Chapter Text
New York goes feral on a day that already sucks for Peter Parker.
“—always look like death, barely greet the customers, and you’re late more often than you’re on time! I can’t put up with you, Parker!”
“I’m sorry,” Peter says, not for the first time. He wishes his boss — his manager, actually, a guy probably only five years older than Peter — would’ve had the foresight to do this elsewhere. Like, in a back room. Instead, he’s yelling at Peter right out in the open. They’re both ignoring the still-growing line of customers, the ones closest to the front shifting around uncomfortably rather than with their usual impatience, and Peter’s probably going to get blamed for this hold-up, too.
“You know, you say that all the time, but I’ve stopped believing you,” Terrance hisses. “If you were really sorry, you’d show up on time. It’s not fair to me, it’s not fair to the rest of the staff, and it certainly isn’t fair to the customers!” he barks, waving his hand at the line. Oh, great, draw even more attention to this spectacle. That’ll fix the situation.
“I’ll do better,” Peter promises. And he really does try to do better! Like, all the time. But there are certain things that he just can’t control. He’s already working two jobs — not to mention his, er, extracurricular activities — and when Spidey Stuff gets in the way of Life Stuff, Peter chooses the Spidey Stuff. Every time.
Although, to be fair to Terrance, this particular instance might be Peter’s fault more than Spider-Man’s. Sure, he was out late last night because of some freak boiler explosion (no casualties, thankfully), but it took forever to clear the building and get all the people outside safely. Peter stuck around until the fire was out, just in case someone happened to still be stuck inside, which would’ve sucked if Peter had already swung home. And after the fire was out, some officers came by to get his statement, and then there was this mugging on the way home…
Basically, Peter was out late and he should’ve set more alarms this morning, especially because he stayed up even later to finish a research paper for one of his classes rather than going straight to bed. He knows he has a tendency to turn off his alarms in his sleep, and he wasn’t thinking when he set just one for this morning. He woke up already ten minutes late, and despite foregoing brushing his teeth (a decision he still regrets) and sprinting all the way to the train station (he was hot and sweating when he got here, but now that the sweat has cooled, he’s freezing in his t-shirt and apron), he was still thirty minutes late by the time he actually arrived.
So. It’s probably Peter’s fault. Lately, he’s been realizing that balancing Spider-Man, online classes, and two different jobs is probably a little too much for anyone to handle. His only saving grace is that he doesn’t have any close friends to constantly disappoint. (Ha. Yes, that’s his saving grace. Being a friendless loser.)
“We’ve already given you too many chances,” Terrance says. Oh, God. Peter probably should’ve realized that that was where this conversation was headed, but for some reason he was remaining optimistic. “Honestly, I think it’d be easier on all of us here without an employee we can’t depend on. I’m sorry, but you’re fired.”
Peter feels the embarrassment slink through his body. He flushes, the warmth spreading from his neck all the way to the tips of his ears, and he just barely manages to nod. He’s too aware of all the people in line, absolutely having heard every word of this. He’s too aware of himself — the sweat stains on his shirt, the hole in the left knee of his jeans, the way that his right sock slid down his foot throughout the morning and is now lodged under his heel.
“Okay,” Peter says, his voice quiet. He takes an awkward step backward and clears his throat. Who the hell fires someone in the middle of the day? Couldn’t he have at least waited until the end of Peter’s shift?
“Peter,” Terrance says, and Peter hates the way he perks up.
“Yeah?”
“You can leave your apron in the back.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.”
It’s like the walk of shame to end all walk of shames. Except Peter’s never done a walk of shame — nor, technically, the stuff that leads up to it — but Peter’s sure. He’s sure that this is worse than that could be.
He has to walk past Terrance, feeling the eyes of all the customer’s weighing on him, and slink into the back room.
“Can you unload the dishwasher?” Jessica says, after glancing over her shoulder and seeing Peter. He takes off his apron.
“Actually, I’m, uh. Going home.”
“Shit. Are you okay?”
“Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Okay, well, I hope you feel better,” Jessica says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yep,” Peter says, definitely never going to see Jessica again.
He leaves through the back door, which leads straight into an alley, and wonders just what he’s supposed to do with himself. He doesn’t have to be at the Bugle for six more hours. He has some work he could be doing for classes, but he left his textbooks and laptop at home. He has his suit, of course, but he’s been trying to stop changing in alleyways so often. It’s a risk that he shouldn’t take unless absolutely necessary, and with no crime actively happening around him, there’s not much of a reason for him to change.
So Peter just starts walking. He loses himself in the crowds of New York and sets off down the street, his hands in his pockets and his head in the clouds.
His coffee job wasn’t much, but it was enough. Rent isn’t cheap anywhere in New York, but Peter’s living in a place where he can manage to scrape by if he has two sources of income. With just the pay from the Bugle — and no savings to speak of — Peter’s fucked.
The coffee paycheck always comes in before the Bugle’s. Without today, tomorrow, and the next day’s shifts, Peter’s going to be short on rent. Even if he spends nothing until rent is due, he won’t make it.
He’ll have to find another job. But interviews are hard for him, probably a product of Parker luck, and often times he ends up missing them or being late or making some kind of bad impression even if he is on time. He’s lucky that Bean Bar even hired him — he showed up to that interview with a black eye.
Today already sucked before he got fired. His ribs ache, because he accidentally swung into a building yesterday thanks the smoke-inhalation dulling his spidey-sense, and now he has to panic about money up until he gets to the Daily Bugle, when he’ll finally having something to distract him. In that moment, Peter thinks, Today couldn’t be worse.
That’s where he’s wrong. Of course.
He’s sitting in a different coffee shop (close enough to a train station that he could arrive quickly, close enough to the Daily Bugle that he could get to one job from the other in a timely manner, and looking busy enough that they’d probably be grateful to have a new applicant), when a sudden hush falls over the shop. Someone shushes loudly, as if everyone isn’t already silent, and then one of the employees grabs a remote and turns up the volume of the TV in the corner.
“…terrifying news about the up-and-coming hero, Hyderseek,” says a solemn-looking news anchor. A picture accompanies his face on the screen. It’s Hyderseek. Peter’s yet to bump into him, but he’s a new hero who’s been emerging on the scene of New York, fighting petty crime and occasionally making headlines. Honestly, Peter’s been grateful for his presence. It takes some of the weight off his shoulders.
“The NYPD reports that the man behind the mask is none other than Weston Jones, the serial killer responsible for the deaths of twelve teenage girls, four infants, and—” Peter can’t hear the rest. His ears are ringing, and the occupants of the coffee shop are shouting over the broadcast anyway.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. Peter catches snatches of people talking about Jones on the street.
“—would’ve thought it was him?”
“—never trusted that Seek guy—”
“—who else could be hiding…?”
“—you think about Spider-Man?”
The Bugle’s in an uproar. Jameson is gleeful about the revelation.
“I’ve been saying it for years!” he shouts, over the general clamor of the newsroom. Reporters are running in and out. Editors are bent over their computers, writing stories and editing the copy that comes in. Peter’s been editing photos all day and uploading articles online. ‘Hyderseek — seek the reason for his hidden identity no more!’ ‘Masked Menaces: Where does it end?’ ‘Superheroes: Nothing to hide? Prove it!’
“If they had nothing to hide, they wouldn’t be wearing masks!” Jameson roars. “All superheroes should be required to reveal their identities. For the safety of the public!”
And on and on it goes.
At one point, Jameson slaps a photo down on the desk in front of Peter and demands for him to clean it up. “That beauty’s going on the front page,” he says.
“Spider-Man?” Peter says. “Shouldn’t it be Hyderseek?”
Jameson scoffs. “Everyone’s gonna be printing that lunatic,” he says. “The real news isn’t that we know who he is — it’s that there are others out there, and we still don’t know who they are!”
Peter sees the mock-up of the front page that will be on stands tomorrow as he leaves. It’s a picture of him — Spider-Man — with the headline slapped above his head. SHOW YOURSELF! OR ELSE.
It’s not the first time Jameson’s printed something like this. But it is the first time that it’s actually worrisome to Peter. With Hyderseek being a large-scale criminal, people are going to be out for blood. Spidey’s blood. This time, it’s not that he’s a vigilante, or that sometimes he gets in fights that wreck the city — it’s that he could be anyone under the mask. A criminal. A murderer.
The weight of everything is crushing him. Jobs. School. Money. Masks. By the time he finally leaps out his window in his suit, he doesn’t know whether to be relieved or more anxious than ever.
Usually, going out as Spider-Man feels good. Not just because he’s saving people and helping the city, but because he’s free. He’s not down-on-his-luck Peter Parker, struggling to make ends meet and getting yelled at by bosses and lighting candles when the electricity goes out. He’s Spider-Man. A hero. Someone that people call out to for help, and then thank as he leaves.
He gets to feel the rush of adrenaline as he swings through the streets. The wind resistance tugging at him until he turns just so and cuts through it. The push and pull of swinging, of fighting, of webbing up a criminal and handing them over to the police.
But tonight, it’s like all eyes are on him. People shout from the streets and they don’t sound happy. They sound like New York as he used to know it — back when he was a teenager and the majority of the public cared more about the fact that he could get away “scot free” rather than the fact that he was saving lives.
The people of New York are angry. They’re feral. They’re scared and upset and they want assurance that Peter hasn’t betrayed them the way Hyderseek did, but Peter can’t give that to them.
His identity is all he has. His situation isn’t great, sure, but at least when Peter takes off the mask all he has to worry about is work and money and school. Spider-Man’s villains don’t follow him home. Peter doesn’t have to worry for Aunt May’s safety, scared that someone will come for her in order to get to him. He can’t give that up. He already sacrifices so much for New York, and this is the one thing he wants to keep for himself.
“Well, well, well.”
The voice comes with the added shock of Peter’s spidey-sense zinging down his spine. He leaps up into a crouch, facing the darkness on the other end of the roof. “If it isn’t my favorite spider!”
It’s Deadpool.
God dammit.
Deadpool is… a wild card. Peter’s met him on just a few occasions, and none have really cleared up the enigma that is Deadpool.
The first time he met him, Deadpool was cornering someone in an alley and waving katanas around all willy-nilly. He took him for a villain and webbed him right up, and was somehow lured into a long and rambling conversation that made hardly any sense and ended with Deadpool being untied, his hands having been maneuvering the katanas all the while.
The second time, he accosted Peter on a roof and tried to convince him to get dinner with him. Peter declined, still not totally sure where Deadpool landed on the whole hero-villain scale, and Deadpool accepted the rejection gracefully.
Another time, Deadpool jumped into the middle of a fight and helped Peter out. It was surprising, but honestly not bad. Just confusing.
He’s really only caught glimpses of him otherwise. Sometimes out and about, other times on the news. Deadpool’s a merc, but in recent years, he apparently kills less and “heroes” more — or so he said in an exclusive interview to the New York Times.
“What are you doing here?” Peter says, staying crouched rather than standing up. His spidey-sense is still tingling, which means either Deadpool’s not totally safe to be around right now or there’s another threat Peter’s not yet aware of.
“Supes awkward, but I’ve been hired. To, like, figure out your identity.” Deadpool scratches the back of his head. Takes a step forward.
“Stay away from me,” Peter snaps.
“No, yeah, totally I would! Except no, I’m not gonna. It’s kind of a high-profile job. Big payout. Plus, I’m super curious what you look like under there anyway.”
Peter stands up, just so he can creep closer to the edge of the building. “Who hired you?”
“It was a group-hire, believe it or not!” Deadpool says. He steps forward too. “Tons of news organizations, a bunch of politicians — even the mayor! Everyone’s real worried that you’re a psycho.”
“I’m not,” Peter hisses. “You know I’m not.”
“For sure,” Deadpool says. “Like, for 99% sure. Even if you were a murderer, I wouldn’t blame you!”
That’s just… great. Coming from Deadpool.
“I save lives,” Peter insisted. “I lectured you about murder!”
“To be fair, Hyderseek saved lives too,” Deadpool says. “And, like, it turns out a lot of the hero stuff he was doing was actually benefitting his murdery ways.”
“That’s one guy.”
“One super smart guy,” Deadpool points out. “And I know you’re smart, Spidey. It’s the smart ones that are the scariest. Anyway, let’s just get this over with and go back to being best friends—”
“We’re not friends.”
“Best friends,” Deadpool says. “And then the public won’t hate you and you can be everyone’s favorite spider again, not just mine.”
“I’m not revealing my identity to you,” Peter says.
Deadpool sighs. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
With that, he draws his katanas and charges forward. God dammit.
Fighting Deadpool is worse than fighting your average villain. Damage doesn’t stop him, because he regenerates so fast that it practically doesn’t matter. Webs, too, are hard to pin him with, because his katanas are sharp enough to cut right through them. And for his size (giant), he’s quick and nimble. He ducks out of the way of Peter’s blows and he fights wildly, making it hard to predict his next move.
Not to mention, witty banter doesn’t annoy and enrage him. It just fires him up — he gives as good as he gets. So Peter can’t depend on that to piss him off and make him slip up.
Deadpool fights brutally. Peter’s seen it before — that one occasion when they teamed up, plus a few clips on the internet — but he’s never had to deal with it before now. The only good thing is that Deadpool isn’t fighting to kill.
“Won’t you just stay still?” Deadpool whines, slashing out with a katana when Peter scurries out of arm’s reach. He webs his foot to the ground and Deadpool slashes in the direction of the webs, unbothered when he manages to cut himself with the katana, too.
“You should have some sympathy,” Peter says, flipping backward when Deadpool tries to catch him by the neck. “You have a secret identity, too!”
Deadpool laughs. Like — stops in his tracks and holds his stomach — laughs. He ends with a giggle and wipes an imaginary tear. “Spidey, babe, you should look me up.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Oh, is Spidey just for friends? Sorry baby boy.”
“No, that’s not—” Peter groans. See? Deadpool is aggravating.
“One quick Google search and you’d see that my identity’s no secret,” Deadpool says, advancing once more. He’s swinging both his katanas now, looking way too cheerful to be fighting someone he’s supposedly a fan of. “The costume’s just for looks. Or to hide the looks, if you know what I mean.”
Thinking fast, Peter resumes the attack. When Deadpool slashes with one katana, he aims at the handle and whips it out of his hand, sticking it to the wall. He does the same with the next, sticking it to the ground.
They fight with their fists, dodging blows and fielding punches. Deadpool manages to grab Peter and then they’re on the ground, wrestling and rolling along the roof. Every time Deadpool goes for the mask, Peter punches him in the arm and knees him in the stomach. And every time he keeps Deadpool from unmasking him, he gets an elbow to a sensitive, fleshy spot for his efforts.
“Just — one — peek!” Deadpool says, panting. Everything stops when he ends up on top of Peter, a gun aimed at Peter’s face.
“That’s cheating,” Peter says.
“Totally not cheating.”
“You wouldn’t kill me,” Peter adds.
“Never kill! Only maim or seriously injure.” Deadpool cocks his head. “Are Harry Potter references still allowed? Or are those, like, a no-no these days?”
Peter shakes his head. Mostly from annoyance, but, “Probably a no-no.”
“Damn. There goes some of my best material. Now, let’s make this quick…”
Peter shoots off two webs and slides out from under Deadpool, all the way to the end of the roof.
He doesn’t see how this problem is going to resolve itself. Deadpool won’t quit. Fighting him won’t get anywhere because even if Peter could tie him up and turn him over to the police, they’d just set him loose again — they’re probably some of the assholes paying him. And if Peter runs, he just pushes this problem down the road for future Peter to deal with.
Then again, it has been a really long day. And this fight isn’t going to go anywhere, anyway.
So. Peter runs.
He flips off the building and swings away and ignores whatever Deadpool shouts after him. He takes an extra-long route home, paranoid about being followed, and when he lays in bed that night, his mind is a mantra of all the things he has to worry about.
Work. School. Money. Masks. Deadpool.