Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Every day since he first started taking the train, there’s always the same list of people that Peter looks forward to seeing on the subway ride to school. There’s the old lady with the grumpy cat that gets on at the stop after his and knits while the Maine Coon yowls and hisses at everyone who gets too close. There’s the blonde man in the sharp business suit who wears sneakers older than time itself that answers ludicrous phone calls from his wife on speakerphone (which, in itself, should be considered a crime). The list goes on, the characters get more and more bizarre; the five year old girl with bright pink pigtails that travels three stops by herself every other weekday, the teenage girl that he’s only ever seen in a Starbucks uniform who’s always talking about how much she hates her job, the old man in a knitted vest who refuses to speak in anything but incomprehensible riddles.

Today, Peter was expecting much of the same. The day had certainly been set up to be as ordinary as ever. Aunt May had completely burned breakfast and nearly set their apartment on fire, somehow managing to burn a hole in the couch across the room in the process. They had just barely managed to get that taken care of before Peter had to dash out the door. So he didn’t actually get breakfast.

On top of that, Peter had managed to make it all the way down the several flights of stairs in his apartment building before (thankfully) remembering that he’d left an assignment on his desk that was worth 20% of his grade, and had to head back up to get it.

At this point, Peter’s just about ready to give up on the day and go back to sleep. Even running a little faster than should be humanly possible without super powers, he just barely manages to make it onto the train before the doors close, breathing hard (less from the physical exertion and more from the relief at having made it in time) and nearly falling flat on his face when the train gives a sudden lurch as it starts moving. Peter’s quick to grab onto one of the uncomfortably warm poles set in the middle of the crowded train after that. His day does not need a traumatic face planting experience on top of everything else. 

The entire train is packed with the usual early morning traffic, the strong scent of alcohol clinging to the drunk man passed out on a nearby seat, overwhelming his senses enough that he’s sure he’ll have a headache by the time he arrives at his destination. Everyone is pushing and shoving at the people next to them in an attempt to keep themselves from being stepped on or stuck in someone else’s lap, not a single thought to anything else but to keep themselves away from the Maine Coon and the elderly woman when they arrive. 

Peter has never been more thankful for his ability to stick to surfaces in his life. That and his super strength being the only things currently keeping him from the same fate as the two teen boys, that appear to have given up, both currently tangled together in one of the seats, scrolling through social media like it’s a regular occurance. It could or it couldn’t be. They were both showing each other the random videos they came across without moving, so Peter figured it was likely the former. They don’t go to his school and he doesn’t know them personally, but he’s almost positive the two are dating. 

Peter feels the train stop again with a jerk, the doors opening, letting on the little girl with the pink pigtails and a few others. He gives the girl a friendly wave that she returns with enthusiasm as she takes a seat in the empty spot to the left of the old woman. Genuine surprise coats his features when the cat doesn’t respond beyond a playful bat at the girl’s hair. The old woman casts a glance at the girl, nodding in acknowledgement before returning to her knitting. 

The doors close with a hiss a few moments later, sealing for the ride to the next stop, coffee shop girl’s stop, if he remembers correctly. Peter can’t exactly deny that he’s interested to see why she hates her job this week. Last week, it’d been something about a coworker who was “stealing her tips” by being “too cheerful” at eight in the morning. Most importantly, Ned and Peter had both made a bet about what color her hair would be this week, Peter was interested to see if he was right this time or not.

The next stop is the first thing off about the day, coffee shop girl climbs on (pink hair to match the little girl’s, Ned owes him fifty bucks) and immediately heads for the furthest corner of the train with a disgusted noise that has Peter’s eyebrows drawing together. A moment later, another notable person steps through the rickety doors (they probably should have been replaced about twelve years ago, he can hear the doors stick at several points when they close), and does a full double take when his eyes catch on the bright red and blue material of a startlingly accurate rendition of his Spider-Man suit in hoodie form. The plain black canvas straps of the teen’s backpack are a stark contrast against the soft looking material but still do nothing to take away from just how incredible it looks. 

The older teen shuffles self consciously, and it is at that exact moment that Peter realizes he was staring. He forces his eyes to the floor between them, clearing his throat. 

“Sorry, I just—” he pauses, blinks twice, and plows forward with a vague gesture toward the stranger’s hoodie. “Where did you get that? I’ve never seen Spider-Man stuff before. Is it custom made, or something?”  

The boy is quiet for a moment, answering in a soft voice that Peter isn’t positive he would’ve heard without his enhanced hearing. “I— I made it.” 

“Really?” Peter questions excitedly, eyes jolting up from the floor to the boy’s, filled with some indecipherable emotion. He does briefly note the scarring that covers most of his skin, another interesting detail to add, much like the little girl and her pink pigtails. “That’s so cool! What material did you use for this? Wait, did you do the web details by hand !?” Upon closer examination, every single line and stitch of web detail has to have been done by hand, everything carefully curving around the surface and designs in (mostly) even lines. He can pick out the few minor imperfections that do nothing but point further to the fact that this was done by hand. 

Train wheels screech loudly along the tracks as it starts up this time, Peter nearly lets go of the pole to press both his hands over his ears, barely resisting and shoulders hiking up in their absence. The teen in the Spider-Man hoodie actually does topple over with the motion of the floor beneath him, one of his hands latching reflexively onto Peter’s shoulder and the other onto the pole he was holding onto. Both wince as his head hits the pole with a solid clang . 

“Are you okay?” Peter asks, concerned. It doesn’t look like there’s any injury, thank goodness, but the concern is still there. Spider-Man has, if nothing else, increased the level of concern he feels for people on the street by tenfold over the years, oftentimes having that outweigh any should-be concern for himself. Yeah, Tony isn’t very happy about it, but it is what it is. 

The teen pulls back, moving his hand from Peter’s shoulder to rub at his forehead. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry about that.” He sounds embarrassed more than anything else.

Peter huffs. “Don’t be, this train needed to be used for scrap, like, four decades ago. No one can stay standing when it moves.”

“Oh, um, still.” 

“It’s really not a problem, don’t worry about it.” Peter smiles, what he hopes is reassuring, like how Pepper smiles when she’s chewing Tony out for keeping the two of them distracted in the lab for long enough that they miss dinner and doesn’t want Peter to think she’s mad at him . His smile slips marginally when the teens face heats up and his eyes lock onto his shoes like they’re the most interesting thing in the world. 

They stand together in silence for the rest of the trip, the train conductor’s indecipherable voice, probably, announcing their arrival at the next stop. Despite the slightly awkward, silent standoff between the two boys, Peter’s almost sad when his new train companion starts preparing to exit after such a short time. A final jolt on the rickety tracks, the train creaking ominously as it does, and people around them start standing and checking their pockets, like mystery teen had been.

Mystery teen turns to leave as the doors open to the crowded platform, but stops suddenly, turning back to Peter urgently. “What’s your favorite food?” 

Peter stares unblinkingly back at him, completely baffled. “What?”

“What’s your favorite food?” he repeats, slowly backing toward the doors. 

“Oh, well, I like churros, I guess. Why?” 

“Just wondering,” he says, a half smile forming on his face as mystery teen steps fully off the train and onto the crowded platform beyond. 

One stop, Peter notes. The older teen with the Spider-Man hoodie that he made himself, and the (for lack of a better word) gruesome looking full-body scars, gets on two stops after Peter, and off at the next. A few of the other teens get off as well, likely heading to the nearby high school. Definitely a teenager then. Above all else, Peter can’t wait to tell Mr. Stark about the new kid. He’d made it a habit over the last couple months (nearly a year, actually, if he was doing his math right) that he’d been hanging around the man to tell him about every noteworthy person he saw or talked to on the subway everyday, and the mystery teen in the handmade Spider-Man hoodie , had just made it to the top of the “most exciting people I’ve met” list. 

Previously, the most interesting person he’d told Mr. Stark about was a woman, maybe in her early to mid twenties, who managed to lure fourteen subway rats onto the train with a slice of pizza and sheer force of will. Peter had immediately gotten off the train and swung the rest of the way to school, changing in an alley nearby with a near-painfully wide grin on his face and overflowing with the need to tell damn near anyone about the rat lady of the day’s adventures. He never saw her again. That was probably for the best. 

Point being, he never saw that many new and interesting people anymore. Pink pigtails, Miss. Hates her job, and the angry cat didn’t have the same appeal that they once did, no longer anything but a regular occurrence in his records. Stark Industries sometimes had new interns or scientists, maybe a cool project, but that meant nothing to Peter anymore. Working as The Tony Stark’s personal intern set the bar for “Interesting” high enough that if the entire building wasn’t up in flames, it was an average work day. 

At least the train drama, considering coffee shop girl’s earlier look, was bound to be interesting for a while (and he still had no idea what that was about). Not to mention the new addition to the list that is the mystery teen. Yup, still not as entertaining as watching an eccentric billionaire lose at chess to Dumb-E while running on two hours of sleep for the last four days (Pepper had put an end to it right then and there, sending Peter and Tony to watch a movie and inevitably ended up with both falling asleep on the couch while Pepper typed out Emails on the couch across from theirs), but totally fine. Good enough to satiate his boredom for now. 

One train stop later, the one after the other teen’s, Peter follows the uneven flooring off the train and out into the busy streets of the gloriously noisy New York City. Hooray for headaches . He mentally adds confetti to the thought, regretting not at least grabbing his noise canceling headphones this morning. It’s not that the city itself was bad, it’s just that he’d managed to tune out the sensory input right up until he realized that it was more of a problem than he wanted to deal with, and living in the biggest city in the US did not help. 

He’s done it on more occasions than he can count, not paying any attention to the near painful sensory overload until it’s bad enough to want to rip his hair out, crawl into the ceiling in front of his entire school, and live there until he dies. Or until he can no longer feel his bones. Whichever comes first, he’s not that picky. Well, if he did climb into the ceiling in front of his entire school , he figures death would be the kinder option in that case. But then Ned would miss him, and MJ would pretend not to miss him, and it would be a whole thing. Not to mention that Queens still needed Spider-Man. 

All of that aside, Peter still had to live through the ultimate survival game. A do or die kind of environment that runs through the heart of its very foundation, coiled back like a cobra, ready to strike at a moment's notice. One wrong move and—

“Move it, Parker.” Some random kid, one he’s pretty sure is friends with Flash, shoves Peter fully into the brick wall next to the school’s doors as he passes by without a backward glance. The palm of his left hand slips on a sharp section of the brick when Peter tries to catch himself, pain radiating up through his whole arm from the cut. 

The best years of your life . What a joke.

Even with the bell ringing out across the school, Peter just— stands there, for a moment, staring thoughtfully at the blood flowing steadily down his arm. Does he go home? To the nurses office? One of those is closer, maybe start there? Yeah , he nods to himself, stop the bleeding, then worry about the rest of it . 

He sticks his clean hand into his hoodie pocket to grab his phone (a text to Aunt May before an impromptu call from the nurse before school has even started is never a bad idea), snagging a folded piece of paper with it that he’s certain he didn’t have before. Stepping through the doors as he unfolds it, it’s one of those red sticker name tags, blank space at the bottom below “Hello, my name is…” filled in with a name he’s never seen before. Wade Wilson . The back has a short note scrawled in messy handwriting, “Nice to meet u. Maybe I’ll see u on the train tmrw? =)”

So, mystery kid is Wade Wilson?

Pushing open the door for the office, the lady at the front desk screeches at the sight of blood, several people running to see the issue while a man in a hot pink blazer dashes down a hall behind the desk, likely to get the nurse considering the circumstances. Maybe he should be more concerned about this, but he just isn’t. The train ride is always the best part of his morning, he can’t exactly be upset that it won’t be ruined by the English Assessment Test he was supposed to have this morning. 

Wade Wilson . Maybe Peter will see him around.

Chapter Text

In Wade’s personal opinion, high school is both the peak of human entertainment and the biggest shit box he’s ever had the displeasure of experiencing in his entire life. And he’s seen some pretty fucked up stuff. You don’t get to look like, to quote Weasel, the love child of ugly avocado hate fucking, without some idea about just how displeasurable (that’s a big word. Yes he’s very proud of himself for that) things can get. Hell, his parents didn’t even want him! 

Above all else, Wade knows bad, and fucked up, and unpleasant like it’s a second language he’s fluent in. He’s seen indescribable horrors as Deadpool that not one sane person could ever come out of alive. But he’s not sane, nor is he able to die, so suck on that, indescribable horrors! He’s not even a legal adult yet, just a little pre-adult tadpole swimming in drug-abused waters pumped full of steroids and crack cocaine. Maybe a little bit of heroin too, but who’s really keeping track? Oh, and his dad’s alcoholic tendencies. Can’t forget that. Momma Wilson always hated it, yet at the same time spent all available cash on cigarettes, so there’s that, he supposes. 

It's just his luck. Momma always said his great grandfather gambled away all possible traces of luck decades before he was even conceived, cursing his namesake and bloodline to an unending reality of drug addiction and horrifically cruel bad luck. Wade hadn’t believed her at first, but that same lack of good luck had spiraled into his cancer diagnosis and the accompanying several long years of gruesome torture and experimentation under the watchful eye of that dickbag, Frances. Bad luck had led to both his sad sunburned-tomato excuse for skin, and his subsequent near immortality, which wasn’t exactly the worst possible outcome, but still. Wade’s not positive bad luck would’ve given him Blind Al, no matter how… Bitchy, she could be at times. She gave him a place to live and someone to talk to that didn’t want to watch him die slowly and miserably (not that she could anyway), familyline cursed bad luck would have made it otherwise. He’s willing to bet decent money that his whole life is a twisted version of “The Truman Show” overrun with his parents’ bad karma and pure coincidence. 

But back to school. It wasn’t the worst, neither was it the best. High school specifically lived in this grey area called “why the fuck do you even care at this point” that he’s taken to heart. His first day at a real public high school went about as well as expected with a face looking like his, and that is to say he’s now earned the awards for “ugliest kid” and “most jokes told about appearance” not fifteen minutes into first period. Just in case it wasn’t made explicitly clear, the day was going fantastically . He totally didn’t want the planet to open up beneath him and let him fall to the dark depths of Australia by the end of the day. Not at all, Wade was just excited to be back at home with Blind Al, breathing air that’s roughly ninety percent crystal meth. 

Unlike the group of boys from his gym class, Wade at least stuck around until the end of the school day. The goal was to experience high school to its fullest, which did mean being a five star student for, perhaps, a week before he started skipping class and what not. One week was doable. It was possible to complete, and if all went well, one week was the only week he’d be spending at this particular school of morons. ‘Cause, listen, he’s not the smartest person in the universe, not at all, mildly above average in terms of academics, maybe , but he’s not stupid (for the most part). Is it a crime to want access to a better challenge? Is it not the purpose of schools to provide the best possible education for its students? To be completely honest, it’s mostly just to see if smart-person high school is better than cheap, average-person high school. Is the bullying better? Worse, somehow? Does the water in the drinking fountains still taste like lead? Do you still get shoved into the lockers in the hallways? These are the questions we need answers to, people! The scholarship he had applied for at the other school was still pending, however, so Wade had made the gloriously bad decision to start the experience early at, arguably, the worst school in the entire state, and the end of the day can’t come soon enough. 

The train ride home isn’t nearly as interesting as the trip to school. It’s a mix of people every time, those who don’t care what he looks like and those who care a little too much. Without the overexcitable kid from that same morning, there’s a lot more of the latter group, staring or giving him sorry looks. Unfortunately, that same mix of expressions sticks with him like a cat in heat (he’s never had a cat and has no idea what that’s even like), begging for his attention and acknowledgment all because they don’t seem to think he knows exactly what he looks like. Children have run, screaming. Wade is perfectly aware of this fact. The very moment the doors open at his stop, he rushes to be the first one off, away from the stares and grossed out expressions of the general public. One of many reasons he even bothers to still live with Blind Al is because she’s blind. She has facial expressions, obviously, but never once has it been anything akin to pity or disgust (at his appearance). 

Entering through the ugly green door, his ragged backpack hits the half rotten wood floor with a thud and Wade cringes as he hears a chunk of it come loose underneath. There were hollows in the floor every couple of feet, cocaine and weapon stashes intermixed in such a random pattern that you have about a fifty-fifty shot at finding one or the other if you don’t know which is which. The sheer amount of them made the floor wildly unstable. How Wade had managed to not fall through so far must have been some blessing (or apology, either worked) from some greater being. 

As for the rest of the place, it was a disaster as usual. It was both a joke, a curse, and something Wade could not be more thankful for that he couldn’t physically get high when it came to living with Blind Al. However, she also didn’t ask questions and gave him a place to stay, so who was he to complain? A loser and a teenager with enough trauma to kill a small family, that’s who . 

“Wilson,” Al calls from the kitchen. Speak of the devil, and she shall appear . Wade swings around the corner to hear her better, keeping one hand on the wall near the entrance. “Are you going out later?” she asks.

Wade’s eyes catch on the plate of brownies sitting innocently on the counter top. There’s no way they aren’t laced with weed. “Yeah, I was gonna finish my science project and head down to Queens after.”

“I don’t care where you go,” she snaps. He really can’t tell if she means to or if it’s one of her old lady quirks. “Just remember—”

“I know, I know.” He puts his hands up in a placating gesture, not that she can see it, but it makes him feel better to talk with his hands. “Don’t fuck up ‘cause you don’t take phone calls after nine and you’re not gonna break me out anyway, come back after two and prepare to be shot on sight. I got it.” He debates on taking a brownie for a moment before ultimately deciding that he deserves one after the day he’d had, and heading for his room. Al would be mad when she found out, and she would. Not to mention that even if drugs of any kind haven’t really had any effect on him before, the mere placebo effect that it could potentially do something is usually enough to get him in the mind space to go do super cool Deadpool stuff.

It’s been a while since Wade had gone out as Deadpool, probably since before the move from Vancouver. As for why they moved, it’s not an important fact, but it can’t possibly be that bad. According to Al he has to worry about local vigilantes and the Avengers if or when he does manage to cause a problem, but that’s future Wade’s problem. Present Wade has a two minute slideshow presentation to start and finish in one night on a topic he hates. First day reaps such a bountiful amount of rewards. 

The work is monotonous in a mind numbing way he hasn’t had the displeasure of experiencing before, having not really been to school before coming to stay with Al. It’s nice though, to have something to tie him to a false sense of normalcy. As close as Wade Winston Wilson will ever get anyway, the infamous mercenary and human experiment. 

But that’s not the point, nor is it important at the moment. What is important is that the mitochondria are the powerhouse of the cell and— that’s not the subject he’s working on. This is a chemistry project, Wade. Get it together. 

It’s late when he does finally decide to give up on it and leave the rest of the work for fifteen minutes before it’s due the next day. Obviously not because he actually sat down for hours to work on it, but because he got distracted halfway through working and never really came back to it. It was almost done, and a break could do him some good. Bonus points: the sun isn’t up anymore! Perfect timing, he thinks. It’s only eight-thirty, he should be back in time to finish this before class, right? What could possibly go wrong?

 The answer: so many god damned things . 

Hour one had started out normally, hopping across rooftops to familiarize himself with the area before doing anything too stupid. Nothing bad, nothing interesting, just a guy in red leather walking out in traffic in a fantastic imitation of Bigfoot (in his opinion).  A few laps around the neighborhood, each loop expanding by about a mile until he ended up getting hit by a car (a red Nissan Sentra with the most fucked up paintjob he’s ever seen in his life ), breaking his spine clean in half in the process. The guy didn’t even stop! Deadpool did get a tamale from a random passerby out of the deal, so he’ll refrain from slashing any tires… For now. 

Despite all that, hour one ends promptly at nine-thirty without incident. Other than his spine, of which, doesn’t really count.

Hour two was the start of the nonsense. A little taste of the night’s prepared bullshit, if you will. Deadpool had gone ahead with stopping a few muggings, just some things he happened across along the way. Why not start out with a good reputation in the area? With no direct location in mind, he’d been wandering aimlessly through Queens’ neighborhoods, memorizing the streets that he could along the way.

He has no idea what exactly led to this exciting new turn of events in hour three. Among all the close to nothing he had been doing, for some reason, he’s now trapped in the back of a semi truck going god knows where, draped across the top of a pallet of boxes like a headless fish. The sharp corners dig into his stomach and thigh with the way he’s stuck. Present but not painful. There are pallets of boxes over every inch of floor, not one part of it is visible from where he lays atop of, what appears to be, boxes of pancake mix. Pancakes sound so good right now…  

There’s blood dripping down his face, seeping into the leather of his mask without any signs of slowing. Everything’s weirdly blurry, stars spinning around his head and flickering across his vision in rapid succession. With arms made of Jello, he flops a hand up toward his head, unsurprised to find something jammed through his skull, embedded deep enough that he’s almost positive he can feel his brain leaking out his ears. His fingers slip from the handle once, twice, before he manages to get a firm grip, ripping the whole thing out in one go. A knife, not even a cool knife either, it’s just a classic chef’s knife, the wound stitching itself back together easily. Talk about lazy writing. 

It reminds Wade of when he first met Weasel in some twisted, delirious way. T’was an assassination mission gone wrong that had led Wade to “Sister Margaret’s” in the pouring rain, practically hypothermic and looking not unlike a “half-drowned Freddy Krueger cosplaying the school shooter version of Santa Claus.” Weasel’s words, not his. 

“Oh my god, I thought you were dead!” 

“What?” Wade glances in the vague direction he’s pretty sure he heard the voice from, heart stuttering in his chest when his eyes lock on the bright red and blue spandex-clad vigilante that is Spider-Man. “Oh my god.”

“That’s what I said!” The spider throws his hands up in exasperation. It pulls Deadpool’s attention to the slightly darker red patch that sits at Spidey’s temple. 

A kidnapping then? In a fucking semi truck full of food?? Why? That ruins the pancake mix!

“So…” Wade drags out the word unnecessarily. “Is this, like, an abduction of some kind? A kidnapping mayhaps? Prostitution?” 

Spidey stares. “Pro— prostitution? What the— what are you even talking about!?” 

“Chillaxe, Spider-Babe, I'm just throwin’ out ideas here,” Wade says with a shrug. “I’m Deadpool, by the way. The sexiest and simultaneously most disappointing bastard you’ll ever meet, this side a’ Queens.” He sticks his blood covered hand out for him to take, and to Spidey’s credit, he does so without an ounce of hesitation. 

“How in the name of our lord and savior, Britney Spears, are you alive? There was a knife in your fucking head! ” 

“I live off of spite and methamphetamines,” Wade deadpans as he pulls himself into a sitting position, pressing his palm against the hole left in the side of his mask from the knife. “If anything’s gonna end up killing me, it’ll be a lack of one of those two things. Or— have you ever seen Gossip Girl ?” 

The white lenses of Spidey’s mask blink at him. Like a camera shutter. Which is delightful. 

“Yeah!” Wade rambles on. “If they ever canceled Gossip Girl , that’d basically just be signing my death certificate at that point. There’s no point in living any longer. Not one thing worthwhile. Not even Fre’ Shavacado.” 

His gestures? Wild. 

His mask? Broken. 

Hotel? Trivago. 

No doubt about it.

Deadpool pauses for a moment, completely still. Then gasps loudly, palms framing his face dramatically like that one famous painting with the guy screaming on the bridge. “I lost my fucking tamale!” 

“That’s your concern right now!?” 

“Yes! It was a really good tamale!” 

“Aren’t we— ugh— prostitution?”

“I mean… if you want to, I guess.” 

“ That’s not what I meant! ” 

“It’s alright, Spidey, we can come back to this later. Maybe with pancakes.” Wade pats the top of one of the blood soaked boxes lazily. 

“Is that—“ Pinching the bridge of his nose, Spidey takes an exaggerated breath. “Are we in a truck, full of groceries? Where are we?” 

“In a truck full of groceries,” Deadpool supplies very helpfully. 

“Are we going somewhere? The truck is moving. But— where are we?”

Wade pulls his phone from seemingly nowhere, he’s not even sure this suit has pockets. The GPS reads that they’re almost four hours away from Queens, and ten minutes from a local Waffle House. 

“Don’t get mad.”

“Why would I get mad?”

“So, you see, we’re about five thousand miles across the sea in Russia right now.” 

“ What? ” 

“Yeah, what a great way to spend the day. You, me, and this brick wall you’ve built between us.” 

“… we’re not in Russia, are we.”

“No. But , we are really close to a Waffle House if we can get out of here. Oh! Or there’s a Walmart near here!”

“Wait, you have GPS?” Wade tosses the phone to him without further prompting.

“I could go for a snack. Do you think they have Oreos? I think they should if they don’t.” 

“I’ve never heard of Utica in my entire life. Are you sure we’re still in New York? I know it says we are, but this feels weird.”

“Personally, I like the thin-mint Oreos. It’s like a knock off Girl Scout cookie that’s nothing at all like a Girl Scout cookie!” 

Spidey moves to stand, doing so easily despite the slight movement of the truck, and heads toward the back doors. 

“I should be able to pry these open, I think. Would that work?” He asks.

Wade gives a nod in response, otherwise continuing with his own line of thought. “I’ve been in a truck like this before. I fell into a crate and got shipped halfway across Canada with nothing but maple syrup and my inner demons.” 

Spidey gives him an odd look, but otherwise turns back to brace his hands against the door, shoving firmly against it. A loud crack sounds through the truck and the back doors swing open almost instantly, the moving road beneath them looks about as inviting as sandpaper. The rushing winds sound past their ears through the opening, both coming to look out at the empty roads. One final glance at one another, a silent agreement, and they both jump.

Wade manages a much less graceful landing than the spidery guy, his shoulder cracking out of place right when he hits the asphalt. Spidey snags him out of the road with a web, pulling him up to the top of a flower covered building. Wade shoves his shoulder back into place with little fanfare, much to the horror of the spider themed vigilante sitting next to him.

“Are we gonna ignore the knife thing? Or the fact that you dislocated your shoulder but it looks completely fine seconds after?” 

“Oh, I heal really fast. Super regeneration stuff. I’m cool like that.” Wade grins from beneath his mask, it’s barely visible, but still expressive considering that no one can actually see his face. 

“Super regeneration?” Spidey questions. 

“Yup!” Deadpool chirps cheerfully. “I’m basically immortal, for the most part. Like a cockroach.” 

“Really? How does that work?” Spidey asks, head tilting to the side. 

“I can be cut completely in half and not die. I’m not sure exactly how it works though, just that it kinda does.” Wade shrugs. 

“Huh. That’s… interesting, I guess. So you really can’t die then?”

“Not that I know of.”

“What if you— I dunno, get blown up, or something?” Spidey collapses back into the roof, tapping away at something on Wade’s phone. 

“That’s a fantastic question!” There’s a brief pause, what’s the best way to word this? “I think it’s just whatever part of me holds my “soul” grows everything else back. It's pretty freaky when it happens.” 

“That’s so cool,” the vigilante says, amazed. 

“Heh, yeah,” Deadpool agrees. 

A silence settles between the two, a moment of consideration. Wade is perfectly aware that his phone does not work for phone calls, kindly adding that fact to Spidey’s knowledge as well when he asks. The phone itself was probably stolen, he really doesn’t know where Al gets anything she gives to him. The most he knows is the address for the street corner she picks drugs up from her dealer at. 

She doesn’t answer her phone past nine , he reminds himself. Hitchhiking back into the city doesn’t seem like a good idea, being a teenager with all the stranger danger stuff in mind. Getting molested is not on Wade’s Bingo card for the year. It’s not a completely nonsensical thing to think, it could still happen. 

“So, that Waffle House is still nearby,” Wade offers, not taking his eyes off the dark street in front of him. “You wanna head over there and see what we can find?” 

Pushing himself to his feet, Spidey nods his agreement. “Yeah, that sounds good. We can check the Walmart you mentioned after, if it’s closed. Try to find a phone, or something.” 

“Alright then, let’s get this show on the road!”

Chapter Text

Given the fact that it’s currently ten-fifty at night, there’s an impressive amount of people currently present in the Waffle House. A whole three people, not including the chef, the single waitress who looks like she’d rather be doing anything other than wiping tables down, and the two vigilantes in bright red sitting at a booth in the back. 

Not one person seems to have noticed the two of them, either too tired to care or used to the theatrics of the evening crowd. Given that this is a place of mediocre waffles and a hungover guy in an inflatable dinosaur costume, there isn’t any reason to take notice of them. If anything, they’re the most normal things present. 

A raccoon sits up on a high shelf throwing pine nuts at the patrons. Two green parrots with name plaques reading “Junie B. Jones” and “Walter White” are perched on the swing in their cage singing out of tune to “Santa Tell Me” by Ariana Grande. Dinosaur costume guy is throwing paper wrapped, plastic straw back at the pets that currently annoy him the most, missing one hundred percent of the time and continuing to piss off the waitress as he does. 

Towering over the patrons, is the chef, in all his muscular glory, looking like he could flex and it would tear his sleeves clean off. According to Deadpool, the chef is “built like a Dorito on steroids” and Peter can’t exactly disagree. He has two full tattoo sleeves covering both of his arms, the one on his left looks like a map of some kind and the one on his right is a mix of skulls and a pirate ship. The chef keeps glancing over at their table, his face set in a permanent scowl that makes Peter’s Spider-Sense crawl with unease. More unsettling than that, the chef isn’t the only thing setting it off.

Every time the waitress strays toward their table, the buzzing set at the back of Peter’s skull ramps up from a docile hum to a dull roar. Not quite bad enough to invoke action, but still enough to cause some concern. It doesn’t make an ounce of sense either. The waitress is dressed like a My Little Pony, full pastels and milkshake earrings that match the knee length pink skirt and blue button down she has under her apron. Curly pink hair decorated with several candy hair clips only serves to further Peter’s confusion. What could possibly be so bad about her? 

“Why do you keep looking at her like that?” Deadpool asks, interrupting Peter’s train of thought. 

“Like what?” His mask is on, the eyes hardly move, and Peter doesn’t think he was being too obvious about his observation. Something wasn’t right about her . 

“Is it because of her eyes?” 

Peter locks eyes with the soulless white of Deadpool's mask across the table. “What about her eyes?” 

He makes a vague gesture toward the waitress, who is staring blankly at the parrots like she’s never seen one before. “Her eyes close sideways.”

“They— what?” 

“ Her eyes. Close. Fucking. Sideways ,” Deadpool repeats slowly, punctuating each word by jabbing his finger into the table.

Looking closer, really looking, to the point of staring for an uncomfortably long time, he watches in horror as her skin bubbles, his Spider-Sense buzzing louder as her eyelids close sideways over her eyes. They close sideways . Like a god damned lizard . He’s starting to think that Ned’s theory about a lizard society living in the sewer systems under New York, aren’t as crazy as he once did. What even are the odds of Ned being right about two different bizarre theories in one day? Peter does feel like he owes his friend something, especially after the whole thing with Mothman. 

“That’s some freaky bullshit right there, that’s what that is.” Deadpool sets his phone back out on the table, screen facing up to show his Hello Kitty wallpaper and the only two apps present (Candy Crush and Google Maps). “The monster fuckers would love this. I think I’ve read an Omega-Verse fic with this as the plot, actually.” 

Peter gives the vigilante across the table an odd look. “Omega-Verse?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Deadpool replies with a wave. 

“The fanfiction thing or the lizard girl?”

“The fanfiction thing,” he answers. “But the lizard thing might be a problem. What if she’s one of the lizard people from the sewer systems that people keep talking about?”

“That’s what I was thinking!” Peter exclaims. 

An old man shushes them loudly from the bar table, sticking his nose back into his coffee without another word. It’d probably be a lot more threatening if the man wasn’t dressed as a rodeo clown. Seriously, what out of season Halloween party did these people come from? 

Lizard girl, the My Little Pony waitress, snaps her attention to the door in a startlingly quick movement, twisting her head around in an unnatural way with a sickening crack. Not one other person fucking blinks at it . Other than Deadpool, who appears to be attempting to merge himself with the wall furthest from her with comically wide eyes. He glances back to Peter with an expression that’s practically screaming “ What the fuck ” back at him.

Peter shrugs helplessly, Spider-Senses feeling like someone attached a live wire to the back of his skull. It's creeping up and down his spine in a constant, slow, sweeping motion, demanding something he can’t quite discern yet. 

The waitress doesn’t move from her spot, Peter and Deadpool watch both the lizard person and the door as best they can. Peter can hear the soft click of heels as someone approaches the door, a little bell rings and the waitress steps through. Pink hair, pastel blue and pink for her button down and knee length skirt, and the candy hair clips. Completely identical to the lizard waitress if not for the gauze plastered across the left side of her forehead, already seeping blood through sections of it.

A woman dressed and painted in full grayscale, like she’s from one of those old noir detective movies Peter used to watch with Uncle Ben, takes one look at the situation around her, throws a handful of twenties down on her table and leaves without a word. Peter admires her ability to stay out of trouble. He honestly wishes more people would do that when faced with possibly dangerous situations.

The real waitress stops dead in her tracks, some rambled apology to the stunned chef for being late dying on her lips when she spots the contortionist lizard waitress, hissing lowly while her torso turns on its own to fully face the waitress. And Peter’s never seen the Exorcist, but this feels like something you’d see in a movie like that. Jaw unhinging, flashing razor sharp teeth and fingertips extending into long claws. The real waitress takes a step back in horror, Peter can hear her heart beating erratically from across the restaurant. He pushes himself to his feet in anticipation as the lizard waitress starts stalking forward, slow movements like a predator getting ready to strike. 

A sudden jolt of warning shoots through his spine and he reacts before he can fully register why . One of his webs strikes the thing's arm, sticking it to the wall behind it. Snarling back, it drags the claws of its other hand quickly over its own wrist, slicing its own arm off with bright green blood dripping freely to the floor, freeing it instantly. The temporary trap thankfully draws its attention away from the real waitress, but unfortunately draws it directly to them. It slashes at the two vigilantes, movements quick, but uncalculated and animalistic. Peter flips to avoid it, noting vaguely that Deadpool had the sense to do the same, pulling out a katana and slashing its other arm clean off. 

The creature shrieks, thrashing and throwing tables as its skin bubbles, goopy green blood coating the floor while the stumps of its lost arms regrow anew. It doesn’t quite look like the waitress anymore, more like the old illustrations he’s seen of Wendigos in body stature, still stuck with curly pink hair sprouting from its slimy scalp and distorted limbs bent at odd angles like it discarded all of its bones. 

Peter doesn’t stop to look at it for very long, still keeping half an eye on it either way while quickly ushering the remaining patrons out the door. Once the waitress is out of sight, the thing shifts from hissing, to growling in a way that sounds like it’s gargling Elmer’s glue. Peter turns back to find the beady, black eyes of the thing focused on his every move, a tail extending from the base of its spine, whipping out to knock over another table and rip it out of the wall. The tail whips out again and slams solidly into Deadpool’s chest, sending him crashing through the front window. It jumps at Peter immediately after, teeth bared and claws extended toward his throat. He flips up to the ceiling, dodging the best he can while it follows, claws giving it purchase along the flimsy ceiling tiles. It skitters after Peter, dragging long cuts into the walls as it goes. A gunshot rings out from the shattered remains of the window, the creature hisses, falling to the floor in an angry, growling heap of pain. Green ooze flows steadily from the bullet wound in its neck. 

Deadpool collapses through the window a moment later, his left arm is hanging at an odd angle and his right leg is pointed the complete wrong direction, but he appears unbothered. Pulling himself to his feet (foot), he scratches his temple with the barrel of the gun as he looks over the thing in its new and improved disgusting form. 

“God fuck , that thing is ugly!” 

“You’re tellin’ me,” Peter says, carefully flipping back to the floor. He’s sure to stay out of reach of the claws, just in case. 

“What do you think,” Deadpool asks, leaning uncomfortably close to one of its thrashing limbs. “Alien or freaky science experiment?” 

Peter smirks. “What’s the freaky part?” 

Deadpool chokes on a laugh, turning to face his new companion. “Depends on why you think they made it. I vote Live Action Hentai as the cause for existence.” 

The creature growls again, trying to scramble back to its feet and startling the both of them with the sudden sound. Deadpool jumps, reflexively aiming at its head and squeezing the trigger of the gun. It jerks to the side once more before falling completely still, dead. Very slowly, they both take a step back, Deadpool waits another few seconds of the thing not moving to lower the gun to the floor. 

“...was that necessary?” Peter mutters. 

“Is it still moving?” 

“No.” 

“Then yes, it was,” he decides. 

Sirens disrupt any possibility of furthering the debate, and without the constant adrenaline coursing through his veins, Peter can hear the vast influx of onlookers that have gathered at the windows. Deadpool swiftly tucks the gun back into the empty holster at his hip and twists his foot roughly back into its intended position, taking a step back toward the kitchens. 

“Alright, Spider-Babe, I think that’s our cue to leave.” He dramatically beckons Peter forward, gaining an eye roll even as they both make their way out through the back. 

“I’m guessing we’re heading for the Walmart then?” Peter asks. 

He offers a hand to Deadpool, gesturing vaguely to the rooftop above them to quell the questioning head tilt the gesture elicits. Deadpool’s mouth makes a little “O” under his mask and he offers his hand freely. Peter wraps an arm around his waist and swiftly uses his webs to pull the both of them to the top of a building a short distance away. He mentally applauds the other vigilante’s lack of panic over the impromptu swinging session but does knock some points off for the iron grip Deadpool has on his shoulders that takes a minute to release Peter from. 

Deadpool pats at his pockets for a moment, finding the not-phone GPS Peter never actually saw him snag off the table. The screen now has a colorful line down the center of it, making the text almost impossible to read, but Deadpool manages to see something through it. 

“Alrighty, Spidey.” Peter cringes at the failed rhyme. “Walmart is this-a-way, and quite the walk from the looks of it.” Deadpool squints at the screen. “Probably, but don’t blame me if we get lost, I will get us back on track!” The phone slips from his hands and he scrambles to catch it before it breaks even more. “ And! I can finally get my Oreos!”

Peter snorts. “We just fought a lizard-alien-thing, we’re in a different city several hours from New York City, and your main concern is Oreos?” 

Deadpool spins on his heel, heading off toward his chosen destination. “You need to get your priorities straight, Spider-Babe.” 

“ Sure I do, Pool,” he says. And then, to himself, “This has been the strangest fucking night of my life .” And with that squared away with the universe, Peter follows him out into the night. 

— — — — — — — —

By the time they actually get to the Walmart Supercenter on the GPS, it’s well past one in the morning and, just like at the Waffle House, not one person looks like they want to be there. Deadpool wandered off the moment they entered the store with a rushed promise to bring snacks when he eventually returned. Peter heads his own way down a random aisle in search of someone who will lend him a phone with actual calling capabilities. 

“Do you need something?” Peter turns to face the employee, a young looking college student, judging by the logo on the hoodie he has on under his Walmart vest, questions tiredly. 

“Um, yeah, actually. Do you maybe have a phone I could borrow? I need to call someone real quick.” 

The guy gives him a critical look, but does nod, fishing the device out of his hoodie pocket. “Just stay where I can see you.” 

Peter nods back. “Thank you so much,” he says, and steps just far enough away that the guy won’t be able to hear his conversation. 

It’s an older model Stark Phone that Peter hasn’t seen before, but there’s no reason to judge that seeing as he himself didn’t even own a Stark Phone until he started working with Tony. Tony had taken one look at the old phone in Peter’s possession and promptly ended lab time for the evening until they had set him up the newest (unreleased) model of Stark Phone in existence. Thinking about it now, Peter doesn’t actually know where that phone is at the moment. He’s been on call with Ned, perched on the roof of an apartment building and then— And then what? And then, there was nothing, he supposes. Just a semi truck and Deadpool. But he can sort through all that later, for now he just needs to call Tony so that he can go home and, hopefully, get any kind of sleep before school the next day. 

He’s long since memorized the number, and the number of times Tony lets the phone ring before he picks up. The line rings, once, twice, three times, four, and just as it’s about to hit five, the call goes through, and Peter nearly falls to his knees at the relief that it didn’t go to voicemail. 

“ Who are you and why do you have this number, ” Tony clips. 

“Nice to hear from you too, Mr. Stark,” Peter returns in kind. 

The line goes quiet for a moment. “ Peter? ” 

“The one and only.” 

“ Jesus, Tesoro, where in the name of Thor’s hammer are you right now? Your suit tracker’s broken and I’ve been trying to hunt you down for the last four hours! Are you okay? ” 

“Yeah, I was wondering why I hadn’t seen you yet. But I’m totally fine, Mr. Stark, really!” Peter rushes to reassure his mentor. “So, what happened was that I was talking on the phone with Ned, and then something else happened, and I think I got knocked out, ‘cause the next thing I know I’m in the back of a semi truck with this other vigilante from Queens that I haven’t met before (his name’s Deadpool, by the way) and he has this super cool regeneration ability that lets him heal from really crazy stuff, and then we both ended up at a Waffle House and the waitress kept setting off my Spidey-Sense (which was kinda weird ‘cause she looked kinda like a My Little Pony turned human) and then , I found out that all of that was because she was actually some kind of duplicate-replica-thing of the real waitress and the fake one jumped at me and Deadpool and tried to kill us—” 

“ Peter, what the fu— ” 

“But it was okay! And we were both fine, and the thing kinda isn’t exactly alive anymore because Deadpool killed it, it’s very important to me that you understand that, and now we’re in a Walmart Supercenter, but Deadpool went looking for Oreos so I guess I’ll have to tell him about this later.” Peter pauses for a breath, suddenly remembering what he had actually called about. “Oh, yeah, and can you come get us? We’re in some city in New York called “ Utica ” and I have no idea how we’re supposed to get back.” 

Tony sighs loudly over the receiver. “ Utica, Peter? ” 

Peter’s quick to confirm. 

“ Okay, Bambino, is there an Applebee’s out in the parking lot of the one you’re at? ” Tony asks. 

“I believe so.” 

“ Okay then, stay right where you are, I’m gonna come get you .” FRIDAY’s voice sounds over the speaker for a moment, the soft chime of the Tower’s elevator following a few seconds after. “ You said you have a friend with you? ” 

“Yeah, I did, would it be a problem if we bring him back to the city with us?” 

“ I figured you’d ask, just be aware that I’m gonna have to take the car and Utica’s a good four hour drive from here .” 

Grimacing, Peter asks, “I’m not gonna make it back in time for school tomorrow, will I?” 

“ Not a chance, Bambino ,” Tony chuckles softly. “ Do you need me to have May text your friend, Ted, to get the homework for you? ” 

“It’s Ned, and yes that would be great.” 

“ Great, I’ll see you in a few hours. I will only be saying this one more time, so listen up .” 

“What is it?” 

“ Don’t. Go. Anywhere. I will be there. Don’t you dare leave that building. Got it, kid? ” 

He huffs softly at his mentor’s antics. “Yeah, I got it.” 

“ You better .” And the call cuts out. 

Peter quickly deletes the conversation from the call history and hands the phone back, thanking the guy again and heading down a different aisle. He finds Deadpool in the snack aisle, right where he said he’d be, with an ever growing stack of Oreo cookies in every available flavor in stock. Glancing briefly up from the shelf labels, Deadpool waves in greeting, picking up a pack of Sour Patch Kid Oreos to show him. 

“I’ve heard these are good, so obviously we have to try them.” 

“I really hope Oreo did this combination justice, they look so good,” he agrees easily. “In other news, we do have someone I know coming to get us in about four hours.” 

Deadpool looks surprised. “Really? It’s like, one in the morning.” 

“Yup, he said to wait here until he gets here, so that’ll be a while, but yeah.” 

Deadpool hums quietly. “Do you want to eat an uncomfortable amount of Oreos while we wait?” 

“I can’t pay for any of it, I don't exactly have pockets in this suit.” 

Pulling the phone back out of the ether, Deadpool makes a show of sliding open a hidden compartment in the back of the case, revealing a single, Spider-Man themed, debit card. “I do, no you can’t pay me back, and yes we’re getting one of every flavor—” he points to a shelf behind Peter, a large rainbow unicorn Squishmallow stares back emotionlessly, “—and I cannot leave this store without that. I’ve already fallen in love with it, it’s mine now, I don’t make the rules here.” 

“And I don’t get a say in any of this, right?” 

Deadpool stands, Oreos balanced precariously in his arms, and yet he still manages to grab the Squishmallow by the ear and start heading for the checkout counter. “Correct-umundo, my fair arachnid, the Oreos are non-negotiable.” 

“I’ll have to make due then,” he grins. 

Alright, so Peter does feel marginally bad about the Oreos, but he doesn’t feel that bad about it when Deadpool has about twenty nine different kinds of Oreos and Oreo brand items all together. Twenty nine different kinds . And Peter thought Tony was extra when it came to stuff like this. 

No matter, it’s just a four hour wait and then they all get to go home, miss school after being out too late in Peter’s case, and get some sleep curled up in soft blankets, in his own bed. It sounds so nice after the eventful night they’ve had. A lot can happen in four hours, he reminds himself. Peter just hopes that whatever happens isn’t so bad he can’t eat some of the Oreos. He deserves a snack after such a long night.

Chapter Text

“Mr. Wilson, if you would kindly follow me.” 

Sterile white halls. That’s what he expected of the new hospital. It was quickly becoming something Wade didn’t mind as much, he’d accepted his fate after his twelfth visit, decided to not let the blinding lights and mean doctors get the better of him. 

It’s not the same this time, and Wade can’t help how unsettling that is, the anxiety coiling like a vice around his stomach worse than the cancer growing unyielding in every section of his body he has a name for. Yet he didn’t complain, not once did he think to open his mouth and whine to deaf ears, certain the men in suits guiding him down the hall like guards on the prison show his dad watches, wouldn’t enjoy hearing any complaints. They walk on without acknowledging him, so he tries to do the same, small hands fisted in the loose material of the hospital gown he’s been dressed in. 

Most concerning of all, these walls aren’t white, rather a beaten-down concrete with graffiti decorating small segments of wall, occasionally finding spots that look attempted to have been scrubbed clean, the paint more splotchy and faded in brushed sections. Wade sees someone, a man that might just be the same age as his father, being carted off down a hall to his left, thrashing and cursing at the “doctors” as they wheel him off. Deafening fear grips Wade’s small frame, making his movements jagged and more stiff, willing his ten year old self further inside. 

A broken light flickers uselessly overhead, it doesn’t do much in its faded state to light the way, but the man in the pressed suit up front doesn’t seem to need it to push open the heavy steel door. Creaking sounds from the hinges like it hasn’t been used in years, or that it’s been used for years, echoing eerily down the halls so loudly he has to will his teeth to not clack together and his hands to not shake. 

“After you, Mr. Wilson,” the man says. He gestures into the dark, desolate, square room, showing only a small cot barely large enough for him that takes up one entire wall, across from a simple toilet with a sink embedded into the top of it. A cell. It’s a cell of some kind. Had he done something wrong?

Wade swallows down the lump in his throat, crying never did him any good, it just made him look weak. This was not a place to be weak. “Am I staying here?” Wade asks, his tiny voice shaking more than he meant it to. “I thought you said this place was a hospital?” 

The man, Wade can’t remember his name, smiles widely, baring his teeth in what can only be a threat. “It is, we’re here to make you much better than you were. But, it’s also going to take some time to do that. This room was made special for you while you’re getting all fixed up.” 

The way the man speaks grates on Wade’s every nerve, talking down to him like he can’t understand a single word being said. Unfortunately, he can understand, and he does so way too well. This is not a place you go for them to cure you, this is a place you go so that they can make you worse, so much worse than you can imagine. Tears threaten to spill from soft brown eyes, pressing from behind and digging into his throat. Wade gives a single nod to the man, not making eye contact and stepping resignedly into his personal cell. The heavy door shuts behind him with a loud clang and he collapses to the floor in a puddle of tears the moment the lock clicks. 

Wade is ten and has already learned more than he should. To start off with; love is conditional. It’s conditional in the way his parents stopped hugging him after he was diagnosed. It’s conditional in the passive comments about the cost of his medical bills. It’s conditional in his father’s drinking habits and his mother’s cigarettes that burn circles into his skin when she puts them out. 

Second; never trust a man in a suit. The ones on TV are all liars, says his dad, but his dad was a liar sometimes too so where does that stand? Trusting men in suits did mean bad things would happen, like being stuffed in a room that’s overgrown with mold and crusted over with the blood of its last occupant. Trusting Suits meant pain, fear, and suffering and they hadn’t even done anything to him yet. 

The third and final thing; everything you love is only temporary. His parents weren’t ever meant to stay around, now in this new place, Wade doesn’t think they’ll ever return for him and he chokes on another sob just thinking about the possibility. He was pulled out of school when his parents had first found out, deeming it necessary to keep him close at all times while he was being treated. Wade had once thought it was because they cared he was sick, he shouldn’t have been so optimistic. 

Three things was all he needed to see it all clearly and it still felt like too much. Tears and dirt infect the scrapes in his knees from the rough ground, stinging like hell but a welcome distraction all the same. He’s just so tired, sososososo tired all the time. Not one day goes by that he wishes the cancer would just take him already, ten years old and exhausted by walking down a hallway. He’s just so tired, too tired to want anything else but to sleep forever, that’s what his mother said death would be like, a long forever nap that would ensure he’s never tired again. It sounds so nice. 

Sharp spikes and loose nails scattered across the concrete floor scrap his skin where he curls up, knees pulled close to his chest in a poor attempt to get the shaking to finally fucking stop . He’s cold, and tired, and scared and there isn’t a damned thing he can do about it. So he lets it be, lets the shaking continue until the cold and exhaustion pull his mind away from his stinging scrapes and broken body, lulling him miserably into a restless, nightmare infested sleep.

Chapter Text

“Deadpool?” 

Wade jolts awake with a start, barely moving but panic lodging itself in his chest and making it hard to breathe for a moment. It takes another full minute to hedge the hazy panic of a nightmare-fueled sleep out of his mind enough to recognize the figure trying to talk to him. Spider-Man is either up early, or never slept in the first place, and given what he’s heard about him, Wade’s betting on the latter. 

Sitting up, unicorn Squishmallow hugged to his chest, Wade watches several Oreo halves slide to the tiled floor of the Walmart entryway. They’d decided to camp out in the space between the doors, figuring it would be best to be out of the way of the tired minimum wage workers, and set up with their treasures for the duration of their stay. Now though, there’s a sleek, extremely expensive car worth more than Wade and Spidey’s combined existence and a man leaning against it with his arms crossed, wearing sunglasses at ass-O-clock in the morning even though the sun’s not even out. 

Spidey slides back into his line of sight, grabbing a few boxes of Oreos that still had some left inside. “That’s our ride, so we should probably get going.” 

Looking back at the man again, even with the sunglasses on Wade can tell he’s looking right back at them. He’d be a bit more intimidated by the sharp blazer and dress shoes if the man wasn’t wearing a cat T-shirt underneath it. It’s just barely enough that he thinks he should be able to keep the past from the present. 

This isn’t the lab this isn’t the lab this isn’t the lab this isn’t th—  

“C’mon,” Spidey interrupts, Oreo boxes in hand. “Let's get going.” 

Wade silently curses his mother’s grave in his head, grabs his unicorn, and follows after the spider, trying to not look like he’s being held at gunpoint. 

“Hey, kiddo,” the man calls. Wade feels like he’s gonna throw up. “What brings you all the way out here at this time of night?” 

Spidey falters slightly, rubbing the back of his neck in a guilty sort of way. “We were just… Looking around?” 

The man uncrosses his arms, his whole demeanor changing in an instant. “Alright, cut the shit. What do we got to work with here?” 

Shrugging, Spidey shifts the Oreo boxes and presses his fingers into the bloody spot at his temple. “Minor concussion, but it’s already healed.” 

“Sure it is, kid. I’ll still have Helen check that out. Just in case.” He slides the sunglasses off his face, tucking them into his shirt collar. Without them now, Wade can see why Spidey called him. 

That right there, is Tony Fucking Stark . Y’know, Iron-Man. The man Wade should have assumed would be on the list of possible chaperones for their impromptu field trip to Who-the-Fuck-Knows Town. 

“And what about your friend?” Wade feels some remaining inkling of terror pull at a sting in his spine, setting his posture ramrod straight in an instant. “Anything I should have any immediate concern over?” 

“Oh, this is Deadpool. And I don’t think so…” Spidey says, then turning to him, “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” he croaks. Clearing his throat, he repeats, “Yeah, I’m okay. No need to worry about little-old-me, Spider-Babe.” 

Tony looks taken aback by the nickname. “ Spider-Babe? ” 

“Don’t ask, ‘cause I don’t know.” Spidey sighs, walking straight past the man and climbing into the backseat of the car. 

Tony follows his lead, jumping up into the passenger side seat with a gesture for Wade to follow as well. The inside of the car is warm, and well worth the wait after so long spent in the chilly storefront. A man Wade recognizes offhandedly as Happy, Tony’s bodyguard, has control of the wheel, pulling out of the parking lot and off onto the decidedly not very busy road. 

This isn’t the lab, this is a car. This isn’t the lab, we’re in a car. I have a unicorn I need to give a name to, Oreos, and a friend. Not everyone you see wearing a suit is bad. This isn’t the lab. Get a grip—  

“How do you kids feel about McDonalds for a snack?” Tony asks. “For the record, I would not be choosing McDonalds if it wasn’t the closest option, so don’t go assuming I’m gonna be paying for mediocrity every time.” 

“You say that like you expect this to happen more than once,” Wade mumbles. 

“Given— the other kid’s usual tom-foolery, I expect to see you again, in a situation breathtakingly similar to this in, at most, a month from now.” 

Wade tilts his head in question. “Really?” 

“Hey! I’m not that bad.” Spidey says indignantly. “And It’s not even usually my fault when things happen, they just do!” 

Turning more fully to face his vigilante friend, Deadpool props his chin up on his hand in thought. “So, what you’re saying is that I can expect more out of my mind, drug fueled, crackhead level field trips to bizarre and weirdly specific cities from here on out?” 

Tony huffs a laugh at the glare Spidey gives Deadpool, shrugging helplessly. “Yeah, ” Tony says. “I wouldn’t be too surprised about that if I were you.” 

Just then, Happy pulls through the drive through and Wade has never been more grateful for twenty four hour work schedules before in his life. He’s not really paying attention to what’s ordered, turning his attention instead to the unicorn Squishmallow set nicely in his lap, wishing marginally that he could pull his gloves off and pet the rainbow fluff of its main and tail. Wade had never really bothered with stuffed animals before, not since his parents had gotten rid of Señor Spook; a baby pink stuffed jack-o’-lantern with a blue sombrero that he’d gotten at a carnival on his mother’s birthday. He can never be entirely sure what happened to Señor Spook, just that there was no chance of ever getting him back. Having the unicorn in his lap now has to be some sort of fluke, a temporary alteration to the laws of the universe. There was no possible way he’d get to keep something like this for very long, never something he got to enjoy for no reason. It’s why Wade’s lived with Al for so long, she hates him on a good day and pretends he doesn’t exist the rest of the time. If he keeps it that way then maybe he won’t get attached to someone who would never have stuck around if she’d been given a real choice in the matter, and maybe he won’t feel as crushed leaving a home behind if there’s nothing to make it one. 

Wade’s snapped from his deteriorating thought process by Spidey’s sudden chirped “thank you” as Tony hands back a paper bag filled to the top with cheese burgers. He pulls one off the top, passing it to Wade without a moment’s hesitation, grabbing a second one for himself right after and setting the bag between them. Wade’s almost certain he’s never seen so many burgers come out of a McDonald’s ever in his life. His own burger is loaded with every topping he could imagine ranging from pickles and onion rings to actual chicken strips stuck somewhere in the middle. It’s almost comical in size and he has to hold it weirdly to keep all the sauce from falling out before he’s even tried for a bite. It’s with great hesitance that Wade pulls his mask up over his nose, facing mostly toward the window just in case. After finishing off the first burger, Spidey taps his arm and passes him another that he eats gleefully. 

Buildings and headlights blur past the window all around them, barely enough light to see yet. Five in the morning is not a time to see anything more than the stream of boring businessmen as they speed off to work, following their usual boring routine. With four hours until they get back to Manhattan, Wade settles in with a third cheeseburger for the trip, intent to bask in the exhaustion-induced silence until they reach their destination. 

— — — — — — — —

“I spy… Something green,” Spidey chirps.

“Is it grass?” Wade asks, ignoring Tony’s twelfth irritated sigh in the last ten minutes. They ran out of things to spy two hours ago. 

“Yup! Your turn now!” 

“Hmm… I spy… something short,” Wade says. 

Without missing a beat, Tony pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing irritatedly again. “Is it grass? ” 

“Yes, but don’t worry Stark, we’ll start on concrete once we run out of grass.” Settling further down in his seat, Wade pulls his Squishmallow back into his lap, barely suppressing a laugh from Tony and Happy’s obvious annoyance. 

Spidey doesn’t bother hiding his amusement, mask flipped up over his nose and a sucker stick poking out of the upturned corner of his mouth. Where exactly the sucker came from, Wade has no idea and is still mildly salty at not being offered one. “I spy—” 

“If you say grass one more time , I’m making you two walk the rest of the way there.” Tony crosses his arms in a manner that resembles a toddler throwing a tantrum, visibly pouting in annoyance in the rearview mirror.

“Mr. Stark, we’re not that bad,” Spidey defends, grinning widely enough for his dry lips to crack in several areas. 

“Yes, you are.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Yes you are.” 

“No we’re not.” 

“ Yes— ”

Happy swerves off to the side of the road, throwing the occupants to the side and collecting a symphony of irritated drivers along the way as well as a near collision with a frazzled looking mother death gripping her steering wheel like her life depends on it. In her defense, it probably did for both herself and the infant buckled into the rear facing car seat in the back. Wade nearly slams his face into the back of Tony’s seat, the whole car jolting to a harsh stop and Happy spinning in his seat to level every one of them with a bone chilling glare. Dramatic, yes, but still utterly terrifying to experience. Both the bad driving etiquette and Happy’s glare, that is. 

“We are not doing this again,” Happy grounds out, giving all of them a pointed look. “I will leave you all here and make you walk home, is that what you want?” 

The three of them stay perfectly silent, although some for different reasons than others judging by the tremors hitching Tony and Spidey’s shoulders. Wade just doesn’t want to walk the unknown number of miles back to Queens. He could certainly do it, it was absolutely a thing he could do, however he could just as well lie face down in the dirt and let vultures pick apart his corpse for the rest of eternity. Yeah, that second option sounds much more appealing. 

“Good,” Happy huffs, seemingly satisfied with the lack of response, pulling back onto the road. 

“I would like it to be known that I have no other way of getting home if I get kicked out of this car before we reach New York,” Wade mumbles, leaning back to look out the window again. 

Wade swears he hears the other two snicker at his pouty demeanor and Wade has half a mind to staple himself by the ass to the car roof just to spite them. If that isn’t a mood swing and a half— but Wade’s so fucking tired that he can’t really bring himself to care. 

It’s another hour before they get back to Manhattan, another short while before they’re back in Queens, and by that point not only is the trip no longer fun, but Wade’s also come to realize that he doesn’t really have a plan for getting his unicorn back with him without causing any damage to it, leaving him to stare blankly down at the thing in his lap for an unknown amount of time. 

“Something wrong?” Tony asks. He’s drumming his fingers along the side of a Stark tablet idly, glancing between Wade and the fluffy rainbow stuffed toy he’d dragged along on their trip. 

After a moment, Wade sighs. “No, I’ll figure it out.” 

The car pulls to a steady stop just after, Happy putting it in park along the curb in front of a sandwich shop with the red overhangs reading “Delmar’s Deli-Grocery”. Delmar’s is already overrun with the morning rush and bustle of the morning, already nine and a fantastic day to have already resigned to missing school. Wade, instead of attempting any more coherent conversation than strictly necessary, says something that sort of resembles a “see you later” or “goodbye” of some kind and hops ship, heading in the vague direction he’s pretty sure home is. In Wade’s defense, he only gets lost six times, nearly gets mugged twice but somehow ends up with roughly fifty bucks in ones instead, and forgets that you’re supposed to turn doorknobs to open doors. 

Any decision made after closing himself in his room is between the mold issue and God at that point, so the open application for a Stark Industries internship on his laptop is no one’s business but theirs. Wade runs through the questions on autopilot, not processing anything, really, and especially completely unsure why exactly or what led to this point. Best he can come up with is that working for Stark Industries would be hilarious if he also vaguely knows Tony Stark through his accidental new friendship with the local vigilante Spider-Man. In this state of a regretful lack of actual sleep, despite it not even being that bad , the application is submitted with probably correct information with Wade crawling directly into bed after the fact. Fluffy blankets piled high and Lucky Charm the rainbow unicorn Squishmallow being cuddled tightly to his chest, Wade ignores Al for the rest of the evening. Much to the irritation of the woman, who literally can't fucking see. 

Chapter Text

Peter was, to put it oh so gently, completely and utterly exhausted . He really should’ve stayed home one more day after his involuntary field trip, but he had a group project and Decathlon meet with MJ, Ned, and Gwen that he promised he wouldn’t miss. 

And to add to that, he was curious to see what his new (kind of but not really) friend got up to while he was gone. Wade Wilson was a name bouncing around his head like a swarm of bees the moment he stepped onto the train that morning, it wasn’t every day he found someone who’s a fan of Spider-Man after all. There was also something almost… Charming was a good word, about the shy way Wade had introduced himself. It was also a little impressive that he’d managed to slip the name tag into Peter’s pocket without him noticing, given his enhanced senses. So sue him if he was a little excited to see the kid again! People like that don’t come along very often, and he intends to be at least a constant presence for as long as Wade will allow. 

Peter nearly falls flat on his face, once again, as the train lurches forward, the sudden start nearly ending with him having a face full of angry cat claws. What good are spider powers if he’s taken out by a cat and a shifty looking train? 

The poles rooted in the middle are, again, uncomfortably warm, but today they’re also disgustingly sticky with some unknown substance. Peter very nearly gags, still somehow managing to hold on despite it all. He’s not even going to ask, there are so many worse things than not knowing what The Substance is. 

Hot pink pigtails jump on at the next stop, the little girl kicking a beer can under a far seat as she goes to take her own. The Main Coon fully crawls into her lap this time around, purring with all the intensity of a chainsaw as she scratches behind the large cat’s ears. She waves kindly at Peter when she catches his eyes, shaking the small bells on her green beaded bracelet. Peter waves back with a small smile before pulling his phone free from his hoodie pocket. 

Half a random Spider-Man compilation later, and the train stops again, the Starbucks girl climbs aboard and, just like last time, heads for the back. A more boring, mundane day then. He was kind of hoping for more coffee shop gossip, he’s not gonna lie. 

Wade steps on just as the doors are closing, panting heavily and looking not unlike he’s just run a marathon. After a few deep breaths, he reaches blindly for the pole Peter has his hand on, then immediately winces once he grabs it. 

“Hey… umm… why is it…” 

“Sticky,” Peter finishes for him. Wade nods and Peter mimics the action without thought. “I don’t know, and I don’t think I want to.” 

Wade nods again, gravely, “That seems like a good decision, knowing why things are sticky typically makes it worse.” 

“Makes, what, worse?” Peter asks. 

Wade shrugs, “Everything. No one wants to know why certain things are sticky.” 

“That’s fair, I guess.” 

Humming softly, Wade shoves his free hand into the pocket of his Spider-Man hoodie and pulls a crinkly bag of some sort from it. The smell of cinnamon and sugar hits Peter like that truck did a few days ago. 

“Churro?” Wade asks, offering the bag. 

“Wade, you— brought me churros,” Peter says. He means it to be a question, but it doesn’t really come out as one. 

“Is that… a bad thing?” The bag lowers a rough half inch from where it had been raised and Peter’s hand jumps for it on its own accord, nearly snatching the bag from him in the process. Even still, the half aborted movement startles Wade into nearly dropping the bag anyway, ending in the two of them awkwardly hanging onto it together. 

“…Sorry,” Peter mutters after a moment. He still doesn’t let go of the bag. 

Wade blinks at him, scars on his face tugging with the movement, and lets go of the bag, snatching a churro from it all the same with a shy smile. “No problem…” he says back. 

Peter has half a churro shoved into his mouth when Wade speaks again, softly, “I… don’t think I ever caught your name…” 

Peter’s quick to swallow his churro, mildly regretting not getting to savor it more as he does so. “I’m Peter,” he answers, offering the three fingers not holding the churro bag for him to shake. Wade snorts, flushes red, and shakes the offered hand. Or well, a section of his hand? 

Doesn’t matter. Anyway…  

“What school do you go to,” Peter asks, stuffing another bite of churro in his mouth (he’ll feel bad about it later, but Wade has this little smile from seeing Peter enjoy the snack he brought, and his Spidey-Sense hasn’t gone off, so it’s not that bad). 

“Oh, nowhere special, it doesn’t really matter.” Wade waves a hand through the air dismissively, as if to banish the question from existence. “I’m transferring schools soon, so I won’t really be stuck around much longer.” 

“Oh, okay.” Peter offers another churro back to Wade, who accepts one with a small smile. 

The train pulls to a sudden stop, the two boys from the other day grabbing their stuff and stepping off the train. Wade frowns, but smiles again as he waves a short goodbye to Peter. 

“Wait!” 

Wade stops, spinning back to look at him in question. 

“Thank you for the churros,” Peter says, waving himself. 

“Not a problem, Peter.” 

It goes on like that for the next two weeks, and by the end, Peter’s halfway to losing his mind over the prospect of only having a new friend for the train. What kind of lame setup is that? They talk about everything and nothing all at once, conversations ranging from Star Wars trivia and movie analogy to genuinely engaging conversations about tech that Ned struggles to understand half the time. Sure Wade doesn’t get all of it, but he’s got a decent enough memory that he only needs to be told about anything once to recall it in perfect detail the next time it becomes relevant. 

He doesn’t have anything else to do, other than follow the little string trail of Deadpool appearances and just missing him every time. Peter’s not quite sure what he’s missing there, because Deadpool’s not unfriendly, they chat plenty when they can, he’s just in his own little world of chaos for the moment. It mostly seems to be so that the newer vigilante can explore the area, and he hasn’t even bothered going to Ned or Tony to see how correct he is about it. Why bother, it’s not like he’s hurting anything. Deadpool is that way because he can be. 

There was one memorable occasion when Deadpool stole a pizza for him, and Peter’s not sure how to feel about that. His intentions were nice, if slightly skewed. Who was Peter to complain anyway? He was hungry, no one else was going to eat it, so what the hell? He’d heard some distant conversation from one of the working staff about the thing being thrown out anyway, something about a no-show for pickup, so he ate the pizza and didn’t say anything. 

It’s on the Monday of the third week that Peter finally works up the nerve, and frankly the audacity, to ask Wade to come watch Star Wars or something with him, when he notices something different. Amidst all the Deadpool shenanigans, he hadn’t really been paying much attention before, but he swears on his parents’ graves that the Midtown Tech pin stuck into Wade’s backpack was new. 

It could’ve been a coincidence, but then Wade missed his stop. Peter has a cup of pretzel bites and a hot chocolate held precariously in one hand using his spidery powers, and he still nearly drops them when something from their conversation from the week before clicks.  

“I finally got all the work through,” Wade had said, smiling, “I’ll supposedly get everything else set up over the weekend, and I’m going to my new school starting Monday!”  

In Deadpool’s words, fuck him sideways, he’s an idiot. Wade had said he was going to “some smart person school” and Peter hadn’t thought for one second that his train friend might be going to his smart person school. What even were the odds of that happening? Peter was almost positive Parker Luck worked the opposite way and would have Wade moving halfway across the state for school, not moving into the locker down the hall from his. Mark his words, this sudden luck will have Wade moving in down the hall from him and Aunt May by the end of the school year. 

“Hey, Wade,” Peter starts, popping a pretzel bite into his mouth casually, careful to not let the cheese sauce drip to the floor. 

Wade swallows a sip of his own hot chocolate before answering, “Yeah, Pete?” 

“What school did you say you were going to again?” 

“Midtown Tech, why?” 

Peter turns to fully face him, staring into the boy's lighter brown eyes with intensity that could unsettle Thor himself. “That’s my school,” he says plainly. 

“Oh.” Wade closes the lid on his pretzel bites, making sure his cheese sauce is enclosed carefully inside the container so it won’t spill as he shoves both into his pocket. “We’re going to the same school?” 

His eyes are wide, a painfully wide grin splitting down the middle of his face that Peter matches. 

“Looks like it.” 

Wade’s practically vibrating out of his skin with excitement, and by the time the train stops, they’re both already comparing schedules as they book it through the doors and up towards their school. Chatter voices back and forth between the two, rapid enough that they keep getting strange looks passed to them from some of the surrounding kids. They make it all the way to the doors of the office before Wade, unfortunately, has to break off to meet with their principal. 

“I’ll see you at lunch?” Wade nervously rubs the back of his neck, tugging at the edge of a blue and red knitted, Spider-Man themed beanie, so that it sits more firmly over his head. 

“Yeah,” Peter grins, “I’ll see you then, it shouldn't be too hard to find me in the cafeteria.” 

“I’ll look for you,” he says, softly. And with that, the door clicks shut, and Peter’s left with this giddy feeling flooding through his veins, made even better with more pretzel bites and hot chocolate. 

He doesn’t see Ned at his locker this time, quickly gathering the books he needs and heading straight for first period History with Ms. Margaret. Gwen and Ned are already in their seats on their respective sides of his desk, and greet him casually as he takes his seat. 

“Hey man,” Ned says, reaching a hand out for their handshake and going over it flawlessly. 

“Hey Ned,” Peter says back, “Sorry, I must’ve missed you at my locker this morning.” 

“Nah, Gwen needed help carrying something.” 

“It’s true,” she pipes in, “I might get suspended again, but that’s neither here nor there.” 

Peter blinks. “For what? ” 

“MJ stuff.” Gwen’s eyes go straight to her desk, chin length hair hiding her face from view. He almost misses the subtle red tint to her ears. 

“They got caught making out in the halls again,” Ned helpfully supplies. Gwen glares daggers over Peter’s desk at him. 

“Did not.” 

“Did too.” 

“What are you, five?” 

“Out of five stars,” Ned winks. Gwen groans loudly, head hitting her desk with a gentle thud. 

While Peter would really like to ask what that was about, Ms. Margaret steps up to the front of the room, her hair styled up in a very curly Afro, pencils sticking out of it like a sea urchin. The click of her heels silences the class in an instant as she starts class up, she’s good like that. 

When the class is over, for the most part, and they’re waiting for morning announcements to finish up, Peter’s hand knocks against the empty cup of pretzel bites in his hoodie pocket. 

“ Oh my Thor, I can’t believe I forgot to tell you guys!” 

Ms. Margaret shoots a look at him from across the room and he gives her a sheepish grin, a silent apology for his outburst. 

“I made a new friend,” he continues, just as excited, if a little quieter, “He just started at our school today, and I can’t wait for you guys to meet him.” 

Ned huffs a quiet laugh, “You say that like you just found another ultimate, hardcore Spider-Man fan—” 

“Because I did! ” Peter grins wider at his friend, watching Ned and Gwen’s eyes both widen marginally. 

“No way, tell me you’re joking.” 

“He watches Star Wars, he’s almost as smart as I am and actually understands what I’m talking about most of the time, and he’s a huge Spider-Man fan. ” 

“Alright, I’m sold,” Gwen chimes, “When do we get to meet this guy?” 

“At lunch, hopefully,” Peter answers readily. 

Ned hums, “But he doesn’t know that you’re… y’know…” Ned makes a web-shooter motion with his hands, and Peter chuckles softly at his friend’s antics, batting his hands away. 

“No, he doesn’t,” he admits, “But, he brings me churros, and he makes all his Spider-Man stuff by hand. ” 

“And you haven’t told us any of this before because…” Gwen trials off. 

Peter shrugs, “I don’t really know, to be honest. I mostly just see him on the train every morning. Well, I did only see him on the train, that is.” 

“That should be interesting,” Gwen says. 

Announcements cut off the same time the bell rings, the halls automatically flooding with students bustling to get to their next classes. Unless Peter had one of his next two classes with Wade, which he honestly wasn’t really too sure about, he’d have to wait until lunch to talk to him again, which wasn’t exactly too much of a hassle. Just two more classes, then they could all meet.

Chapter Text

While there was always a chance for Peter and Wade to have overlap in their schedules, Wade still wasn't expecting to walk into second period and find Peter sitting by a far window. His face lights up when he sees Wade, reaching to pat the top of the desk behind him with this soft, hopeful look on his face that twists Wade’s chest in an odd sort of way. It’s something to reflect on later, a sensation he hasn’t really allowed himself to process and dismissing instead. He drops his bag over the attached chair of the desk regardless, trying not to pay too much attention to the beaming smile on Peter’s face. 

“Hiya,” Wade greets softly, sliding into the desk. 

Peter whirls around to face him, briefly knocking unruly curls into his eyes. “Hey,” he chirps back, “I wasn’t expecting to have a class with you, this is great.” 

“Neither was I, honestly.” Wade unfolds his paper schedule slowly, smoothing it flat over his desktop as he turns it to Peter. “Do we have any others together, you think?” 

Peter carefully takes the schedule from Wade, scanning over the lines with a focused look that creases his brows and has his lips pressing into a thin line, a sliver of pink remaining visible. Between that and the stupid science pun T-shirt, Wade has half a mind left to question why he cares so much about such a small detail. Something so insignificant that it’s hardly worth mentioning, and yet he can’t help but to notice the way the light from the window makes Peter’s eyes glow a soft molten gold. 

“Hey! We have Sewing together!” Peter shocks Wade from his thoughts with the exclamation, and Wade can feel the way the tips of his ears burn red. “We’re not that far into our current project, and we just finished another one, so it shouldn’t be too hard for you to get caught up. Especially not if you already make stuff like that,” Peter says, gesturing to Wade’s Spider-Man themed beanie. 

“Oh, yeah,” Wade says intelligently, rubbing the back of his neck, “I just make this stuff for fun.” 

“Exactly—!” 

“ Mr. Parker, ” their Math teacher chides. 

Wade watches in real time as Peter deflates fully into his chair, turning forward like a completely different person than the bubbly character he’d been conversing with just moments before. He hears a group laugh near the back of the class and feels his blood boil. It’s quiet, mocking, and doesn't make an ounce of sense in the context of the situation. They were just talking, not even that loudly. Not to mention the bell still hasn’t rung, so they definitely weren’t interrupting class. What the fuck?  

Their Math teacher, a Mr. Barker (oddly fitting for such a noisy prick) with thick black hair and a simple mustache framed by a rough stubble and a square set of wireframe glasses, sends Peter specifically, a disapproving look, but otherwise doesn’t say anything as he starts setting up for class. He has an ungodly amount of gel in his hair, enough so that Wade’s not so sure he couldn’t knock on it and hear a resulting hollow echo. Though the echo could certainly come from the man’s empty skull, it didn’t seem too much like an impossibility. Even more possible to believe, was the faint tan line where a wedding ring used to be, and a ruffled collar no loving wife would have ever let her husband leave the house with. 

His mouth is open, words tumbling out before he can stop himself, “You know, if you pulled that stick out of your ass, maybe your wife wouldn’t have divorced you.” And Wade knows immediately that he’s going to eat those words. 

Mr. Barker’s head snaps to him so fast the entire class visibly flinches back, cowering behind books or discreetly pulling out phones to record whatever show they’re about to watch. Peter, for one, looks some cross between terrified and silently… amused at the turn of events. 

“That,” the teacher begins slowly, clenching his teeth so hard they creak, “Is none of your business, Wilson. I would like to speak to you after class. ” He says it in this condescending tone that Wade just can’t let go of, commanding and so full of himself even if the words themselves aren’t. 

Wade is already thinking through possible escape routes, there’s no way in Utica that he’s talking to anyone about anything, not a chance. However, it should be kept in mind that Wade also happens to be Deadpool, and Deadpool is very good at digging his own grave. The Wade Wilson persona just happens to hand him an extra shovel every once in a while. 

“Aw, I don’t get to be Mr. Wilson? But Peter got to be Mr. Parker,” he wines in a tone he knows will get a negative reaction. 

He’s never been sure what the appeal of it was, but getting any reaction at all always at least made him feel more often than not. It was hard dealing with his weirdo powers sometimes, and constantly regenerating and changing nerve endings happened to be one of those things. Sometimes the damage done would factory reset the system, and other times it made it worse. It was a real hit or miss on more occasions than he would like. 

“Oh! If I can’t be Mr. Wilson, I could also be a Mr. Parker!” He very intentionally ignores Peter’s sudden choking in favor of the bit, resigning to apologizing at a later date. “I’m pretty sure gay marriage is legal in this state, at least,” Wade muses. 

“Are you quite done, Mr. Wilson? ” Mr. Barker snaps. 

This is gonna be a fun class.  

“ Quite, ” Wade smirks. 

The bell rings right after, as if willed into action by his audacity alone. Mr. Barker glares in their general direction one last time, at Wade sitting innocently in his chair with his hands folded together on his desk and Peter turned backward in his seat to stare with wide eyes at his usually shy friend. After a long moment, their teacher goes about starting up class with a frustrated huff. The rest of the period goes about that well. 

It’s made apparent fairly quickly that Wade is smart. The only problem is that he’s an asshole about it, seemingly pleased to be pissing off Mr. Barker in any way he conceivably can. He corrects the man twice on phrasing and pronunciation of random terms, and four times for math equations. Mr. Barker, thoroughly fed up with the teen, makes the mistake of offering sarcastically for Wade to teach the class. So of course Wade takes him up on the opportunity. He’s channeling Deadpool way too much for the circumstances, but it’s been a good day and he hasn’t caused any problems recently, so he definitely deserves to wreak some havoc as a little treat! 

Peter, for one, looks utterly baffled, staring at him with this little spark of amusement in those big brown eyes of his. They’re very distracting, in Wade’s personal opinion. But Peter has always been naturally pretty, so he ultimately decides not to read too much into it. It’s totally fine.  

On the opposite side of things, their teacher has completely given up on teaching for the day. The man has his head in his hands at his desk, looking miserable as Wade goes about writing out equations and solutions on the board like he was born at the front of the classroom. By the end of class, everyone has learned most of their current lesson, a better way to do their last lesson, and a decent section of their next lesson that simply bled into it all. And they ask questions that Wade answers with a smile and a laugh, and then he leaves the second the bell rings. There one second, gone the next. 

Everyone rushes for the window he jumped out of, Peter almost throwing himself out the moment he realizes what happened, panic coursing through even though his Sense stays silent. Wade, seemingly completely unbothered, spins on his heel from where he landed after jumping out a second story window, shoots the class a thumbs up and a cocky grin, and spins right back around to jog to his next class. 

“What the hell?” someone breathes, astonished. 

“ Did that kid just jump!? ” 

“That was so cool!” 

With everyone distracted, Peter stealthily climbs out a window at the far side of the classroom, and climbs down carefully to follow after his friend. He finds Wade at one of the side doors, picking the lock with an ease that isn’t concerning at all.  

“Did you seriously jump? ” Peter asks, startling his friend. 

Wade smiles sheepishly, then turns back to pull the door open as the lock clicks in place. “Did you? How did you get down here?” he counters. He holds the door open for Peter with a dramatic bow that Peter in turn can only roll his eyes at as he heads back inside the school. 

“And what if I did?” Peter shoots back, “It can’t be the weirdest thing that’s happened today, I mean, you took over our class. And sorry to say, but you give off the impression that you’re more…” Peter waves a hand about, trying to think of a way to phrase it without sounding mean. 

“Shy?” 

“Yeah,” Peter relents. 

“Well…” Wade muses, bumping his shoulder against Peter’s as he turns them down another hall, “It isn’t exactly an incorrect statement, but I have some days that are better than others in that regard. I mostly just don’t like crowds.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Or people.” 

“Oh—” 

“Not you,” Wade says quickly, “but I especially hate crowds of people. It’s weird.” 

Peter hums. “It’s not that weird.” 

“It’s kinda weird.” 

“No it’s not.” 

“Yes it is.” 

“No it’s not.” 

“Yes it is!” 

“It’s kinda not.” 

“It totally is.” 

Peter shoots him an exasperated sort of look. “To you maybe. I, on the other hand, am much more weird than anything you could ever accomplish.” 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

“Peter.” 

“What?” 

They both stop, just in front of one of the biology classrooms, causing a kid to nearly crash into the back of them in the suddenly very noticeably crowded hallway. The noisy chatter pulls the two of them harshly back into reality out of their little bubble, one they’ve crafted accidentally after so long spent together on the noisy train. Peter shifts his bag over his shoulders, fidgeting with the straps. 

Wade chuckles warmly, “You’re gonna be late for class.” 

Peter stops, eyes widening, the bell ringing sharply not even a moment later. He curses and Wade laughs again as Peter waves a frantic goodbye and rushes off to his next class. Weaving through the crowd with practiced efficiency crafted after years of going to public school. 

Wade watches until he disappears, then turns to head inside. Just like the last class, the teacher pays no mind to the new student and simply gets to work starting up class. Wade slides into an empty seat next to a girl with green eyes and short, chin length blond hair, the ends dyed pink. She smooths out her soft blue cardigan over her plain white T-shirt, folding her arms against the edge of her desk. 

“You’re a friend of Peter’s.” she comments bluntly, completely forgoing any sort of greeting. 

Wade blinks. “Um… yeah…?” 

She hums in acknowledgement, sticking her hand out to him. “I’m Gwen,” she says, “And any friend of Peter’s is a friend of mine.” 

“Wade,” he offers, shaking the offered hand kindly in return. “Peter told me about you, I think. You’re on the Decathlon team together, right?” 

“Yes we are, and for the record; Peter has never once mentioned you before.” 

“Oh.” 

“Not in any formal way, at least. You’ve been referred to primarily as “train guy” by our group for the last month like you’re some sort of cryptid.” She pulls a notebook from her bag, a purple cover with a highly detailed painting of Spider-Man swinging across a cityscape taking up the space. 

“You like Spider-Man?” Wade blurts out. 

Gwen pauses, setting her pencil carefully beside the notebook so it doesn’t roll off the table, and turns to face him. She eyes the Spider-Man beanie he has on and a smile spreads slowly over her face. 

“Wade, you and I are going to be fantastic friends.”

Chapter Text

“ Sir, you have a meeting with Mrs. Stark in fifteen minutes. Are you sure you want to run the program again? ” 

Tony combs a hand through his hair, squinting at the floating images hung around him until his vision starts blurring at the edges. The same face he’s been staring at for the last few hours staring right back with dead eyes, looking far more exhausted than a kid has any right being. 

Wade Wilson, the infamous Deadpool. The same kid who's been running around terrorizing the city as Spider-Man’s new companion. 

The same kid Tony was likely going to be hearing exclusively about from the spider kid for the foreseeable future. He could already feel the headache he was going to get forming behind his eyes, pulsing in time with FRIDAY’s final meeting reminder. 

Sighing in resignation, Tony heads for the elevator, pulling up a new note on his phone along the way. If he’s going to have two reckless teenage vigilante superheroes roaming around, he sure as hell isn’t going to let them wander around unsupervised. He’s Tony Stark, he’s irresponsible, but he’s not that irresponsible. 

He could see the headlines now: Local Reckless Teenage Superheroes Seen Driving Iron-Man to Insanity. With more at five, or whatever. He just knew this was going to be a nightmare to deal with, but he would get through it. If only for the sake of Peter having full time backup with him when he’s out doing things he shouldn’t be. With the kids’ description of the creature they fought last time, he was more than glad they had each other so close, even if they didn’t know it yet. 

It was at times like these that he wished he at least had Natasha stuck by his side, if only for the reassurance that something good could come from this. Maybe even to help with some vague semblance of subtlety in the recruiting process for this kid. Subtle was never his thing, neither was recruitment, that was Natasha’s job. 

The elevator slides open with a chime, Pepper’s office door wide open and leaving her desk as the first thing he sees rounding the corner, Pepper sorting through a large stack of files off to the side. She smiles at him, pulling a specific file from the middle of the stack and leans against the edge of her desk. 

“I know I said I was in desperate need of a new assistant, but I didn’t expect you to start feeding me applications for interns, Mr. Stark.” She places the file on the desk next to her, pulling another file from the stack to look through. Even while her attention is on the contents of the file, she keeps her focus on Tony, glancing at him over the top of the file with a knowing grin. “None of the rest of these are interns, what’s so different about this one?” 

Tony plucks the file from her desk, flipping it open to examine the contents. “Well, you see, Pep, I was looking at the application—” 

“Mmhm,” she hums, setting the file in her hands back in the stack, “And somehow, Wade Wilson caught your attention?” 

“He seems like a good kid,” Tony says defensively, “A good, perfectly capable, smart—” 

“Kid,” Pepper finishes for him, “He’s a kid, Tony. Stark Industries has it on every possible website that we don’t accept high school interns, but if we take this kid on, we’ll have two marked exceptions to this rule.” She moves over to him, the echo of her heels clicking on the marble flooring filling every crevice of the room, and grasps his hand in both of hers. The file he had been holding seemingly vanishes into thin air, plucked from his grasp and tossed haphazardly into Pepper’s purse. At least it wasn’t an immediate “no,” he muses. 

“This is Peter’s situation all over again, Tony, and that means there’s an extra couple of details I’m missing here,” she says. Pepper presses a kiss to his cheek, and her palms over his chest where his arc reactor used to be. “If this is another teenage vigilante situation, I want to know all the details. Outside of that, I think he’s a pretty good candidate.” 

Tony hums, head dipping to rest his forehead against hers. “Wouldn’t have even considered it if he wasn’t.” 

“I’ll schedule an interview, then,” she relents with an exasperated look reflected in the blue of her eyes, “see if he’s as impressive on paper as he is in person. It would be easier cover for him to have a real internship, right? That’s what was decided with Peter?” 

“Yeah.” 

“So this is another teenage vigilante situation.” Pepper leans away a short distance, arms crossed over her chest in an accusatory manner. 

His hands go up in mock surrender. “I deny all involvement if this ends up going south.” 

She laughs softly, her lips pressing together to curve into that same smile Tony fell in love with all that time ago. She steps back around her desk to grab her purse, heading for the elevator with her heels in hand. “I have a few more meetings later, but I should still be able to make a few phone calls for this later today if you head to one of my meetings for me.” 

“Oh, and here I thought that was the CEO’s job,” he responds easily. He follows her to the elevator with his hands stuffed in his pockets and a small victory tune ringing in his ears. 

It wasn’t like he expected Pepper to refuse to take part in his scheming this time around, it was more that he hadn’t expected her to agree like this. It really couldn’t be that big of a deal to her if she was truly considering it, that much was obvious. But to outright agree? Unheard of in all the history of his crazy ideas, and he had a lot of those. 

“My job today is to do your job, it only makes sense that you do mine.” 

He breathes a laugh, threading a hand through his hair. “I guess so, Mrs. Stark.” 

They’re quiet for a moment, the hum of the elevator filling the space that they choose to simply exist in together. Being present and in the moment when the world outside keeps spinning and the universe keeps trying to pull itself apart. It’s a surreal experience for people like them, for several wildly different reasons all with the same cause. It isn’t every day someone like Pepper marries a multi-billionaire, superhero, and part time involuntary father to a reckless teenager, but she somehow still remained where she was. Standing by his side like it was the easiest thing in the world for her to do, like the world couldn’t end tomorrow and it could all be his fault. 

Even then, she would probably still be there, calling him a reckless dumbass and threatening him with something so mundane as paperwork and company meetings if he doesn’t come out alive. How could he ever hope to comprehend Pepper “Virginia” Stark and every chance she gave him. 

She hums as the doors slide open, her phone clicking on in her hand to reveal a plethora of missed calls and unread texts from Peter. Tony leans over her shoulder to get a better view, the top most message seeming oddly polite and calm for the trouble he was very likely in at the moment. The phone buzzes with a call from the school itself and their eyes lock as Pepper answers the phone. 

The voice on the other end seems more exasperated than anything else, someone else yelling in the background about someone else’s broken nose. Pepper winces at the initial volume and steps off the elevator the moment the doors open up to their penthouse floor. 

“Yes, I am,” she answers the person, “What happened?” 

Her face is pinched in worry that quickly falls away to exasperation the longer the person on the other line blabbers on. 

A quiet sigh escapes her once again, probably her fifteenth one that day, if not in the last hour, and she hangs up the call with a final, “We’ll be there in a few minutes.” 

Without needing to be asked, Tony turns right back around and grabs Pepper’s jacket and a small, plain, black backpack from next to the door with a little spider pin stuck into the front most pocket of it. 

Peter had complained about its existence the first time Pepper had brought it with her, and then again when Tony had informed him that he was the one who came up with the idea. Its entire purpose, and all of its contents, were all placed and decided upon to deal with the most common nonsense situations Peter got himself into. Pepper regularly replaced the snacks and the clothes placed with care in the very bottom of it. So far, it was proving to be the most useful thing Tony had ever done, and he made that kid a suit with all of the most expensive tech he could imagine. 

Alright, Pep,” Tony says once they’re both back in the elevator, “Let’s go see what ‘Roos got himself into this time.” 

“Knowing you, and how similar you two are, I wouldn’t be surprised if we show up to half the school being…” Pepper waves a hand out, grasping at the air as if it will summon the words she’s looking for. “…underwater, or something. That seems like something you would do.” 

“That sounds like something I’ve done,” he mutters, wincing. “I’m putting my money on it being another one of the things they were dealing with in Utica.” 

Pepper stares ahead in thought. “I hope not,” she says after a long moment, “You said those things could disguise themselves, that could only possibly lead to more trouble than Peter’s equipped to deal with. Wait, they? ” 

She turns to him, an eyebrow raised in question. His fingers drum against his leg where they hang at his side, and she eyes the movement knowingly. 

“Again, I did say I was going to deny all involvement.” 

“Tony, no… ” She would bury her head in her hands if it wouldn’t smear her makeup, still she pinches the bridge of her nose, lamenting for a moment the normal evening at home she could be having right now. 

“It’s really not that bad, Pep. This is a good thing, trust me.” 

“How? How is this a good thing?” 

“Well, you see—” 

The elevator dings, cutting him off sharply and opening once again, this time to their private garage. Tony strides over to a yellow ford mustang, purposefully taking the chances provided to him to set down the shovel he had been digging his own grave with. Pepper’s never been the most enthusiastic about cars, but Tony tells her enough about his projects that she can guess that it’s probably a 1970. 

He opens up Pepper’s door for her first, holding it open for her and waving her over to him. “Come on, let’s go see what the kids have gotten themselves into.”