Chapter Text
The first time Peter encounters Wade Wilson is on December 25; Christmas, quite obviously.
The world is covered in a blanket of white, and yet more lint rains down on it. Fluffy, pale lint, gently lowering themselves in clumps onto the surface of the earth, and atop even more clumps. Clumps upon clumps upon clumps, creating layers upon even more layers… there must be at least 6 inches of the stuff out there; no one dares disturb it.
Yet, not here in Los Angeles, California. Here it does not snow. Here it has not snowed for a very long time; the temperature is still 49 degrees Fahrenheit, in the middle of December.
Early Christmas morning, people are either sleeping, making coffee, or opening presents.
Except Peter Stark, of course. Peter Stark wakes up at five on Christmas mornings to go for a run (or what he tells his parents). The boy is only fifteen, and is thus banned from staying out too late. But no one said anything aboot too early!
This is Peter’s logic, anyhow.
“Haha!!!” This is he. He, as in Peter, as in the kid in the red-and-blue spandex suit swinging high up over the still-lit streetlights lining the roads of downtown Los Angeles, California. He is nowhere near them; more like up with the cranes and skyscrapers. Peter is flying. He is giddy, and he lives for this feeling, this feeling of freedom.
Peter shoots out another web from his wrist. It snags onto a pole suspended over the city, and the boy swings, holding onto the strand of strong pale material. He flies forward, letting go of his support, soaring over the city before beginning to fall.
Merry Christmas! he tells himself as he webs himself up over to a shiny office building, landing onto the smooth surface with practiced ease; the boy begins to scramble up vertically. He reaches the top and stands, looking out over the city. His city, he likes to think, though it really isn’t. At all.
“Good morning, LA,” Peter says, yawning and stretching. “Merry Christmas.”
Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas.
He wonders if his dads are up yet. Steve, knowing him, probably is, and is now waking up Tony and informing him that their son is gone, yet again. Peter grins under his mask and chuckles.
He should probably be getting home now.
The boy retreats back over to the other side of the building’s roof, where he has left his duffel bag full of his normal clothes. Here, way up here, no one will see him undress. There is this temperature problem, however. Peter groans. This suit doesn’t much protect him from the cold either, but his hype and morning workout has warmed him up a bit. Though, standing here undressing and standing barefoot, naked in the cold isn't very appealing towards him.
Peter swings the bag over his shoulder and begins scaling the building backwards, until he is safely on the ground once again. The boy carefully looks around before speeding onto the sidewalk and down into the subways, from where he’d came. Luckily this early in California on a chilly Christmas morning isn’t a very satisfactory place for people to hang out. A few select people are out (which, really, to a country man, would be a loads, but to Peter, today is a quiet day).
He hurriedly ducks into the first bathroom he sees, praying no one sees him (it’s not like that in itself would be a big deal, it would be the fact of Peter exiting that would be; people would point and say “oh, that’s the boy! He’s the Amazing Spiderman!”). Now inside, Peter checks all the stalls to make sure no one is here (no one is) before ducking into one himself and locking it. He drops his duffel bag onto the floor before stripping off his mask, first, stuffing it in, then moving onto the rest of the suit.
Needless to say, this is always a struggle.
And today because Peter is in a hurry, everything just becomes even more tedious.
“Fucking spandex,” he mutters, irritably, peeling the tight material off of himself. Once its on, he gets used to it, but putting it on and taking it off… ugh. Peter has to repeatedly remind himself why he designed his suit this way; to be streamlined and move around all the easier. Like his Pops. And Aunt Nat. And basically all the superheroes that ever came into existence.
Finally, the boy manages to get his annoying suit off of him, and his less-annoying jeans and t-shirt and sweatshirt over his head (the sweatshirt has his school’s name on it. Peter does not know why he packed this particular one), and steps out of the stall, bag over on shoulder. He moves up to a mirror, washes his hands, and checks to make sure his mask didn’t mess up his face or anything (once it imprinted the web design onto his skin), ruffles his hair (it is the color of dark chocolate), and adjusts his black-rimmed glasses for what must be the fifth time now.
Then, the bathroom door slams open, and for a heart-stopping second, Peter thinks its the police, or, even worse, his parents.
But it isn’t. It is some red-clad dude, wearing a spandex body suit, like Peter’s. Only it is not Peter’s. It is something completely different; like one of a… superhero? But Peter had never seen this guy before. Said guy is very tall, overly muscular, and has two long (dangerous-looking) swords strapped to his back, two large pistols holstered on either thigh, a belt with lots of pouches on it (with a strange circular logo in the center), and two things Peter cannot see clearly strapped to either calf. The guy sees Peter staring, and waves cheerfully.
Peter awkwardly waves back.
The man (Peter assumes he is such) takes his place by a urinal on the other side of the bathroom and drops his lower half of the red suit.
Peter zips up his duffel bag hurriedly and is gathering the courage to leave when yet another person enters the bathroom.
Perfect, he thinks. Another superhero, perhaps?
No, it is a normal man. A black-hooded man with his hands in his pockets. He begins to wash his hands, and Peter swallows. Two people are in his way now, and both are setting off his Spider-sense. Great. The boy takes a step forward, and is promptly grabbed (his arm is, at least). He turns; it is the hooded man; of course.
“Yes?” Peter asks as politely as he can manage.
“Money, kid. Now.” The man briefly flashes an open switchblade, pulling him closer and twisting his arm painfully. Peter bristles and glances at the red-suited man, who appears to not have noticed.
“I-I’m sorry. I don’t have-“
He is shoved against one of the dirty tiled blue walls of the bathroom, and the knife mentioned is pressed up to his neck.
“Money, kid. Now,” the man hisses (almost snarls), quietly. Over his shoulder the superhero man is still pissing. Peter wonders why this guy even bothers to mug him when there’s a very bright witness standing right there. Unless they’re working together. That’s possible too, Peter realizes.
“Dude, really, I don’t have-“
“Oh, don’t you dude me. I’m asking for money. Open your bag.”
Peter stiffens. “I… I can’t… I mean, I-“
“Open it!”
He can just as easily kick this idiot in the nuts, tie him up with a few helpful webs, and bail out of here, leaving him to the janitors. Everyone’ll know it was Spiderman. But so will him, and the unhelpful apparent-superhero. And Peter can’t afford to let that happen. His dads will murder him if his face is seen while executing heroic acts in public bathrooms. There is probably a camera in here, too. Dammit.
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“No. I’m sorry, but I can’t open my bag.”
The man laughs scornfully, and shoves the knife harder onto Peter’s throat. “Why not?”
“Please back off, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Oh, but I do.”
This guy’s an idiot, is Peter’s only recurring thought as he studies the guy’s face, thinking of how easily he could have him bound up on the floor with two broken ribs and a bloody nose.
But of course Peter does not move. He only focuses on keeping his gaze steady, continuously glancing at the peeing man, who is still… peeing. How does he not notice? Perhaps he is deaf.
“I’m gonna say this one more time, kid. Open. The. Bag.”
Needless to say, Peter does not open the bag.
The man spins him around so the boy faces the wall, and pushes him up against it, arms twisted painfully behind his back. The knife is still at his neck. “I could break you, you know. Right now. I could cut you. I don’t care about that fucker behind us, alright? Give me your fucking money.”
Peter winces, and mentally curses at the world.
Well, shit. Now what?
Conflicting emotions pass through his head; strike back or not? Is it really worth getting away with a clean neck and working arms? To reveal is identity? Maybe no one will think much of it (Peter knows this is not true).
The offender pushes on his arms harder. He cringes and bites his lip.
“Who’re you callin’ a fucker?” says a male’s voice from behind. Both Peter and the hooded man freeze. “I mean, sure, fucking is fun and all, but it’s not like I do it all the time. You know, it’s hard to find a woman who’s willing to bang a guy that's horribly disfigured though great in bed. Disappointing, eh?”
There is a pause.
“Back off,” the man growls, still holding onto Peter, who rolls his eyes. Has the superhero actually decided to carry out his superhero-ly duties yet?
“Ha. Why don’t you? Go on, shoo. Let go of the kid, if you know what’s good for you.”
“Get out of here.”
“And leave this poor guy trembling against the wall in your admittedly gross grasp? You’ve gotta be kidding me, guy.”
“I’m actually not.”
The man behind them huffs loudly. “Alright, fine. You asked for it…” He sounds cheerful, which astonishes Peter; whenever he saves poor souls from muggers, he always talks in a slightly deeper voice than his normal one, as to disguise his identity. And to sound badass. Of course.
A thudding noise echoes throughout the bathroom, and the man pinning Peter lets go of him, falling to the floor with a loud thump.
The other man giggles. “He could use a workout.”
Peter grabs his duffel bag off the floor, and spins around. Sure enough, the red-spandex guy is standing there, holding one of his guns in one hand; he has hit the mugger in the back of the head with its hilt.
Even though he is wearing a mask, Peter can tell the guy raises an eyebrow.
“You okay?”
“Um,” the boy very intelligently answers. “Yeah.” He eyes his savior suspiciously. “Who are you?” Peter rummages through his memory, coming up with nothing involving this guy. Really, who is he?
“Oh, yes, you're welcome,” he says. “Your life totally wasn't in danger just now.”
Peter swallows, glancing to the door nervously. “Yeah, uh. Thanks. Sorry. It’s just…”
“Nah.” The man waves his hand, holstering his gun again. “What an asshole, amirite?” He nudges the unconscious body on the floor with one clothed foot. “You’re only in, what, high school?”
Peter cocks his head curiously. Is this what normal superheroes did besides him? Engage in small talk with the people they rescue from trouble? “Um, y-yeah. It’s… yeah. Tenth grade.” Why is he answering? “Who are you?” he tries again.
The man raises an eyebrow again. “I’m sorry, what? You don't know who I am?”
Peter shakes his head slowly.
“Deadpool? Wade Wilson?” Pause. “Deadpool?”
“I-I’m really sorry, but-“
“DEADPOOL? Ring any bells, kid? No?” Another pause. “Invincible? Cat-like agility? Horribly messed up face?” A few moments of silence pass. “Huh. This just got awkward really quickly, hm.”
Peter waits expectantly.
“I’m Canadian,” Wade Wilson/Deadpool explains like this makes perfect sense to why Peter doesn’t know him.
“Ok,” he says, mostly just wanting this conversation to end, perhaps now. “Ok, um, thanks again, but I really should be going…”
“Oh, of course you should, silly me.” Smirk. Peter really wonders why he can see these things through the red-and-black mask Deadpool wears over his head and face. He pushes himself off the wall and awkwardly shuffles around him to the door.
“Thanks. Again.”
“Aw, stop thanking me, kid. It’s my job, after all! Say, you like tacos?”
Peter pushes open the door. “Not especially.”
“Well fuck you too then.”
The boy glances back quizzically before exiting the bathroom, firmly shutting the door behind him with a mumbled “Merry Christmas”.
This is the first encounter, a prologue to the many chapters to come. Peter does not know this, of course, and does not think much of the event. In fact, it is already completely wiped from his mind at the moment because the boy has spotted his parents across the subway platform, staring him down, arms folded, feet tapping.
“Crap,” Peter mutters.