Chapter Text
“Sorry, man, but I can’t help you,” this poor copy of Ryan Reynolds mumbles, striding past Wade with the confidence of someone who’s actually invited ( and of someone who made it to the top). He barely slows as he approaches the tall, wrought-iron fence separating the plebs from the elite. A quick flash of some fancy badge, a nod from the guard, and he’s in, just like that.
Beyond the fence, the open field stretches out like some kind of rich-people paradise: twinkling lights sparkling in the night, white-clothed tables, and the faint hum of pretentious laughter that gets lost in the spring breeze. Meanwhile, Wade is standing on the wrong side of the fence, stuck in the dark like a raccoon who just found out the garbage cans were locked up.
He looks down at himself, then at the guard by the gate, then at himself again: he did not bother wearing his suit today, it would only make him stand out more, but he’s starting to regret it. No way this is happening without bloodshed. Or bribery. Probably both.
Fuck.
It should have been an easy job.
Keep a low profile.
Use his whoring skills to lure the target in the woods.
Kill.
See? As easy as the laziest of Sunday mornings from his childhood, back when life wasn’t a shit-hole disguised as a fairy tale. A piece of cake, really … if Wade wasn’t, well, Wade, and karma wasn’t a bitch who had him on her blacklist labeled as “the motherfucker who owes me $5 and hasn’t called me back yet” since 1990.
This job was practically gift-wrapped, complete with red paper and ribbon. Free money, baby!
All he should have done was follow the plan scribbled on the greasy napkin from the breakfast of the day before.
Deadpool’s Totally Foolproof Plan™:
-
Get back to NY without stabbing anyone on public transport (again).
-
Pick up the job details from Weasel.
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Guilt-trip Weasel into giving me a free pass (because, duh, friendship perks).
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Crash a party and kill the mob boss.
Simple, right?
Wrong.
Because, as always, the universe decides to play “How much can we screw Wade’s life today?” Spoiler: Wade is losing. Losing like those fuckers who bet all their money on red despite knowing the roulette is rigged to land on a black every damn time.
TL;DR: He has managed to fail all the tasks on the list.
How is he supposed to get in without a free pass? You think James Bond pays cover charges? No! He just waltzes in, orders a martini, and bam: everyone’s dead! Wade doesn’t even drink martinis! What’s he supposed to do? Show up with a Capri Sun and hope for the best?
“What are you doing here?”
Wade freezes.
That voice.
That freaking voice.
Oh, he should have known Karma was playing dirty!
It’s been over two years, now, but that voice... that horribly sexy voice!
Turning ever so slowly to look at the man lurking by his side, Wade hunches his shoulders as if making himself smaller will help. Too late. Mr. Parker is already staring at him, chest puffed out, arms crossed, and wearing that judgmental look that gives Wade full-body shivers.
Of course, of all the events the CEO of Parker’s Industries could have attended, it had to be this one!
[Pft … have you seen who just got in? Mister Fantastic! Of course, our baby boy would come running when Mr. Perfect-Stretchy-Pants shows up. Heaven forbid he misses a chance to rub elbows with the elite while you’re stuck out here looking like you just crawled out of a Dumpster fire.]
“Oh, hello, Mr. Parker, sir!” Wade chirps, voice pitching up like an overly enthusiastic intern.
At the name, Parker narrows his eyes, his tone dropping an octave, “Answer the question.”
Swallowing, Wade opens his mouth to respond, but as he does, Parker takes it as his clue to interrupt him, shaking his head so strongly it makes Wade zip his mouth quicker than ever, biting into his bottom lip hard enough to sting.
“You know what? I don’t even want to know.”
Wade does want to whine, to respond with some snarky comeback, but this won’t do! He’s here for a job: it’s not the right time for whatever they’ve left hanging between them. Besides, who knows what kind of bad luck would fall upon him if he dares to piss Parker off?
“I – I --- I am here for a job,” he murmurs once he’s close enough to Parker to be sure nobody else can hear him, “I’ll get it done as quickly as possible.”
“Is this what you came back for after two years?” Parker hisses at him, putting up his index and middle finger, lifting them up between his and Wade’s face, “Two. Years.”
“Have you been waiting for me?”
The question is out of his mouth before he can even stop himself.
Once Wade hears his own words loud and clear, he can see his own dumbfounded expression getting copied and pasted onto Parker’s. The other man’s eyebrows go straight up to his hairline, his beautiful eyes grow so impossibly big they resemble two big balloons ready to pop out of his skull. His lips are parting ever so slightly, second after second, but he shuts them quickly as soon as Wade’s words must have registered in his brain.
The cute, lost expression is gone in an instant. The deep scowl is back together with that threatening look Wade hasn’t seen since Deadly Neighborhood Spider-Man #1 (not that Parker could know).
“Are you for real?”
“I’m… uh… look, I know it looks bad, but can you just forget you ever saw me here?”
Fuck.
Smooth, Wade.
Real smooth.
“Wade, what the fuck?!”
Oh, isn’t his fray adorable?
Wait.
Is that a pu---
Peter gives him no time to register the fist colliding with his face. It’s almost immediate, and it hits Wade with the strength of someone who could easily crush a whole building with just one hand ( he is not sure Parker could actually do that, but he is not eager to find out). Oh god, tell him his skull isn’t cracked...
This is going to be the perfect headline: “Rich vs. Wretched: Parker Industries CEO Assaults Guest at High-Society Fundraiser”.
“FUCK! Pete!”
[Oh, back to first-name basis?]
Instantly, he lowers his head and covers his ugly mug with both hands.
His head is still attached to his neck. Good.
But it still hurts like crazy. It hurts so fucking much. Wade is almost ready to jump him, the little fucker, to repay him with the same medicine. A punch for a punch, like the locals say.
{Do you even know where we are? One move, and the guards are on you. Job’s blown to hell.}
“Oi, what are you doing, Peter? And why are you here, Wade?”
Suddenly, his own hands still on his face, and spreads his fingers to peek up through his fingers just in time to see Johnny Storm striding over, draping an arm casually across Peter’s shoulders.
The boxes start screaming out loud.
Peter doesn’t flinch when Johnny’s side is flat against his. Of course, he doesn’t. Would he have allowed Wade to do the same? Allowed to touch him so casually, as casually as Johnny’s gaze flickers to Wade, then back away, as if he doesn’t really care for Wade’s response. As if his previous question had been just a formality. Just a means to step into the conversation.
The golden boy, the Matchstick Barbie.
Spider-Man’s other partner-in-crime.
They seem… pretty close.
Too close for Wade’s liking.
Massaging his face, Wade balances himself, taking a step back from the duo as he keeps testing his face to make sure everything is still in place, “none of your business, Fire Crotch”.
“At least I’m hot. What’s your excuse, chemical imbalance?”
Wade doesn’t answer. Just grits his teeth pressing his palm against the new bruise forming, “you’re hot like a microwave burrito is. Hot on the outside, frozen disappointment in the middle.”
He pauses, just for mere dramatic effect, and takes his hands off his face to look right at Johnny as his words sink in.
“I am sure Zora would attest.”
Johnny doesn’t say anything. For once, he just… stalls. He stays there where he is, mouth half open. His arm slips from Peter’s shoulder, fingers flexing and curling by his side while Wade is staring at him, unblinking.
“Johnny,” comes Reed’s voice from over the fence, calm and clipped as always. Did he hear anything? Ah, who cares? “We could really use you over here.”
Johnny hesitates. His eyes flick from Peter to Wade, then back again, but he turns and walks away without another word. He tries to tell Peter to follow with a brief nod, but the other man shakes his head, making Johnny's brows knit into a frown. But he goes quietly.
Peter stays where he is, eyes fixed on the dirt for a moment, then on Wade. His voice is low when it finally comes.
“That was a low blow.”
Wade shrugs, mouth twisting in something that isn’t quite a smile.
“Wasn’t wrong, though.”
Peter doesn’t argue. They stay quiet for a while. The hum of the guests is slowly getting lost in the music, wind is picking up, but those rich assholes don’t seem to care, too busy trying to lick each other's ass too.
[This is good, isn’t it? All bothered as they are, they won’t care if someone's head goes BOOM.]
“What do you want, Wade?"
Yeah, nobody would care if someone gets a hole or two in their head, except Peter. Pete. Petey-pie.
“What do I want?” Wade repeats, shrugging as he scans the crowds: a glimpse of chemically white teeth, overpriced fabric that must have been sewn together by some underpaid child who knows where, and hollow laughter. A group of guests gets in, past the security without even a full-body pat-down, flashing a wink and with their badge hanging from their necks.
{Duh. They’re guests. That’s the whole point of having an invitation: getting in without having to bribe the guards.}
“What do I want? Well, Peter, let me tell you what I want right now.”
Peter sucks in a breath, and, for a change, his expression no longer holds any trace of resentment: he’s staring at Wade biting into his bottom lip, eyes softer and focused.
“I want to kill my target. I want a taco. And maybe a full night playing Mario Kart. I haven’t played that in… what? Two years? Can you imagine?”
“We can have that. If you want.”
Wade’s heart jumps up in his throat, and stays stuck there, squinting at Peter like he just propositioned something rated adult only.
[What?]
{What??}
“Yeah…?”
“At one condition: forget the target.”
Wade rolls his eyes. Of course. Of course, there had to be a catch.
What else would he expect from fucking Spider-Man?
“Right, and then what?” Wade bites, closing his eyes and shaking his head, “We kiss, the screen fades to black, and live happily ever after?”
He snorts, “Yeah. Sure. If you drop to your knees and make it a real fairy tale, sweetheart.”
He waits for another punch. He’s ready to get his head smashed like potatoes. Yet, the punch never arrives. Peter merely sighs in response.
“Yeah. Okay. Sure.”
Wade blinks. He blinks twice.
Peter runs a hand through his hair, a rose-ish shade of pink is tinting his cheeks, but he might be mistaken. There is no way Peter fucking Parker is blushing like a virgin maiden. No! He can’t be this cute.
“What – I – you’re messing with me, right? There is no fucking way you’d want that. What the fuck? You were so hot and angry at me a moment ago, and now? What the hell happened?”
“Call it ‘damage control’. If that’s what it takes to prevent you from going commando, I’ll do it.”
[Accept! We will never get another chance!]
Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. But would it be right? Wouldn’t it be like taking advantage of Peter?
{Oh, you wish it was that easy, uh? He could crush your balls anytime if you dare to force him into something. You know that. The readers know that. Everyone does!}
Yet… there is no way Peter would do something like that, right? He won’t just go down on his knees and hold onto Wade’s dick for dear life. Right?
For some reason, White and Yellow don’t understand. Wade keeps trying to convince himself that no, Peter would never do something like that. Not with him, at the very least. No fucking way!
{You know he doesn’t joke about these things!}
“You’re not even gay! No! You could be bi. Yes! That must be it! But me? Of all the men you could have? ME?!”
Peter doesn’t reply, instead, he nods his head towards the parking lot.
“Ten minutes. A Mercedes. There’s … a Fantastic Four sticker on the passenger seat window.”
Oh.
Oh.
This is getting serious, isn’t it?
“You drive now?” Wade quirks a brow, grinning like it’s a joke: there is no way Mr. CEO can drive.
Peter puffs his cheeks out, “It’s complicated. Just… wait for me there.”
He doesn’t leave him the time to tease him. Promptly, Peter steps away, swiftly, turning on his heels to walk past the guard. It’s the tenth person Wade sees someone getting in without breaking a sweat, which shouldn’t bother him as much, and yet…
It should have been a very easy job…
Get in. Get the target. Leave the city for another 2 years. No drama. No feelings...
[You can always go there, kill the guy, hide the body and meet our darling boy after.]
His right hand twitches. His whole body is hitching, like muscle memory, ready to spring over that damn fence to go in for the kill. His eyes flicker back to the crowd: people are now gathering closer to the stage, at the center of the enclosure; technicians are dimming the lights; the music is getting louder; the moon is partially shadowed by the clouds.
He could move right now. Slide past the guard, silent like death. Put a bullet in the target’s head and still make it to Peter’s car before the engine’s even warm.
It could be an easy kill. Nobody would hear the gunshot. Nobody would see him.
{Someone will find the body. There are people everywhere. And when they do, he’ll know it was you. And what then? Are you going to kill him, too, while he has your dick in his mouth? Very romantic.}
His jaw clenches. He hates it when the voices get like this. This reasonable. This right.
The crowd laughs at something on stage. He doesn’t hear it. But he sees his target there, getting off the stage. His gaze tracks the target in an instant: there, in plain sight, stupidly unaware.
Easy. So easy.
{He’ll know it was you.}
[What then?]
He can think about it later, he thinks. He really needs the post-coital clarity, you know?
He takes a step back. Then another. Before he knows it, his boots are crunching over gravel, taking him to the parking lot, a flattened patch of dirt, puddles, and grass. No lines, no order. Just too many cars that clearly don’t belong there: too clean, too expensive. It looks so much like a rich kid's sleepover.
Then, when he sees it, Wade snorts: the sticker, stuck on the passenger side window.
The car is what looks like a modified Cabrio, repainted red, which… doesn’t really suit Peter at all. It’s too flashy. Too much for someone who just learned how to drive. But it is very fitting for a young man to be part of the elite.
Wade remains there, staring at the car, until after a few minutes, the lights flicker, the doors unlock with a clunk, making Wade jump back.
Behind him, Peter chuckles.
Oh, the fuckers!
“Get in,” Peter instructs, like it’s normal to order a mercenary around; like Wade wasn’t known as one of the most ruthless mercenaries out there.
“At least buy me dinner first,“ but he’s already opening the back door to sit on the middle seat.
“Later, Wade.”
Later, mh? Is there even going to be a later once Peter is done with him?
If Wade decides to go on with the contract, once Wade gets out of that car and finishes the job, would Peter still be there? Would he just accept a ‘ops, my hand slipped’ and say ‘whatever’? Would he?
[Wait. That’s cheating! You don’t get a blowjob and the money!]
{Says who? What's so different from killing first and a blowjob later?}
[Peter won’t like it…]
Pete crawls in, shutting the door behind him. He’s getting closer, places a hand on Wade’s thigh for leverage to drop himself down in the cramped space between the seats.
Wade stiffens. The whole of him goes hard in an instant. It’s not like he’s really going to blow him, right?
… right?
[This is a terrible idea.]
{This is the best idea he’s ever had!}
With theatrical slowness, Peter finds his place between Wade’s legs. Slow, calculating his next move in that spider-brain of his. His face is too close to Wade’s zipper for his comfort.
{Oh, we are getting comfy all right!}
“And here he go - oh”, Wade mutters under his breath, his brain is glitching when Peter’s palm gets higher, shifting onto his thigh, the warmth of his palm radiating through the fabric, palming at his dick from over his pants.
At this point, Wade is only acting out of instinct: he doesn’t realize he’s grabbing Peter from his hair until the other man’s whimpering and moaning out his name.
“Stronger, Wade.”
Wait.
Pause.
[Is this really happening?]
{Told you so.}
His grip tightens in Peter’s hair before he can stop himself.
Peter doesn’t pull back. No. He just looks up. No cocky comeback. No blushing. No teasing.
Just looking. Calm. Unblinking. Deadly serious, slightly flushed, like he is on a mission to watch Wade come apart in slow motion.
[Say something! Anything!]
He really should. But can’t. Wade’s throat is tightening up, heart beating faster for his standards. He doesn’t know what to do. Hell, he doesn’t even know what this is: is this a trap? Is this a dream? What the fuck is it?!
“Your heart just skipped. You thought I was messing with you?”
Spider sense be damned!
Wade swallows. His voice isn’t coming back any time soon: one thing is dreaming about Spider-Man, suit and all, going down on him, but this?
Oh, this is another level of crazy!
He wants to say something clever. Something witty. But he can’t, words are forming a knot he might end up choking on.
This isn’t just his favorite web-slinger: faceless, idealized, unreachable. This is Peter.
Peter is real.
He is at hand reach.
Is Peter even aware of the amount of trauma and wet dreams he’s given him since he revealed himself?
[Oh, we are hard all right.]
He should shove Peter back. Say something crass, cruel. Something that might give Peter the final push to run away for good. But Wade doesn’t move; instead, he allows Peter to reach out for the zipper of his pants to help Wade Jr. to break free from his confinement. His index finger slips through the waistband and tugs.
Wade breaks through, hoarse and ragged, “This your first time, boss-man? Hate to break it to you, but porn doesn’t count as prior experience.”
Peter doesn’t even retort, his mouth is on him in a blink, making Wade go ‘oh’ with his sudden approach.
This is really happening.
Wade's breath hitches. Yeah, this is the mouth of a beginner: he’s going down too quickly and his tongue is impatient, moving over his shaft without real meaning. Before Peter can choke himself on his dick, Wade is tugging at his hair with more strength.
"Easy, tiger, you’re gonna hurt yourself --- oh, fuck!"
Suddenly, Peter's sucking and nipping at the head of his dick, drawing circles with his tongue over the skin, more confident this time. Wade leans back, his eyes fluttering shut as he allows himself to bask in the moment; even White and Yellow are quiet now.
At times, he guides Peter’s head up and down, until he finds a rhythm that he likes, one that makes Wade see the stars, and oh if he’s seeing them right now!
“Look at you, first you’re ready to crush my skull, now you’re all sweet and compliant. What happened? Did fire crotch put you on some chill pills?”
The words hang in the air, making Peter pull back slightly, his eyes dark with a mix of something Wade can’t quite pinpoint. He doesn't respond to those taunts, but stares back at him, frowning and tightening his hand at the base of Wade’s cock until he’s going down hard with his dick hitting the back of Peter’s throat.
The merc howls, his breath hitches as Peter's fingers dig into Wade's hips, his touch firm, bobbing his head up and down and oh, OH! Baby boy might actually break his dick! He needs to do something if he wants to resist for more than 2 minutes.
Promptly, he tries to hold Peter back, but the tug has the younger man moaning around his length, sending shivers all over his body. But doesn't give Wade the chance to regain control, no, that would be too easy. Instead, Peter’s tongue swirls around to catch every and last drop of precum and sucking with a loud, wet noise.
"Fuck! Peter! Webs!"
"Look at you," Peter murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak,"All talk, no action. Did you really think I was going to let you get to me?"
His face gets closer to Wade’s, leaving his hand to take care of the merc’s boner, going up and down terribly slower than his mouth before. This is agony!
Wade needs him to go faster. Harder. And god! More!
Now, he can feel Peter’s heavy breath against his nose, warm, tickling his skin, mixing with his own. Humid, steady, just inches away. Close enough that if Wade leaned forward just enough, they’d cross a line Wade doesn’t think they’d be able to recover from.
As if he could ever recover from this.
Peter’s hand doesn’t stop. He has a job to do, and he won’t stop until Wade is spent.
Wade could count every one of his freckles from here. If he dared to look. But he can’t. He doesn’t. Because if he looks, he’ll be completely head over heels for this man.
And that’s the scariest goddamn part.
He didn’t need to find out who Spider-Man was, let alone get so attached to the man to the point of running away from him to save his poor heart the hassle.
This is far from his comfort zone.
He doesn’t do this (whatever this is). He makes noise. Blood. Sex. Distractions.
Not this.
But he could never have refused such an offer.
Not even if this means taking advantage of it. Peter’s hand moves with unbearable patience, unbothered by the war flashbacks happening in the merc’s mind. Meanwhile, Wade’s hips twitch, restrained. Just barely. It’s almost cruel. Like Peter’s not trying to finish anything, just… watch him unravel.
Wade grits his teeth, a tremor racing up his spine.
“You trying to kill me, sweetheart? ‘Cause this is how you kill a guy with cardiac issues.”
Peter huffs, but doesn’t stop, and squeezes harder. Doesn’t speed up, either. His breath lingers against Wade’s skin, who is burning up from the inside out. There is a fire in the pit of his stomach, building up from his core, slowly expanding towards his lower regions.
With a flick of his hand, Wade stiffens.
He’s close. Too close. Too soon!
This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. He was supposed to crack a joke, push him back, get a few more punches from Mr. Parker, and kill his target.
Not this!
Suddenly, Wade shuts his eyes, pulling hard at Peter’s hair. Without warning, he’s spilling all over Peter’s, earning a yelp from the other man.
Fuck!
Fuck!
It takes Wade a while to calm down, and he remains like that, listening carefully to the rustling of fabric, Peter’s muttering and then… silence.
[Well, now we are fucked.]
Oh, he’s royally screwed all right.
{What now? We leave. We kill and never come back?}
Yeah. That might work...
[You know what it means? No more blowjobs from Spider-Man. No more Spideypool missions. No taco Friday. Nothing.]
Wade’s eyes spring open when he feels Peter’s touch on him. Lowering his gaze, he sees him cleaning his groin with a handkerchief. Slowly. Without pulling at his scars, with an alarming tenderness. As if he cares.“You don’t have to act like this means something,” Wade rasps, voice low, bitter.
Peter stills. His hand goes slack, but it doesn’t leave. Doesn’t retreat.
“Besides, I know what this little act is.”
“And what is this?”
“Bribery.”
Peter doesn’t speak right away.
The silence hangs. Wade is ready.
“Are you going to drop the contract now?”
His voice is quieter now, but the hint of anger and betrayal is back in his voice. It’s feeble, but it’s there.
And it hurts Wade more than it should. He would drop everything for this man. Weasel knows it. DD knows it. Everyone does! Even Peter must know it by now.
But they’ve been over this a multitude of times. It’s becoming repetitive. He should feel insulted by now. Both of them should: for the constant fighting, the rejections...
“You didn’t give me the fairy tale like you promised.”
“Wade—”
“No candlelit tacos. No Mario Kart. No 'once upon a time.’” Wade shrugs, looking away.
“Just a half-hearted handjob in the back of a car and a guilt trip.”
“It wasn’t half-hearted--”
“Don’t,” Wade cuts him off, voice sharper than he intended. “Don’t try to dress it up. It’s not a fairy tale, Pete. You know it. I know it. Nothing you can do would make me change my life! We talked about it. That’s why I left.”
There’s a pause.
“So that’s it?” Peter asks, jaw tight, still carefully perched between Wade’s legs. Sweet, sweet sight!
If Wade wanted, he could break this man right here, right now. Both emotionally and physically.
He could be the monster everyone thinks he is. He is pretty sure there is a universe where Peter died by his hand: he could do it now, too. He could show him just how hideous he can be.
Raw.
Brutal.
But he would never.
Not to Peter.
Not in this universe.
“You just wanted a blowjob?”
Wade looks away. It’s his only answer. Of course, he wanted a blowjob. Nobody in their right state of mind could refuse a free blowjob!
“What, did you think I was offering a loyalty card with every fifth blowjob free? Did you think I deep throat every mercenary that comes around to stop them from killing in my town?”
“Peter…”
“Get the fuck out, Wade.”
Wade doesn’t move.
Not because he wants to stay, but… but... Hell, maybe he doesn’t even know what he wants anymore. What should he do now? What? If he leaves, next time they see each other, they’ll be back to square one; if he stays, he’ll have to pretend to be this pure, heroic being he’s tried so many times to be for the sake of … what? The sake of what, exactly? Their friendship got ruined the day Wade walked away after Peter pulled the mask off his face. There is no friendship. No partnership.
When the silence stretches, Peter scoffs. “What? Are you waiting for applause? A second round? Pack your ego and go.”
“You don’t get to be angry,” Wade mutters, low, ready to strike. It’s the only way out...
[Don’t hurt him!]
{It’s the only way…}
“I asked for a fairy tale. You were a side story at best.”
[You didn’t just say it, did you? Oh, fuck! We are lucky if we come out of this in one piece.]
Peter barks a bitter laugh. “Right. Of course. First time I fall for a guy, and I pick the one with blood on his résumé and a brick where his heart should be.”
Wade blinks. Something cracks inside him, and it’s not his skull. It’s like someone turned on an old record player, but the head is blunt. As if someone just strangled a chick.
“Wait --- you,” he starts, but what the fuck can he say to this? His mouth opens, shuts, and then opens again. He is choking on his own words. The boxes are ringing the fire alarm in his head.
Peter takes a long, deep breath, then he climbs onto the front seat
“Door’s still there,” Peter mutters, cold. “Don’t let it hit you on the way out.”
“You can’t just drop a bomb like that over my head! What do you mean? Explain—”
Peter cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head, a measured punch against the window, eyes hard and unwavering in front of him, placing his head against the side of the passenger seat.“No. There’s nothing left to explain. Just… go. Close the damn chapter. Go back to the main story.”
“Peter—”
“Leave.” The single word is final, cold as steel. “Before this gets uglier.”
“Pet---”
Once it’s clear Wade won’t get out, it’s Peter the one who does, muttering curses under his breath, giving the merc just a final look. Eyes empty. No anger. No fury. Just void. And apathy.
Then, with a turn of a switch, Peter is gone. His demeanor shifts. His posture straightened, and his muscles flexed underneath the suit.
Peter is gone. Spider-Man joins the conversation.
“You had your shot, Wilson. Come back here again, and I won’t be cracking jokes.”
Chapter 2
Summary:
He hears someone – a man? - calling for him, followed by some insult he doesn’t really care to decipher. Afterward, he smells smoke. Like wood burning. And the source is close, too close to be one of his neighbors getting ready for a barbecue. He hears fire crackling and then steps. Heavy. Deliberate. The light stink of burnt clothes.
Someone is on fire.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s a beautiful day outside. Birds are singing and Wade… well, let’s just say he’s been crying over spilled milk for way too long. It’s been three weeks, and he is still there, laying face down on his couch, getting up only to eat something every 24 hours, just enough food to avoid dying and resurrecting on repeat because of starvation.
From time to time, Weasel checks in on him: a few calls; some self-care package straight from the bathroom of Sister Margaret (don’t ask, you’re not ready for the secrets of a woman’s purse); a stress-ball shaped like Spider-Man’s head that Wade immediately held on to and cried himself to sleep.
He’s tried threats, “Hey, I gave Domino your address,” but even she bailed once it was clear Wade was in no way capable of having a conversation with a real adult. (Who is she kidding, he’s never been able to.)
He’s tried subtlety, “I and the guys are wondering if you’re dead or emotionally unavailable. Send eggplant emoji for the latter.”
Eventually, he’s given up. Said something about calling him when he’s no longer mourning his CEO’s dick. Ah, as if!
The boxes aren’t of any help, either.
[We won’t see that fancy ass ever again…]
{That’s the last of our problems! You heard boss man: next time we see him, we run!}
[You’re being dramatic! There’s no way Peter would hurt us!]
{He’s serious, I tell you! Peter’s not someone you cross twice!}
[Come on, we literally killed him twice, and he brought us cupcakes.]
{Yeah, and now he’s backing revenge muffins, you ever think of that? He knows where we live! He could be out there right now, waiting.}
[Okay, now you’re just being paranoid.]
{Paranoid?! He hasn’t called us once. He hasn’t texted. Three weeks of silence? That’s not ghosting. That’s plotting.}
[You’re the one who suggested we take the blowjob and run… what did you expect?]
{And you’re the idiot who takes me seriously! And don’t get me started about this douchebag right here! He caught feelings for the guy who looks at us and sees a mistake every damn time!}
[Relax, dipshit. He’ll call. Eventually.]
{He’s dry-cleaning the regret off his shirt.}
It’s been like this for three weeks.
Three.
Fucking.
Weeks.
Three weeks of White and Yellow yelling at each other on repeat.
And Peter hasn’t called … back. Hasn’t called back. Yes, back. Because Wade called first. Twice.
…
Okay, six times.
And a voicemail.
And a text. Ten texts.
And a meme.
But Peter never replied.
Not even a fake ‘wrong number’ message.
He didn’t even bother blocking him, which, somehow, made it worse. After every text, Wade could see the tell-tale check-marks of the message being delivered, as if spelling a little ‘fuck you’. Some of them have turned from gray to green overnight, and Wade doesn’t know what to do with that.
Peter’s reading those, but he’s not acting on them. He doesn’t give Wade anything to work with but silence.
Just silence. And it scares the shit out of him.
As much as he hates to admit it, White is right: this never happened before. After every argument, after every kick in the ass and accidental stab, when Wade called, Peter answered eventually, no matter what they were going through.
Usually, he’d respond with a ‘shut up’ and hang up when coming back from patrol.
An anger-filled comment in the voicemail.
A middle finger emoji…
Or a simple ‘grow up’ … anything, really.
But this? This is feeling so much like the end of a movie, when the credits roll in and you stay there, waiting patiently for what’s next. But Wade got no post-credit scene.
He got to a point where he even silenced every chat that wasn’t Peter’s. Even then, despite the lack of a notification, he’s so desperate he’s been checking the phone every two minutes, staring at the screen like it might suddenly light up with a new message if he squints hard enough.
It won’t, he knows it won’t.
[He’s just busy. CEO stuff. Saving the world one email at a time. Probably drowning in paperwork and hot assistants. Who has time for awkward one-nighters when the stock market’s calling, right? ]
{Busy? You call this being busy? He’s erasing us!}
[Could be worse.]
{Give him time. Man’s got hate packed and a kill list with only one target on it. And guess whose name is it?]
[No-kill rule, remember?]
{I don’t think this applies to us.}
Grunting, Wade’s face slumps deeper into the couch as he tosses the phone across the room. It lands with a soft thunk. Then silence.
No explosion. No perfectly-timed notification. No magical genie popping out of his phone to fix this mess.
Just the echo of his own uselessness bouncing off the walls.
“What the hell am I doing? Seriously, what am I doing?”
He grabs a pillow and screams into it. Loud. Long. Muffled. Then, he lets it drop to a whine, and just lies there, limp and… and someone is knocking at his door.
Once. Twice.
He hears someone – a man? - calling for him, followed by some insult he doesn’t really care to decipher. Afterward, he smells smoke. Like wood burning. And the source is close, too close to be one of his neighbors getting ready for a barbecue. He hears fire crackling and then steps. Heavy. Deliberate. The light stink of burnt clothes.
Someone is on fire.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
What’s left of his door creaks, and before Wade can fully sit up to reach for his katana, Johnny is standing in the middle of his living room, radiating heat and mockery like he used them as eau de toilette in the morning.
He’s not entirely on fire, but there are trails of flame left going from his hand to his shoulder. It would almost be so hot if it wasn't, well, for Johnny, who woke up deciding to burn his house down.
“Well, whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t this,” Blondie says, looking around at the wreck that is Wade’s apartment and Wade himself.
“Let me guess. You thought I’d be sipping daiquiris in a bubble bath, with a face mask and exfoliation?”
Johnny snorts, “I was hoping you’d be gone, actually.”
“Oh, way to brighten a girl’s day, Hot Topic.”
“I am serious, Wade. You need to leave.”
[Uh-oh. He didn’t like the joke about the burrito, did he?]
Sitting up slowly, followed by the squeaky sound of his skin detaching from the leather of his couch, Wade rolls his eyes.
“I need you to be more specific. Leave the couch? Leave the house? Leave the city?”
“All of the above, I am afraid. I can’t let you stay here. Not after what you did to my car and to Peter.”
Oh. So that was his car? Go figure. Peter could never drive to save his life. Something about being ‘overly stimulated’ or some other spider-y bullshit.
“For crying out loud,” Wade mutters, “he told you everything, didn’t he? Couldn’t deal with the fallout of running into me at the bodega and sent you for a final warning. I must say, it’s disappointing.”
He didn’t even come for one last tête à tête …
Not even the blessing of a hate-fuck. Not even that.
Or a hug.
“He didn’t have to tell me,” Johnny snaps, “I saw the look on his face when he got back. And the dash cam filled the gaps.”
“Uh ... Johnny, darling, you’re a pervert! Honestly, not shocked. But a dash cam? Seriously?” Wade mocks, clasping his hands on his cheeks, “If you wanted to be part of the show, you could have asked. Okay. No. That’s a lie. I could never get hard if I saw your little torch-face peeking in.”
“Trust me,” Johnny snaps, a twinkle of flame swirling in the back of his cornea, “after seeing what I saw, everything I wanted was to wash my eyes with bleach. Besides, if I wanted a threesome, all I have to do is ask.”
Wade smirks, but it’s cracked, a degree away from becoming a flat line. “Cute. Did you rehearse that on the ride over?”
“Nah. Just looking at you right now gives me inspiration. You’re doing all the work for me,” Johnny takes a step forward, a flicker of heat chasing his breath, “I guess garbage knows how to throw itself out.”
Wade’s face shifts, just slightly. The vein on his temple pops up, twitching in time with his own heartbeat. The jokes don’t come as quickly now. He doesn’t trust himself to speak up: everything coming out of his mouth could lead him a step away from a fight, and he doesn’t want that.
[We don’t?]
Johnny breathes hard, a puff of hot steam billowing out from his mouth forming a portable cloud of smoke, “Look. I don’t condemn you for accepting his offer. He gave you a chance, and you took it. Fine. But he’s losing too much. Did you know the Avengers kicked him out because of your team-up?”
Oh, does he know that. Of course he does! For a few months, Peter never shut up about it. Every day it was a variation of “Stark kicked me out”, as if he really needed that circus to do his job.
{Oh, I’d let Thor support me all right.}
“I don’t care where you decide to crawl back to, as long as it’s nowhere near Peter.”
[What do we do?]
Wade shifts on his feet, with a smile that’s becoming more and more quivering, “ Can I ask you one silly question?” he shoots back, “Why now? It’s been three weeks since I last saw him. Three! What, did you run out of hobbies and decide stalking me was a good one? Because I could’ve dropped off the map and you’d still be here playing the hero with none in sight.”
For a moment, he thinks he sees Johnny’s fire subduing, even if briefly, but the tremor of his flames is there. Whatever he is hiding, it’s not something that will allow him to sleep peacefully at night.
“It’s none of your business. Just leave.”
“And if I refuse?”
At that, Johnny doesn’t respond. Hell, he doesn’t even try to find a proper comeback. He simply backs off, just like that, without even an apology hand-job for burning his door down.
[I call bluff.]
{I don’t know… seemed pretty serious to me.}
In all honesty, he doesn't care.
It’s not the first time someone threatens him to leave NY: Tin-Man had tried it ages ago and failed miserably, coming down to the realization that no, nobody can get rid of him. Let alone Mr. Mecha-Dick.
{What now, then? It’s clear we are now on Flambe-Boy's black-list. We can’t just waltz out there like nothing happened!}
“But isn’t it weird he waited three weeks to come all the way here? Seems a bit too much for a lag.”
Three whole weeks. For all he knew, Wade could have been on a plane back to Canada once he got here. But no. He still waited for this moment. Unless it’s not about waiting for the right moment…
{… but more about some shit happening.}
[And he was forced to act.]
But what? What could have happened to pressure someone like him into seeking him out?
Think, Wilson, think! What could it be?
He doesn’t need rocket science to know that something smells like burnt trash, and for once, it's not Wade. It’s… something else. It has that familiar stink of plotting behind someone’s back.
But whose back is it?
Wade’s? Nah. Too stupid.
But what if…?
The thought is enough to flip a switch in his brain from depresso to espresso.
He sits back on the couch, closes his eyes, and, drawing slow circles on his temples with both thumbs, takes in a full, deep breath, waiting 5,5 seconds. Then, he exhales, waiting again before drawing the next breath.
There is too little information to come up with a hypothesis.
Promptly, he collects his poor, mistreated phone, searches for Weasel’s number, and hits dial. He sets it on speaker and walks with it towards the bathroom, waiting for the hideous ring to come to an end. As soon as he steps under the shower, undresses entirely, and balances the phone on the soap holder, Weasel answers.
“If this is an emergency, you’ve got 30 seconds before I hang up out of self-preservation.”
Then a pause.
Water starts flowing onto Wade’s body, cold and sharp like needles. Normally, It would take 5 minutes for water to warm up enough to become tolerable, but he has no time for a Sunday-reset-full-body shower so… cold shower it is.
“What do you want?”
“Glad to hear you, too, sunshine. Listen, I need a teeny-tiny favor.”
“Of course you w--- Wait. Are you in the shower? If this is a ‘multitasking’ situation, I’m billing you for therapy.”
Blinking up at the stream of water, Wade grins and grabs a bottle of questionably blue soap to squeeze a handful on his right hand. For good measure, he pours another large amount over his torso and starts scrubbing.
“I’m multitasking trauma, loneliness, and shampoo. If that’s not peak mental health, I don’t know what is. You should learn.”
Another pause, then the tingling of glasses in the background, followed by the splash of water.
“You seem well,” Weasel murmurs, “good to know I won’t have to contact Parker to pay for your funeral. What do you need?”
Wade’s grin falters. Just a flicker. For a second. He scoops another handful of soap and splashes it on his face.
“Did something happen these days? I don’t know. Parker’s Industries blew up. Someone came looking for me. Maybe in red and blue spandex…”
Weasel sighs like a man who regrets many things, including answering this call.
“If you’re asking me whether your ex’s bodyguard came here running to beat you up, unfortunately, no. But… someone else did call me looking for you.”
“Let me guess… the firecracker from the Elite Four?”
“Who? Johnny Storm? What? Nah, man. Not him. Parker’s secretary. Shortie. The one who’s basically got Parker by the balls. ”
Stopping his hand mid-motion, Wade frowns and dips his head under the stream.
“You’re sure it’s not some elaborate prank? Did she offer me an internship?”
At the other end, Weasel snorts. Wade can practically see him rolling his eyes, towel slung over one shoulder, polishing each and every one of the glasses he forgot to clean the day before.
“I checked. It’s her. She said it was important.”
Another pause. A long exhale that makes Weasel cough.
“I can shoot you her number, if you want.”
Something-something is telling Wade that this might be the reason behind Johnny’s surprise. Perhaps, he didn’t want Wade to find out about Anna Maria’s call. But why? What for? Some kind of conflict of interest?
Then, a cold whisper crawls up his spine. An ugly, churning sensation finds its space inside his chest. His smile fades around the edges as he wipes suds from his eyes.
“Did… did something happen to Parker?”
[Last name basis again?]
Weasel doesn’t respond right away. He tries to speak up once, twice, but the first letter ends up stuck mid-vocalization.
“Weasel?”
“She did not say. I don’t know… look, I still have to figure out how she found my number, okay?”, he responds, eventually, voice flatter than usual,” but told me to tell you something.”
Water keeps flowing over Wade’s body.
Why call Wade when literal Spider-Man is at hand's reach?
Doesn’t she know about Parker’s double life?
But even then, why not call her boss’ bodyguard instead of looking for Weasel’s number on the dark web?
A chill runs through his bones, from his toes, all the way up to his skull.
Unless…
“Her exact words? ‘If Deadpool ghosts me, I’m speed-dialing Taskmaster.’”
Wade freezes. Another sneaky drop of soap runs right into his eye. But he doesn’t blink. It allows it to sting to burn his iris.
“Wow. Rude. Throwing around the ‘T’ word, uh? Lady knows he charges extra, right?”
He hears his own heartbeat in the back of his ears.
Then, slower, quieter, more to himself:
“… She wouldn’t really call him, right?”
The big T. Someone way worse than Deadpool could ever be. At least, Deadpool knows when to turn down a job, when he doesn’t forget to take his chill pills. But Taskmaster? Oh, he doesn't care! Child, grandma, a kitty-cat. As long as you got money, he’ll pull the trigger. No questions asked.
“Who knows. Do you want her number?”
“No,” it wouldn’t be safe, and he hangs up before he finishes his sentence, “I know where to find her.”
[Smells fishy. I doubt Pete would ever agree to hire the Big T!]
That’s … fair. That saint of a Spider could never!
{Or, she’s acting behind his back.}
[Okay but… what about blondie? Why would he get in her way?]
“Oh, I know this one,” Wade murmurs, shaking himself up like a stinky, wet dog; he hopes the scented soap he used works, “he doesn’t want us to accept the contract.”
{So, what’s the plan? We pay her a visit, payment upfront, and leave the country for another two years?}
[Dude! Bro! Come on, not this shit again … this is just diabolical.]
The thought gives him a full-body shiver. He has standards, for sake! He’s a professional! Once he’s committed to a job, he would never run with the money!
[You did not seem so committed to Pete’s proposal that time... ]
“Nope, nope! Not going there! Nu-uh!” he lifts his hands towards the ceiling, moving them frantically as he steps out of the shower, closing the tap with a quick sway of his body.
“What kind of merc would I be if I got emotionally compromised by a blowjob? ”
[Everyone has a price.]
“Sure, but I don’t recall mine including guilt-stained orgasms.”
He doesn’t bother picking up a towel; instead, he runs towards the bedroom to grab briefs, sweatpants and…
{Shouldn’t you wear something more… appropriate?]
He steps in front of the full-height mirror. He’s still wet, as soon as his underwear is on, a spot is forming there, and he is leaving footprints all over the dirty floor. The sweatpants hang in his left hand, the hoodie in his right. Pretty sure there are holes in the briefs he just picked...
“I…”
[Yeah… either you go full DP, leather, gears and all, or you follow the dress-code!]
{Mmmh, what about the maid's dress?}
“Too much,” he screeches, throwing the clothes on the floor to rummage some more into the drawer. Matching socks. Another oversized hoodie. Sweatpants that complement his dick’s shape. Another hoodie, with the Spider-Man logo this time. Maid dress. Another one. Night-gown made of silk (only the best for his skin).
What does a guy need to do to find something good for a job interview?
{Shopping?}
“Yeah. Not now.”
Huffing, he stares back at the black and red suit: no, it won’t do. Could you imagine the scandal? Furthermore, he is pretty sure there are bloodstains he still hasn’t cleaned. He’s nose has grown used to it, but any civilian would be able to smell the rotting from miles away...
“Undercover it is, then,” he informs the boxes, who barely snort at him, “who cares if I look like a hobo taken out from his personal dumpster.”
As of right now, his only hope is to find Parker’s secretary without walking into her boss…
**
The Parker’s Industries headquarters has never been so ominous. It stands tall and shiny, its dull color blends in perfectly with the gray sky. It would be almost poetic, a metaphor for some sort of bullshit, if Wade weren’t preparing himself for war.
From the little bits and pieces he recalls from Parker’s description of his secretary, he knows that she is both someone he is very fond of and is able to keep him in check, organizing and adjusting his routine in great detail. She is a strong-willed woman, one of the smartest people Parker knows, as well as one of the scariest. Without her, Parker’s industries would fall. Parker’s words, not Wade’s.
Something Wade notices stepping into the building is the absence of the boxes. They’re gone terribly quiet.
Too quiet. But it won’t last for too long.
White is probably eating popcorn in the backroom of his left hemisphere, waiting for drama.
“Oh, good afternoon! Can I help you, sir?”
He squints. Is she… no, she can’t.
The woman leaning against the front desk can’t possibly be Anna Maria.
Too tall to be her. All curves and legs going on for miles, with the proportions of a Russian model who walked straight out of a Bond classic.
Oh, he knows what she could help him with…
…
...And cue the internal drama.
{Really? You’re heartbroken, and this is where your brain goes?}
[Let the man spiral. He’s grieving—hornily.]
{Y’know what’d heal us? Our sweet Parker in that mini-skirt. You know he’d rock it.}
“Okay! Nope. Absolutely not,” Wade blurts out, yanking his eyes off her hips like they’re radioactive. “Sorry—uh—I’m looking for Anna Maria Marconi.”
The woman flinches when she catches a glimpse beneath Wade’s hood. But she doesn’t scream. Good.
Without missing a beat, she steps behind the desk. Her right hand flips through the pages of a desk agenda with practiced efficiency. Her left disappears under the counter. Searching for a panic button? Pepper spray? A taser?
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t,” and before she can ask for anything else, he adds, “But if you could let Ms. Marconi know that someone’s here on behalf of ‘Weasel’, I’d deeply appreciate that. He spoke with her this morning. I’ll wait.”
It’s been a while since he’s used his professional voice with someone else, not even clients get that treatment on a normal day, but he knows all too well how important it is to act all calm and controlled once you enter the gray and depressing corporate world. Nobody is going to trust you with even a dime if they see the slightest hint of plenitude in the way you look and act. And, well, let’s just say that his look isn’t going to earn him any cookie points.
She seems unimpressed by his speech; nonetheless, she smiles with a polite detachment and proceeds to dial a number on the desk phone. After a brief exchange, she hangs up, then steps around the counter and sits, the soft click of a drawer unlocking following close behind.
A quick shuffle, and she pulls out a slim badge, handing it to him without fanfare. ‘Guest’, printed in bold beneath the sleek Parker Industries logo.
Oh, neat! He needs to take a selfie and show it to Ellie next time they see each other. She’s gonna get a kick out of it!
It doesn’t take much for the woman of the day to make an appearance. Not even a few minutes later, he hears the too-well-known clicking of short heels on the floor, and then, there she is! Anna Maria Marconi walks towards him like she owns the building, with the confidence of someone who could easily kick him out with a snap of her fingers. She’s dressed like she got a business meeting in twelve minutes, and her eyes narrow the second she sees him, like she’s mentally drafting a restraining order if everything goes to shit.
“Mr. Wilson,” she says, flatly, “You’re efficient. Good. Follow me.”
No handshake. No warm welcome followed by fake smiles and polite exchange about how difficult it must have been for him to come here on such short notice. Nothing.
She doesn’t like him.
“I don’t like you,” she says, while leading him along the corridor and into the elevator, “but Spider-Man does, and I don’t have the time or the patience to go over thousands of applicants until we find someone he trusts.”
Those words kill him in a second. His brain shuts down for a few seconds.
[Did you hear that? Spidey likes us! He trusts us!]
{Oh, now even I feel guilty all right...}
Placing her badge in front of a scanner, she presses a button with the number 5 etched onto it. The door closes in front of them with a loud ping.
He snorts, “as if he’d like Taskmaster.”
“No, but as I said, we don’t have the time for his nonsense.”
“We? I haven’t even agreed to --- what is it that you want to hire me for?”
The elevator seems terribly slow. He can’t hear anything from the outside but the sound of the gears moving behind the iron panels. Even Anna Maria goes quiet, and Wade isn’t stupid. Elevators are the perfect place to hide cameras and microphones.
So, he waits. He links his hands behind his back and lowers his head, closing his eyes, back straight, posture locked in place, like they taught him in the service. Like when they made him wait under the rain for orders that never made it any easier on his soul.
When the doors open, he follows her quietly. Aside from a high-tech lab, only four other rooms are on this floor. A restroom. A cozy room with a coffee machine, a table, and a couch that has seen better times, too worn out to be simply there for relaxation. A room with ‘Marconi’ on the plate, seemingly empty. An office with ‘Parker’ engraved onto the plate.
It seems this floor is Peter Parker’s playground.
Something has changed since the last time he was here to gather intel about Parker’s job. For starters, he’s seen fewer employees. Secondly, he’s pretty sure Parker’s office wasn’t on this floor last time he visited.
“Most of the staff is attending the Tech Summit downtown,” she explains, “Panels, presentation, networking,” she adds, “Now sit.”
Okay.
No wonder Parker respects her. That tone! Oh!! That’s the voice of someone who could make you bark if she wants you to. Not that Wade would. Not right now, at least.
Wade follows into her office, the military in him indulging the command as if she were the general and he were the cadet. He picks the couch, less serious than the fancy chairs near the desk, and observes: it doesn’t look like she spends much time in here. Either that or she tidies her office every day.
She doesn’t sit. Just folds her arms and takes a deep breath in.
“Let’s make it clear: you’re not here because I think you’d be a nice fit for him,” she starts, which is as good as nothing, honestly, “you’re here because someone saw something they shouldn’t have.”
“I am afraid you’ll have to narrow that down, ma’am. I do a lot of things people shouldn’t see: murder, indecent eating, public display of sexual ---”
The boxes start screaming even before it clicks.
Ding, ding!
Anna Maria strides towards the desk to retrieve a tablet and, after opening an e-mail, she hands it to him. The pictures attached to it catch his attention first. Despite the lack of proper lighting, two figures stand out on the paper.
Oh.
Oh no.
“Three weeks ago. Johnny Storm’s car. Two people are having what seems to be the beginning of a hookup.”
A freeze-frame taken by a surveillance camera shows the outline of the parking lot, with timestamp and all. In one of them, Peter is climbing into the car, then right between Wade’s legs. In the next one, the angle is different, as if the camera moved upwards, and the unmistakable silhouette of Peter is now comfortably perched in front of Wade, head too low to see any of what he’s doing with his mouth. But Wade knows, oh, if he knows.
All the other pictures are just a meticulous documentary of their rendezvous: he can’t see much, but Wade’s brain is good at placing those details together.
“Peter hasn’t seen it yet,” she says, as if it makes it any better.
“I contacted Johnny first, to make sure his dash-cam caught anything important. It was done with a drone, military-grade. A prototype that just so happens to match Stark’s latest stealth model. Which, conveniently, went missing about a month ago. The intern assigned to it was found dead two days after the theft.”
She pauses. She lets it sit.
Wade keeps his breath steady. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t scream, but holds on to the tablet. The boxes are quickly finding coverage in the darkest place of his mind as Wade’s features harden, his muscles tense.
“You know what it means, right?”
“I---”
“Peter is a CEO. A public figure. And someone has footage of him, in the middle of nowhere, in Johnny Storm’s car, with you. He’s caught on camera with a mercenary with a record long enough to fill a courtroom docket.” Spinning on her heels, she starts pacing back and forth, “this isn’t some stupid scandal. This could hinder not only his reputation, but the lives of all the people working here.”
Closing the pictures, Wade slides back up to read the message, to find anything, a hint, a slip: the mail is fake; the text is short, yet too elaborate; the message is too anonymous.
Subject: Concerning Discretion
Mr. Parker,
Recent events involving your personal conduct have come to our attention. Given your position as a public figure and executive, the release of certain materials would undoubtedly attract significant scrutiny, both from the media and your professional partners.
We are prepared to ensure this matter remains private, contingent upon your immediate and willing cooperation regarding a matter of mutual interest.
Further instructions to follow.
Regards,
A Mutual Associate
Anna Maria remains quiet, followed by the tic-tac of her heels as she walks back and forth. Or, if she starts speaking again, Wade doesn’t listen.
He doesn’t care for what she has to say.
He goes over the e-mail once. Twice. The pictures are of poor quality, but there is something in the act of staring at them from a third-person perspective that… that makes his inside twist just like the scars on his skin.
He’s always known that, one day, Deadpool would have ruined Parker’s reputation.
But not like this.
Never like this.
“Peter can’t know about this,” she murmurs then, and Wade would like to tell her that no, Parker – Peter… Peter needs to know! But then he holds the thought. If he finds out, he’s gonna be restless. He’s gonna work his ass off to find out who those people are. It would require days, weeks, even months...
“He’s burning out. And no matter how much I try to keep an eye on him, he finds a way to work overnight, to avoid sleep, he’s living off those energy drinks, sneaks out at 4 AM and comes here at 9 AM with cracked ribs and a black eye.”
“He’s going to find out eventually,” he warns her, staring past the screen of the table, “once they make their move, he’ll know! And what then?”
“That’s why I want you to stick around.”
That’s when he lifts his gaze from the screen, looking at her like she might be about to give him a bone to chew on.
She wants to find the blackmailers, doesn’t she?
She wants to protect Peter no matter what.
Is she going to ask him to kill those people?
Is this what it’s this is about, isn’t it?
She might not be saying it right away, but he knows if shit happens, he’s going to be the one handling the shoveling.
“When Peter finds out, he’s going to investigate, I am sure, and you’ll be there,” she instructs, opening a drawer and taking an image-inducer out of it, “you are going to be Parker’s new bodyguard while the situation gets sorted out.”
“You know Peter wouldn’t want this,” Wade’s voice drops to a low, steady murmur. It’s the kind of tone that settles in when the jokes die down and the real work starts. The voice that signals playtime’s over and the mission is now urgent.
Refusing this job isn’t even an option.
But there’s something else ...
Not rage. Not bravado...
“He has Spider-Man,” he tries.
...but fear scratching at the back of his mind, in the vain attempt to break out from this claustrophobic sensation.
“Spider-Man can’t follow him everywhere,” She stares back at him, her lips jerk, “You know it. We both do.”
One. Single. Fear.
Using an image-inducer would mean to fake everything. To slink back into Peter’s orbit under false pretenses, pretending to be someone else entirely, just to stay close. Just to guard him. Just to see him, even if Peter didn’t want to see him right now.
No, don’t get him wrong: it’s not the hiding in plain sight that disgusts him, no.
It’s the manipulation behind it.
The idea that Peter might look at his facade and trust him, a stranger, while still refusing to answer Wade’s calls.
His throat feels tight, but he knows that he can’t refuse the job now. He’s already accepted it as soon as he entered the building.
“You want me to lie to him.”
“I want you to keep him safe.”
Wade’s mouth twitches. The smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but he tries. It’s the closest he can get to now.
“If it backfires, you better hope I am the only one he wants to set on fire.”
Notes:
This story is getting even more serious than I first intended it to be.
What I had in store for this was a quick job in the back of Johnny's car, d-r-a-m-a, because of Wade finishing his job, and that should have been it. But noooo! I had to put on my half-serious-writer hat and keep going!
But, seriously, I hope you liked this chapter just as much as I liked writing it.
Chapter 3
Summary:
(Dialogue-heavy chapter.)
“Have there been any recent incidents, security breaches, unusual visitors, or threats, that you’ve noticed? Anything out of the ordinary in your day-to-day routine?”
Peter pauses, considering as cuts through his okonomiyaki.
“Nothing major, no break-ins or anything, but I’ve had a few odd encounters. Except, well… the weirdo who decided to spy on… on...”
MJ narrows her eyes, “On?”
Peter’s jaw tightens, “… on me blowing Deadpool.”
“Oh,” MJ shifts on her seat.
Yeah. Oh.
Chapter Text
3
Wade’s phone has been ringing non-stop since he activated the image-inducer thanks to Weasel's constant yapping. Every new message is a variation of “look who is a good doggo, yes Wade, you are!” or any other variation of that, and this is slowly getting on his nerves.
[But… we are a good doggo, right?]
“Okay, I am turning you off,” he warns nobody and puts his phone in airplane-mode. This way, Weasel isn’t going to bother him any longer, at least until the end of his shift. Which… he has no idea when it’s going to end.
Anna Maria hasn’t given him any prep-talk. No dos and don'ts. Nothing, really. It’s as if she’s given him carte blanche.
[Aren’t bodyguards supposed to, you know, stay with their boss day and night?]
{Pretty sure that’s the case in every mafia movie we’ve seen. Yes.}
“Pfft, as if he’s ever going to let us stay with him non-stop,” Wade quips, shaking his head.
No, Peter would never allow that, but… a man could dream, right? It wouldn’t be that bad to watch of his fave Spider is doing. Are they going to family dinners together?
Ah, that could be fun!
But, back on track.
First day of work.
Here he is, again, standing tall in front of Parker’s headquarter. With a twist: this time, he’s wearing a tailored, fit tight suit and he has a new face, which he hasn’t seen. Not yet.
You see, after getting out of the Pool-cave, he’s turned on the image-inducer and never looked back since. He hasn’t even caught a glimpse when taking a selfie for Weasel.
Nothing.
Nada.
It’s only after stepping into the building and then into the same, boring elevator of the day before that he can see just how different he looks from the scarred, emotionally unstable mercenary he’s used to see every morning.
Inspecting his reflection into the elevator mirror, Wade can’t help but hiss at himself.
The image-inducer Anna Maria gave him is working pretty well. Too well. To the point of giving him PTSD, which, by the way, he already has, and it’s getting worse by the minute. Because of this!
T-H-I-S!
The man staring right back at him is nightmare material! No, he’s not some disgusting, marred man with scabbing all over his body, no. And that’s the whole problem!
He’s too charming: blonde, tall, broad, blue eyes… He’s horribly similar to what he used to look like before Weapon-X. And Wade doesn’t like it. Sure, he’s glad Peter won’t have to look at … him, as in, the real HIM, but…
… but isn’t it too much? Too polished. Too fake. Too gorgeous to be him. Too sickening perfect.
Is this how the bodyguard of a CEO should look like?
[Hold your horse! We have yet to be accepted by the big boss himself, dumbass.]
{Yeah… what if he doesn’t like us?}
Tall. Broad shoulders. Firm features.
Is Peter going to like it? Is he going to like this more than Wade?
“Oh, there you are!”
The elevator opens with a ping, waiting for him there is Anna Maria, busy as ever, with a stack paperwork ready to slip from her arms.
Should he help her? Probably? Maybe? He doesn’t know…
“Did you see the documentation I sent you? I expect you to follow my instruction accordingly.”
She doesn’t even wait for him to respond that, no, he hasn’t even checked his emails since 2010; she looks down at her smartwatch, twisting her nose.
“We have 15 minutes before Parker leaves for brunch. Come. I need to introduce you.”
Swiftly, Wade falls in step behind her. His new, shiny shoes land softly against the floor. People are turning, almost twisting their necks to look at him both in awe and amazement, and isn’t it wonderful? For once, people aren’t screaming or puking, or both while looking at him.
They’re staring at him as if Thor himself is walking among mortals.
It’s weird. Not unwelcome, no, just weird. He’d lie if he said he isn’t secretly wishing to be this way every day. Could you imagine?
Would Peter react the same way? The answer comes quicker than expected.
After knocking on Parker’s door, Anna Maria slips in. Wade follows.
At first, Peter doesn’t even look up, his head is propped over his right hand, back hunched over his desk as he goes through some documents, flipping and twisting the paper without even reading.
“Peter, did you have the time to go thought my last report?”
“No? Can we go over it now?”
Wade scoffs. Peter lifts his head and Wade must admit his heart breaks, just a little, when his eyes go oh, so wide in amazement.
Is it the suit?
Is it how good he looks?
He’s never looked at him like that…
“Who is he?”
“If you had gone through my email, like I told you, you’d know. Ugh. Apology, Mr. Smith, you should excuse him, he did not know you were coming.”
{She is using the name we suggested! Yes, yes!}
“None of it, Miss. Marconi,” ugh, even his voice is a bit different, “ I am sure Mr. Parker must be very busy.”
Peter’s mouth keeps opening and closing like a dumb fish. Cute. But also… bad! Is he attracted to this?!
This?! Really? Blond, muscle daddy angel?
It’s definitely the broad shoulders, Wade thinks.
“So, as I was saying,” Anna Maria clears her throat, tone brisk, “I know you suggested Spider-Man could shadow you, but you need someone a little more… presentable. Someone who can attend meetings, show up at public events, and keep an eye on you when your web-slinging bodyguard isn’t exactly available.”
“Wait—what? I didn’t ask for a bodyguard. And Spider-Man is presentable. Mostly. Depends on the lighting.”
He scratches the back of his neck, already spiraling. His voice dips, eyes going back and forth between Anna Maria and Wade, “Anna, is this about the board? Or the press? Because if this is damage control, I can—”
Lifting a hand, she interrupts him with grace. No shouting. Just that: a hand up is enough for Peter to shut up. Wade wonders if he should be taking notes… You know, maybe, just maybe, less shouting and more assertive whatever-Anna-is-doing might improve their communicative issues.
“Peter,” Anna Maria cuts in, her voice firm and clipped. “This isn’t about him being presentable. This is about you.”
He falters, mouth half-open. Now is eyes are glued to Wade’s figure, focused on his face, scanning his facial features. There is no way he is going to recognize him, right?
Wade feels so tiny under those watchful, very angry eyes.
“I should probably tell him, right?” She asks, probably to no one in in particular, but Wade nods all the same.
“Tell me what?”
She steps forward, gaze locked, and places her stack of documents onto Peter’s desk. “You were caught. On camera. With Deadpool. In public.”
Silence drops heavy between them. Peter doesn’t even blink. His eyes start darting, scanning Anna Maria’s face, then back to Wade, as if the answer to all of this is written all over is brand new jawline.
“What do you mean ‘caught’?” His voice is quieter now, hoarse, and Wade can perfectly frame the moment Peter’s brain goes in sight or flight mode. More flight than fight, this time.
“Check the emails,” she says, but as he does, she remains where she is, on the other side of the desk, giving Peter some decency of privacy. The moment the screen lights up with the mail and the pictures, Wade can hear the tap-tap-tap of Peter’s fingers tapping again the desk.
Baby boy is ready to implode.
Oh, so fucking ready to go boom!
Quietly. Always inward. But no matter how much he’s trying to hide it by playing it cool, Wade’s has seen him like this before, with colors draining from his face and the fidgeting.
“You said this isn’t about the press,” he murmurs, shoulders inching up likes he’s bracing himself for a punch.
“It’s about your safety,” she says, low and gentle, like coddling a baby, “I don’t know what they’re going to ask for to buy their silence. We don’t even know if they’re going to play by the rules.”
Wade snorts. Spoiler: they won’t.
“And he is your solution?”
Finally, Peter stands, pushes his chair back so hard it screeches and points right at Wade with his index, “you hired a bodyguard. Without telling me.”
“You can’t count on Spider-Man now. Trust me on this one, Peter.”
Peter’s mouth opens, but says nothing. He looks at Wade. Looks through him, as if looking for a hint, for anything that might give him a chance for a comeback. He’s looking for weaknesses, for something, anything that might him a chance to chase him away.
But Wade doesn’t budge. It’d need ages for Peter to scare him off when is set… and there aren’t blowjobs and feelings involved.
Then, he looks away, exhaling sharply, running both hands through his hair, again and again, ruining all work he’s done with the gel.
“Who is he?”
Anna responds without hesitation, “Mr. Smith is a former private security. Clean background. Comes with high recommendations.”
“Smith?” He echoes, frowning, like the name physically offends him.
“Yes, sir,” Wade forces the most neutral smile he can manages. Now, he only hopes he is going to be able to keep his talking habits in check.
No bickering with the boxes.
No flirty jokes.
The new voice helps clear his mind. It’s deeper than usual, warmer. Smoother. Yet,carefully tuned to be forgettable, plain.
Peter tilts his head, “Where are you from?”
“D.C. Originally,” he replies, “but I’ve done contracts all over. Mostly Europe the last few years.”
Which isn’t a lie. He’s spent the last two years jumping from France, to Italy and Spain, chasing some dickhead who believe that could get away without DP’s Death Delivery Express after murdering his two sons, his wife and attempting to sold their organs to the black market.
The grandfather of the two had been willing to pay with his whole inheritance now that he had no heirs anymore. Of course, Wade made sure that those organs where delivered to the nearest hospital.
But Peter doesn’t need to know any of this, right?
Right?
“Military?”
“Former service, yes.”
Peter squints, the gears are turning behind his eyes, still not convinced. Still digging. Wade is sure there’s something Peter is looking for on him, as if the posture and the appearance are screaming ‘familiar’ into his ears. But as long as Wade doesn’t tickles that Spider-Sense of his, he’s going to be safe.
No sudden movements.
No loud sounds.
“This is ridiculous,” Peter mutters, eventually, exhaling through his nose, “what about Spider-Man?”
Anna crosses his arms, “I am sure he’s going to thank you for giving him a break.”
Peter gives him a once-over again. There’s that flicker again but it passes. Eventually, he just grunts and rubs at his temples.
“Fine,” he says. “Trial basis. One week.”
Wade bows.
Anna doesn’t smile, but Wade can see the satisfaction in the slight raise of her brows. She is already checking her smartwatch again when Peter flops down into his chair with all the grace of a stressed-out college student. Cute. Cute!
“Don’t get comfortable,” she says crisply. “You’re due to meet MJ in twenty minutes. Brunch at Fuwu. Reservation’s under your name.”
Peter groans, leaning his head back. “God. I totally forgot. Can we reschedule?”
“No.”
“Anna—”
“No,” she says again, sharper now. “You’ve rescheduled three times. She’s your friend, you haven’t seen her in agese. Show up.”
“Fine.” He sighs and grabs his blazer from the back of his chair.
“Mr. Smith will go with you,” she adds smoothly.
Peter freezes, half-standing. “Excuse me?”
“He’s your bodyguard. This is literally his job.”
“It’s brunch. With MJ. Not a UN summit.”
Anna Maria doesn’t blink. “Public appearance. Easy target.”
Peter rubs his temples again. “Fine,” he says through clenched teeth. “But he stays quiet. Not a word while MJ is with us.”
Wade clears his throat. “Of course, sir.”
Peter eyes him again. That same searching look. Like a question is forming but hasn’t decided to ask yet, and Wade knows exactly what he might want to ask him: have we met before? You see, Wade doesn’t know much about Spiders, but he knows too damn well how sensitive Peter is to even the subtlest cue.
And Wade is sure as hell he hasn’t done half the preparatives to be ready for this job.
{Let me guess: this is all part of your master plan to get busted?}
“You don’t say much,” Peter mutters, standing in front of him.
“I’m paid not to.”
That earns the faintest twitch at the corner of Peter’s mouth, but he doesn’t grace him with a full smile, no. The little shit is trying his best to maintain the poor poker face he has.
Anna Maria claps her hands once. “Great. Car’s waiting downstairs. I expect a text when you arrive.”
Wade follows Peter outside, his steps soundless behind the CEO’s rushed ones, like a dog following his owner.
{All that’s missing is the leash.}
[Should I sit? Roll over?]
{Oh, quit it! What next? Just hump his leg and call it foreplay?}
[Jesus, I’m one ‘good boy’ away from busting in my pants.]
{Down, Wade. Not now. Not in front of the pigeons. }
Wade just adjusts his cufflinks at that, and keeps his mouth shut., taking s a mental note to ask Anna Maria to grab… something.
Something strong enough to keep the boxes quiet.
Every joke, every innuendo: he must keep them for himself.
Peter grumbles under his breath, “Bodyguard. For brunch. This is my life now.”
**
Once they reach the destination, Peter is refusing to talk to him still. Doesn’t even look his way. Doesn’t even look as impressed any more. Tight lipped. Stone faced.
And resisting the urge to snap back at the voices in his head?
Getting real fucking difficult right now!
{Bark for him boy! AHAHAH! Wiggle that ass! Maybe he’ll throw you a bone.}
Wade grits his teeth so hard his molars file each other down. He is a joke away from punching himself in the face and go full-on sock muppet show, solo edition. And it’s only been … what? 30 minutes?
Fuck!
“Oh, Peter! Dearest!”
A woman, a very charming, very beautiful woman, is waiting for Peter near the banner of what looks like a Japanese-inspired bar, the kind with cherry blossom decals on the windows and a yellow, waffle-shaped mascot plastered everywhere like it’s on the verge of launching a sugary coup.
She stands out like a movie star in a sitcom set: tall, red hair shining like it’s been hand-painted by horny Renaissance angels, curves in all the places Wade doesn’t have and legs for days, weeks, tax seasons.
She’s wearing something stylish-but-effortless, like she just happened to look perfect today, just stumbled into glamour. Probably smells like peaches and moral superiority.The kind of woman you see and immediately hate, not because she did anything wrong, but because looking at her makes you painfully aware of everything you’re not.
She’s effortless, radiant, normal.
And standing across from her, Wade feels like a stain on a nice carpet.
Like a joke someone told at the wrong funeral.
Like—
Yeah.
Like the punchline Peter should’ve grown out of by now.
Wade’s stomach knots. His eyes twitch.
{How the fuck did get a blowjob from him when he know women like her?}
[Guy’s either broken in the head… or slumming it just to feel something.]
The self-loathing is promptly interrupt by … was it MJ? Yes. Yes, she is.
Muttering something under his breath, Peter lets her greet him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek that he seems to reciprocate without a second thought. Wade would almost feel a little bit jealous if it wasn’t that, well, he’s literally had Peter’s mouth on his dick only three weeks ago.
{Only? ONLY?! Dude! It’s been a life-time already!}
“Oh, and who is him?” MJ asks when she’s satisfied of squeezing Peter like her fave stress-toy.
“Him? Ah. Funny story… mh. Let’s just say, that you were right…”
MJ puckers her lips, frowning at first, then lifting her eyebrows mouthing a low, amused “ooooh.”
“Yeah, so. Anna Maria thought it would be best to have a bodyguard, that, you know, doesn’t have weird friends like SPider-Man.”
Weird friends? Is he talking about Wade?
“Weird and attractive, I must say, if he managed to get in your pants.”
Yes. Definitely talking about him…
Wait. HOLD ON A FUCKING MINUTE!
{Does she know about us?}
“Not in front of him, MJ, please,” he murmurs, leading her inside.
The space is cramped. The tables are aligned along a slim corridor, with a small kitchen in plain view on the left. All the tables are booked, but when Peter tells his name to the waiter, she gets them to a secluded area, a private room with curtains hiding it from outside.
MJ and Peter step in.
Wade remains outside. Look, he’s not completely oblivious, he knows how to be a perfect, silent bodyguard, thank you very m---
“You can join us,” MJ says, peeking through the curtain, placing a hand on his forearm, “It’s better if you stay here with us. You might scare the other clients.”
When he looks at Peter for permission, he merely shrugs.
Wade is starting to see a pattern in the way Peter allows women to take the lead, but he is too afraid of uncovering it entirely.
Once in, he posts up near the door. He stay alert, but his ears are definitely not solely focused on the job at hand because, you see, he is a real Gossip Girl at heart, and there is no way he is going to miss this conversation.
“So, Pete. I need all the details! You said I was right. Does it mean someone caught you going down on Wade?”
Peter snaps his head toward Wade, flushing hard.
“Do we really need to talk about this with him right here?”
“Well, he’s your bodyguard, isn’t he?” MJ says innocently.“And any good bodyguard should know exactly what kind of men and women you’re into.”
Peter scowl. “Seriously, MJ. Can we not do this?”
She leans back, opening the menu to briefly scan it with a quick glace.
“What? I’m making a valid point. You’re a CEO now, Peter. You’re visible. That makes you a target, not just for the weirdos who want to hurt you, but the ones who want to date you for the wrong reasons.”
Peter grimaces. “You’re making it sound like I’m in danger every time someone flirts with me.”
“You kind of are.” MJ lifts an eyebrow. “Especially with your track record.”
“Your friend has a point,” Wade says, then, voice low and even. “I’ve seen situations escalate over much less than a high-profile relationship. Knowing your typical behavior helps me anticipate risk. That’s part of the job.”
See? Professional.
[Oh, so professional you can’t even look at him in the eyes!]
Peter glances over, “You’re seriously saying I need to debrief you on my… romantic history?”
“It’s not a requirement,” Wade replies. “But if you tend to overlook red flags, or attract attention from people with complicated motives, it would help to be aware.”
MJ raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Wow. He’s like a sexy NSA agent.”
Peter groans. “Can you please stop flirting with my bodyguard?”
“I’m not flirting. I’m observing. Big difference.”
Wade remains still, eyes forward.
He shifts slightly, just enough to look like he’s adjusting his weight, not silently screaming.
[Do not react. Do not respond! It’s a trap!]
A quiet knock on the door breaks the rhythm. A server slips in with a small tablet in hand.
“Are you ready to order?” she asks, bowing slightly.
Peter perks up like someone just handed him a life raft.
“Yes! Uh, we’ll have the house specialty. The okonomiyaki.”
“Two or three?”
Peter glances at Wade.
MJ answers for him. “Three. He’s with us.”
The server bows again. “Excellent choice.”
She disappears as quickly as she arrived, leaving the curtain swaying behind her.
MJ stretches. “God, I’ve been dying to try this place. Greasy, smoky, and impossible to get into unless you know someone who used to date a food blogger with shady connections.”
Peter chuckles weakly, and after what’s been two, long years Wade can finally see those cute dimples again. Oh, don’t wake him up now!
“Yeah, they do the best Hiroshima-style pancakes. Super crispy edges.”
Wade doesn’t speak. But the sound of “Hiroshima-style” perks up something buried deep in his food memory files.
[Crispy, messy, probably contains seafood and regret. Just like my last relationship.]
MJ props her chin on her fist. “So... how’s it going with Wade?”
Peter blinks. “What?”
“You know. Wade. The Wade you swore you’d never talk to again, right before disappearing for three weeks.”
Peter shifts in his seat. “We’re... not talking.”
Wade wants to scream. It’s not like they are not talking, it’s Peter the one who just shut off and never looked back again!
“Clearly,” she snorts. “And?”
He shrugs. “What’s there to say? We argued. He left.”
{What is he blabbing about?! We did not left!]
MJ watches him. “He left… or you pushed him out?”
[See? She gets us!]
Peter hesitates. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters,” MJ says. “You’ve been acting weird ever since. Anna Maria said you’ve been sleeping in your office again.”
Oh...
Peter scowls. “She needs to stop reporting on me like I’m a problematic intern.”
“She’s worried. And so am I.”
“It’s just complicated.”
“Because of what you said? Or because of how much it mattered?”
He doesn’t answer. Wade doesn’t move.
But inside? He feels like a bomb is ticking inside his chest, ready to explode in a gruesome way.
Why is this happening? He shouldn’t be here! He shouldn’t be listening to any of this!
This must be Karma back for her money!
“Pete,” MJ calls, reaching out for Peter’s hand at the other end of the table, “you’re being too hard on you. On him.”
Peter pulls his hand back, voice low. “It’s not that simple. Besides, it’s not the right time for any of this,” he murmurs, looking at Wade sideways.
“I can give you privacy, if you need me to,” Wade response, swallowing down every thing else. Oh, he has too many things he’d like to spat out just now.
He wants to tell him that yes, the woman is right: Peter is being too hard on both of them. They don’t need this level of angst, this slow burn dragging on because Peter can’t admit that Wade isn’t perfect, can’t hold himself or Wade to impossible heroic standards.
No. Wade won’t change for him. Not for lack of trying, anyway.
No, Peter doesn’t need to punish them both for this.
Ah. Shit!
He shouldn’t have taken this job. Maybe he should just leave, give them some semblance of privacy and wait outside before he hears something he shouldn’t.
But then the server returns, stepping inside with a low, polite, “Sorry,” and sets their food on the table. She leaves without waiting, and Wade instinctively moves to follow.
“No need for that,” Peter says, waving him off and nodding toward the free seat between him and MJ. “I just… please, don’t think of Wade as a threat.”
Wade pauses. Then, carefully, he sits. He doesn’t know what to do with that plea, the way Peter’s voice cracks slightly.
Don’t think of him as a threat.
Right.
As if he isn’t the biggest complication in this entire equation.
He shifts slightly, scanning their faces. MJ’s eyes sparkle with mischief, but there’s something softer there too, as if Peter just made her proud.
Peter looks away, clearing his throat. “So... what do you want to know? About whatever you think you can use to… protect me better.”
MJ grins. “Oh, we’re getting somewhere.”
Wade keeps his expression neutral, but inside, every word feels like a step closer to losing control.
What the fuck is he supposed to ask?
Focus. Don’t lose it. What’s the right question here?
He leans forward just slightly, voice calm and flat as he can.
“Have there been any recent incidents, security breaches, unusual visitors, or threats, that you’ve noticed? Anything out of the ordinary in your day-to-day routine?”
Peter pauses, considering as cuts through his okonomiyaki.
“Nothing major, no break-ins or anything, but I’ve had a few odd encounters. Except, well… the weirdo who decided to spy on… on...”
MJ narrows her eyes, “On?”
Peter’s jaw tightens, “… on me blowing Deadpool.”
“Oh,” MJ shifts on her seat.
Yeah. Oh.
“What about your schedule? Are there predictable patterns or vulnerable moments that could be exploited?”
Peter sighs.“My days are packed. Meetings, events, travel.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what about your evenings…?”
Tricky question, Wade thinks as he says it, and both MJ and Peter exchange a quick glance right after.
He knows pretty well what his Spider-babe does in the evening but he’s curious to see what answer might Peter come up with.
Is he going to tell him about his double identity?
“I usually take time for myself. Sometime, I have lunch with my aunt,” he tries, and, if he could, Wade would laugh.
Oh, liar, liar!
Peter never takes time off. Never just “takes time for himself.” And those lunches? Only when he’s nursing bruises no one else should see.
This job just got a hell of a lot harder…
“I hope you won’t mind my presence too much during that time, then.”
Peter raises an eyebrow.
“What do you mean…? It’s not like you’re going to keep an eye on me 24/7, right?”
“While I won’t be physically next to you every second, I will maintain constant vigilance to ensure your safety.”
Is he? He isn’t entirely sure Anna Maria ever mentioned it, but Waed would life if he said he wasn’t a little bit curious about how Peter might react under pressure.
Peter’s eyes widen,“I—what?! No. That’s way too much!”
“Understood. I’ll have to speak with Miss Marconi. We’ll adjust as needed,.”
“Good. Because, honestly, I need some space, even if it’s just for my own sanity.”
Wade nods, mentally filing that away.
Noted.
“Besides,” MJ chimes in, “I believe you’d want to spend some alone time too. Or with your family? With your spouse, maybe?”
Wade blinks, “No spouse. Family comes second to the job, at least for now.”
Inside, he’s bristling. He isn’t prepared for this kind of questions!
{You can be whoever you want now!}
[Yes, yes! You can be anyone!]
But is lying going to take him anywhere?
“But you’re right. Everyone needs space to recharge. Including me.”
MJ raises an eyebrow, “and you’re not seeing anyone?”
Wade’s mind races.
He has no script ready for this farce!
Liars need to have a great memory, and Wade is not entire sure he could be able to recall any of the things he’s might tell them.
“MJ, please. Let’s just enjoy this together. I have to get back to work in 30 minutes.”
Giggling, the woman gets comfortable on her seat, taking the first bite of her meal. She lets the questions drop entirely to focus solely on her food, making a little, happy dance as she does.
{We need to work on our cover story…}
That might be required, yes...
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