Chapter Text
Peter wakes up at 4:36 am on a Wednesday and doesn’t feel anything.
That’s not totally true.
Peter feels a lot of things. There’s the rough drag of low-thread count sheets against his skin, the smell of stale rust from the pipes overhead, and the bright slivers of light slanting through the blinds. He hears the slow rumble of his stomach, feels the scratchy itch at the back of his throat, and the greasy hair tickling along his forehead– a thousand myriad sensations crawling across his body.
But those are physical worries, the signs of a body functioning in the most technical sense of the term.
It’s Peter’s head that’s empty– brain so scraped out that he doesn’t even have nightmares anymore. It should be a relief not to constantly relive all the old fuckups. All Peter feels is lonely.
Side note, there’s got to be a term for how fucked up it is to miss nightmares.
Instead, he keeps waking up feeling light in the worst kind of way, hollowed out and untethered, freefalling directly into space.
When Peter had begged Strange for a clean start, he’d meant everyone else. He wasn’t supposed to be any part of the bargain, only the price. And Strange made the whole thing sound ominous and tragic– like the spell would lance the boil and drain Peter out until the world could be made whole again.
He’d assumed (hoped?) that the magic would…evaporate him? Blink him out of existence? Peter can’t say. Magic isn’t really a quantifiable science.
But whatever the cost, he’d been willing to pay. It seemed only right to accept the burden for all the lives Peter ruined, either directly or as a result of every bad decision he’d ever made. And he’d made a lot of them.
Terms and conditions signed, Peter resigned himself to death.
Turns out dying would have been the merciful option. But instead of gracefully shuffling off this mortal coil, Peter stumbled directly into Emma Jean Watson.
God. MJ. Peter feels so fucking stupid.
It shouldn’t matter that Mary Jane and Emma Jean look and sound and smell nothing alike; he should have known. The moment she dropped her name at the bar, Peter should have swung for the hills. But he’d been so starved for a crumb of human affection that Peter followed Emma’s smile like a moth straight into the open flame, letting her coax him into accepting one drink, then two, then three— until two hours later, boom, he was walking out of Weasel’s office completely blindsided with a job and a place to sleep.
Even the sting of charity barely registers. Turns out that weeks of rotating between homeless shelters and cold rooftops on an empty stomach really grinds down the spirit of protest. The only silver lining had been knowing that his loved ones would never have to suffer again.
Well, Peter’s been the victim of hubris too many times not to recognize it.
So now he gets to wake up on a queen-sized bed on the second floor of a converted church and suffer the luxuries of having a working heater, running water, and a paycheck– all at the low, low cost of watching this world’s MJ strip six nights out of seven, and endure men paying for the privilege of groping her.
Fucking Parker luck.
Emma had barely gotten Peter the job before he’d immediately risked it the next evening by almost breaking a regular’s arm for touching her naked hipbone. What followed was the most mortifying conversation in human history, with a topless Emma standing between him and Weasel, arguing in his defense while Peter fought the urge to commit incredible violence.
First-day nerves, she’d said. Weasel was not happy about comping the man’s tab. He’d already been so generous with Peter.
He’ll behave; she’d promised the “customer” two free dances. Won’t you, Peter?
The answer was fuck yes because losing this job was no longer an option. Illogical and condescending as it is, the thought of letting random jackasses slobber over Emma is easier to swallow if he’s there to keep an eye on her.
Weasel, that motherfucker, saw the opportunity and took it, piling on responsibilities like a kid at a candy store. Peter agreed to his extra terms without question, nodding through a lump of anger so intense he nearly cracked his teeth.
Two weeks in, Peter is still seesawing between seeing Emma as the woman he loves(d) and an uncanny reminder of everything he’s given up.
When she’s at the club, where Peter can see her and speak to her, Scarlett is her own person.
When Peter is alone, the idea of her is a raw, ugly ache. An open wound salted by the knowledge that she’s here– all the same pieces of the woman he betrayed but with none of the accusation in her eyes.
It helps that the two wholes of her are nothing alike. The first time he’d met her, Mary Jane smelled like fresh rain and leather. She was a shy, introverted secretary who spoke in low tones and didn’t like crowds. She had dark skin and deep black eyes, with fire-engine hair straight from the bottle. Towards the end, she was almost nothing but bone, gaunt, and pink-eyed, smelling like the rot of Peter’s venom and fruit left out for too long under the sun.
Emma Jean is a walking firecracker with a booming voice and an equally large personality. She takes up the room when she enters, arresting everyone’s attention without quarter. Emma is also, in her own words, an unapologetic bitch, grabbing life by the throat and choking it till it hacks up her due. She smells like spice, a deep burn in the back of his throat, and it’s enough of a difference for Peter to keep his distance.
And true to his word, two weeks in, Peter has behaved.
Weasel takes advantage of Emma’s leash, working Peter like a dog and expecting him to be happy with scraps. Technically, it’s indentured servitude. Ironically, it’s more stability than he’s ever had.
If this is all buildup to some cosmic joke, Peter is worried he’s not going to survive the punchline.
The combination of decent sleep, food, and Emma’s unburdened friendship has done a number on Peter’s emotional state. Namely, the numbness that’s been his constant companion is finally thawing away, leaving room for the slowly horrifying realization that instead of being excised from his universe, he’s been transmitted– a dormant sickness simmering under another victim’s skin.
He’s already risked Emma’s job almost as soon as she met him. What’s next? How long till Peter ignites a chain reaction that starts with a stupid mistake and ends in ruined lives-
The panic attack comes over him in waves.
It’s been a while, but like everyone who’s ever shared a cell in a heavily crowded prison, Peter knows how to suffer in silence. He lets the riptide wash him out to sea, gritting his teeth through the nausea and riding the sine curve of hot and cold for what seems like forever.
Eventually —unfortunately—Peter comes back to himself. He’s shivering, and the sheets are drenched and twisted. Everything feels grimy as hell, and his mouth is drier than dust. Taking on the day feels like an Avenger’s level threat, but Peter powers through the exhaustion and forces himself to the bathroom on shaky legs.
At least the daily pipeline of showering, shaving, and getting dressed gives him something to focus on.
He strips with clinical efficiency and forgoes the hot water, flinching under a freezing spray and lathering himself with the most non-offensive 3-in-1 body wash he could find that won’t give him a migraine.
When he’s done, Peter towels his hair and dresses on autopilot. Anyone looking in would be fooled into thinking he’s a normal, functioning member of society.
Peter’s therapist, if he exists, would be very proud.
He steps out the door and heads down the staircase that separates the bar from his ‘apartment.’ There’s still half an hour before opening, so Peter settles into the routine of pulling out the chairs and wiping down the counter -plus all the extra amendments Weasel added to the constitution- before he unlocks the doors.
People start trickling in almost immediately, which would have been strange if Peter hadn’t realized barely two hours into his very first shift that he was serving drinks at some sort of…mercenary bar.
He’s been accused of being slow on the uptake before, but it doesn’t take a genius detective to deduce that most of Maggie’s regulars aren’t the usual strip-bar fare.
For one, it’s packed during work hours. Day drinking is not a novel concept, but there’s nothing special about the menu that can’t be found at any other watering hole. In fact, three different bars in the area serve cheaper alcohol if you’re looking to get wasted at 7:02 am on a Wednesday.
Secondly, they don’t pay attention to the girls. It is weird for regulars of a strip bar to know each other’s names but draw blanks on most of the dancers.
Thirdly, they talk. If loose lips sink ships, then Sister Margaret’s should be rotting at the bottom of the Mariana Trench six times over. No need for enhanced hearing when tables of openly armed men are trying to out-drink each other while recounting the details of their gigs with increasingly loud and absurd detail.
They’re so…messy. The inmates back at Ryker’s had more discretion than most of New York’s toughest mercs. The second-hand cringe is almost unbearable.
It seems the glamorous underground world of Jane Wick is doomed to fantasy.
And, finally, there’s Weasel. Jackass looks like a wet yorkie, but he’s obviously the brains of the operation. Peter’s already been victim to his shrewd intelligence once, and lesson fucking learned. Don’t judge a book by its cover. After all, no one makes it far in the business of cutting throats without being cutthroat themselves.
There’s no altruism in Weasel letting the dancers set their own rules and skimp on stage fees. Flesh is just a front, or maybe the icing on the cake. The real bottom line is calculated under the table– between the handshakes and visits to the office, where people go in and come out looking like they’ve got a job to do.
Lucrative jobs if the numbers he’s overheard are true. Meaning the mercs have no excuse to be as stingy as they are. Two-Stone Ricky running ten stacks for stealing a Botero could stand to tip Hyacinth a little better, in Peter’s opinion.
But Peter wasn’t hired to have an opinion. His job is to pour drinks and stop fights from breaking out. And try not to cause suspicious levels of damage to people who think Peter is on the menu.
A few twisted arms, and they’ve learned their lesson. Mostly.
Some of them still act like hot shit, strutting around the bar with their gun bulges front and center, acting like they own the place, and looming over Peter, escalating when he refuses to be cowed. They don’t know that Peter is immune to most forms of intimidation after spending a lifetime around maniacs.
Otherwise, the decision to spend his evenings pouring drinks for people who taste like fresh blood and gunpowder would warrant some serious self-reflection. As it stands, most of them don’t even get a second glance, much less any actual consideration.
Unless they’re harassing the girls.
Then, two weeks and four days in, the entrance to Sister Margaret’s bursts open, and everyone’s eyes are immediately drawn to the silhouette at the door, a figure burnished in wide swathes of red and black.
The world pinches and slows to a crawl– time dilating the way it always does when Peter senses a threat. He doesn’t need three guesses.
Deadpool.
The man is huge, his presence enormous, body as broad as a battleship, and armed about the same. Everything about him is as loud as a siren, and the volume of his costume is matched only by the sheer alarm ringing in Peter’s ears.
That’s a man who would gut me without hesitation, Peter thinks when he sidles up to the bar, and the delicious tension that settles at the back of his skull is the first real feeling he’s had in ages.
He wonders if Deadpool existed in his old world. If he did, they never crossed paths. A shame.
“Hey, Baby Boy.” Deadpool rumbles, and the air around him tastes like ozone and gunsmoke, sliced with the coppery overtones of fresh blood. Underneath it all, there’s the lingering aftertaste of something rotten and sweet– an endlessly burning spool of cotton candy.
It’s the smell of danger. Violence.
The rumors floating around the bar about the man are outlandish– the kind of broken bullshit two eight years olds would come up with when trying to one-up each other in a fantasy fight.
Peter knows the power of a reputation. He’s used Spider-Man’s rep to his advantage for years. But no one is stupid enough to believe Spider-Man can take an RPG to the face and just walk it off.
No one can.
Except for Deadpool, apparently. That’s the song Peter’s been hearing on repeat: that no one can take twelve stabs to the head, no one can be torn in half, no one can take a fall off the Empire State Building, and so on…except Deadpool.
The list of things Deadpool can apparently walk off is endless. The mercs say that Deadpool can go down but doesn’t stay down, can’t stay down-
Peter’s mouth is suddenly slick with venom, and he has to turn around to cover whatever expression his face is making and swallow.
Fuck.
He hasn’t reacted this strongly to anything in months. Every muscle in his body is coiling up, long dormant instincts shaking off the dust, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation.
His teeth ache. He needs to bite-
“Deadpool,” Peter clamps his jaw like a steel trap, turning when he’s finally collected himself. His throat tingles. It feels like he’s stuck his head directly under the belfry. The man’s been a semi-permanent fixture in the club for weeks, long enough for Peter to get a handle on himself. All that talk is exactly that, talk. “The usual?”
Meaning whatever Weasel’s got under the table.
“You know it,” Deadpool confirms, making grabby hands at the bottle of Knot Creek. He always chooses the darkest spot at the edge of the bar, where two of the overhead lights don’t work. Weasel doesn’t want them replaced.
He tilts his head away and inhales a quarter of the bottle like it’s nothing. Deadpool must have some sort of mutation, because the bitter air of alcohol evaporates in the span of a few heartbeat.
Unfortunately, asking questions isn’t part of the job description. Peter tucks away his curiosity and is about to hand him a glass- “There you are, jackass.” -when pop goes the Weasel, emerging from behind Peter like some sort of blonde, greasy shadow.
Peter barely hides a flinch because what the fuck?
Weasel glides over, taking center stage with Deadpool and grabbing the glass out of Peter’s hand.
“Shoo,” he says, waving Peter off. “Go alphabetize the bottles or something.”
Peter sidesteps the sudden burst of irritation. He’s trying to stay on Weasel’s good side for Emma’s sake, so he retreats to the other end of the bar and starts working on the inevitable sixth round of drinks for the table in the back.
They’ve been pounding shots ever since they sat down, getting increasingly louder by the hour. The constant noise is scattering Peter’s attention, grating on his nerves.
He tunes out the heated game of one-upmanship and focuses on the conversation happening at the other end of the bar.
“You got something for me?” Deadpool is asking, low enough that most people shouldn’t be able to hear.
“Nothing big,” Weasel responds, snatching the bottle from Deadpool’s hand to pour himself a glass before the merc can drain it. “Unless you’ve reconsidered Japan?”
There’s a disgruntled noise from beneath the mask. “Nah. Jet lag’s a fucking bummer.” He pauses, “Thought you said you had ears on something in the city.”
“Too small. Not up your alley.”
“You an expert in what goes up my alley?” Deadpool’s leer is audible. “Figured out the details of my size kink? Gross, Weas.”
“Wouldn’t be much of an information broker if I didn’t.” Weasel snorts, letting Deadpool wrangle the bottle back. “But trust me when I say that everything I learn about you is against my will.”
Deadpool reaches out and tweaks Weasel’s nose none too gently. “What can I say? I’m a girl of hidden depths, a gift that keeps on giving.”
“Mhmm. A real walking, talking STD.” Weasel rubs at his face, sounding like he wishes this conversation were over.
From the side, they look like friends– or something at the fringes of it. But for all the seemingly harmless banter, there’s no mistaking the sharp, underlying edge to all their jokes. There’s no ease in their interaction, none of the warmth Peter and Flint had before everything went south.
But they don’t press to hurt. They keep it civil because, underneath the cloying stench of Weasel’s strawberry shortcake vape and nicotine cologne, he smells like fear. It’s a smell Peter’s only recently gotten acquainted with, one that only makes an appearance when Deadpool does.
And Weasel isn’t alone.
Most of the regulars won’t even talk to the guy. Mercs that would take a bullet train head-on give Deadpool a wide berth– like animals instinctively fleeing at the signs of a natural disaster.
From what Peter’s heard, Deadpool’s attention is like his line of fire; a killzone.
In another life, Peter would have leaped at the challenge. Now, he smothers the impulse.
Attention can be lethal, and Peter barely survived the spotlight the first time. He’s not eager to repeat the experience. A low profile is the rational thing to do, no matter how much his gut is screaming at him to make a move, just to see how it’ll play out.
Peter ignores his gut. His gut is not his friend. His gut gave Flint Marko, a career criminal, three full vials of his venom.
“I’m getting bored, Weas.” Deadpool’s frustration bleeds into the ambient air around him, though his voice stays deceptively light. “You don’t want that.”
The noisy mercs in the back kick it up a notch, scattering Peter’s attention for a split second. He grinds his teeth, gums aching, annoyed.
“Wade, as much as I’d love to get your stink out of my floorboards, I can’t just magic shit up.” Weasel’s frustration is a lot louder, reflected in his voice and posture as he curls over the bar. “So until I’ve got something big to chase-”
Like Spider-Man, Peter thinks, and he knows it’s a bad fucking idea the moment it pops into his head. But it takes hold like a disease, infecting his mind with old-world memories of swinging through the city, how the world boiled down to the narrow gaps between roofs and claustrophobic fights-
“-looking for a big payday, then buy the goddamn ticket to Japan!” Weasel finishes whisper-shouting his tirade.
Oh.
The disappointment feels like being dunked in cold water.
Money. Of course.
Deadpool is a mercenary. Peter shouldn’t be projecting his stupid instincts onto others just because someone triggered his fight response. People aren’t like Peter; they’re not tossing and turning at night, hungry for the pulse of adrenaline and itching for the thrill of the chase.
It’s probably for the best. As fun as the idea of fighting Deadpool might be, the actual matchup would probably leave Peter disappointed. The guy might be a heavyweight in mercenary circles, but Spider-Man is in a different league altogether.
And the less attention Peter draws to himself, the better, even if he’s practically itching for an outlet-
His senses go off like a flare, and Peter doesn’t even think, just tilts his head a few centimeters to the right, catching the stray bottle that’s spinning in slow motion over his shoulder before it can shatter against the back of his head.
He turns and rolls it over his wrist, spinning the bottle on his palm in a smooth 360-degree motion before setting it down on the counter with a definitive clink.
When he looks up, the mercs in the back have firmly crossed the line from rowdy to destructive.
About fucking time.
Wade watches Baby Boy snatch a bottle that comes flying at him out of the air without looking.
Damn, they threw the thing at mach speed, too. Wade’s got to hand it to the kid; those are some impressive reflexes. He follows the easy catch by spinning the glass with enough flair to make a schoolgirl swoon, setting it against the bartop like he’s the main character.
The jackasses in the back don’t even notice, hauling each other over the tables in a messy, drunken sprawl. Wade hasn’t seen this much fumbling since prom night.
They’re embarrassing to the profession. He should do the world a favor (and indulge himself) by shooting them in the chimichangas for interrupting plans between Wade and his future paycheck, but the look of intense concentration on Baby Boy’s face distracts him. That is the furrowed brow of a man who is about to fuck around and find out.
Boo. Three more days and Baby Boy would have passed the cutoff mark.
“And he was this close to being the final girl,” Wade mourns performatively, sparing a glance at Weasel to gauge how the man is feeling about the prospect of watching his civilian pet project get snapped in half. But the asshole just looks vaguely amused, which piques Wade’s interest.
So he turns back around just in time to watch Baby Boy march right into fucking around territory. He straight up walks toward the group of heavily armed mercs, no weapons, no foreplay, no nothing– just moxie.
Damn. He’s stupid. Wade likes that in a guy.
Usually, Wade likes hedging his bets on the underdog for the thrill, but four against one is bad odds for anyone who isn’t Deadpool, even a civvie with so many badass tattoos.
“Hey,” Baby Boy says, wrapping a hand around the leg of one wooden chair as the one with a bad haircut raises it over his head.
Four extremely drunk mercs manage to scrape enough brain cells to pay attention to the sudden newcomer.
“You know the rules. Sit down, or take it outside,” Baby Boy continues, tugging on the chair like he’s trying to take it from an unruly toddler.
There’s a collective laugh as all four bozos simultaneously forget their beef to unionize against a new, soft, and squishy target.
“Oh yeah?” The short one smiles, revealing a row of really ugly teeth. Wade’s fist immediately itches to plant itself into that mouth, just for offending his eyes like that. “Who’s going to make us, you?”
“If I have to,” he shrugs, and Wade sees the taunt in the little curve of his mouth.
Bold move, Cotton.
The rest of the bar, normally oblivious to a few broken pieces of furniture and some blood, takes notice of the audacity. Wade can practically hear eyeballs turning and the collective bating of breath.
“That’s cute. He thinks he can take us.” Bad Haircut snickers, drunkenly swaying into the conversation. He gives Baby Boy a once-over, expression turning lewd, “Then again, maybe he can…in one of the back rooms.”
“He does have bigger tits than most of the girls here,” his unfortunate-looking friend leers, staring at Baby Boy’s admittedly mouth-watering chest. Motherfucker is tall and top-heavy, built like a linebacker, invading the kid’s space like he’s looking for a touch-down if you get Wade’s drift. “Got a pretty face, too. What do you say, sweetheart? Why don’t we go to the back and we can apologize to you real good.”
Baby Boy’s hand constricts halfway into a fist before he forces it to relax. He looks like he’s barely holding himself back, and coin flip on whether this is going to be very funny or very sad. Either way, Wade’s on board to be entertained.
“Yo, Weasel,” Ugly Smile calls out, eyes locked on Baby Boy, lurid and alcohol-glazed, “You mind if we take your bar bitch for a spin?”
His grin promises an unpleasant time, but Wade isn’t worried. Maggie’s is a shithole for sure, with morals looser than Wade’s jaw, but some things are still too far. Not that it keeps these loser shitheads from defaulting to it when they need to compensate.
“You break it, you buy it,” Weasel replies gamely. Which, dang, cold. Sometimes, Wade needs a reminder as to why he kind of likes the guy.
Baby Boy’s mouth twitches into a smile, eager, and Deadpool’s entire body goes on alert. “Take the chair out of my rent, then.”
Ready, set, action. An invisible hand slams the clapboard, and everyone bursts into motion.
The chair in question swings and misses. Baby Boy fluidly sidesteps both Bad Haircut and his buddy, grabbing the support and using the momentum to hook the wooden back over Linebacker’s neck, flipping the chair and twisting both mercs like ballerinas before sending them crashing to the floor.
Bad Haircut is scrambling up, but Linebacker is pinned to the floor by his chair necklace, anchored by Baby Boy’s leg as he presses down hard enough to snap the wood and drive the remaining air out of his lungs.
The bigger they are, the dumber they fall. Linebacker is immediately out for the count, but a broken chair is still useful, and Baby Boy is apparently the creative sort.
The snapped leg turns into a baton, and Baby Boy leisurely sways out of pistol-whipping range when Bad Haircut pulls out his gun, dancing back in to drive the splintered wood under the merc’s armpit on the outswing.
Screaming in pain, Bad Haircut stumbles back only for Baby Boy to grab his wrist and haul him forward, twisting his arm in a very fancy maneuver that ends up with the gun on the floor and kicked safely out of reach.
Interesting.
Then it’s a pas de deux, with Baby Boy’s back against Haircut’s chest, using the impaled baton as leverage to toss the man over his shoulder and straight into Ugly Smile.
The merc falls out of the way, only to run into Baby Boy’s fist as it buries deep in his guts. Even at a distance, Wade can hear his ribs break. Doubled over, Ugly Smile is coughing up blood and vomit when a tattooed hand cradles the back of his head and slams his mouth into the table once, twice, three times. Then it’s lights out.
It’s over almost as soon as it began, and as the dust settles, Wade thinks Baby Boy might just be final girl material after all.
He’d expected it to be fast. He’d expected it to be messy because drunk mercs aren’t exactly a masterclass in finesse (Wade is unique that way). What he hadn’t been expecting was Baby Boy to come out on top, let alone to have so effortlessly shut them down that it barely merits the paragraph.
And the kid isn’t done. He’s pinned the fourth guy in place with nothing but a glare, jaw flexing like an attack dog straining against its leash. The dumbass curdles under the pressure, looking like he’s turned over a new leaf as a law-abiding citizen in the few heartbeats it took Baby Boy to obliterate his buddies.
When it’s clear the fight is over, Baby Boy leans back, completely relaxed, eyes flat, no sense of triumph in the aftermath, just…disappointment– like he’d been craving something more and been left wanting.
Wade can’t resist a low, appreciative whistle, clocking the way Baby Boy’s entire body reacts to the sound. His head snaps in Wade’s direction, and the whole room vignettes as he stares Wade down, eyes flashing like he wants to crumble Wade’s spine like a cookie.
Lust stabs Wade’s gut all the way to the hilt. All the tension in the room funnels right into his dick.
“Changed my mind, Weas,” Wade breathes, “You should keep him.”
Unfortunately, the romance dissipates when Baby Boy breaks eye contact. He busies himself with cleanup, dragging three unconscious mercs toward the exit without comment. The fourth follows like a whipped dog, probably rethinking his line of work.
He turns back to Weasel and watches the man’s eyebrow slowly crank up in the world’s smuggest expression of, I told you so. Wade replaces the urge to punch Weasel’s grin off by settling for destroying his dignity by flicking a peanut at full velocity.
“I am keeping him,” Weasel winces as the peanut nails him under the eye. His head tilts ever so slightly upward. “Very close.”
Wade thinks back to the comment about rent, and does a double-take when the dots connect. “You got him living over the bar?” Wade wheezes, incredulous. “Weas…”
If Weasel is hitting that, Wade is going to empty a whole mag into his greasy blond head. Then he’s following suit because there’s unfair, and then there’s unfair.
“No!” Weasel has no idea the disgusted face he’s pulling narrowly saved his ass. “Don’t be fucking gross. It’s free labor. Him living upstairs means I can go home early.” He waves the subject away, “So, Tokyo?”
Wade frowns. Honestly, he’d been thinking about it, but it’s suddenly very important that he stays in New York. No reason. “What’s that job you were talking about? The one you said couldn’t gape my alley?”
Weasel manages to gag and sigh at the same time, “$12k.”
Eww. Weasel was right. Double Eww. Wade doesn’t usually bend over for anything less than 50k, and this is closer to pocket lint than an actual paycheck. His knee-jerk reaction is decline…but fuck it, he’s bored. “And the mark?”
“She’s just your type. A regular ambitious scum of the earth, in the middle of an arms deal with Fisk to secure her position after she offed her boss. Trade is set to happen soon.”
Hmm. Fisk is a messy bitch. Whether you’re dealing with him or with him, there’s nearly always something that goes sideways, and not in a sexy way. The whole job screams cheap and sloppy, and Wade isn’t that type of girl anymore.
He’s got standards. Then Baby Boy comes back in, and maybe Wade’s feeling a little cheap after all. Sloppy if the stars align, which they never do.
“Sign me up,” Wade says, and Weasel, who knows him as well as anyone on this planet dares, doesn’t need to look to understand.
He just rolls his big, fat eyes through his big, fat glasses. “Typical.”
Another peanut gets cocked and loaded. “Careful, Weas; you aren’t accusing me of getting predictable, are you?”
“As if I’d ever accuse you of making my life easier.” Weasel is already pushing up off the bar. He’s smart enough not to point an actual finger in Wade’s direction, but he’s got the balls to glare. “Just remember, you break it, you buy it.”
By the time Baby Boy is back behind the counter, Weasel has disappeared through the back. They’re alone, nothing but a piece of wood (ha) between Wade and his target. And the dumbfucks in the bar know better than to interrupt Deadpool when he’s talking (to someone).
Behind the bar, Baby Boy hardly looks the worse for wear. He’s wringing dirty pink water out of the mop he’d used to wipe the floor, cool as a cucumber. Brown eyes flick up to Wade. “Need something?”
“That was a hell of a show,” Wade starts, because compliments are supposed to be conversational lube or something. “Really earned your tough guy tattoos, kid.”
Baby Boy rolls his eyes, “Whatever keeps them on their best behavior when the dancers start.”
There’s too much of a protective edge in his growl to just be the job talking. White Knights are so early aughts. That reminds Wade…
“Oh yeah.” Wade snaps his fingers. “You’re Scarlett’s friend, right?”
Baby Boy flinches like Wade pressed on a bruise. And with the way he locks up, they might be more than friends. Rare breed– not a lot of men can handle watching their girl strip for other guys.
“She just did me a favor, s’all.” Shrugging, he hides away towards the sink, washing the more stubborn blood spatter off his knuckles. Too late to deflect, though. Wade feels like he’s in one of those video games where an enemy opens up his underbelly to reveal a critical weakness. “And it’s kid, now?”
“Not like you ever gave me your name.”
“Not like you ever asked.”
Wade doesn’t argue the point. It's too early in their relationship to start gaslighting. “What can I say? Watching you fold four goons like they were cheap laundry makes you interesting.”
Baby Boy dries his hands on the dishrag, flings it over his shoulder. He turns back to Wade with a thick brow cocked behind his glasses- the one with a scar running through it. It makes him look cool. Other people get all the luck. “That’s a low bar.”
“Practically a tripping hazard in Hellhouse,” Wade agrees.
“Who’s the devil in this scenario?” Baby Boy asks, running his eyes pointedly over Wade’s costume. “Because I feel a little underdressed for the role.”
Not underdressed enough, in Wade’s opinion. He rakes his voice over gravel, “You asking to limbo with me, kid?”
This is usually the part where they backpedal.
Baby Boy surprises him by leaning forward, crossing his arms over the counter in a way that makes his collarbones pop out. Wade lets his eyes rove over the elegant lines of those fragile bones down to his bulging pecs. “Depends. Will I get to see you bend over backward?”
His eyes are lidded, hot. An unfamiliar sensation unfurls in Wade’s gut, like a live spark. It takes a few seconds to recognize what’s happening. Baby Boy is flirting. With Wade. Is this real life?
Doesn’t matter. Wade would have to retire his mercenary card if he didn’t take the shot. “That can be arranged,” he purrs, “If you tell me your name.”
Baby Boy’s brows rise high. Now that Wade’s really paying attention, it’s crazy how expressive they are. A guy could get motion sick. “Are you actually going to use it if I do?”
“Maybe,” Wade lies. Mostly. “Depends if I like it.”
Snorting, Baby Boy shakes his head a little. He pulls back and starts on a stack of glasses that have the kind of stains the Vatican couldn’t cleanse. “Don’t know if I can handle that kind of pressure.”
“You looked like you handled yourself just fine,” Wade murmurs, twirling the empty bottle of whiskey to occupy his hands. “Unless you’re sayin’ it was a fluke.”
“They were drunk,” he says, but not like an excuse. It sounds bitten off, a simmering frustration he wasn’t able to vent. “Not like they could put up a real fight.”
A rough chuckle rolls through Wade. A real fight. He doesn’t miss the way Baby Boy looks at him when he says it, which strokes his ego as much as it does the heat between his legs.
Wade perches his chin against his palm, leaning forward until he’s nearly fully over the counter. “You think you can take me?”
Baby Boy’s jaw flexes, swallowing in a way that draws Wade’s eyes like a magnet. The silence is fucking arrogant.
Wade’s stomach clenches with a molten curl of arousal and aggression. His hands are practically itching to wrap around the girls and impress on Baby Boy just how out of his league Deadpool is.
He tucks the urge away. Been a while since anyone’s had the balls to play ball with him. Wade’s enjoying it too much to let reality intrude.
“Who knows, maybe you can,” Wade purrs instead, indulging the fantasy. It plays out in pornographic detail, with horny flashes of meaty arms wrapped around his neck, squeezing the air out of Wade’s lungs before a final press snaps the bone like it’s a toothpick. Fuck, that’s hot.
“Just maybe?” Baby Boy goads.
But then he’d come back, and it would be game over for Baby Boy. As gorgeous as he’d look, trembling with fear and dripping big, fat tears out of his Disney eyes, Weasel would be a colossal bitch about having to deal with another victim of Wade’s impulses on Hellhouse property.
“Depends on whether you’ve got any more fancy SHIELD moves tucked away,” Wade smirks, watching Baby Boy freeze like a deer caught in headlights. “Haven’t seen someone use a takedown like that in a hot minute.”
In the split-second pause, Baby Boy’s face scrubs clean. His eyes go somewhere far away. Then he’s rubber-banding back to reality, playful tension evaporating all at once.
“What can I say? Prison is a diverse ecosystem.”
The mixed signals throw Wade uncharacteristically off-kilter. Baby Boy isn’t a brick wall, but it’s surprisingly hard to get a read on the little ounces of truth nestled in the pound of lies.
“Where’d you serve?” Wade taps under his eye, a mirror to the three dots on Baby Boy’s cheekbone. The answer is going to be pure bullshit, but Wade’s in the mood to be entertained.
“Rykers. Six years.” Baby Boy shuffles, shoulders hunching just a little. He’s stacking cups with single-minded focus. “Manslaughter.”
That squeezes an honest-to-goodness giggle out of Wade. And credit where credit is due because Baby Boy delivers that lie completely straight. Wade can appreciate a man who commits to the bit. That shameful side glance is fucking Oscar-worthy.
“Thought you had to do a little more than manslaughter to get into Rykers,” Wade chuckles, endlessly entertained at the thought. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one. So a super-villain walks into a strip bar and-”
“Disappears.” Another close-lipped smile curls across Baby Boy’s face, just bitter enough to be the truth.
That Wade can believe, but the slow trickle of information is fraying his patience. Subtlety is not his strong suit; the suit is very unsubtle, actually.
If this were a regular gig, Baby Boy would be tied up in some warehouse and deepthroating one of Wade’s knives, begging to trade his secrets in exchange for his life. It’s tempting. There’s a thin blade tucked into a sheath at his wrist. He could have it out and trained on the kid’s throat faster than he could blink. Sure, the kid can throw down, but Deadpool runs a whole different ball game.
Baby Boy doesn’t seem to realize that, openly taunting Deadpool with that hot-and-heavy stare.
Just before the impulses get too loud to ignore, Weasel is back, and his presence is the world’s most potent cock-block. He motions Wade towards the office, glaring at the back of Baby Boy’s head.
Wade pushes off the stool, winks, relaxes his grip on the knife holstered to his thigh, “Been fun chatting with you, kitten, but duty calls.”
Baby Boy looks like he ate a pound of lemons.
“Do not call me kitten.”
The commanding undertone is sexy. “Yes, Daddy.”
“Let’s cut a deal,” Baby Boy interrupts. “I’ll tell you my name if you never call me Daddy again.”
Wade grins and holds out his hand.
Baby Boy stares at the blood-red glove before reaching out with a resigned stare. His grip is firm, and the veins in his forearm pop out in vivid colors against the pale skin, disappearing into a forest of tattoos. Wade wants to follow them with his tongue.
“It’s Peter. Peter Parker.”
Wade’s mouth twists under the mask. “I don’t like it.”
Good thing he had his fingers crossed behind his back.
Baby Boy sighs. “I figured.”
——————
Call it a woman’s intuition, but Wade’s got a sense about these things- wouldn’t be cut out for the mercenary life if he didn’t. Impressive tits aside, there’s just something about this new bartender. The mystery is going to keep Wade up at night, and that’s bad news for everyone.
Once Weasel is done letting Wade snooze through the details of the job, he excuses himself through the office and makes his way upstairs.
He takes the stairwell two steps at a time until he reaches the little hallway that leads to Weasel’s attic apartment. Motherfucker won’t let Wade crash here but gives it up on the first date to some hot guy with nerdy glasses and slutty eyebrows-
…Yeah. Ok.
But Baby Boy is definitely hiding something, and Wade is going to figure out what.
His first thought is SHIELD. Issue is, shoe doesn’t fit. Wade can usually clock SHIELD agents a mile away. It’s unnerving, but moves aside, Baby Boy doesn’t ring any of his well-honed alarms.
For two, he doesn’t look like a typical plant. Everything about him is messy, from his cover story to his tells.
“Six years at Ryker’s,” Wade’s scar-pocked ass.
The kid is either extremely well-trained or not trained at all. It’s Wade’s first time being unable to tell the difference. Everything coming out of his mouth sounds true, but it’s so patently ridiculous that the cognitive dissonance of listening to it makes Wade’s brain itch.
An ex-con ‘from Ryker’s lol’ sporting small-time tats, who fluidly uses high-level SHIELD combat maneuvers —all while looking like the kind of wet-dream, thirst trap that gets edited to bad phonk on Tiktok— serving drinks at Sister Margaret’s like he’s got no other options?
And he’s flirting with Wade?
Yeah. Tastes like a scam. And that’s coming from a guy who firmly buys into Time Cube.
The other scenario is that Baby Boy really is a supervillain, and Weasel has lost his fucking mind. Wade really wants to give his old butt buddy the benefit of the doubt because there’s only room for one lunatic in their two-man routine.
Sometimes, an act of self-defense starts with breaking into someone’s apartment.
Hey, if the kid were less overt or had the good sense to get his ass beat when confronting four mercs, Wade wouldn’t be here.
Stealth isn’t his preferred way to go about things; again– check the suit, but some things require a delicate touch. Jimmying the lock is disturbingly easy, and Wade turns the knob very slowly, feeling out for any suspicious tension in the spring.
Nothing.
He lets go of the door and pushes it open in a leisurely swing. Still nothing. Not that a shotgun would be any real obstacle for Wade, but he’s trying to lay low here.
Confident he’s not going to be spattered, Wade creeps in, making a cursory, sweeping glance. Beyond the familiar sight of lancet windows and vaulted ceilings, the ‘apartment’ still looks as weird as ever, the layout an unholy cross (hah!) between a studio loft and a shitty player-built SIMS 3 house.
When casing a joint, it’s vital to cover areas of high interest. So Wade beelines to the sad kitchenette and immediately opens the fridge.
Oof.
There’s nothing but a few bottles of water, takeout from the noodle place down the block, and a half-unwrapped bar of dark chocolate. It’s 70% cocoa, which means that Baby Boy likes chocolate, but also feels like he needs to suffer for the sin of having a sweet tooth.
Wade scribbles ‘extreme guilt complex’ on a mental post-it note and sticks it to Baby Boy’s file.
The living room barely qualifies for the title, looking about as lived in as a morgue. Slivers of light from the open window highlight a faded leather couch, threadbare and clinging on to dear life by the grace of god and duct tape, as well as a battered coffee table that has too many suspicious stains to sell on Craigslist.
No TV. Just a bare brick wall.
Bathroom is the same deal. There’s a toothbrush, razor, a mildly wet towel, and the world’s saddest body wash tucked against the wall of Weasel’s grimy shower.
‘Smells cheap’ addendum to the mental post-it.
The bedroom is the only room that looks like it’s being used on a regular basis. The sheets are made, and the sad little pillows are all propped up. There’s nothing on the bedside table other than a Starkphone charger, one for an older model before they switched over to USB-C.
Scrounging through the closet doesn’t provide Wade with any insights beyond the fact that Baby Boy is a solid decade out of fashion. Judging based on looks feels like throwing stones from a very glass house, but it’s hard to consolidate the lean, compact way Baby Boy moves with the billowy button-downs and secondhand hipster t-shirts.
Most of the clothes look like they were sourced from Goodwill, with faded references and stale memes. And is it him? Is Wade not ‘with it’ anymore? No. It’s the kids that must be wrong because there’s nothing funny about the ratty misprinted Peanut’s shirt reading SPOONY.
‘9gag humor.’ Doesn’t bode well for their romantic future.
Wade checks the floorboards, he checks the wall, he checks the damn lighting fixture in the bathroom because they did it in Burn Notice.
Bupkiss. Nada. ничего.
Standing back in the living room, Wade is fucking annoyed. Baby Boy’s mental file so far has three notes, and none of them help bridge the gap between the kid at the bar and the one Weasel’s got living in his attic.
The difference between finding nothing incriminating and finding nothing at all is making Wade real fucking twitchy. Either Baby Boy is the world’s most consummate professional, or he’s a soulless robot because the entire apartment practically screams uncanny valley. Is this bitch really out here, living like this, just raw-dogging reality?
There isn’t a single thing in the apartment beyond the bare essentials required to survive. And Baby Boy’s got a distressingly low fucking bar. Not a book, not a laptop, not even a single magazine– he’s been living here for three weeks; what the fuck does he do?
Then he spots it. A backpack nestled between the radiator and the wall. Jackpot! Now, why would Baby Boy try to hide something like that out of sight?
He’s reaching for it when, suddenly, it feels like he’s been made. The feeling skitters over his entire body, the sensation of being watched crawling over his nerves like a thousand spiders.
His Beretta is out in an instant, thumb on the safety and pointed faster than his mind can catch up. Deadpool’s finger is on the trigger, except he doesn’t know what he’s aiming at. The place is empty– the front door firmly latched, nothing but dead air and dust between Wade’s gun and the rest of the apartment.
Stepping back, Deadpool presses his back to the brick wall, letting the pressure on his spine ground his freefalling pulse. He sweeps the room with the muzzle, trying to pinpoint where the feeling is coming from. Nothing. No one.
Deadpool grits his jaw hard enough to crack the bone. What the fuck is going on? Did something trigger him? Is he having a fucking episode?
No. It’s not the same. The feeling is heavy and intense, bearing down on Deadpool like an anchor instead of the muddy fishbowl sensation that comes with a panic attack. This is his gut saying something is wrong, but what?
Whatever it is, he can’t get a bead, but the thrum of adrenaline rushing through his body is so overwhelming that Deadpool feels lightheaded. He’s got to get the fuck out before he starts shooting at the walls. Anyone coming to investigate the noise is going to die, and Wade likes to keep his indiscriminate killing to a minimum, especially at Maggie’s.
Going back down is not an option. See: indiscriminate killing.
That leaves the window. Deadpool leaps over the edge, dropping two stories and grabbing the edge of the rickety fire escape to avoid breaking his legs.
He’s halfway down the block when the backdrop of Weasel’s apartment moves, and a figure comes into focus, peeling itself off the vaulted ceiling and landing on the wooden floorboards with barely a whisper of noise.
Peter Parker scowls at the open window.
“Motherfucker.”
