patrons give them grunts or cursory glances of acknowledgement, or just flat-out ignore them. Some of their eyes linger on Peter, out of place with his too-bright suit and his distinct lack of guns.
He gives them the finger guns before hopping on the barstools, facing Weasel who looks characteristically frazzled as always. His dirty blond hair, usually tied in a low ponytail, is sticking sweatily to his neck. There’s a smudge of a suspicious white powder on his forehead.
“Sorry, Weasel,” Peter says in lieu of a greeting.“Did I or did I explicitly and expletively say to never return from this bar, for possibly ever?”“You expect me to remember shit from this fuckass noggin?” Wade taps his head with his knuckles, then cackles.
“I keep forgetting that besides an impressive healing factor and male g-spot cancer, your superhero power is shitty fucking memory.”“Don’t forget the fugly mug.”“Trust me, your inside-out asshole face has been the number one starring role of my nightmares.”“Chika-chika-ow.” Wade chirps, jumping over the bar and raiding the stash of alcohol behind Weasel. The latter just makes an aborted motion, as if to stop him, but he lets out another sigh and faces Peter, with a look that says, what can you do?
Weasel always made jokes like that. About Wade’s looks. Peter understands that it’s their love language or whatever, but there’s still a flare of indignant anger and overprotectiveness that envelops him, makes his insides shake, burns him inside out when it comes to Wade and anyone who dares to denigrate him.
It terrifies him to no end; the intensity, the sheer fucking magnitude of the feeling. It makes him want to swing far, far away from the merc or do something even stupider, like web Wade over, put him somewhere safe, and trap him there forever so nobody, not even him, could hurt him.
“So, what can I do for you, fellas?”
“We’re here on business,” Peter answers, squinting his eyes in what he hopes is in a discreet manner.
“Shit, really?” Weasel’s thin eyebrows shoot up in surprise, adjusting his glasses in increasing delight as he turns to Wade, “Wade, you did it, you son of a bitch. You’ve annoyed Spider-fucking-Man to death, he’s now turning to a life of crime.”Wade snorts, muttering something that sounds like ha, yeah, that’ll be the day.Peter rolls his eyes, “I am not here to join the dark side.”“Oh. Then, what do you need? Money? Weapons? Information?” he pauses, squinting his eyes charily at Peter, “I will not snitch on my people.”“You sold me out to Cable, you fucknut.”“You didn’t let me finish. I will not snitch on my people for an unreasonable amount. I want a hundred thousand dollars.”“Has Aaron Davis been here?”
“Davis? Not for a while. He said he was on a job. Real lucrative and shit. A fuckin’ limo picked him up.”“Limos are so overrated. Taxis are where it’s at.”“No, that’s lame.”“I’m telling you. Taxis are everywhere, and therefore inconspicuous. No cop is allowed to pull you over if you have a fuckin’ artillery or a body in there—”“That is so not true,” Peter interjects.“—whereas a limousine screams Don Corleone railed me here.”
“Unnecessarily sexual but otherwise, accurate. Also not relevant right now,” he turns to Weasel, “Do you know where they went?”“I make it a personal rule of mine to not get involved with others’ shady shit. Except, of course, with this asshole over here,” he points to Deadpool, who has seemingly found what he’s looking for with a bag of crystalline substance, also highly suspicious, “But I heard him talking about how Eddie’s has the best ice cream ever. I don’t know who the fuck Eddie is—”“Eddie’s…” his voice trails off, “Eddie’s Sweet Shop, maybe? Like the one from Queens?”“Huh. Shit. Yeah. That makes more sense.”“I like Morgenstern’s better.” Wade pipes up.“They’re good but Eddie’s has that humble, nostalgic feel to it. I like the fact that they still have original flavors.”“That’s because you are a basic-ass bitch, baby boy.”“Oh, I’m basic for thinking spicy chocolate is an insane flavor profile?”“You eat moldy pizza. Not just any moldy pizza. Moldy anchovy pizza.”
“First of all, you like Hawaiian, so you don’t get to judge me. Second of all, that was one time! And it doesn’t prove anything other than the fact that I was broke.” Peter crosses his arms.“FYI, or as they say in Español,” Wade says, in Peter’s opinion, with too much mustard, “Quiero tener sexo contigo. In
Ingles, you like Hawaiian too, you dirty little hypocrite. Además, you’re always broke. I have offered repeatedly to be your benefactor—”“Benefactor is just a creepy way to say sugar daddy, and I’m not gonna fall for it, Wade. And por cierto, I took Spanish in high school, you idiot. I know exactly what you just said right now.”
“Touché, touché. Now that’s French.”Weasel looks at the two of them, “Spider-Man is broke?”“Uhhhhh,” Peter says. “Interesting question. Anyways, did he mention anything about a hideout in Queens? Like an apartment or a secret evil lair or something?”“Why don’t you get Wade here to track him down? Professional stalking is part of his job description.” Weasel answers, now preoccupied with tending to a customer. “Wait, why are you guys even here? All Pool needs is a name to track a hit’s address, phone number, shoe size, dick size, credit score, and whatever the fuck else.”
The hero blinks. He wonders why it took him so long to just simply sic Deadpool on the guy. (Non-lethally, of course.)
He looks at Wade, now sitting on the bar counter, devil-may-care. Wade just looks back at him.
“Well?”
“Well what, sweetums?”“Well, why are we wasting time here instead of kicking down Aaron Davis’ door?”
He faux-gasps, the white covering of his eyes widening comically,
“Are you asking me to break my oath?”“That’s not a thing.”
“You didn’t take an oath.”He ignores them, “You, the Spider of Men, bound by a hero’s code, would have me violate the precious Mercenary’s Oath—”“Spider of Men?”“Franchise name. Calling it. Anyhoo, no can do, baby boy. Can’t snitch on a fellow merc like that. You’d have to hire me. And my fee is humongous. Like my co—”“Right. Thanks.” Peter says wryly.
“Honestly, you have yourself to blame, Webs. Six years ago, I would have had no qualms shooting the guy, much less tracking him. But noooope, you had to improve my soul and make me a better person. Truth be told, this is all your fault.”“Yeah, yeah,” Peter mutters, resolutely ignoring how warmer his face feels beneath the mask.
He’ll never get used to it; how Wade seemed to solely credit him for the reformation of his soul. He doesn’t ever want to. He doesn’t think he deserves even an ounce of acclaim. It wasn’t Peter who sought out first, during one particularly lonely night in his particularly lonely life, and started rambling about the colorful ways he tried to kill himself. Jumping on a polar bear enclosure, downing a bottle of Drano, jumping from a 20-story building, none of them fuckin’ worked though, not until he bought a fuckton of C4 that would make The Punisher hard as a rock and vats and vats of LPGs. Whoever that is.(It worked. For barely even a minute. Deadpool said he remembers the world lighting up like it was the Fourth of July and he was the largest firecracker around. He told him that his snapped-off arm smelled like the Christmas ham someone named Al usually bought. Peter viscerally remembered feeling like vomiting the tacos Wade brought for him inside his mask.)It wasn’t Peter who got quiet, too quiet all of a sudden, then turned to him, his mask skin-tight and refusing to hide any imprint. Peter remembers the way his eyes lowered, his mouth set in an unhappy frown, and his posture slackened. The first sign of any emotion other than vim and vigor he’s seen from him. He remembers the way his voice had sounded—after a long stretch of silence that’s usually filled by Deadpool’s noise and being—impossibly soft and vacuumed out of any life. He told Peter that he knows that something is wrong with him, way before everybody else started noticing it. He knows that the world would be an infinitely better place without him being in it. He knows that, Jesus, Spider-Man, how could I not know that? But tell me, and be honest now, how do you even begin to fix this? How do you unfuck this all up? Is that even possible?It wasn’t Peter who chuckled self-deprecatingly, apologizing for popping up everywhere, annoying him to the ends of the earth. Who confessed that he thought if they palled around a bit, if he hung around long enough, he could do a poor imitation of what it’s like to be good. Then maybe at some point, it won’t feel like an imitation anymore. That despite the parts of him that had healed wrong, that had never quite recovered from that goddamn torture table, there’s still just a little flicker of chance, just a little fucking splotch of good underneath the bad and the ugly and the unforgivable, and I know that being a superhero, being good, the kind of good you just are, it’s something that can’t be taught. I have to earn it. Maybe your respect, too.
It wasn’t Peter who had the guts to seek help that he needed. Maybe he’d been asking for it for a very long time.It’s funny. At that moment, Wade surprised him with his self-awareness, his honesty, and his desire to get better. Peter didn’t know it then, but that was when Wade has earned his respect.He looks at Wade now, who’s just stuck his gloved index finger on one of the shots before putting them on a tray that the server is holding, pointing at a random patron. He also gives her a 100-dollar bill as a tip. Wade was always generous, even if the work he’s doing pays less since he’s not taking any hit jobs right now.
They will never come to an agreement, when it comes to killing. It took Peter a long time to accept that. For now, they have a mutual understanding that if Deadpool ever takes a life again, he is as good as dead to Peter. He can maim and injure, but killing is off-limits. The compromise is unsatisfying to both of them, which is exactly why it works.“C’mon, Pool. We have a Claw Guy to interrogate.”“Ooh, so we’re not ‘asking nicely’ anymore?”“Well… depends on whether he’s gonna cooperate or not. If we do find him.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“For the last time, sir, you cannot have all the flavors in one single cone. If you want to try all the flavors, I can put it for you in a pint for 8 dollars.”“With all due respect, Jarf–”“It’s Jeff.”Peter tries to massage his temples to tamp down an incoming migraine, but to no avail.“With all due respect, Jenk,” Wade plants both hands on the counter, leaning forward. His squints his eyes in an attempt to intimidate Ice Cream Jeff. Ice Cream Jeff just blinks at him, looking as blithe as he was before. “If Morgenstern’s can stack 20 scoops in a single cone, then surely you can do it too?”“Sir, if you want 20 scoops of ice cream in a single cone, then go to Morgenstern’s.”“I don’t need the attitude, Jan.”“Wade, either order something or leave the guy alone,” Peter says, gently pushing him away. Wade immediately sticks his masked face to the glass separating him from the ice cream containers, whining longingly.He turns to Ice Cream Jeff, “Sorry about my partner. We’re just here to ask some questions, if you don’t mind?”Ice Cream Jeff relaxes. “Yeah, sure. Anything for you, Spider-Man.”“Great, thanks—““Can I ask something, though? Out of curiosity?”“Um,” In a true Peter Parker fashion, he scratches his head, fingernails digging through the mask and jumble of hair underneath to get to his scalp, “Go ahead.”He gives Deadpool one last stink-eye before turning to Peter, “Why are you stringing Deadpool along with you? You do… know who he is, right?”Just like that, he feels his hackles rise. Once upon a time, he shared that same sentiment. Who wouldn’t? The man was and still is notorious. His moniker had always been a hot topic in news, social media, podcasts, Reddit threads, in whatever medium news spreads nowadays. His secret identity is practically non-existent. One would think that would make the masked mercenary less intriguing but no, as it turns out that Wade Winston Wilson is every bit as fascinating as his masked self. He spoke several languages, knew how to handle every bit of firearm there is, and is the only one to rival Spider-Man when it comes to witty yapping. Joined the Canadian Army at 17 by lying about his age, did exceptionally well that he climbed the ranks up to Special Forces, dishonorably discharged for not following orders, took some odd jobs and finally, landed as a gun-for-hire. Went all around the world and brought home a plethora of stories and experience. Then, Weapon X happened.
Since its genesis and consequent termination (by Deadpool), not much is known about the program. Even the Fantastic Four could barely scratch the surface. Its affiliates covered their tracks well, and it didn’t help that Deadpool burned most of what’s left. Wade didn’t like talking about one of the darkest chapters of his life; out of shame, more than anything. He did tell Peter about what the pain was like. How his skin tear itself open to give way to awful blisters and ghastly pockmarks. How every scar feels fresh and tender, and just as painful as the first time they appeared.
When he first met Deadpool, he had the same reservations as everyone else’s. He had been all too enthused forming hasty impressions, certain that he’s just one of those baddie of the week he had to deal with for a few weeks, a month tops.
Then, he reluctantly starts to get to know the man and learned that Wade’s life have been marked by epochs of despair and tragedy, stretching even as far as childhood. Although his skewed sense of morality and the voices in his head tells him that there’s not a shred of good in him, Peter knows that there’s a being there that is struggling to change for the better. And he has proven again and again that he’s changing. That he’s capable for change. That he has changed. Fuck everyone else who couldn’t see that.
He grits his teeth, hoping he sounds courteous when he says,
“I appreciate your concern but Deadpool is fine. He’s harmless—”“Didn’t he kill a bunch’a guys in a highway like 7 years ago?”God, is this what he sounds like to others? He makes a point to send Sue her favorite cheesecake from that diner in Glenville. Once they get back from God-knows-where.
“—nowadays. He’s harmless nowadays,” he sighs, “I know he hasn’t been exactly… the best guy around in the past but I can assure you he’s changed. And Deadpool is my friend. I’m not just stringing him along with me. We’re partners.”Ice Cream Jeff nods. It’s unclear whether he believes him or not. “Well, I trust your judgement, Spider-Man. You’ve saved my sister’s life. We owe you a lot.”And just like that, Peter feels five years lighter. Sometimes, it doesn’t feel real—the fact that he does make a difference in this city. It’s been ten years since he donned the mask and he still can’t wrap his head around it, still gets all-too-defensive whenever someone would brand him a hero.Looking at it now, he should have been grateful for J.J. Jameson’s monthly tabloids of tirades about “Amazing Spider-Man? More Like Appalling Spider-Man!” Although one of Daily Bugle’s main objective is to pelt fallacious slight against his character, and instigating a mindless pursuit in painting the image of Spider-Man as one one of the villains he risks life and limb to defeat, they do provide a reality check for Spider-Man once in a while. Even a broken clock is right twice a day. The consistent criticism have kept his feet planted firmly on the ground.
Metaphorically speaking, of course. He’s usually… swinging around. Heh.
Focus, Parker.
“Thanks. Right, back to business. Have you seen this guy around, Jeff?” Peter is still smiling behind the mask when he shows him the picture of Davis that Weasel lent him, or so Wade say. (He caught him plucking the photo from Weasel’s cupboard, like it had been his all along.)Ice Cream Jeff fixes his glasses, eyes filling with recognition, “Oh, yeah. I think his name’s Aaron.”“You know him? He’s from around here then?”“Honestly, no idea,” He says, voice swathed through the clink and clamor of scooping utensils, “But he’s kind of a regular. Says his nephew likes ice cream a lot and that he got it from him.”Peter glance furtively at Wade, who still has his faced pressed up on the glass. He could only hope he didn’t hear the last bit. The mercenary means well and he does have untenable moral standards. Meaning he has an absolute tunnel vision on people who are “good” and “bad.” No one is redeemable, not even him. His motivation for being good is purely for Peter’s approval, that much he can’t deny. Some parts of him might genuinely want to change for good, but he’s firm on his belief that bad guys, including Wade himself, deserve to die. Aaron Davis fits his criteria. That means Deadpool is not above involving anyone he deemed necessary to get to the target. And though Wade hasn’t killed anyone in a while, Peter would rather not risk it.“Did he say anything else?”“He did say something about getting a cut from Jay’s. Does that-does that help?”It does not, but he puts on his best cheery voice, “It does. Thanks, Jeff.”Ice Cream Jeff beams. Peter quirks his head at him then strides up to where Wade is, who straightens up when he sees him, “Well, that was a bust.”
He acquaints him with the intel, meager as they may be. When he finishes, he makes a move for the door but Wade remains by the fridge containing tubs of ice cream, desperation etched on his masked face. Peter rolls his eyes, then goes back to the counter.
“Can you give him whatever he wants?” He asks politely, pulling down a couple of bills from his tattered wallet. He’s a little short right now (and in the foreseeable future, if we’re being honest) but Aunt May always told him to not skimp on food.
Ice Cream Jeff tries to keep up with Wade’s torrential order and afterwards, looks expectantly at him. Peter just shakes his head. “None for me.”“You sure, Spidey? Superhero discount.”Well, how could he say no to that?Two days of hanging around near Eddies’s (two scoops of cherry vanilla for Peter and for Wade, it’s always an unholy combination of flavors every time. Once, he put tutti frutti, mint chip, and banana walnut altogether. He paid this time), there’s still no sign of Aaron Davis anywhere.
Peter looks at the picture again. Poorly-groomed scruff, short coils, buff even while wearing an oversized shirt. He doesn’t necessarily look like your average Joe Evil. Peter anxiously bites his cone as he looks down at the ice cream shop again.
They’re sitting atop a building adjacent to Eddie’s, with a view overlooking the two streets Davis could arrive from, surveilling since four in the afternoon. It is now almost six o'clock. They still stop robberies and rescue kitties, but they’re pretty limited to this block. He gorges on the cone and swallows, then slowly lies on the unforgivingly solid, concrete floor. The sun still feels warm on his face and a muted reddish amber when he closes his eyes.
It feels strange. Being back to his New York. Somehow, he still remembers the sunset in that other universe. Golden and grounding, like this one then it starts crackling and darkening in his very eyes. Violet strips of energy like paint streaks across the skies, filling the air with an otherworldly waft. Toxic green eyes, crazed. Two arms enveloping his. A web forming a hand as it reaches.
A hand gently places itself on his thigh. He jolts slightly. Peter could count on one hand the amount of people that could still surprise him like this. Any other people—be it strangers, enemies, allies, the people he’s saved—he could sense them coming even from miles away. There was always the tell-tale ringing in his head whenever someone would come close. But people like Aunt May, his blood and his only family, whom he loves more than himself,
he’s comfortable enough to let his guard down. To turn off his Spidey sense, as Peter-One would call it.It took Wade eight months to creep into his tightly wound web of walls, slowly hacking away at every bit of fiber and fear, and seep into his skin as if he always belonged there. Peter still doesn’t know how he did it. One day, he just realized that shit, Wade Wilson is kind of my best friend right now. Possibly ever.
“Look alive, Webs,” Wade says, chomping a big chunk from his ice cream. Yes, he does eat it that way. Says he has no time to give head to dessert. His words.
“How do you not have a brain freeze right now?” Peter says, amazed.
“Oh, I have. I just like the feeling.”
“You are a strange, strange man, Wade Wilson.”
“Aww, shucks,” Wade licks melted ice cream from his forearm, over the leather. His mask is pulled all the way from his chin to the skin between his nose and mouth. There is a heart-shaped scar near his chin, close to his jaw. “So, what are we doing here, and not out patrolling? Don’t get me wrong, I like a bit of a mini vacay once in awhile but I gotta warn you, Spides, I can get preeeetty annoying if I haven’t seen any action.”“You mean this isn’t even your final form?”“Newp.”“That’s concerning,” he pauses to nibble at the cone, “We’re here to see if Davis gets a craving and makes an appearance.”“Hold the phone,” Wade pipes up, handing him an honest-to-God retro-style, landline phone, with the cord and all—fuschia pink, littered with cartoon stickers.
“I… I don’t know how to respond to this.”“Aren’t you BFFs with the Fucktastic Four?”“The Fantastic Four, yes.”“No, no. I’m pretty sure they’re called Fucktastic Four. You know, the hot invisible lady, the even hotter, Dollar Store version of Hellboy who somehow looks like all the colors of the Starburst combined, the human personification of a slime tutorial and,” he scrunches his face and groans in disgust, “Human Torch. The worst superhero name in the biz. Not to mention, totally unreliable power. Fire. Anyhoo, yeah, them. Why not just ask them where to find Davis? Don’t they have a supercomputer in that HQ of theirs that I definitely did not break into in the chilly eve of ‘15?”“I didn’t know you and Johnny have beef,” Peter smiles, amused.
“He knows what he did.”“There’s a story there. What’d you do?”“Frankly, I’m offended that you’d assume I did something to him rather than he did something to me.”Peter thinks on it. “You know what, you’re right. I’m sorry. Love that guy but it’s because of him, I started developing migraines. You do not want to be his plus-one in a party. Eurgh.”Wade pauses, tearing his gaze away to return to surveilling, “Boy, you two are real close, huh?”Peter hums, taking that into consideration. When he first started autonomously and unofficially working as the fifth Fantastic, him and Johnny had a bit of a friendly, only bordering on petty, rivalry. In terms of age and experience, they were the babies of the team despite both being in their early 20s. It all works out in the end, though. It’s bizzare to say that Johnny Storm is one of his best friends. If only 11-year-old Peter could see him now.
“Yep, and this is why I know for a fact that FF’s overseas for a mission right now,” He hands back the retro phone to Wade, “So we can’t. I most especially can’t.”“Do they or do they not leave someone in charge?”“Not exactly—”“Then what the fuck are we doing here? Let’s go there!” Wade jumps on his feet, vibrating excitedly. “I bet they have one of those AI robot slaves that will make eggs for you and shit. Like in Casper.”“We are not breaking into the Baxter Building.”“Why not?”
“It would be rude. Not to mention, illegal.”“What’s a little B & Es between friends?”“Aren’t you banned?”Wade waves him off. “That was a misunderstanding. I’m pretty sure I have a room somewhere in there.”“I don’t even have a room in there!”“Because unlike them and moi, you’re still clutching to your secret identity, like a tarantula with trust issues,” Wade says, inclining his head sagely.“It was an Araneus Oscorpeus. And I do not have trust issues.”
“Oh, Spidey. My sweet, dumb, booty-popping, web-squirting—““Gross.”“—beautiful, dumb Spidey—““You said ‘dumb’ twice.”“You are the textbook definition of trust issues, baby boy. Most probably stemming from that sweet, sweet trauma of losing the people you love after revealing your ultra-cool superhero side-gig and God knows what else. You can’t even tell me your name—I’m not prying, totally get it, we’re not there yet—because you’re somehow terrified that something bad’s gonna happen once you do. That’s not normal, boo.”“That is…” Peter feels as if he’s stripped down to the bone, which is strange since he’s covered from head to toe. “… insightful.”“Thank you. I audited a Psych class in college.”“You were a highschool dropout.”“So is Mark Zuckerberg. College is a scam. Hey, unrelated question, have you ever seen The Network?”“Normally, I’d argue the merits of higher education but I’m more in debt today than I was yesterday due to student loans.” Peter lets out an exhausted sigh.
“The point is, you’re juggling a lot. Day you lives a different life than night you, Spidey you. You’re probably stressed the fuck out all the time. You’re probably stressed out right now—“Peter shrugs.“—hence, let us break into the Baxter Building while mommy and daddy aren’t home. We can raid the kitchen or try Johnny’s vapes or play with the robots,” Wade gasps suddenly, “They probably have lightsabers. Spidey. Baby boy. They definitely have lightsabers! Who the fuck knows what kind of insane inventions they have in there?! Please, please can we play with the lightsabers?”Peter thinks too long because Wade starts wiggling in anticipation, poking his chest repeatedly. He slaps his hand away. “No.”“Yes.”“No.”“Yes? Yes.”“No, Wade.”“Come on!”"Well...""Fuck yes!""Kidding. Still no, Wade."Wade harrumphs, “Baby boy, you’re tearing us apart. One of these days, you know you’re going to have to quit playing games with my heart.”“Hey, keep BSB away from your *NSYNC-loving mouth.”“You bitches wouldn’t recognize a JT-level of innate charisma and talent if it dickslapped you in the face butseriouslyWebs, has anyone ever told you that you’re a party pooper?”
“Several people have informed me, yes."He just sighs, defeated. He noisily chomps on the rest of his snack, now melted off. There’s a shard of waffle cone on the corner of his mouth.Peter wipes it off with his thumb without thinking, “As much as I would love to try the lightsabers they’ve hidden in there in this scenario you’ve made up, I will not be breaking into the home of this city’s most beloved superheroes. I’d rather not risk Sue getting mad at me. I’m on thin enough ice as it is.”Wade is just staring at him, pink mouth gaping.
“You okay?”Wade doesn’t have time to answer because Peter shushes him, spotting a thatch of black coils rounding the corner. Huh, guess his craving came a little earlier today. “That’s him.”Wade sits upright, back straight and playfulness purged, the whites on his eyes become slits.Aaron Davis enters Eddie’s, prompting them to get into position. Several minutes later, he comes out holding two tubs of ice cream. Peter leaps smoothly from building to building, Wade following close by.“He’s headed to the subway!” he yells to Wade, mid-swing, “Lead him to the nearest alley!”“Wilson that!”Peter rolls his eyes fondly, then gets into position. After a couple of minutes, he hears the tell-tale sound of Wade rambling. He also hears some slight scuffling and a man loudly grumbling.
“—but then, they removed Baja Gordita—long live the Gordita—and like 300 items in the menu. Why did they think they could get away with that? Did they think we’ll never notice? Are they stupid? And yeah, it’s not authentic Mexican food and I will never forgive them for marketing hard-shell tacos AKA barf to you poor, naive Americans since the 50’s–”“Man, Wade, what the hell are you talking about?”“But Taco Bell is an institution of cheap fast food, and I respect it. Not so much anymore since inflation is gently fucking us in the ass with steel wool anal beads. I like bottoming out as much as the next person, but not like this, Aaron. Not like this,” Wade finishes grimly, pauses and says, “I should send that Mark King a strongly-worded letter. Or a bomb. What do you think, Spidey?”Peter grins, before dropping in front of the two men, legs crossed and upside-down. His entire weight is supported by a string of web he’s had secured on the rooftop adjacent. “No bombs, Wade.”The man’s eyes widen, but otherwise he doesn’t seem too rattled. He pulls away from Wade’s grasp, “It’s true, then. You’ve shacked up with… him.”Peter drops on his feet, frowning. Wade cackles, “Is that what everyone’s been saying?”He raises his eyebrows, “So, what? You’re on the side of the good now, Wilson?”“Yorp,” Wade says, popping the p. He rests an arm on Peter’s shoulder, “I’ve eloped with Spider-Man. We’re shacking up. He gives it to me good.”“Shut up, Deadpool,” Despite himself, Peter can feel heat creeping up his neck up to his cheeks. He so does not need those images right now. He turns to the man,
“You Aaron Davis?”“What’s it to you?”He raises both arms in mock-defense, “Hey, chill. I’m not interrogating you. Just asking nicely.”Wade snickers.“You’re a fellow merc, right?”He looks at Peter charily, before nodding.
“You obviously hang around Sister Margaret’s a lot. When you’re not having your Eddie’s craving, maybe?”“Is there a point to this?”“You have any recent job offers?” Peter circles around him.“I have ice-cream in here.”“Is it Octavius Labs? Someone picked you up in a Rolls Royce—is that?” He pauses walking to turn at Wade, “Is that a good car? I don’t—”The merc nods solemnly, “It’s a very sexy car.”“Someone picks you up in a Rolls Royce, offers you a real lucrative job, gives you all the tech you’re ever gonna need, and tells you to go after an innocent scientist trying to do her job. Sound about right?”
Davis just stares at him, back straight and tense. He laughs dryly, “You’re wrong.”“I don’t think s—”“Octavius didn’t give me any tech,” he cuts him off, voice a pitch lower, “I made it myself.”Peter stays silent. There’s a faint buzz in his head, and on instinct, the tips of his fingers press on the spinneret. Davis pushes his sleeves up to his arm, revealing a black, skin-tight suit underneath. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Wade crouch ever-so-slightly, poised to fight. The alley feels darker, more crimped all of a sudden.
“You don’t want to take on the both of us, innuendo intended. It ain’t gonna be fun, Ronnie,” Wade’s tone is jovial but he knows firsthand that this is him gearing up to for a nasty fight.“Relax, Wade. I’m not here for a fight.” Davis drawls, stretching out his long, metallic claws that seem to glint under the flickering streetlights.
Peter can hear them all: the clink of metal against metal, the water dripping from the pipes, Wade’s gloved fingers tapping on the guns strapped on his thigh, always trigger happy. The guns don’t contain bullets, just rubber pellets. Strong enough to maim someone, but never kill. Wade always complains that it’s not the same as shooting people, but he has committed to using them, just like he promised he would. Peter has yet to smell gunpowder from him.“What other services do you offer Octavius, then? Baby killings? Procurement of human meat for consumption? Scalping concert tickets?”“Pulling into the bike lane when there’s traffic.”“Telling a woman that she should smile more.”“Breaking into a top-secret military base in Cancun to use their bathroom.”“Touching the Torah with your bare hands.”“Accidentally forgetting on purpose to disclose that the IEDs you sold are actually command-initiated,” Wade gives Peter a pointed look, “Supporting the Mets.”Peter narrows his eyes, “Low blow.”
“It is what it is, baby boy.”He turns to Davis, “So seriously, what do you do for Octavius, Mr. Prowler sir?”“This.” The mercenary lazily flicks his wrist, sending a sharp, tiny, metal nub careening towards Peter’s direction. He catches it effortlessly. The ringing becomes a faint buzz in the back of his head.
“Really? You think this is gonna do it?”Wade is uncharacteristically quiet, staring at Peter closely.
“A for effort though, dude, I gotta hand it to you—” He pauses, and wonders why his Spidey sense hasn’t stopped going off. He looks at the metal on his hand then at Davis, who’s standing still and serene in front of him.
He whispers, “I think it’s gonna do it.”The nub makes a beeping noise, and he barely hears Wade’s voice, ringing shrilly, “What the hell did you do to him?!” when Peter feels crawling on his hand to his arm to his veins, stinging pain on his cubital fossa. His body goes numb. He’s falling so slowly, and the air around him feels like a sludge he’s wading through. His vision is a watery blur, and pooling in the corner of his eyes is a flash of red, before his head hits the ground.
When Peter wakes, it’s to the muted, slightly high-pitched sound of Mulder and Scully arguing from the other room.
Fuck……. is his first thought.His second is did I not turn the TV off?Then, his third thought is WHY IS EVERYTHING SO LOUD AND WHY DOES THE AIR FEEL HEAVY.He groans, sitting up and trying to make sense of his surroundings. He has never been drunk once in his life, due to his above-average healing factor (nothing like Deadpool’s, of course) which he always thought was a double-edged sword. But now he’s grateful for the other edge of that particular sword. He couldn’t imagine dealing with this for most of his life.
He opens his eyes and promptly feels like he’d been doing somersaults mid-air. He closes his eyes and clutches his aching head, letting out a dry sob. He knows he’s being over-dramatic but ever since the spider bite, he has become more sensitive to pain. It will likely be dissipating in a few hours, but right now, it’s as if his skull has been ripped forcibly apart, and his entire brain is an open wound, pulsating like a heart under a floorboard.
The last thing he remembers is Davis careening a small, metal nub at him, burrowing itself in his veins. He quickly checks both arms, still feeling that staticky numbness. He spots a reddish, purple bruise on the depression above his right elbow. His fingers massage the abused skin but finds no lump beneath it. He furrows his brows. There should have been a remnant of it inside him. All that's left is a small cut in its place, taut and close to healing. He's had bullets in him, but never whatever that was.One thing is for sure though; it was lethal. Enough to take down an enhanced being like him.
Peter’s pathetic noises must have carried because he hears light footsteps pattering and a soft knock on the door. “Um, Spider-Man? You okay in there?”It’s Anna-Maria. How did she get in his apartment? He stands up in panic, and immediately regrets it as a wave of nausea hits him, and his vision clouds. He sways on his feet but briskly shakes it off. He surveys his surroundings, and in another jolt of panic, realizes that he’s not in an apartment. This vanishes when he recognizes that he’s at Wade’s. His room, to be specific.
“Uh, fine!” He says, belatedly. “Be there in a sec.”The pain is but a tender throb in the back of his head, still too intense for his liking, but he’s far too occupied with curiosity to complain about it. He’s only seen Wade’s room in passing, and he’s delightfully surprised by how… clean it is. Cozy, even. There are an array of posters, portraits, pictures, and bizarre knick knacks on the wall. There are vinyl records stacked on the floor, next to his haphazard collection of plushies and weapons. There are also a couple of glass cases for various toys and figurines, some that Peter actually recognizes. There’s also a… blow up doll wearing a badly burned mustard yellow jersey shirt. On its feet, a pair of stilettos were taped. It’s also wearing a curly, blonde wig. Seems like Wade’s using it more as a mannequin than a sex toy, still he feels his cheeks heat behind his mask—wait.His heart drops to his stomach. His mask. His hands fly to his face and feels relieved when the tell-tale honeycomb against spandex. It’s fine. It’s fine. His mask is still intact, although he is notably not wearing his suit. He looks down at the shirt Wade lent him, pinching it at the end so he could clearly see it; a cat shirt, specifically, Wade’s beloved Olivia and Meredith shirt. It’s bigger, more airy on his person, and Peter secretly loves the feeling. This isn’t the first time they shared clothes, and normally it wouldn’t have been a problem if Wade did see his face since he knows who he is. Or used to.
Peter is really starting to hate this. He can feel himself falling to his old bad habits again. Being on his guard ceaselessly, keeping secrets—you know, all that fun secret identity antics.
He picks up a unicorn plushie next to Wade’s pillow, murmuring, “I should just tell him again, right?”The unicorn just hangs its head on the side.
God, his life is just a trainwreck. Then again, when is it not?He has other matters to worry about. Confessions of multiversal magical hijinks can wait.
Peter stretches his limbs. He gently pats Olivia’s head with his index finger before taking the shirt off. His suit is hung neatly on Wade’s dresser, and there’s sticky note on it. A smile is already spreading on his face even before he reads it:
There are a couple of hearts, a small SM+DP on the side. On its back, there's a doodle of little Deadpool with heart eyes smooching little Spider-Man, also with heart eyes. Peter hates that he’s so charmed by it. He stuffs the note on his boxer short’s pocket and gets dressed. He barely puts his suit on before venturing outside, where Anna Maria is sitting on the couch, wearing wooly socks and munching on a stack of pancakes.
“Um, morning?” Peter says, finally zipping his suit on. He looks pointedly at her socks, “It’s like 30 degrees outside.”“I get cold easily,” she says, defensively.
“Right,” he says, amused. “Wade?”He does a quick tour around the apartment and finds no trace of Wade anywhere. When he goes back to the living room, Anna Maria’s eyes are glued to the morning news, mouth full of pancakes and maple syrup, shoulders drawn uneasily.
Peter narrows his eyes, “Anna Maria, where is Deadpool?”She chews noisily, shrugging. He crosses his arms.“Anna Maria.”“Yes, Spider-Man?”“Did he go after the Prowler.”
She swallows a mouthful of pancakes then says, “Yeah, he went after the Prowler.”“That mother… hubbard,” he mutters.“Did you just say… mother hubbard?”He ignores her.“D’you know where he went?”“He very pointedly told me nothing because he knew, and I quote, that you’d swing your pretty, little ass to get to them before he could make any lasting damage to that motherfucker who stole my character design and made it purple. Again, his words, not mine.”“Yeah, yeah. I can almost hear him,” he points vaguely at his ears, head pounding painfully with every passing second. Then, he gets an idea.
Oh, Sue is going to kill him.
He takes a minute to check if his web fluid is enough. He’s barely in the yellow zone. Good to go.
He cracks his neck and makes a running start for the open window, barely hearing Anna Maria’s belated, “Uh, make good choices?!”Time to bring in the heat on the Prowler, preferably before Deadpool can get his hands on him.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Peter Parker's Current Mental Inventory (Quick and Easy Version) ((Recommended only when on a time crunch)):
Still hasn’t found Wade
Still hasn't found tracking device
Arm still feels vaguely numb
Possibly being slowly driven to the brink of insanity, fons et origo:
the ringing from his phone; followed shortly by
the disembodied voice saying, “The person you are trying to reach is unavailable, please try again”
It doesn’t help that he’s been looking for that damned tracking device for a quarter of an hour, wasting precious time he doesn’t have.
“Where are you? Where are you? Where are you?” Peter mutters to himself. He’s currently sitting on his wooden floor, surrounded by the usual pile of (clean, they’re clean!) clothes he’s never bothered to put away stacked on top of his unmade bed, the plank of wood from his dresser he keeps meaning to fix, a lone pair of Dunk SB lows he’s had since he was fifteen, soles worn and laces torn. He smothers the urge to just tear into the cardboard box he has settled on the floor, filled with the random contraptions Mr. Fantastic has lent him over the years. Some of these he helped create but most had solely been his inventions. They worked without fault, more than useful enough during missions but they weren’t consequential enough to clutter the delicately limited workspace of the greatest genius of this generation, Reed Richards. (He didn’t actually say that but Peter is paraphrasing.)It’s a huge boon since Peter get to take a lot of them at home. It had been a pain moving back home and carrying boxes and boxes from his apartment to his old room. Obviously, he never thought of his natural propensity to be disorderly, leaving his crap lying around on any available surfaces of his room. Aunt May raised him better than this. God, his next visit is not going to go well, which reminds him, he’ll need to forward this week’s paycheck to the hospital.
“The person you are trying to reach—” he snatches his phone and almost breaks his already-broken screen pressing Deadpool’s contact. This time he leaves a half-angry, half-resolute voice note, “Deadpool, you better not be doing what I think you’re doing. Call me back.”He doesn’t call again. He also shoots a quick prayer that his note is ominous enough to elicit some kind of reaction. He does find what he’s looking for: a small white and blue box with a long strip of screen, emulating the look and feel of a pager. It tracks anybody wherever they may be by using something simple as a phone number. It’s the first prototype for a tracker which ultimately proved to be obsolete six months later when Reed turned it into an app. Now, a month ago this would all have gone a lot more efficiently had Peter not made a rookie mistake and tucked his phone in his waistband and got slammed on the wall by Scorpion. Now, he had to settle with an old, faulty, would-only-connect-to-the-WiFi-when-it-feels-like-it Sony Xperia he hasn’t used since he was in high school. It's so old that the operating system it uses has been widely outmoded for years now.His phone dings with a text from Wade, to which he immediately responds.
He watches the dots flit on Wade’s chat bubble.
The flippancy is starting to piss him off. He replies just as promptly.
Peter curses to his room, surrounded by a medley of devices he only maybe used once or twice in his entire life. He’s also ignored one of Reed’s cardinal rules which is to never touch something until you’re sure it isn’t an explosive. He’s holding onto the blind hope that the man hadn’t given him one of those that activates by a press of a finger.He inputs Wade’s phone number in the tracker, waiting for it to locate the mercenary. Then, he takes a glance at his floor and winces. He didn’t know it was possible but his room could get even messier.
Whatever. This is a problem for future Peter.
He puts his mask on, stuffs his phone and the tracker on the newly padded inside pocket on his suit (he’s learned his lesson this time) and jumps off his back window. He almost skids to his death just as his feet perches on the rooftop of the building adjacent to his childhood home. He curses silently to himself. He’s never slipped on any surface since he was 17 years-old. Just then, his hipbone vibrates then pings. He takes the tracker out from his pocket, which reads:
145th street… that’s all the way in Harlem. He’s not from Brooklyn, then. It’s quite far… by his swinging standards.
No matter, he’ll get there anyway.
He makes his way to the 104th street station. For a boost of speed, he propels himself upwards, landing at the farthest edge of the platform. He stumbles a little but regains composure, taking off to catch up to the train. When a train car is near enough, he shoots a web on top of it, using his web to pull himself forward, kicking his feet a bit to give himself momentum to land on top. Hot summer wind is blowing against the train’s direction, strong enough that if it were anyone else but him, the wind resistance would knock someone flat on their ass.
Usually, he has no problems sticking firmly on top of the moving carriage but for some reason, he staggers and almost trips. Slowly and surely, he sticks two webs on both sides and lowers himself, tucking his leg under his weight. He could hear the tinny, rumbly voice of the subway announcer listing the rest of the stops. They drone mechanically on until they get to the last stop, which is at the heart of Harlem.
He’s done this a few times; mostly when he’s saving web fluid or when he’s travelling long-distance. There’s something therapeutic watching the city flit over around him like an old-timey film reel. He does have to get up a few times, when the train arrives at a station. He usually hangs back, hiding at the back, hoping no one sees him. Not out of fear of being caught, but the sight of Spider-Man pressed up against the end of a train car is a little… embarrassing, to say the least.
He watches the sun set on the horizon, blanketing the skies with darkness. There’s a persisting feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, but he pays no mind to it. He has faith in Wade. They’re partners. He’s worked with the man for years now. He does fall off the wagon a few times. Yet in the six years he’s known him, he hasn’t done anything that Peter can’t forgive him for.He made a promise. No unaliving, Webs. I pinky-swear. He hasn’t broken it yet. He has to believe that counts for something.
The sun has dipped a bit when he arrives at Harlem. He swings for a bit before reaching the right street. He lands on a particularly lofty building, peeling his senses open for any signs of Wade or Davis. He finds the building rather quickly, where a barber shop resides on the first floor. Yellow lights are on and bossa nova is playing faintly from inside the establishment. A few men are milling around, but the other floors are seemingly empty or unoccupied. Peter holds his breath and waits for a bit, until a flicker of movement catches his eyes. The edge of the curtains from the third floor sways a bit.He swings towards the building, nimbly strides from back to see if there are other openings. On the back is an empty space, probably a smoking era since the smell of cigarettes lingers still. More importantly, there’s a fire exit on the back.
There are two people talking, muffled by the walls but Peter instantly recognizes Wade’s. He’d know that baritone and timbre in whatever universe he may land.“Wade, stop.”The gun pointed at Davis stills. Wade is a fossil suspended in amber, a statue erected on marble. Peter’s fingertips never stop touching the spinneret. Davis is strapped on a chair, stiff and tense. He does not seem fazed that Peter’s here, staring hard at Wade instead of the gun. He’s not wearing his armor; but he has the gloves. Barely armed, and at the mercy of Deadpool and his weapon-clad person. The hitman is also sporting a half-shut eye and split lip. Peter’s head throbs again.
“Baby boy,” Wade says threateningly, eyes never leaving Davis’, “You know I love our will-they-won’t-they, opposites attract dynamic we have going on, but not now. Alright?”“Drop the gun, Wade.” His heart is in his throat. His heart is an exposed nerve ending.
“Yeah, drop it, Wadey,” Davis croons, “That’s a good dog.”“Shut up,” Peter mutters, giving him a dismissive wave before looking squarely at Wade, “Listen to me, Wade. Put the gun down, then we’ll figure it out—”“—Think I’ll stick to the shooting, Webs.”“You don’t want to do this—”“I really, really actually do. Like I’m actually itching to do it. I am physically in pain that with every passing second I haven’t shot this motherfucker—”“He has information. Information that could help us. And we will get that, but not if you kill him.”“Don’t care.”“If you do this, it’s over.” Peter struggles with the finality of the words. He’s not sure if anyone in the room even believes it.A beat passes. “Worth it.”“Really? He’s worth all of this?”“Hell fucking yes.” Wade’s tone is sharp and brittle.
Peter almost shakes with indignance. Fuck. Wade was doing so well. “I can’t believe you. You made a promise. You said as long as you’re here, you won’t be killing anyone. You said you wanted to change.”“Yeah, well. You know what they say about old dogs and tricks. I’m Deadpool and I kill people and I fuckin’ love it. No return policy from that.”“He’s really worth jeopardizing everything you’ve accomplished?” The hero pauses, voice softer when he says the next words, “He’s really worth jeopardizing our partnership? Really, Deadpool?”“Yes, and you want to know why?” Wade straps his gun to his thigh, and pulls one of his katanas from the back, pointing the tip of it at Davis’ neck at a terrifying record speed.
“Enlighten me!”“Because he hurt you, Webs. Because he knew how to. Not many people could do it, but this son of a bitch did. Who the fuck knows what else he’s got in his sleeve? I intend to find out first before I waste this motherfucker.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Davis mutters under his breath, “Is this little telenovela over? Can y’all get the hell out of my apartment?”Wade laughs dryly, “You’re hilarious, Childish Gambino. Now, you’re going to tell me what I want or else you’re not going to like what I say next. Mhm-kay?”Davis only gives him a look that says give me your best shot.
Deadpool drops on one knee and gets uncomfortably close to his face, resting a hand on his thigh. He doesn’t look hurt anywhere in his body save for the busted face. Peter bates his breath. Maybe there’s hope, after all.“See this?” Wade dangles a remote control in front of his face, “Looks familiar? I’m sure you’ve seen it once, twice, eleven-hundred times.”“You got a bomb here in my apartment. So what? You kill me, you kill your beloved Spider-Man.”“Oh no! This little baby’s other half is somewhere in Brooklyn—all twenty pounds of faith, trust, and a little bit of RDX! You know if we close our eyes, wish really, really hard, we might be able to hear it all the way here! Ah, the wonders of C4.”The hitman’s eye twitches and his claws elongate. Peter feels his heart quicken.
Deadpool wolf-whistles, “Oooh. My, my, what big claws you have! Not as erect and long as Wolvie, but as long as it does the job, eh? Big Bad Prowler. Tell me, do you wear the suit at home? Is it like, a Santa situation? ‘Cause I gotta tell ‘ya, buddy, I think little Miles is just a little too old for that.”
It takes a second and a half for the words to find their meaning.
“Wade—” Peter starts but Davis beats him to it. “If you laid one finger on—”“Oh, you don’t have to worry about it. Miles will be just be fine,” he waves a hand off.
The man visibly calms.
Deadpool looks at the remote control again, “For now. In two minutes and 25 seconds from now, start worrying again. Or not. Dealer’s choice. Can’t really tell you what to do.”Davis lets out a guttural yowl and struggles with the hold on his limbs. “I’m going to fucking kill you, motherfucker!”“Get in line, pal!” Deadpool says cheerily, laughing gaily then in a split second, he’s got Davis in a chokehold, the chair almost tipping under the weight of the two of them. His left arm slips from its duct-taped hold and his clawed digits sink on his back, drawing blood. Deadpool barely flinches and he slips a knife so close that the curved blade is kissing the hitman’s eyelid. “You can stab as much as you want. Kill me, if you’re motivated enough. But whatever you do, you’ll never get there in time. You know, I met the rest of the family, too. Rio—whew, that one! She makes great empanadas—and her boring BF Albert, was it? I know f0r a fact you couldn’t give less of a shit for them but your nephew? Sweet, baby Miles? You love that kid.”Peter feels his stomach sink in horrified understanding. Surely, Wade wouldn’t…He lobs a web on Deadpool’s back and yanks him from the man. Davis snarls, “Give me that remote.”“Ah, ah, ah! Say the magic word!”Peter feels his blood pressure spike. He glares at Deadpool and slams him on the wall, “What is wrong with you?!”He ignores him. “You know, I heard little Miles is a prodigy. A genius but with an artistic flair. Takes after you. Tell me how you did that little trick and I’ll give you the remote.”The hitman hesitates. Then, in a split second he makes a decision. “Fine. When Oscorp burned down, Octavius salvaged all that she could from the building. Apparently, there was a laboratory chock-full of animals and insects and whatever the fuck else in there. She put two in two together, tested your DNA,” he looks at Peter, who has long released Wade, “and compared it with one of the genetically-modified spiders there. From there, she was able to create a weapon to incapacitate or hell, even kill you.”“That doesn’t make any sense. The spider that bit me; it was one of a kind. There’s nothing else like it.”“Fuck if I know. Maybe the Doc found a way. Maybe that geezer Oscorp did before he died. You might notice that your powers are failing?”Wade snaps his head at him. After a beat, Peter nods, drawing his own conclusions, “She found a way to dampen my spider physiology somehow. I’ve been slipping all over on my way here. Is it permanent?”“Nah. That small nodule contained little of the actual toxin.”Peter lets out an inaudible sigh of repose. “Point is, she’s got a stash of Anti-Spider-Man artillery in her lab. Fuck it, not just you. The Four too, most likely.”Wade and Peter share a look. Even with their masks on, he could see the lines of his shoulder tense up. Looks like Octavius has been busy. Octavius is working on some kind of a multiversal machine. What do you know about it?""Hey, nah, nah." Davis taps a claw on the crook of the armrest. “You only asked about the shit she has on Spider-Man. I’ve said all there is to be said. Can I have the remote now?”"The remote control for the BOMB looks so CLICKABLE right now. Might wanna answer him unless you want the BOMB, which is a thing that EXPLODES, to go kablooey.""Jesus. The Doc will kill me.”“You… or wittle Miles? Bomb, kablooey, etcetera.” Wade waves the remote around.“Fuck, okay. She’s building a portal. She was mad about the bracelets and would like to have them back, but she’s preoccupied with the portal. It’s why she sent me after Marconi. That’s all I know, I swear to you. ”Peter’s head is swimming. Portal . He’s had speculations beforehand but he dismissed them; thought them impossible. It was the stuff of science fiction. But up until a week ago, he thought multidimensional realities and matter displacement were out of the realm of the possibility, until every cell in his body himself was displaced into a universe that parallels his. He’s a man of science; he should readily accept where the evidence is leading him, even if it defies the logic and reasoning he’s known to be the fundamental truth his whole life.He nods at Deadpool, whose hands move towards the bonds on Davis’ wrists. He aborts his action, voice strangely distant, “How long?”“How long what?”“How long ‘till Webs regains his powers?”“Don’t fuckin’ know, weeks? At most a month.”Deadpool wordlessly unties him. Peter should have known nothing good ever happens when Deadpool is silent . The moment he steps closer to the hitman, he regards him for a moment then presses the remote.
Davis looks at him, but his eyes are unseeing. “Someday, Wilson. Someday, when your body fails you, when you’re dying and there’s no coming back, when you’re on that brink and there’s no one beside you because you’re an unlovable sack of shit, I’ll be there. I’ll finish the fucking job.”He walks and leaves. The weighty silence in the apartment doesn’t settle because once he does, Deadpool stretches his limbs and chucks the remote control somewhere in the room, flopping on the couch. As if nothing has happened. As if he didn’t just blow up a building filled with civilians.
“Phew!” he lets his head fall on the couch, “What a diva, amirite? Oh, being threaty is exhausting. I want a double super monster burrito. Or a good Golden Girls binge-watch. I feel like I told you this before but that show always makes me feel like I’m on drugs. Head-a-floatin’ and shit. You think Prowley-boy has Hulu?”Peter feels cold all over. He couldn’t believe what he’s hearing. Sometimes, when he’s on his last legs and bone-tired, his body operates solely on his Spidey Sense. He has energy enough to still swing from place to place, or do a mundane task like the dishes, but in his mind, he’s watching his own body be steered by autopilot. This feels a little like that. He’s watching himself watch Deadpool and air is barely entering his lungs, his fingers are spasming and his feet are numb, and he can’t breathe.
“You killed that little kid.”His head does a tilt in a way that Peter associates with him rolling his eyes. He catches a glimpse of it in his mind all at once; Wade’s bright blues wide and never leaving his, arching his pupils upwards in that fond way he usually does. He realizes he hasn’t seen his eyes in a while. He hasn’t seen Wade—all of him, all of the real him—in a damn while. He aches. And he hates himself for it.
This has been the coldest wake-up call. One for the history books. Peter has forgotten that six years of genuine, human companionship and mutual respect and understanding and fucking communication doesn’t change the irrevocable fact that Wade Winston Wilson is a murderer. He doesn’t discriminate. Bad guys. Innocent kids. It doesn’t matter to him.
Peter has forgotten. Peter is stupid.“Webs–”“You know, the first time we met, they warned me about you. Not because of your homicidal streak trying to find the one that did this to you, or the voices in your head, or whatever made you Deadpool. They warned me of Wade Wilson. The one who massacred a village filled with civilians. The one who took merc jobs you take, not because you need to but because you seek the thrill of it. The man before the suit.”Wade only sits straighter. Peter wishes he would babble or scream or chuck his knives. He wishes he would lunge at Peter; talk with his fists instead.
Peter wishes he could see his face, instead of just the solid white in place of his eyes.“They all told me you were irredeemable.”
A beat passes. An eternity passes. “Well, verdict?”Peter stares at him, hard. “They were right.”“That’s it,” Wade whispers, like he’s been waiting for Peter to say it all this time. “You done?”“No, Wade. We’re done.”
Peter takes the train this time.As usual, he gets a lot of people staring and pointing. Every so often, he would get a few sincere smiles. There’s a camera flash once or twice. A couple of people asked for a selfie. Only one tries to strike a conversation. He must have been giving off a sullen vibe because pretty soon, the hype dies down and he is left relatively alone for the rest of the ride.
He makes a stop at Brooklyn.He swipes his card at the turnstile and had to squeeze into the swaths of commuters to get outside. He’s welcomed by the array of dizzying reds and yellows lighting up the streets; an overwhelming change of scenery from the drab, almost surreal-like subway beige and baby blues. His eyes take a painful second to adjust from the lights and the night darkness. He might need to touch up on the white paint of his lenses soon…When his eyes finally settle, he sees a commotion from a couple of miles over. He pulls himself up a nearby bus and jumps, perching on the brick wall. He breaks into a run, jumping into the next building and the next, the entire world tilted. When he reaches his destination, it’s utter pandemonium. New-Yorkers gawk at the rubble and concrete smog. There are no ambulances in sight and there’s only one police car parked near the bombsite.
Peter frowns. There’s no way he’s too early. He approaches the civilian closest to him, “What happened?”“I was three blocks over when I heard an explosion. Got here as soon as I can. Been here since. They don’t know who or what did it yet,” A man with a thin strip of strawberry blond hair on his upper lip recounts.
“Is anyone hurt? Trapped?”“Don’t think anyone was seriously hurt. I heard there was a guy who was blown away literally but the worst he got is a sore bottom.”
“What about the family that lived there? Did anyone survive?”“Family? Whatchu talking about?” The man regards him with a funny look, “Don’t think anybody lived in there. Squatters, maybe. But that place been locked down for five years.”Peter frowns even harder, watching the state of absolute obliteration of what used to be an abandoned building, trying to make sense of it. Why would Wade target an empty building…?Just as the realization settles on him, like ice down his back, he feels something yanks at his hand. He looks down and sees a curly-haired little boy looking up at him, eyes as golden as his skin. His delicate, tiny hands are wrapped against Peter’s own. He crouches, tightening his hold on the child’s hand just enough. “Hello.”The little boy doesn’t answer. He notices that he’s wearing Human Torch shirt. “Cool shirt. You know, I’m friends with the Human Torch.”His eyes brighten.
Peter stage-whispers, “Wanna know a secret?” The boy nods. “He buys all the t-shirts with his face in them. Says they make good pajamas.”
(It’s only half-true. Johnny did own a Human Torch shirt that he only sleeps in because apparently, it’s the softest top he owns. Peter calls bullshit on this.)The boy snickers, “No way!”
“Yeah way!” Peter leads him to a nearby cafe and gets him to sit on the chair. His feet dangle on the floor. “You okay? You hurt somewhere?”“I’m lost,” he blurts, eyes getting watery, “I heard a big boom and I ran and ran and now I’m here and I don’t know how to get home. My mami is gon’ be really mad.”He refuses to let go of the boy’s hand but he wipes the boy’s tears with his free one. A flash of forever ago—Uncle Ben is doing the same to him when he tripped trying to ride his skateboard for the first time. He never releases Peter’s hand either. The memory rocks him to his core and he blinks away the tears as a reflex. A mix of gratitude (for the memory he just unearthed, memory he thought had been lost in the deep recesses of his mind) and grief (for even daring to forget it in the first place) vyed for dominance in his head. He shakes it off, focusing on the matter at hand.
“Okay, okay, calm down, little man. Here’s what we're gonna do: we’re going to get some food in you, then we’re going find out where you live then before you know it, you’ll be home.”
Before your mami has a heart attack looking for you, he adds, but keeps the afterthought to himself.
The little boy sniffs, eventually nodding. It tugs at Peter’s heart a bit. Kids, you gotta love ‘em. He’s 28 and he still has no idea if he wants them. He likes to think he’s good with kids and contrary to popular belief, he does know how to care for one. The thing is… when it comes to children, you have to take into account the right environment, the right people to raise them.Peter isn’t sure he could provide any of those.He stands and tugs gently. The boy, adorably, copies him. They start walking.
“You got a name, little man?”
“Miles. Can we get past-les?”Peter halts his steps. There is simply no way. “I’m sorry, what’s that, little man?”“Can we please get past-les?”“No, no,” He squats, so he’s almost face-level with the boy. Now that he thinks about it, his nose is the same shape as Davis’. His heart thrums with apprehension, so much so that he feels the hair on his neck and on his back rise. “Your name. Can you repeat your name?”“My name is Miles Morales, I’m six, I’m in first grade, I live in Brooklyn,” he recites diligently, back straightening as if he’s rehearsed saying this very statement before.“Okay, Miles, little man,” Peter could just laugh in delight but he reels himself in, “Do you know your mom’s name? What about your dad?”Miles hesitates, “My mom…? Her name is Mami. My daddy is… dead.”“I’m sorry, little man,” he says sincerely, caressing him on the crown of his poofy hair. “What about your uncle? What’s his name?”His face brightens up, “Uncle Aaron! You know him, Spidey-man?”Spidey-man. Oh, this kid is killing him.
“Yep, we’re friends,” he coughs, “Listen, I’m gonna get you something to eat—”“Past-les.”“—yes, past-les. Then, I’m going to try and find your mami or your Uncle Aaron. Does that sound good?”The boy nods. They go to a bodega in the corner of the street while Peter tries to figure out what a past-les is. Two repeated questions, one (failed) spelling experiment, and a semi-lengthy description later, Peter finds out that Miles is talking about pasteles, a Puerto Rican masa dish that he has actually had before. Sadly, the store didn’t have any authentic Hispanic food to sell on standby so Peter asked the owner if he knew anyone who sold some within walking distance. The owner, who looked like the dad from Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, gives him directions to a Puerto Rican restaurant five streets over. As he tries to keep up with Miles’ incessant rambling, Peter works out on how he could possibly contact Aaron Davis.Maybe he could weasel the information out of Weasel? That’s an option, although it’ll cost him. The last time he owed that man… it did not go well.
He could also call Deadpool. Or is that too soon?
It has to be a bluff. Perhaps Wade hadn’t meant to blow up Davis’ relatives? It could have been an intimidation tactic. He’s good at those.
Focus, Parker. You have a six-year-old boy who needs you. You can worry about the inner workings of the morally dubious love of your life.Peter startles. Love of his life? Is Wade Wilson the love of his life? The thought gives him such a visceral shock that he stops in his track. Miles also stops and looks up at him, curious. “Spidey-man?”There couldn’t be a poorer timing to realize that he’s desperately, urgently, irreppressibly in love with his best friend. It unfortunately tracks on his part. Being Peter Parker just doesn’t afford you rom-com moments of realization of feelings. Intensity of feelings, if he’s being accurate.Shit. Fuck, even.
Miles tugs his arm.
Focus. He has to focus. Peter smiles down at him, strained then belatedly realizes the kid couldn’t see his face. “You ready to chow down, little man?”He grins and bobs his head up and down. They finally reach the Puerto Rican restaurant, a hole in the wall named La Isla Cuchifritos crammed between a duplex and an empty lot, its rolling steel door furnished with graffiti. The glass half wall gives them a view of steaming food in a serving counter. No one bats an eye when a red-and-blue spandexed man enters with a grade schooler. Classic New York. He honestly doesn’t know where to be flattered or perturbed.
The dark-haired lady behind the counter looks at him, then at Miles. A dubious expression passes on her face, but she smiles at Miles, “Hey, Miles! Didn’t know you were tight with Spider-Man.”Pleased, Miles beams, revealing a gap in his front teeth. Peter sags in repose. Thank God, someone recognized him. He tries not to show how rattled he is. It might be impossible to believe but not every day he deals with lost little boys in the street. He tells Miles to find them a seat.
“Hi. You wouldn’t happen to have his parent’s contact information or something? I found him, or rather he found me in Bushwick near the bombsite. Brought him here because I don’t know how long he’s been out there. I thought he looked a bit hungry,” he explains in one go.
Comprehension dawns on her face. “Oh, shit. Yeah, I know his mom. Let me call her up,”
She gets her phone, face set in urgency and singlemindedness. She waves a teenager over, whose face glued to his phone and his mouth agape. “Carlitos! Get behind the counter! I have to call someone!”The teenager shoves his phone on his pocket and bounds towards the counter. When he spots Peter, he grins slowly, exposing a horse-teeth smile and sky-blue braces. “Oh, hey, Spider-man,” he says as if this is normal occurrence for him.
“Hey, man,” Peter says just as casually, “You guys have any pasteles?”The teenage boy nods and gets one plate, after Peter kindly corrects him that it’s only just for Miles. The woman, who introduces herself as Ana, returns and informs him that Miles’ family will be here soon. As he hands Miles his snack, Peter’s assumption had been proven. The boy immediately chows down his food, ravenous and quiet for once. Peter had just been debating ordering another plate for him when the doors swing open and a distressed female voice calls out, “Miles?!”Miles jumps from his seat, tears already in the works, “Mami!”
He runs towards her, jumping in her arms as she speaks in weepy, rapid Spanish. There is a scattered, half-hearted applause among the customers, and Ana’s son has his phone up again, taking a video of the poignant reunion. Behind Miles’ mom, a large hand comes to rest on top of the little kid’s neck, protectively squeezing. Peter recognizes him immediately.
Aaron Davis’ eyes, same light brown as Miles, casts over him. His smile fades minutely. It turns into an unfriendly frown when Peter starts coming closer. Miles’ mom sees him and pulls him into her arms, balancing her kid’s weight on her forearm, “Oh, thank you, Spider-Man! Thank you mucho, Spider-Man!”Peter pats Miles on the head, “Told you we’ll find her, little man.”
She cries harder. He explains what happened, trying to school his voice lowly to soothe her. It seems to work because she listens intently, still holding Miles close to her, who seems to have no complaints either, face buried on the crook of her neck.Peter doesn’t know how it happened but an hour later, they have secured a table and Rio (Miles’ mom) is telling him about Miles’ achievements and occasional shenanigans at preschool. Ana joins the conversation once or twice. Davis is a stoic wall seated next to her, chiming in to chuckle in forced manner or agree with Rio once in a while. Peter’s all too happy to listen, getting in to input a quip or a teasing compliment for Miles. Eventually, Rio notices that Miles has fallen asleep on her lap and apologizes for taking up Spider-Man’s time. Peter assures her it’s no problem.He did miss precious patrolling time; he only hopes he doesn’t miss any city-wide crime happening in the hour that had passed. He also doesn’t voice this out.
Peter and the Morales-Davis family exchange farewells as they exit the restaurant. Davis gives him a significant look, to which he returns with an ironic salute. He ducks into an adjacent alley and predictably, minutes later, Davis follows him.
He greets him with, “You two fuckheads planned this,” which, honestly, fair.
Peter breathes deeply, and as placatingly and as honestly as he could, “Look, I know how this looks but I have no idea Deadpool would do that. I came here because I wanted to check if people were hurt. Your nephew found me all by himself. I swear to you.”Davis regards him, “You ever come near my family—”He holds both hands in surrender, “I won’t, if that’s what you want but listen to me, Davis. Do you honestly think that Deadpool is the only one who knows about your family? What about Octavius? What about all the other mercs in Sister Margaret’s who has the same skillset as his, as yours? Think about this.”He doesn’t answer, but his mouth is set in a grim line. Relentingly, he nods. He palms his face, back tense, looking every bit as if the he’s carrying the weight of the world of his back. He looks at Peter again and gains some of its fierce fire back in his eyes, “I won’t kill you. Just this once, as a thanks, we’re fuckin’ even.”Peter nods. He figures it’s his cue to be kind and leave the man to his own freak out sesh in the alley. He’s been there.
When a patrol reaches the border near Brooklyn, or in the event that he has some downtime to spend while in the borough, the Brooklyn Bridge is Peter’s place to go.
Up in the arched towers, on top of the tan, flat stones, is a wide-ranging view of Brooklyn-Manhattan coast. It’s not a very pretty view, what with all the muddy, grey waters of East River and the impressive amount of trash the bridge collects every time he perches up there. Not to mention the smell. You would think the usual smell of piss and polluted water would have subside up in there but once in a while, Peter would get a lovely whiff of that good ol’ New York smell upwind.
Still, Peter loves it, warts and all. Not as much as Queens, but Brooklyn has become such an extension of home ever since he donned the suit. He used to struggle with navigating the disorienting zig-zag of streets from Bronx to Staten Island but now he knows it at the back of his hand. He could get to anywhere in New York blindfolded and he’d still find his way home. Up the Brooklyn Bridge, he gets to see the Empire State, poking its head as if to wave hello. If he squints hard enough, and dangles his body over the farthest edge, he could almost see The Orchard from here.To drive a point home, Brooklyn Bridge is one of those prime Spidey Spots. But in the recent years, it has transitioned to a Spidey and Pool Spot. Peter would argue that this is due to the fact that Deadpool is one persistent son of a bitch who has zero social awareness or if he does, he simply does not care but the brutal, naked truth is… he gets lonely, sometimes.
As he weaves below the deck of the bridge, he lets his feet skip through the water, disturbing its stillness. Moonlight refracts on each droplet, oscillating from milky bisque to the flash of red, blues, purple city lights. When he reaches the foundation, he points his wrist upward and shoots a web as far as he can. It reaches at least forty feet. Not bad, he notes.
He mounts his own web and scales the tower, going much slower than normal. He places a hand on the ledge on the top to pull himself up. Peter lands on top, waving his arms to steady himself. Coupled with his powers dampened and the sight of Deadpool’s red-and-black getup surprises him so much, he veers slightly on the edge and almost falls. He feels his face burn. One thing he doesn't miss is his innate talent to be a klutz.Deadpool doesn’t acknowledge him. He’s fiddling with a silver-colored coin. Peter finds his voice, “Deadpool.”“Hey, Spidey. You wanna know why Vanessa dumped me?”Out of all the things Wade could open with, he hadn’t been expecting that. There’s a peculiar tone in his voice that compels him to sit down, facing the side of the mercenary’s body, a far-too-far distance between them.
“Told you about Cable and Russell right? You know, from my second movie, the one that grossed just second to Passion of the Christ?”
As usual, Peter has no idea what he’s talking but he nods. There’s something fragile about this moment, he refuses to disturb it.
Wade continues,“When I brought her back, it wasn’t the same. I was acting irrational and guilty and all that fuckin’ fun feelings about the whole thing. She, of course, noticed and demanded to know why. I told her, because how could I not? I know you think my morals are Light-up-Flutterby-Fairy-into-a-fireplace levels of fucked but I do know what’s right from wrong on occasion. She took it well. All that really mattered to her was that we’re together and we could have that family we’ve always wanted. When she said that, the dam broke. I lost my mind a tiny bit more. On top of the usual crazies in my head, the paranoia got worse. I was afraid that some kind of a Time Travel Police would bust down my door, give me some kind of a ticket for violating the Time Travel Supreme Rule, No Revivings at Last Checkpoint—and take her away from me. I was fully convinced that I needed to get my shit together, be a better person, do a Hail Mary or some bullshit like that. I needed to prove that I was a good person, that I matter. To justify bringing her back.
“Why yes, your honor, I brought her back alive. Why? So she could be with a piece of shit like you?” Wade affects a heavy New York accent, “Well actually, your timeliness, I turned my life around and I’m now a super duper goody-two-shoes. Well then, that’s alright!”He snickers, before letting out a loud, ugly snort, then finally, dissolving into manic giggles. This takes several minutes. Peter patiently waits.He gasps out, “I know it’s stoopid but bear with me. You know what I did? I put on Cable’s time slider again, universe-hopped, and applied for superhero school. Yup. I went to the Avengers, the X-Men, the Guardians of the Galaxy, Defenders, SHIELD, all the Goddamn B-list, C-list, D-list Marvel team ups. Even tried to get X-Force up and running again. All epic fails. When I finally had enough, I went back home, tail between my legs. Thought I’d try one more time with your Fantastic Four. Also epic fail. That was when we crossed paths again. While you were out patrolling.”“I remember that,” Peter whispers.“Yeah. Turned out to be a good day,” Wade says wistfully. He eventually looks back at Peter. His face is covered with a mask, as usual, but there is a warm, almost doleful expression being etched out by the lines of his mask. “You were the only who bothered, you know? Don’t know how you saw something that could be good underneath all the ugly and the shitty but you did. Must be that spidery fluff in that funny little head of yours. For six years, I’ve never felt so good in my life. You did that for me.”He doesn’t know what to say. So, he doesn’t speak.
“Should have known it had to end some time.”He moves closer, “Wade, I was—”“No, you were right. I am a criminal. A murderer. A monster and a liar. I lie to everyone, especially myself.”“That kid—”“I thought I could be better. I thought I could be a hero. I thought I could be like…” his hand forms a fist around the coin, “Like you. And I had convinced myself that, for a while. But I was wrong. Even Ness saw through it. Now, you too. And you know what? I don’t care that I let everyone down. Except you. I’m… I’m sorry, Webs.”Peter doesn’t even get a word in before Deadpool leans forward and letting himself fall down an almost three-hundred-feet drop. He screams his name—he’s at the clock tower again, it all ends up here, they all end up here, why does everything keep leading back here? there are piles of Gwens on the bridge and on the river and everything is blood—and shoots a web to catch him by the waist, heart on the pit of his stomach—he could save him, he knows he could and even if he couldn’t, he’ll never die, right? right? right—?A string of white wraps itself on Wade’s waist. Peter lugs and tries to haul him up but the mercenary pulls a small knife from his thigh holster and cuts at the web.
Wade falls.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
There is nothing like a missed deadline that will bring you back to the real world.The amount of exclamation marks in J. Jonah Jameson’s email from a week ago rouses him into a series of emotional states: first, wakefulness, then a flash of panic, and ultimately, fatigue. Throughout his entire stint into the other dimension, the whole business with Octavius, Anna Maria, the unsanctioned creation of a multiversal portal, and of course, Deadpool; being Peter Parker and juggling Peter Parker-related responsibilities are beyond debilitating. He truly does not have the time for it.
Of course, he always seems to find the time. He’s Peter. Life doesn’t allow him to do otherwise.
After that night in Brooklyn Bridge, he and Wade haven’t been… in the best of terms. Partly, he’s still pissed at the stunt the man pulled. Partly, he feels guilt-ridden by all the awful shit he said to Wade. He’s also a little (okay, a lot) hurt that even after everything he told Wade about Uncle Ben, about Gwen, about how ever since he donned the red and blues, death seems to follow him around like a dog with a bone (wearing an inscrutable but unrelenting look on its face, as if it knows something he doesn’t), he still flung himself to death in front of him without a second thought. Peter knows—he’s dreadfully aware, thank you very much—that it isn’t even remotely fair to pin the blame on Wade when he can’t remember Peter Parker. As far as the man is aware, he doesn’t even exist.It’s Peter who has to lug around with him the weight of these memories, holding on to the foolish notion that maybe he’ll say something niche enough, do something familiar enough that it gets him to remember. It’s Peter who’s cursed to remember.
It’s been a real fun weekend trying to wrap his head around it.
He distracts himself by attempting to get cursory snapshots of himself swinging midair and/or sticking on walls, amid his temporary loss of powers. On the bright side, he has a newfound appreciation for his synthetic webbing system, as opposed to organic webs. If he were anything like Peter-Two described, he wouldn’t even be able to swing around New York at all. Wade would have been right; he would have been no use to people that he needs to help. What a nightmare that would have been.
He shelves the plan to snoop around Octavius Labs (surely, she wouldn’t be able to finish a multiversal portal by the end of the week, would she?) and spends his entire Saturday holed up in the long-lived, empty house, catching up on the work needed to be done. He edits and sends his photos for the Bugle, concluding the draft for his Quantum Mechanics I paper, does his part in his two-body problem project (much to his group-mates’ relief and barely-restrained exasperation, already used to his habitually late submissions. They don’t bring these quibbles on the table, as his work is scarily accurate and consistently high-quality) all in a day’s work. He takes a break by chugging his sixth cup of coffee before going on a patrol around the borough. Although it’s a fairly uneventful night and he barely had to utilize his powers, he still had to deal with the usual suspects: the stoners, the stalkers, and the snatchers. He’s dead by his feet by the time he returns home.
His body naturally wakes at 7 in the morning. He gets ready for the day, bringing an empty duffel bag and May’s change of clothes. At last, she gets to go home today after a successful double mastectomy. She’s only supposed to stay for a two, three days at most but the Chief of Surgery himself insisted she be admitted for a week at most, who has a particular fondness for his aunt having spent most of her lifetime in service to NYP/Q Hospital as a receptionist and later, licensed practical nurse.
He stops by the Bugle’s building first, taking the bus this time. He pats the goober/thumb drive filled with Spidey photos in his pocket. Nowadays, The Daily Bugle has outgrown papers and have dedicated their brand catering to paid, online headlines. That means he can work from home if he wants to but he still has to present his Spidey photos in person.
The Pros:It gives him more time to pursue his er, other recreational activities;
It gives J. Jonah Jameson significantly less chances to tear him a new one. As both Peter and Spider-Man.
The Singular Con:He hasn’t had a salary raise in five years.
Still, with grad school costs, constant suit and web-shooter repairs, general living expenses, and now, May’s hospital bills, a steady paycheck is a steady paycheck. He has no room for complaints. He could have had it worse, if he’s being honest.
He knocks on J. Jonah Jameson’s door and tries to convince himself that it’s true.
“Enter.”Peter ambles on without much pomp or ceremony. He places each photo on the man’s desk.Jameson just looks at him, parroting his expectant look. It goes on like this for a few seconds until the man barks, “Well, aren’t you gonna introduce yourself, boy?!”Oh, shit, yeah. The multiversal memory loss thing.
There’s one way he can play this, though. Knowing J.J, there's a 50/50 chance it’s going to work.“What do you mean, sir? It’s Parker,” he says innocently, “Peter Parker? I’m the freelance guy? Have been for the past few years or so?”The man’s face clouds over then returns to its normal churlishness, “Right, right. Give me that!”He hides a grin. Not for nothing, but lightly gaslighting J. Jonah Jameson is probably not the most ethical thing he’s ever done but it sure as hell is the highlight of this horrible, no-good week. He’ll take what he can get.“That’s it?!” Jameson barks, after surveying the photos.
“Yep.”
“These are shit, Carter! You can’t even see the white crap on his hands.”“It’s Parker, sir. And they’re called webs,” Peter says patiently, fighting off the urge to sigh. A decade later and he still refuses to learn the correct Spidey terminology. “These are HQ pics, Jamie. That’s all that matters. The people won’t care. You know this.”
Besides Wade, probably. The man has a Bugle subscription, much to Peter’s embarassment.
Nope. Not thinking of Wade today.
Jameson just grunts. Peter grins. That usually means that he got away with it. Peter has worked here for ten years now, after his second year being the “Spider-Menace” and it baffles the mind how much he’s learned about the man. He could even go as far and say that J. Jonah Jameson had become a friend.He wasn’t always, though. In the height of the public’s smear campaign against Spider-Man, Jameson had been a vocal voice throughout it all. Years-long of unregulated vigilantism, resulting in millions of taxpayers’ dollars worth of collateral damage and deaths on his conscience, plus aided by a particularly nasty frame-up job by Chameleon, Peter struggled through a year of people, both civilians and criminals, jumping him. They were determined to land a hit or even unmask him. One hateful article after another is usually what it took for people to grab their pitchforks. Or phones, poised to capture any fuck up Spider-Man will imminently commit that day.He did stop patrolling for a long while until when all is said and done, the people inevitably needed Spider-Man again. People saw him as the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man again—Jameson being one of them, even going so far to placate the masses by acknowledging his heroic acts on his own paper—but his reputation never quite recovered. There are some that still consider him some kind of mastermind, orchestrating each “villain of the week.” Some argued that he does more damage than salvage, and Peter is inclined to agree with them. He tries to minimize the casualties the best he could (leading a fight away from a highly dense area of the city, creating thick webbing to cushion large projectiles, etc.)He does consider hanging the suit for good once in a while. Even more so during the really Bad Days. Yet if he does, he’ll let damage go to the point of ruination. Besides, the Fantastic Four have already been quietly retiring for awhile. It’s up to him and him alone.
Peter fiddles with his phone, waiting for Jameson’s intricate, lengthy ritual of examining each grain and pixel of each photo.
While he does, his mind wanders. The moment May’s cancer came back, he was all over the place. He’d been desperate to find a way to gain passive income on top of two jobs. Insurance was a joke and he’d seriously thinking of pulling out of grad school before May got seriously pissed at him for even considering the idea. He stumbled to The Bugle, feeling like he was losing his mind.Jameson was strangely non-hysterical when he entered the office. Peter had wordlessly given him the photos. He was looking at each of them when he finally spoke up, “Sorry about your aunt, Parker.”He looks up, stunned. “Thank you.”Jameson just nodded and that was that.
He remembers smiling with uncertainty, feet rolling on the balls of his feet, an anxious habit. Somehow, the knowledge that his aunt and his boss are somewhat in the ‘friendly acquaintances’ territory always slipped his mind.
It had been a semi-recent development; Green Goblin had escaped Ravencroft Institute and wanted one thing: Spider-Man’s lifeless body sprawled on the streets of Manhattan, but after he’s finished getting his licks back and have inflicted hurt on Peter in a way only he knows how to.
That’s the thing about Harry Osborn; when he aims for the heart, he makes sure to draw enough blood.
He targets the hospital, right where Aunt May worked. At that time, Jameson had been desperate to keep the paper industry afloat and wanted a story that would make the headlines. He had been the first on the scene, subsequently making himself a hostage under Green Goblin’s hands, along with Spider-Man’s past adversaries that he rounded out while he’s at Ravencroft.
It had been way too close of a call but by the time Peter arrived, the two were already trauma-bonded. Figures. Now, he seemed to be regularly updated with his aunt’s life. It seemed that Jameson’s fondness for his aunt goes deeper than he presumed. He still doesn’t know what to do with this information.Now, Jameson makes him stay for almost an hour just to nitpick the most ridiculous, minute details on his snapshots. Then, finally he dismisses him. Peter makes a quick a segue to the temple on his way to the hospital, staying for a bit to pray for May’s speedy recovery. Just because the surgery is successful doesn’t mean they’re in the clear. She’s still set to come back next month for radiation therapy. There’s an array of emotions that he now must face and can’t hold back much longer; joy that could easily turn to anxiety, worry for the costs, excitement to have her back, guilt for not checking in too much and above all else, dread. Dread that one moment he’ll step into that room and be greeted by the sound of the ECG flatlining.
He realizes he’s forgotten to grab breakfast and decides to extend his fast a little longer since it’s almost lunchtime, resolutely ignoring the rumbling of his stomach. He eyes the gyro food truck parked in front of the hospital entrance. Technically, he could afford it… if he ignores his common sense and completely ignores his current budget, which was already stretched thinly enough.
Peter has been stagnantly broke for the entirety of his life. Just once he wants to know how it feels to be at ease with the money in his pocket, to live comfortably and not constantly wonder if he’s going to be evicted next month.
He grabs a mac and cheese and a bag of chips, inhaling them in less than five minutes. On his way to Aunt May’s room, he greets the nurses politely. Oddly, they don’t seem inclined for any conversation. By now, Nurse Angie would have been apologizing profusely for delaying his visit to his aunt.
(Later, when he’s had the benefit of hindsight, he’ll think of this moment as a missed red flag.
Most spiders aren’t very good at seeing colors.)He scrunches his nose, the all-too sterile smell of antiseptic and bitter bleach cleaning agent making him feel lightheaded. He’s pleased that the staff are thorough with sanitizing the area; he just hates that he’s too sensitized to it. When he enters May’s room, it makes a screeching sound. It’s dimly lit inside, only the harsh sunlight wading through the curtains serving as the only source of light. He sets her clothes aside and starts tidying up, careful not to make too much clamor as to not wake his aunt up. She’s sound asleep, turned to the side, hand tucked under her chin. Her head is bare and shaved to the scalp. She cut it off as soon as she got the diagnosis, letting Peter pry the clipper away from her shaky hands. She didn’t shed any tears; haven’t since the cancer came back, so Peter doesn’t cry, too. They’re both determined to go through this ordeal and come back on the other side in one piece. Just like they’ve done before.
By the time he’s finished sprucing up the room, she’s still resting. He sinks into the fleecy loveseat, propping his on-its-last-legs-but-still-kicking-it laptop on his lap. It makes a rushing-air sound as it starts up and he gets started on reviewing for an exam due next week. He crams a pair of headphones on. In the middle of his sixth repeat of Clair de Lune (his study companion since the eighth grade), Aunt May wakes. He’s so deep into his notes that he barely notices.
She shifts on her bed, groaning groggily. Peter looks up and leaps into action, keeping his voice level so as to not distress her. He asks her if she had slept fine, if she needs anything, if she has an appetite. She answers obligingly, but each response is succinct. When Peter is finally satisfied, he starts reminding her to take careful ministration handling her incision and the inevitable drains, to not do anything too strenuous, and other recovery aftercare advised by the doctors, more out of his benefit than hers. He’s planning to take a leave of absence for grad school for a month tops, but may have to reconsider hiring a live-in nurse for May if it turns out he’s not permitted to. May cuts him off as he’s telling her this.“This has all been very lovely, dear. I—” The rest of her words are drowned out by coughing, hacking deep from her lungs.
He fetches her a glass of water with inhuman speed to which she quirks her eye at but gratefully accepts. She takes one, then two sips and sets it aside. “Thank you, but I’d like to rest some more now.”Swallowing the guilt for keeping her up by his relentless queries, “Of cou-of course, May, sorry. God. I’ll just shut up now. I’ll just… be here when you wake up.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary—”“It’s fine! I have the rest of the day free, anyway.” It’s true. Today is a rare day off. “I’ll just lounge in here until they kick me out. Keep an eye out for my best girl.”Despite the exhaustion on her face, May still managed to look surprised. “Well, aren’t you sweet. Wh.. what’s your name again, son?”There’s a ringing in his head and for a moment, he panics, thinking his Spidey Sense is going haywire. A supercut of all the worst case scenarios flit over his head: alien hostile takeover, a huge sinkhole has swallowed Long Island, Harry is back again and this time he won’t miss that killing shot, Octavius has succeeded and a multiversal portal is sucking everyone to the neighbouring cosmos, Wade is shooting himself in the head, Gwen is falling from the clock tower, Captain Stacy is bleeding out, May’s flatlining, Matt is sliding the engagement ring back—Do you even want to marry me, Peter? Or do you just want to keep me like a dog?
—but nothing happens. Aunt May stays in his range of sight, safe and unharmed, hair white, body weakened, but alive. Still alive. There’s no danger.The ringing remains. His heart pounds faster. “It’s me… Peter.” Is temporary amnesia a risk for a double mastectomy? He couldn’t remember what her doctor said now. Belatedly, he realizes that the ringing in his head is of the panic attack category, not just ol’ reliable Spidey sense. It’s gruelling trying to tell the difference sometimes.“Peter? Peter… who?”“Aunt May, it’s me, Peter. I’m your nephew.”
Her eyes, cloudy from recovery pains, clears up a bit. She looks at Peter, really looks at him. Her voice is tender and sympathetic, “I’m sorry… you must have been mistaken. I don’t have a nephew.”“Do you remember who you are? Where you are?” He rattles off questions about basic information that he knows she would know. Maybe she’s just having trouble with names or faces. Maybe she’s groggy with anesthesia. Maybe she’s just fucking with him. Because if it’s not amnesia then that means…Peter can’t even finish the thought. It’s unthinkable.
She answers with stunning accuracy, sounding confused throughout the whole ordeal but welcomes each query with patience. He feels a rising wave of panic.
“My name is Peter Benjamin Parker,” he tries again, desperation in his voice, “My parents are Mary and Richard. They died when I was seven. You’ve raised me ever since. You and Uncle Ben. I have known you my whole life. You are all the family I have left, please, please say you remember me. Please, Aunt May.”Her face, kind and almost pitying, doesn’t give any indication that she does. “I’m sorry. I think I would have remembered if I had a… a nephew. I… I don’t know. You don’t look familiar to me. I’m sorry…”
“Please,” he whispers, begs, “Please, don’t say that. May, it’s me. It’s Peter. I’m your nephew but even that feels inadequate. I’m your son. You used to raise hell because I would track dirt skating around the house. You made me brush my teeth and do my homework and cleaned my dirty underwear. You took nursing classes to support us when I was in college and still at home. I’m your boy. Always have been. You loved me so much. And I loved you, too. I don’t even remember them anymore. You have been my mother in every way that you can be. You’ve been my everything for the past twenty-two years. Say you remember me, May.”As he talks, she becomes visibly more and more distressed. “I’m sorry… I don’t. I truly don’t. Please stop. My head hurts. Stop, please.” A tear falls from her left eye, which she doesn’t seem to notice.“Alright. Okay,” Peter whispers as gently as he could, gulping down the sobs, “Okay. Okay, Aunt May, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, May. I’ll stop.”She turns her face away, breathing heavily. From where he’s sitting, he could see her trying her damndest to not display confusion nor fear. Her hands are trembling and Peter feels shittier. Wordlessly, he places her clothes on top of the bed. He goes outside and lets out the well of tears ebb down in a single, shaky exhale. Then, he wipes his eyes, feeling almost humiliated. When he goes back in, she’s weakly buttoning her shirt. He itches to help her but leaves her to her place. Surprisingly, she lets Peter help her down to the wheelchair.
He breaks the silence by murmuring, “You sitting down okay?”Her gray head bobs up and down. Peter can’t see her face, which is a small mercy, if he’s being honest.
Peter supposes he should have known. There’s a part of him that is stuck in frozen fear facing this moment ever since his first week back,
since he came back from that cryptic, previously-theoretical parallel universe. He should have expected that Aunt May may not remember him. His own family—his only blood doesn’t know him. On top of that devastation, he’s also disappointed; May knowing that he’s Spider-Man has led to some disastrous consequences, Peter wouldn’t have taken it all back. He would still choose to tell her, to entrust her with sharing the weight. It had brought them closer together as family, as mother and son, as only kin left in this world.
Still, even if Spider-Man never existed, they were May and Peter. Nothing could alter that. Even without her memories of Peter being Spider-Man, they would be okay.
But now, they weren’t even May and Peter anymore.
Loud noises outside the room disturb their tense silence. A distinctly male voice is speaking louder than his female counterpart, accompanied by a pair of heavy footsteps. The doorknob turns, his Spidey sense barely zinging when it swings open and all of a sudden, he’s face to face—unmasked and with tear tracks on his cheeks—with Wade Wilson, who’s not wearing his mask either. The sight of his scarred face takes his breath away. The feeling is akin to the first time Wade took his mask off in front of him, the white and reds replaced by a stretch of pockmarked flesh, hard cut of a jaw, and true blue eyes. There’s a rush of anticipation on Peter’s part. Then, the realization that Peter is alone with this feeling replaces the shape of longing with heartache, a slow, cold plunge of helplessness that he’s getting all-too-familiar with.
There’s also joy. How nice it was to see such a familiar face. He doesn’t know when Wade starts feeling like home to him but he welcomes it wholeheartedly. He’s here and it will all be fine.
He ignores Peter and kneels in front of May, whose twin relief is palpable on her age-weary face. He murmurs something to her and she holds him on the cheek, the way he used to with Peter and recently with Wade. They very clearly still remember each other. That heals something within Peter.
Wade taps her hand, as gentle as one could be. Then, he looks up at Peter—
his arms are limp on his side and there was no way for Peter to read the expression on his face, it’s covered by that damned mask. a knife is strapped on his ankle. the web is wrapped on his waist. the knife is on his hand now.
he cuts it off.
he falls.
his head hits the jagged rocks before the murky waters swallow him up
—and stands up. He hasn’t seen Wade for awhile, bare and solid and real like this. He’s wearing a black hoodie (hood up, of course), a Taylor Swift Eras Tour t-shirt and denim-washed pants. His head seems okay. No blood, no skull broken, no soft flesh underneath his hands. He seems recovered. He seems alive.
He stares a tad too long because Wade is looking wearily at him, but the curl on his forehead is betraying the fact that he’s getting self-conscious. “I know, I know. I should be in that circus freak troupe with Hugh Jackman—”He quickly cuts him off, “No, no. That wasn’t– I wasn’t staring because of that. Trust me.”Wade squints his eyes at him, “I remember you.”Hope; truly a thing with feathers. Gwen always loved that poem. He feels the damned thing take flight within his chest, fluttering in his tummy and in his head, twitching at the tips of his fingers, dancing at every pore of his body. Could he truly remember? Is it over? Is he out of the woods?“You do?”“Yeah, you’re that twunk at Astoria who wanted a piece of the Pool.”“Piece… of the Pool?”“Pool, comma Dead. The Merc with the Mouth? The Regenerating Degenerate? Canada’s Finest, etcetera etcetera?”“Right,” he huffs out a helpless laughter, in spite of the last morsel of hope withering away in him. And because he can’t help it, he teases, “The guy who copied Spider-Man’s suit.”The man gasps, his pink, keloid mouth forming an O. Even with the distinct lack of eyebrows, there’s an expressive line above his eyes. “Ex-squeeze me?”“I said what I said.”“I’ll have you know, it’s that hunky little twerp with an ass that works 9 to 5—trademark Dolly—and flat-out refuses to quit. He copied my suit! Like duh, I’m older than him! We have a very infamous age gap; it’s a frequent topic of discourse in the fandom.”“He’s been suiting up longer than you.”“Ugh, whose side are you on, Astoria Twunk?!”“It’s Peter,” He amends, holding out a hand for him to shake. His seems smaller, clasped tightly by his gloved hand. His eyes dart to May’s with an almost nervous tic but she’s watching the interaction curiously. Much similar to the way he first introduced Wade to her.
God, this whole endeavor is just a crash course to déjà vu.
Wade’s expression clouds over, “Peter. Huh.”“Something wrong?”“Everything!” He faces May again, “Well, Petey-Pie, it’s been lovely to meet you. Always great to meet a fellow Spidey fanatic—”“That’s not—”“—but I’m here to take this lovely lady for a night of revelry in the city. And for some good, ol’ recovery and TLC for a week or two. Mostly, the recovery stuff. No suiting up for this spandexed ass. So, would you kindly take your hands off her wheelchair before I cut it off? Full offense but you are kind of a stranger.”“Right.” A stranger. “Sorry.”He watches Wade wheel her out of the room, murmuring something in her he can’t quite make out.
He stood alone in that dim hospital room for a while.
On the bright side, he doesn’t have to worry that much about May and her condition. Peter trusts Deadpool with his life but most importantly, he trusts him with Aunt May’s. One could argue that this is a bigger deal than the former.
He might have to move out of her house again. Maybe, he could contract his previous landlord again. The landlord who changed his locks the last time he missed his rent.Peter rests his face on the cool, steel table. Why, oh why can’t he catch a break?“Careful. Did that once and had to nurse a scalded cheek for a week.”His head whips up, feels a belated whizz on the back of his head. He’s still rendered surprised when he sees him, “Dr. Connors. Hi.”Dr. Curt Connors, looking like his usual thin, scraggly blond self and noticeably not a man-made, reptilian creature beyond his comprehension, is wearing a crooked smile on his face. He even has the same affectation in his voice, a vague European accent.
“Hello,” he holds out a hand, all cool politeness, “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m not acquainted with you yet, Mr…?”He stands up, “It’s Parker. Peter Parker.”“Parker.” His eyebrows shot upwards in surprise, “You wouldn’t happen to be—”“Richard Parker’s son? Yeah. Yes, I am.” We already went over this, almost killed me after, technically died, multiversally altered our fates, yadda yadda. “I guess we’re partners on this project.”His eyes seem to gloss over as he looks at Peter, unnaturally still.
“You okay, Dr. Connors?”He smiles minutely, “Ah, yes. Apologies. You look just like him. Richard was one of the most brilliant scientists I’ve ever had the privilege of working with. I considered him a friend. I didn’t… I never knew he had a son.”“I don’t remember him much,” he admits, “But I heard about your research, the strides you made in medicine. It’s truly impressive.”“Ah, Peter—is it alright if I call you Peter?—I’m afraid that’s all your father. I was nothing more but a… glorified assistant.” For a moment, his smile sours but it’s gone in an instant. “Shall we start?”For the next following hours, they get started by working on possible mathematical models for a much more cost and material-efficient and outlining what how they would simulate it on the computer. It’s his foray to nuclear science in general so having a veteran scientist on his side is a boon. Octavius Labs seem to be directing a significant amount of their resources towards research on nuclear energy.
“I think it’s time to call it a night, Peter,” Dr. Connors says, pulling his vinyl gloves off and chucking them on the can after a gruelling session of purifying yellow cake to its fluorinated form. “You know what they say about Icarus.”“He should have used more wax?”The older scientist chuckled, shaking his head. A comfortable silence settles for a minute there. He’s arranging the test tubes before he huffs out another quiet laugh, “Oh, your father had the same quick wit.”Uncle Ben used to tell him how similar he is to his father. He may look like his mother—the same brown tresses, the same hazel eyes, the nose—but his lanky build, the toss of his curls, the mannerisms; those were all Parker genetics. Strange to think of it now. He’s almost at the age his father was when he died. At some point, he will grow older than him. Will he also outgrow the similarities?
“We didn’t know each other that long. Not as intimately as he knew Norman Osborn but we were close enough. I admired his work ethic. I bitterly regret the fact that it did not conclude well.”“Can I ask something personal, Dr. Connors?”“Of course, and please, call me Curt.”“Alright, Curt.” They share a smile. It really is nothing short of a miracle that this conversation is even taking place. Peter really did admire Dr. Connors even after his havoc in New York, his desire to ‘cure’ people which is just an attempt to assume God and bring mass eugenics in the 21st century. He never blamed the man but he always regretted giving him that final piece of that equation.He always felt responsible for his death. Now, here he was, as alive as he was. As if nothing has happened. Flesh and bone.
Perhaps, the memory of Peter Parker is worth it in exchange for this.“Do you know what happened? With my dad? Why did they just… leave?”Twenty four years later and it’s the mystery he still hasn’t uncovered. It eludes him even now. He only knows bits and pieces. His father was working on something big, something secret. People went after them. They died in that plane. Bodies were never recovered—this one he found out just recently. All this time, their coffins were empty.
All he remembers from his parents are the bright lights from cable tv and the warmth coming in all directions—his father pressed on his left, his mother on right and the locked rooms. The rooms were always locked in their small home. Other than those, his parents are but a distant memory to him.
A fickle thing; memory.“I don’t know, Peter. Truly. You must believe me. Richard and I were partners but we never really talked outside work. I still don’t know why he destroyed his work. Our work.”Peter does. He ponders telling the man about the recording when he continues, “But what I do know is that your father… isn’t who you think he is.”
His heart speeds up, “Why do you say that?”“He always struck me as secretive. Inconsistent in his stories. Defensive, even. I know that our work is secret but there’s no reason we should be keeping some from each other. I used to wonder if he led a secret, double life. I was right on that account, I suppose,” he looks pointedly at Peter, “But why would he hide the fact that he has a child from me? From everyone else?”Peter lets the words marinate. On one hand, Curt’s memories are altered because of the spell. On the other… he must have been pulling from real memories. Memories where his father had been secretive, inconsistent, defensive. Apparently, he brought those traits home. The more he finds out, the more his parents become strangers to him. He must have been quiet for too long because before Curt leaves him on his lonesome, he pats him on the back and says, “Everyone has secrets, Peter.”Understatement of his life.
Once he finishes tidying up his station, he ambles to the hallway and steps into the elevator. For some reason, his eyes linger on the penthouse button. A large portion of the floor is office space used by Octavius.
Dr. Connors was right: everyone does have secrets. Even Olivia Octavius. And Peter is willing to bet his entire bank account (which is slowly dipping into double digits. Cue hysterical laughter track here.) that she keeps some of those in that office of hers.
But how to get there? It’s not like he could just… take an elevator up there……can he?He jogs inside and passes by a utility closet. He’s about two, three steps in before he backpedals, whistling as he steps inside, back first. A minute or two passes and he comes out wearing blue coveralls and a Yankees cap (ugh) hiding the upper part of his face, pushing a cleaning cart, still whistling. He mumbles incoherently and tips his head at a corporate man, who promptly ignores his entire existence. Nailed it.Sometimes, the stupidest covers work the greatest. He’s pretty sure Aristotle said that. Plus, his powers are a no-show for now. Time to brush up his undercover-ing skills.
He pushes the elevator, presses the top floor and whistles as he waits. Peter sees a CCTV camera in the corner of his eyes and subtly positions his body away from it. The elevator dings and Peter pushes the cart into a stretched-out, deserted horizontal hallway. Frosted glass walls and the arctic cold gush of the AC welcome him. He keeps his senses attuned to guards that are in their respective posts.
He beelines all the way, muttering an incoherent greeting to the guards, who grunts and presses a button to let him in. As he enters, he takes a second to marvel at the spacious office space, equipped with a blackwood desk, high-end computers, and a shelf filled with various awards and other knick-knacks. There’s also a long, u-shaped glass counter littered with unfinished gadgetry, even more high-end tools, and some empty Chinese takeaway boxes. Having only worked here for a short while, he never once saw the woman make an appearance in the labs downstairs.Clearly, she’s been busy.
Even without sharpening his senses, he could hear the low hum of security cameras in every corner of the room. There are most likely more protective measures in place, due to Octavius’ paranoid nature. He’s going to have to do this as stealthily as he could.
Keeping his cap low and his name tag hidden, he does a few sweeps around the room with his mop. As he nears the desk, he deftly inserts his bypass key at one of the ports in the hub while he discards the rows of litter on the table. He watches the goober do his job for him, auto-filling passwords and dodging safeguards. Then, he inserts another goober—a memory card this time. It takes a little longer than usual but once it finishes, he makes a show of “cleaning” desktop itself—wiping the monitor, shaking off the dirt from the keyboard—all while selecting as much file as he could to copy to his goober.
Once done, he pulls out the goober and leaves as efficiently as he could, covering his face as he does. He thinks he’s in the clear but then he hears heels clacking and rounding the corner. He continues walking, hands tightening on the cleaning cart’s handle. The goobers are a weight on his pocket.Olivia Octavius barely spares him a glance when he passes. He clicks the elevator button.
Being forgettable may have some perks, he learns.
After returning his undercover clothes to its rightful place, Peter returns to his workstation and checks the cameras, the ones he’s tapped into since his first week here, just for emergency purposes and in case for situations such as these; when he needs to access room that he’s not allowed in. He stayed up for a week straight trying to learn hacking. He quickly flits into every channels in the penthouse and the elevators and sure enough, all of them had been partially obstructed. In about an hour, those webs would dissolve and none would be the wiser.
He grins. He has about twenty minutes left in his lunch break but years-worth of data stored in his goober. All in all, a success.
He practically skids to the cafeteria in a hurry when something makes him do a double take. A three-piece suit almost as old as him, a battered leather suitcase with MJM engraved on it, red-tinted glasses, and a cane. The sight that used to mean home to him. A great love; his greatest since Gwen.
There he is; Matthew Murdock himself sitting on a table with a cup of coffee in hand, cane resting on the table, talking to someone. All of a sudden, he hears Peter-Two’s voice in his head, saying that he should try to be better. He could almost feel Peter-One nudging him on the shoulder supportively.
Swallowing his guilt, his feet moves to its own accord, and he’s four, five steps away from where the man is sitting when he remembers. Matt Murdock doesn’t know who Peter Parker is.
The late nights, the houses that were brick-by-close-brick, the school buses he was running over to catch and the stares and giggles he would get for sitting
with the weird, blind boy from next door, the flash from his camera that would reflect on tinted glasses. But then, things started changing so much. Too much. And soon, it all fell apart.
Matt has no memories of those. Peter doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. He’s grateful for the glasses; at least he won’t have to see the lack of any shred of recognition in Matt’s eyes.
Matt, whom always had a sharper senses than most; rivaling his almost, turns and inclines his head at his direction, “Hello? Is anyone there?”“Um, yes, sorry,” he scrambles to find his words, “You’re Matt Murdock, right? The pro-bono guy?”Matt’s mouth quirks up an amused smile. God, he’s still so fucking handsome.
He tries to focus. He’s been meaning to ameliorate Anna Maria’s less-than-ideal situation and getting her more security just in case. Despite of their fractured relationship, he trusts Matt. He’s seen him win unwinnable cases and even on the brink of poverty and the world against him, Matt Murdock will never say no to those who need help. It’s one of the qualities he possesses that Peter loved about him. Still loved.Even with their fraught history, there will always be a part of him that longs for the man, for what could have been.“Yes, that’s me. I’m sorry, do I know you?”
You’ve known me all your life.
“No,” he swallows, “I’d like to ask for your help. Or hire you. Sorry, I don’t know how this works. I’m like a twenty-nine-year-old teenager. Do you ever wish you still have your parent with you when you’re doing adult stuff? Or adulting, as we Millennials say. Is it just me? Aaaaaaand, I’m rambling. Sorry. Yikes.”This time, Matt gives a full laugh. “It’s fine. How may I help you, Mr…?”“Parker. Peter Parker.”“How may I help you, Mr. Parker?”Tapping the goobers on his pocket, he takes a deep breath and tells him about Anna Maria Marconi.