The Spider and the Merc

by Casketkays

Summary:

Female Peter Parker (Patricia) has her entire life thrown off track when a certain mercenary forces his presence right in the middle of it...but is it really all THAT bad?

Chapter 1: An Introduction

Team-ups are the worst.

They sound super cool in theory, right?

But let’s look at the data:

The Amazing Spider-man teams up with Johnny Storm of the Fantastic 4!
Team-ups with Johnny are always a blast. Usually literally.
The Avengers and Co.
That’s usually where I fit in. No, not with The Avengers. I’m the “and company”. Good enough to fight along side with, not good enough for the SHIELD dental plan.

This isn’t one of those ungrateful “woe is me” moments either. Teaming up with the Avengers may sound like an amazing opportunity - but consider the reason Earth’s Mightiest Heroes (plus company!) are all together for one fight - some serious shit is happening. Which brings us to the setting of my self narrating life story: in the middle of a most serious boss fight, forced to rely on the help of heroes that I don’t usually team-up with, and yet nonetheless being completely surrounded by guys with guns.

Sexist.

More like presumptuous. All five flanking badies are built tall, meaty, and sporting half masks - leaving their jaws and throats showing.

Why is it called an adam’s apple? And why leave one of their most vulnerable parts exposed?

I hit Badie 1 in this all too easy target, while twisting upwards and out to kick Badie 2 in the chest. They both go down, but 2 staggers up quickly to join 3 and 4 who are now surrounding me.

Gotta think fast…

Now would be the perfect time to web shoot the high beam above us that is precociously dangling above our heads. Theoretically I could swing it in a circle and knock them all on their asses. With the amount of inertia I could get going, combined with my super strength, they wouldn’t get up after that for a long time. So what’s stopping me? The very thing everyone associates with me, The Amazing Spider-man, with - webbing. I’m out. Completely dry. I used the last bit I had to ricochet Iron Man into Kang (do you think he was born with that name?) hard and fast.

Hand-to-hand combat is totally my thing; I can do this.

But first - let’s get out of this circle jerk.

I use my slender body to my advantage and leap over Badie 3 while grabbing his shoulders beneath me. I end up throwing him as hard as I can into the wall closest to us. I watch to make sure he doesn’t get up, and Badie 2 grabs me in return, around the chest. When the hits keep coming, I can’t rely on my spidey-senses all of the time. Badie 4 gets in a few good blows in my mid section below getting a low blow to the groin.

“Hey, bad form!” I choke out, before breaking 2’s hold on me and returning the favor of attention to Badie 4’s face.

Not that a groin hit would do much damage to me.

True. Between the thin kevlar layer I’m wearing under the suit and the full cup I rock in my nether regions, I’m safe from most direct hits.

That, and I don’t have any dangly bits to feel such a full assault.

The under-suit binder does more than protect me from weakass punches and The Vulture’s talons; it protects my super super secret identity - Patricia Parker.

I’m dodging Badie 2’s attempts to regain his hold while releasing my rage upon 4.

Time traveling creeper attacks MY city! *PUNCH*
High and mighty Avengers bogart all of MY webbing! *KICK*
Don’t even have the decency to provide me any back-up!

“Spidey!” I hear someone shout from above.

With Badie 4 decommissioned, I turn my attention to 2 again. I don’t bother looking up. Even without saying anything out loud, I somehow summoned the last person I wanted for back-up; The Merc With a Mouth.

Beggars and choosers, amirite?

“How about a hand, Deadpool? And so help me if you throw a dismembered body part at me again…” I swipe Badie 2’s feet out from under him, but he’s back up again before Deadpool jumps down to the floor. I keep countering 2 while taking a side peak at him, just standing there, being the most useless back-up ever.

Deadpool crosses his arms while accessing the scene.“What do you think I’ve been doing during this whole shit storm - looking for you! I thought to myself ‘Sex Machine’ - because that's what everybody calls me - ‘Sex Machine, you’re in Spider-man’s city during one of the biggest battle royales ever - you gotta find that Spidey-booty and protect it! Because I bet Daddy America leaves you high and dry out here. So here I am - to get you low and wet.”

“I want you to know that I’m rolling my eyes under my mask.” And maybe that was a bad idea, because Badie 2 clocks me square in the jaw, leaving me seeing stars. Finally, Deadpool joins the fight.

“Mind if I cut in?”

He unsheathes his dual katanas and slices downward so fast, Badie 2 doesn’t stand a chance to dodge.

“Get it?? CUT IN???” Deadpool cracks up at his own sick joke.

I move away from the blood gathering at our feet. If I can’t swing back home tonight, that means I’m walking. Have you ever walked 12 blocks, at night, in wet socks?

I take an assessment of our surroundings while cradling my jaw. “One - on the ground, being the biggest disappointment to the group. Two - in two. Three - napping by the wall. Four - battered and bruised. Five - …. Oh shit-”

My spidey senses are still too slow from the overload. I missed Badie 5 completely and the bastard got the jump on me with a … a laser??

I’m on the ground before Deadpool can jump in front of me.

It was a valiant effort, I’ll give him that.

I’m clutching my chest, to try to find the hit, but it all feels raw, and exposed. Breathing instantly becomes a chore, but I can still hear Deadpool win the fight, before firing the same laser.

“Taste of your own medicine!” I hear him shout.

He crouches by my side. With his mask always on, I can never tell his facial expressions. But judging by his uncharacteristic silence, I can tell he doesn’t like what he sees. I don’t like what I hear, which is to say, not much. The city sounds that I usually pick up with my hyper hearing are dead. My vision of Deadpool is slowly fading.

“Spidey? …-man? ….” all I can hear is my erratic breathing.

I turn my head slightly where I know most of the Badie 5 have fallen. Sure, I took down these jokers, but I’m going to completely miss the fight with Kang and die in the arms of a mercenary without ever becoming an Avenger.

Team-ups are the worst.

Chapter 2: Cut to the Chase

My body aches like nothing I’ve felt before while I drift in and out of consciousness. I don’t make a sound during my awake moments - somehow it seems to hurt more with each moan and groan. I focus on being perfectly still to help my healing factor. Judging from the past, I can usually mend broken bones in a few hours. Lasers though, that’s new territory.

Think about something else. Anything else.

I think about the essay that was assigned just this morning.

Nerd alert.

Being a full time student in addition to being Spider-man gives me very little free time, of which I fill in with my freelance work and an internship. The first stop after my morning classes are always the library. I can’t afford to procrastinate like my classmates. The faster I can hand in my assignments, the more room I have to focus on my work, patrols, and the occasional laser attacks.

Oooouchhh!

Okay, thinking about stress isn’t helping. What’s some anti-stressful activities I do? If today is Thursday, then I have Friday and Saturday to heal, and dinner with Aunt May on Sunday.

Sunday dinners have become a steady date with my Aunt since I moved out. When it was just high school and web-slinging; being the doting niece was hard enough. With greater responsibilities come harder to explain excuses. And she worries.

“Why aren’t you getting enough sleep, Patty?” Is asked at every yawn.
“Patty, are you eating enough?” Since the spider incident, my metabolism has been up, while my anabolism has been down. The effect leaves me eating everything in sight, but still looking like a scrawny kid.
“Another bruise, Patty?” This starts a whole new direction of questions.
And my absolute favorite, “Any new young men in your life? Women?”

Aunt May purely cares about my well being, and yet all I can do is lie to her.

AHHH - not helping. Anti-stressful. Anti-stressful!

Okay, I can do this. The Shower. Not just a shower either. I’m not talking about rinse and repeat, make your body smell like a peach. I mean the shower you take after a night of patrols. To stand under that hot spray until it turns cold. To wash the sweat and grime off. To finally rid myself of the chest binder after a night of acrobatics. It’s heavenly. It’s almost erotic. Almost. To be honest, as soon as I start roaming down there, I lose interest. It’s not the sensation that I’m craving and it’s not the image I want to see in the mirror.

When you take away the mask, I’m no different than a million other nondescript girls: slim build, short brown hair, light freckles, brown eyes, big framed glasses. It’s not a bad picture overall; it just isn’t an interesting one to me. I spend my nights swinging from skyscrapers, battling an entourage of deadly weirdos, and by day I’m Studious Parker - Nerd Extraordinaire. My mind is a constant battlefield of trying to find out who I truly am, and yet my mirror reflects the same boring looking person.

If self loathing is all that I’m going to do, I may as well get up.

I start slowly, by opening my eyes. My vision is back, and without lenses to dull my super senses, I immediately close them.

Too bright.

So it’s already day time. I try again, letting my eyes settle for a squint. My first vision is the water stain above my bed, only it’s shaped differently...and darker.

This is not my apartment.

My eyes open wider.

It’s not the Avengers Tower either.

Every room I’ve encountered in the Tower has been pristine. This room is the complete polar opposite. I start seeing more stains as I dart my eyes back and forth. Time to test the muscles. I wiggle each of my digits before attempting slight limb movements. It’s not much, but it does affirm that I’ve healed through the worst of it, without being paralyzed.

And that I’m not tied up.

Double win for me. Now for the hardest part, sitting up. I gingerly brace my arms below me to hoist myself up. As the thin sheet falls to my waist with the motion, I can better assess the damage done to my skin.

My Skin?

With a horrid realization, my brain connects the dots and I start taking inventory of where my skin is exposed.

My chest! My legs! My arms! My …

My hands fly to my face with such speed, that I slap myself in the process.

...My face…

I’m injured, in a stranger’s bed, nude, and unmasked.

What. The. Fuck.

Injury be damned! I swing my legs out of bed and onto the floor, dragging the sheet with me. Surveying the room quickly, I see only two exists - a door or a window. I head to the window, finding luck that I'm only on the first floor. I pause before lifting the pane.

Someone knows my face.

I tighten the sheet around my waist and resolve to go through the door. Mask or no mask, it's time to get serious. With one more deep inhale, I slam the door open and brace for an assault.

“Good morning, sleepy head!”

No. No no no nonononono

I don't know exactly who or what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't Deadpool, sitting with his legs crossed, on the floor, playing an old school Game Boy.

He casts me a sideways glance before returning to his game.

“Nice toga.”

My blood is boiling, and I can feel my face blooming red as I start shouting.

“What the hell, Wilson?!”

Knowing his identity, while not exactly a secret, makes me feel a little more on even ground.

“Where am I? Why are you here? And why the fuck did you unmask me?! I thought you were all about honor and the secret identity bro-code?! Why-”

Deadpool puts the game down and rises from his spot in one fluid motion that stops me mid sentence. He holds his fingers up while answering my questions.

“You’re in my swag pad. Again it’s my place; of course I’m here. I didn’t unmask you, I saved you.”

Although I can’t read his facial expressions under his mask, his words are clipped and he starts to sound agitated. He stops his hand movements, and crosses both arms as he continues.

“What I’m all about seems to be saving your bubble butt! You were hit by a fucking laser, in case you forgot. A laser set on Disintegrate if what happened afterwards is any clue. Your suit started melting off, your flesh was next. I took you here to wipe the shit off you so you could heal alone. I may not have a 50 story building for your pampered ass, but you’re alive ain’t ya??”

Deadpool unfolds his arms and gestures at me.

“And seriously … bro code?” He finishes, sounding more amused by the situation than anything else.

Deadpool strips me, and I’m the asshole??

Although I can’t argue that he did save my life. And if he would have brought me to the Avengers, the whole team would have discovered my secret. Vigilantism may not pay the bills like an official SHIELD operative would, but I’m not ready to sacrifice my day life just yet.

Yep. I’m an asshole.

“...Thank you.” I mutter, my anger replaced by humility.

Deadpool doesn’t acknowledge my gratitude, however his mood perks up immediately. He starts walking around the room, excitedly telling me every gory sight he witnessed in the fight, complete with reenactments.

I keep my distance the best that I can, walking alongside the wall in my makeshift toga. I do trust Deadpool, but only slightly less than I can throw him. He is a mercenary, afterall. He kills people for money.

He also collects information for money.

My blood runs cold at that realization.

“How much?” I blurt out, cutting Deadpool off mid story.

“How...much...what?” He sounds genuinely confused.

“How much for your silence.” I elaborate, practically grinding my teeth.

“Oh baby girl,” He starts.

I get the impression he’s smiling. “No one’s been able to afford those rates. Not even the Iron Maiden himself!”

With one hand holding the sheet in place, my other instinctively pinches the bridge of my nose. Deadpool isn’t as dumb as everyone likes to paint him as. Working with him in the past, I can attest to that. And as usual, I’m not in the mood for his antics.

“How much to keep you silent about my identity?”

“And which identity would that be, hm?”

Deadpool starts pulling his mask up to his mouth (yep, he’s smiling) and continues to pull it up further than I’ve ever seen him do before. As he does so, he slowly stalks over to my side of the room.

“The identity that Spider-man is a girl? Or that the girl is one Patricia Parker? Or Patricia Parker, student of Empire State University?”

Deadpool has completely crossed the room, backing me in a literal corner. He rests one muscular arm on the wall, leaning in towards me, while he continues to talk.

“Patricia Parker, student of ESU, with three purchases away from one free six inch sub?”

The sudden level of intimacy is too much. My brain has gone past panic mode. I’m looking into his eyes for a solid thirty seconds before I make my response.

“I-I mean, the sandwich part isn't a secret.”

Deadpool gives a low chuckle as he pulls away from the wall. Other than that, he remains stationary in front of me.

“We’re friends, aren’t we Spidey? Let’s not put a little thing like money get in between our friendship.” He pauses and licks his chapped lips.

Fantastic, now I’m staring at Deadpool’s lips.

“Instead” he continues, “let’s agree on a favor”

“You mean blackmail.” I say flatly.

He limply waves one wrist in the air. “Potatoe Potatoe.”

“You said those the same-”

“Look, Parker, it’s like this - hanging out with the hero-types is fun. I get a real kick out of it. I also get a kick out of getting paid oodles of money for breaking a few laws. But here’s where things get complicated; some clients are becoming nervous that this merc with a mouth may spill the beans on the confidential matters that I’m hired for. Ya dig?”

At least with the mask off, I can read his expressions more clearly. Despite the words that he’s using, he’s being sincere.

“...So your clients think that you’re selling them out to The Avengers?” I decipher.

“BINGO, kid! My loud mouth is barely tolerated as it is - but being that loose lipped is overstepping the line. Once a merc is outed as a snitch, well there’s only one way to rectify the situation.”

I consider the man before me. Deadpool is obnoxious, juvenile, and can be a little blood thirsty…. But a snitch? For SHIELD?

I don’t buy it.

“But you’re not selling out.” I don’t make it a question.

He eases back into a smile.

“This ain’t a judged-by-a-jury-of-your-peers kinda situation. There's only one way to silence a mercenary.”

“Uhhh but aren't you a little hard to kill?” I put as delicately as possible.

“Oh I'm hard enough, baby girl...”

Ugh.

“...But it's not impossible. So here's where you come in - I'm in search of some real estate with absolutely NO ties to myself. A place to lie low until I can sort this misunderstanding out.”

I blink a few times before answering.

“You’re looking for a place to stay?”

This conversation is so bizarre.

Deadpool cocks his head to the side and stares at mine. I’m not usually so slow on the upkeep - he's probably checking if I have some head trauma.

“Not just any place” he elaborates, “a place with no ties to any hero types. Now you being an unregistered hero, no one can link us together - not as Wade Wilson and Patricia Parker.”

He must recognize how displeased I am at his proposal, as he puts both hands out and takes a large step back.

“It would only be temporary! I crash a few nights on your couch, and your secret identity remains secret - fair deal!”

I open my mouth, but the words die on my tongue.

This isn't really such a bad trade off, considering what he knows. Although living with Deadpool isn't ideal…

“That's it? You don't tell anyone or use your knowledge on behalf of one of your employers, or clients, or whatever against me - for room and board? Those are your terms?”

“Just until I clear my name, so to speak. Then you can kick me out and I will forever hold your secret. Scouts Honor.”

I raise one eyebrow.“Were you really a scout?”

He reaches one hand behind his bald head. “Ehh no. But I was in the military. That's basically the same thing! It’s the same principles, just no merit badges. Soooo whaddya say?”

Deadpool sticks his hand out to shake mine. Am I really going to do this?

Aw fuck it.

I roll my eyes as I meet his hand with mine, giving it one solid shake.

Let’s see who breaks first; the spider or the merc.

Chapter 3: A Walk to Remember

Deadpool grabs a large duffel bag to pack his belongings in and tells me to help myself to his mountain of clothes.

That mostly smell like roadkill.

I'll have to settle for a pair of boxers for shorts, because even his sweats hang too loosely on my hips. I grab a red cotton pair and I pray to every member of Thor’s family (minus Loki) that they are clean.

I grab the first black hoodie I see, only to find a thin shirt underneath that I hold up for further inspection. It's a large muscle tank with Deadpool’s logo printed on it. The shirt isn't stretched or smell, in fact it looks like he's never worn it.

Maybe it was a gift?

It must be nice, owning something with your alter ego on it. I don't take the chance myself, just in case. It's far too risky. But this? This is too cute. And considering what an ass he’s being with the blackmail and such….

Yep, I'm wearing it.

I rip off a part of my once-toga to tie around my chest first, for modesty, then slip the tank over top. When I open the bedroom door to exit, Deadpool is standing very close on the other side, half-packed duffel bag in hand. He's noticed the shirt, if his blatant staring at my chest is anything to go by, but he doesn't mention it. Instead he uses the duffel bag to motion further in the room.

“Need to grab some street clothes”, he mumbles.

I step aside to let him in, and step out the door in return. It's closed immediately once I exit. Did I break Deadpool?

More likely my assets did.

Or maybe my assets aren't the ones he was interested in while my mask was still on?

While contemplating Deadpool’s sexual preferences, I take a better look around the apartment. Even with the mold and dirt and blood stains - this place must cost a fortune. Renting a place this size in the city is no joke.

The bedroom was sparse, save for the bed itself. The living room is even more so. Absolutely no furniture in sight.

I walk towards the small kitchen. Food wrappers completely cover the counters and stove top. I’m resisting the urge to clean it up - I mean it would be so easy - the empty trash can is right there. Finally I reach the fridge, which looks like a shining beacon among the dirt and mess. I open it and find out why.

Empty. Just like my stomach.

I reach my hand inside the empty refrigerator and feel no difference in temperature. Tilting my head to the side, I focus on the more subtle noises I'm usually trying to filter out.

Deadpool zipping up his bag.
Rats in the wall.
A couple arguing two floors above us.
The street sounds outside.

All normal sounds, except I'm missing one. It was the hardest sound to drown out when I first got my powers. A steady and consistent hum.

“There's no juice in the entire building.”

Deadpool’s sudden presence startles me. I take my hand out from the fridge, embarrassed I had held it there for so long.

“How does an entire build-”

My question dies on my tongue. Deadpool without a mask was bizarre enough, but seeing him now crosses into a whole new territory on my already weird ass day.

Deadpool stands before me, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Looking like less a deadly assassin and more like … I don't know … normal?

He pulls the hood of the sweatshirt up over his head, and I swear I can see color blooming on his scarred face.

Way to stare like a creeper!

Deadpool (is it Wade in street clothes??) shrugs his shoulders in response to my unasked question.

“We’re not exactly in the best neighborhood, darlin’”, he says, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. “Shall we?”

I exit the door first, with Wade behind me. As the door opens to the outside, the sudden burst of sun stops me dead in my tracks. I'm not sure if this is still my injury healing or a testament on just how dark the apartment was.

Wade guides me down the few stairs to the sidewalk with a gentle hand on my back.

...and he's not removing it either…

I pick up the pace in effort to remove his hand myself. He latches onto my arm in return, this time not so gently.

“We’re not holding hands all the way to my apartment”, I say dryly.

Wade snickers from under his hood. It almost hides his face as much as the mask did.

“Give me some credit, kid. I'm not giving you the chance to pull some Spidey moves and leave me behind with the raw end of the deal!”

I'm only 70% sure that we're walking in the right direction and he's worried that I'll out maneuver him?

It is nice that he treats me the same out of costume as he does when I'm suited up.

We walk the rest of the way in awkward silence, with his grip never faltering on my arm. When we finally reach my block, I try glancing up at Wade to try to get a read on him.

It's subtle, but he's definitely scoping out the neighborhood as we slow our pace. If he thought a little power outage made his neck of the woods rough, I can't wait to see the look on his face when we get to my dinky apartment. I duck my head down a little lower to hide my smile.

Serves him right, blackmailing me!

“It's this one”, I point out, leading him to one of the more rundown buildings on the street.

He cranes his neck up to count the levels.

“Which floor?”, he asks.

“The very top!”

My answer may be a little more enthusiastic than necessary.

“Got yourself a high rise, eh?”

Wade let's go of my arm once we start on the stairs.

I press my lips together in response.

“Mmm.”

The long walk here was awkward enough, with more silence than I thought could be possible between the two of us. Now with each creaky stair leading up to my apartment, all I want to do is get this over with.

One good look at my place and Deadpool will concede that he's no safer with me than he would be on his own. This is probably just a rouse to see where The Amazing Spider-man lives, anyway.

It's always about Spider-man. It's never about Patricia.

We reach the top floor as I reach new soaring heights of self depreciation. When we arrive at my door, I make a display of patting myself down for keys, before putting a shoulder to the door.

I'm hilarious.

“The door sticks and there's no locks,” I explain, “but there is electricity.”

I flick the light switch on. Even at midday, the sun doesn't shine very well through the dingy windows. Deadpool remains silent at my side.

I clap my hands together to break the silence.

“WELL let me give you the grand tour!”

I take two steps further inside and stay in that spot while continuing.

“This is the foyer. Here is the kitchen. The living room,” I gesture my arms out, “and the bedroom. Home, sweet home.”

I stare at Wade to finally get the reaction I was hoping for. He's been slowly pulling his hood down since entering the room. If he had eyebrows, I imagine they would drawn together very tightly right now, as he looks around the room.

“...’s nice”, he starts, “very...clean.”

I put one hand on my hip.

Gotta give him that one.

I don't own many knick-knacks, and I don't attract much clutter. I have a dusty tv, a bed, and a computer. That's more than what I need.

Wade has walked toward my second (possibly third) hand couch. The aforementioned dusty tv is sitting in front of it, often unused. He continues to look at the four walls that surround us.

“...the bathroom?”

I throw my head to the side towards the kitchen while answering, “behind the curtain”.

“O….kay. How about where the magic happens? Where's the bedroom?”

“You're standing in it.”

The look of confusion on his face is perfection. I have to leave before I start getting manic. Really, I should not be this happy at the expense of my living conditions. I take a couple of steps toward the counter and grab my phone from its charger, where I had last left it.

With any luck, my Bluetooth camera uploaded some action shots of yesterday's fight. Of course the camera itself didn't survive the battle. That's a pretty penny wasted.

Thank Thor’s hammer that my student ID and sub card made it intact.

I roll my eyes at that thought. The hidden sleeve pocket was good in theory (hello mid patrol snack time!) but if all I have to my name is an almost free sub in the uni cafeteria, the appeal suddenly declines. Especially when it lands me in the kind of situation as I’m currently in.

Satisfied with the pictures I managed to take, I put the phone back on the counter and walk over to my makeshift dresser - a stack of crates - and pull out a pair of jeans. I’m all too aware of the mercenary's eyes following my every move. I slip on the jeans over the borrowed boxers while looking him point blank.

“So...It's been a pleasure traveling with you today and thank you for choosing to fly Spidey airlines today. We hope you have an enjoyable stay here in Queens, or wherever your final destination may be. Goodbye.”

I shuffle through my studio apartment, grabbing my glasses, wallet, and phone on my way to the small kitchen.

“What? Where are you going? You just re-grew that teen youth, you outta stay put!”, Wade sputters.

I'm ruffling through my mostly bare cupboards and grab my last two granola bars.

Finally, subsistence!

“Can't,” I say, with my mouth full of wrapper as I rip the first bar open, “I gotta go to work.”

“And work is…?”

I pause at the door at his question. Do I tell him? How much of my life am I willing to share with Deadpool?

How far is he willing to stalk me if I don't tell him?

“The Daily Bugle”, I answer. “I'm a freelance photographer.”

I pick up my skateboard that was propped up against the wall and open the door.

“and I'm late”, I finish.

Deadpool starts saying something else, but I don't stay to catch it. I rush down the stairs in record time and don't look back. As soon as I meet the concrete outside, I jump on the board and make my way downtown.

Chapter 4: A Song of Put Downs and Deadlines

“YOU’RE LATE!”

Jonah Jameson berating me is a constant in my life that I weirdly welcome after the day I've had so far.

“I'm the last media outlet without pictures on yesterday's freak show. Goddamn BLOGGERS have more pictures than I do, Parker! Now you stroll in here with barely a roll worthy of print? What is this, AMATEUR HOUR?!”

“I‘m sorry, sir”, I say, keeping my voice steady.
I anticipated the verbal spanking. Jameson can be a harsh critic (*cough*Spider-man*cough*) but he's a fair man and I am late with the pictures.

“Patricia!”

A new voice enters the conversation. I look up from my shoe gazing and give a slight smile towards Robbie Robertson, The Bugle’s main editor. Robertson is the cooling ointment to Jameson’s burns.

“We were starting to think something happened to you! Are you alright?”

Mr. Robertson puts his hand on my shoulder and looks me up and down.

“You know twenty-four bystanders were injured”, he goes on to say.

I decide honesty(ish) is the best policy, in this case.

“Yes, I'm fine, sir. I was there, taking pictures (aka fighting crime) and got hit by some debris (a laser). I'm a little sore (my ego, mostly), but nothing I won't recover from. Sorry to make you worried.”

I brighten my smile a little more in an effort to show sincerity. Mr. Robertson returns the smile, looking much more genuine on his face than my own.

“I'm glad to hear it”, his tone becomes more stern, “but Patricia, please be careful out there! There's no picture you can take that would be worth your life.”

“Oh stop coddling the girl, Robbie.”

Mr. Jameson has been going through the digital files I brought with me during our conversation. The transfer complete, he hands my drive back to me.

“I'll take them all. Not because they're any good - only because I'm in a bind. This better not be some tactic, Parker. The next time you're late on a story, your ass is OUT, understand? I don't care if you've got a picture of Captain America in swastika-clad underwear! I won't be buying and you won't be selling - not to anyone in this city!”

“Y-yes, sir, Mr. Jameson. I-it won't happen again”, I stutter.

He turns his back on me, and I take my cue to leave. I give a curt nod to Mr. Robertson and scurry out of the office. I try to compose myself before walking to the commissions desk. It's made a little more difficult than usual, since it's very apparent that the entire floor has heard just how badly my ass has been handed to me.

When will this day of embarrassment end???

I wait by the desk of Elizabeth Brant, the Bugle’s main secretary, while she prints the report Jameson has emailed her during my walk of shame, to determine my pay. Thankfully, we don't exchange any words.

I pull out my phone to pass the time to discover a text message from Johnny Storm. He's the only hero I've ever trusted with bits of my identity, my phone number included.

Pete - you missed your status report with the tower. You alive?

Shit. I never checked in with The Avengers. Another fun part about Team-ups is paperwork and staff meetings.

Alive but sore. Didn't see you there??

Naw my team missed the party. Got caught in some off-world BS.

Too bad. You missed my epic heroism.

And yet I still get to play the role of your go-between. Wtf is a status report???

Bureaucracy. What every vigilante craves. Can you cover for me pls?

Only because it drives Stark crazy that he doesn't have your #. You patrolling tonight?

Thanks. Patrol is out until I get the backup suit mended.

That bad?

Fucking laser.

Ouch. Details on monday?

Deal.

During my text exchange, Elizabeth has printed my commission check, holding it out for me to grab. I mumble a thanks and walk towards the elevator doors. On my descent down, I open my bank app to scan the check. The Bugle doesn't put me on direct deposit due to my freelance title. When the doors open again, my banking transactions are complete.

I push my glasses closer to my face, using one finger, and head to the security counter. They always stash my skateboard for me when I drop by. One of the more friendlier officers, Clyde, sees me and bends down to get the board from its hiding place.

“How did it go?”, he asks, handing me the skateboard.

“Just about how you’d expect - insults, criticism, threats…”

I hold the board to my chest. No reason to add scuffed floors to the Bad Parker List.

Clyde gives a low whistle.

“Termination?”

“Uhhh no. Actually, he bought every shot.”

Now I've got the attention of the other guard on duty, who is usually much more stern.

“You're telling me”, he says, struggling to keep his voice down, “you waltzed into J. Jonah Jameson’s office, a day after the biggest fight our city’s seen all year - and all he did was scold you? Like a child?”

“She is a child, Don”, adds Clyde.

“Hey - I am not a child!”

I punctuate my statement by dropping my skateboard on the ground, the noise of the slam echoing in the marbled room.

An almost child-like reaction.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a few calming breaths.

“Sorry. It's been a…stressful...day. Until next time?”

I wave a hand behind me and make the most graceful exit I've had all day. I walk about a block before jumping back on the board, towards the university.

The bright midday sun is making me curse myself for not grabbing sunglasses before I fled my apartment. I should be resting at home, to give my healing factor more time to lower my body's sensitivity. But risking another awkward encounter with Deadpool isn't high on my Fun Things To Do list. If I bide my time long enough, he'll be long gone and out of my personal life.

Deadpool is loud, unpredictable, and downright dangerous on missions. I can't imagine living with him would be any easier.

And it's not like I have even have time for downtime.

Jameson’s pep talk reminded me of just how much on a time crunch I'm on. Missing one day almost cost me my job, and I'll be damned if it cost me a penny of my scholarship.

I skate up to the school steps, kicking my board up into my hands as I jump off. My first stop is the East Building, the Science Department. I missed this morning's class, Biochemistry, aka my most important class on my roster. I stride with confidence in my step, ready to slather on the charm to the professor, Dr. Michael Kissick.

I can do this. I need this to go well!

As I turn a corner, I plow straight into a solid mass, aka Dr. Michael Kissick.

Great - spidey-senses still on the mend.

His papers are lying on the floor, half drenched in herbal tea, which has dumped out of his mug and landed mostly on his suit and tie. I take in the scene before looking up at him, with my hands still braced on his arms and my glasses askew.

“P-Parker??”, he stutters.

I wince as I collect myself, letting go of him and dropping to the floor to pick up the soggy papers as best as I can.

“Dr. Kissick, I am so so so sorry!”, I elegantly apologize, “Please, let me help!”

I desperately try to salvage the papers, but without sleeves to help soak in the tea, all I manage to do is smear the ink even worse.

“Miss Parker - don't - just - LET GO!”

He grabs the papers in my fumbling hands and holds them close to his body, as if he thinks I might take them back.

“Sir - I'm sorry - I just came here, w-well for you actually”, I straighten the glasses on my face, “I'm sorry I missed your class this morning-”

“AND lab practice”, he elaborates.

I gulp nervously.

“A-and lab practice. Please sir, my entire scholarship is riding on this class. If I can't maintain a perfect grade in biochem, I'll lose that and my internship! Please-”

“ENOUGH”, he cuts me off.

He seems to look me up and down before continuing. I must look a sight worse than usual.

Well, I am healing after a laser attack, which gave me melty flesh. Maybe I should have led with that?

“Miss Parker,” he sighs long and audibly, “If you can do the class assignment before lab hours end today, I won't mark you as absent, provided you produce a perfect sample - your usual work.”

I stare numbly at his words. Dr. Kissick shuffles once more through the mostly ruined papers until he finds the winner. He holds it out to me, expectantly. I tentatively take it, my brain finally catching up with the situation.

“The assignment”, he explains.

I quickly glance at the notes before me.

“T-Thank you, Dr. Kissick. Truly, this means so much-”

He’s already continued down the hall.

“By end of lab hours TODAY, Miss Parker”

I watch Dr. Kissick turn down the next hall before remembering to breath.

YESSS!

One of the reasons I’ve been able to hold onto my scholarship this long, almost at the end of my Master's Degree, is my perfect grade point average. I may not make it to every lecture and class throughout the week; but my avid studying pays off when it comes to exam and lab practice. This assignment is hardly a challenge for me, and it provides the perfect cover to use the lab facilities to stock more webbing.

FINALLY something goes my way today!

With a new bounce in my step, I head to the lab furthest down the hall, which is guaranteed to be empty. I read the paper more thoroughly while walking, preparing a mental inventory of the chemicals I’m about to be elbows deep into.

Psh - kids stuff.

This assignment will take me an hour at the most. Then I have four additional hours to work on my webbing, a much more complex formula. Luckily my web shooters weren't damaged in the fight - just drained. It's a lot easier to replace a spandex suit than the hardware itself.

I don a white lab coat and replace my glasses for goggles and get to work. I may not be fighting crime tonight, but I'll definitely be kept busy all the same.

Chapter 5: Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow

I managed an additional two hours after closing time before security escorted me out. It was worth every humiliating minute though - not only is there a pristine lab sample ready for Dr. Kissick, but I also have enough concentrated webbing to last me a good while.

Spontaneous attacks on New York City by asshats of the future included!

I even managed to hit up the library before being escorted out again, to order some new suit necessities. And in my final time draining activity of the night - I am now only two sandwich purchases away from a free one.

My skate home is slow and leisurely, making it well past midnight before I walk up the stairs to my top floor studio dump - I mean - apartment.

Before I reach my door, I tune into what I can expect inside. It's quiet, and the lights are off.

No one's here.

I lean my shoulder into the door to open it and turn on the lights immediately. Nothing looks different. I don't even see Deadpool’s bag that he had brought earlier.

I did it. Patricia Parker’s sad life chased even Deadpool away.

I prop my skateboard against the wall and start emptying my pockets.

This is what I wanted...right?

“Absolutely”, I answer out loud to myself.

I walk through the kitchenette, plugging in my phone to charge, and push back the curtain that separates this part from the bathroom. The air smells a little damp, but I contribute that to the building's leaky pipes. Turning on the shower, I strip my clothes and add them to the suddenly full laundry bag beside me.

Huh. I guess I better add a trip to the laundromat to tomorrow's schedule.

I step under the spray, enjoying the water turn from lukewarm to hot. I run my hand through my short hair and slick it back with the water. As the hot water falls over my head and down my back, easing my muscles, I feel more like myself - almost fully healed. I'm enjoying the sensation so much, that I don't hear my door open and close. But I sure as hell hear the bellowing from the kitchen.

“HONEY, I'M HO-OME!”

I jerk my head out from the spray and pull back the shower curtain, enough to poke my head out. I can see Deadpool’s unmistakable silhouette from the other side of the thin cloth curtain, in the kitchen.

“What are you doing here?!”, I shout - my voice a little higher than usual.

“Uhhh did you forget our little arrangement, roomie?”

Not so easily scared away, then.

I return back to my shower, trying to soap up as quickly as possible. Deadpool, staying true to his merc-with-a-mouth reputation, hasn't stopped talking.

“- had to swap out those guns for these guns only to find my storage locker ransacked, because nothing is fuckin’ sacred any more. I go through the trouble of tracking down my shit and who stole it. Picture it: I'm in full merc gear, ready for fuckin’ war. I bust up in their little hidey-hole, and you know who it is? Some punk ass kids, playin’ Avengers.”

I pause mid rinse and lather.

“Tell me you didn't hurt these kids”, I call out to him.

“Naw. I mean I thought about it - they did steal my shit. But after Iron Baby pissed his pants, my heart wasn't in it...Hey, you hungry?”

Deadpool’s sudden change in topic doesn't faze me. This is actually exactly how our conversations go when I see him on patrols. Nevertheless, I am still bathing.

“Uh, maybe? Let me just finish up in here and-”

“Sure thing, baby girl. I feel ya. You've got some real nice water pressure going on in this place.”

I’m in the middle of rinsing the conditioner out of my hair.

“Y-you used my shower?”

“Used and abused. My place just had this cold leaky faucet action going on. This is much nicer. Somethin’ about those warm jets of water, ya know? I could finally rub one out without my junk bein’ too shy-”

“Please stop describing your dick.”

I shut off the water and grab the nearby towel. I hear Deadpool chuckle just outside the room.

“Fair enough. Anyways, I picked up some grub for us. I figured I could persay you into staying home to heal if I fed you, ‘cuz Mother Hubbard, your cupboards are bare! Have you tried the Mexican street cart down the block? Guy talked me into taquitos instead of my usual. They're like little meat tacos, really thin-”

"Please stop describing your dick”, I repeat.

That earns me a much more hearty laugh from the kitchen. I emerge from the bathroom wearing a sweatshirt and jogging shorts, a little unsure of myself. He’s already seen me unmasked (and nude), but it still feels awkward.

Deadpool, in his full suit, is arranging the taquitos onto a makeshift plate made of tinfoil when he looks up at me.

“Netflix and chill?”, he asks.

I reach around him to grab my glasses.

“Uh, sure. But I don't have an account.”

“WHAT? Then how are you watching Orange is the New Black?”, he asks quickly.

“I, uh, don’t? I go to school, I study, I work, I-”

“-have no social life, I get it. We'll use mine.”

Deadpool grabs the plate and walks towards the sofa.

“Come young padawan, you have much to learn”, he says with his back to me.

I start to follow, because second dinner is sounding pretty good right about now.

During the course of our snackfest, Deadpool shuffles through a few of his favorite TV show pilots. At the end of each one is like a pop quiz - what elements I liked and didn't like. He seems to be trying to tune into my binge watching tastes, which are severely lacking. I only make it half way through a Gilmore Girls episode before my heavy eyes become too much of a burden. I can feel myself slump further into the couch as I'm falling asleep.

When I wake the next morning, I find that I've used Deadpool’s bicep as a pillow. He's sleeping fully upright, still in his suit, minus the mask. I take advantage of his stillness to inspect my new roommate.

His suit is made of thicker material than my own, even has a few patches of leather, but it still shows off the hard muscle underneath. While I usually work alone, I'm still no stranger to the hero’s physique. Muscles are a dime a dozen in this career field. But the hard lines that I can see through the suit speak volumes of the physical endurance he's been through to get those muscles.

I study his face next; the only bit of actual flesh that he's left exposed. Even from just the glimpse I saw yesterday, I notice his scarring has changed. I've heard the story from the others, and even bits and pieces from Deadpool himself, of his cells constantly dying and healing themselves. I can make out his strong bone structure under the scars and bits of exposed muscle. It's raw and unnerving, and yet I can't stop blushing, thinking of just how intriguing the man behind the mask looks.

My blush deepens as his hazel eyes open, staring directly at me. He blinks a few times before bringing his hands to his face to rub the sleep out. I scramble off the sofa once we break eye contact and roll my head back and forth in effort to get the kinks out of my neck.

Biceps are nice to look at, but make lousy pillows.

Deadpool rises from the couch and gives an over the top yawn, smacking his lips once he's done. There's no real space in my apartment, so I try my best to avoid him by moving to the crates to the side of the room, and fish out some clothes for the day. I grab a neatly folded pair of jeans and a button up blouse, one of the few I own that go on actual hangers.

Deadpool stumbles through the kitchen and into the bathroom. I use that time to change into the clean clothes lightning fast. As he walks back into the kitchen, I'm finger combing my hair down, sans mirror.

“Where’re you goin’ all dressed up?”, he asks, “It's Saturday”.

I look up at him from across the room. His mask is back in place, hiding his features. I answer with just one word.

“Internship.”

He shrugs his shoulders and starts going through the cupboards again.

“Where’re your beans?”

What?

“What?”, I echo my thoughts.

“Beans, ya know, coffee beans? Liquid of the gods? Priority breakfast food numero uno?”

“Oh, here.”

I join him in the kitchen and pull out a shallow drawer. From inside I grab a half full bag of grinds and hand it to him. He looks from the bag to me, then back to the bag, and to me once more.

“What the actual fuck is this?”, he accuses.

“Uhhh instant coffee?”

I answer back in a question, as the angry tone of his voice has me on edge. He's breathing deeply through his mask, the rise and fall of the material very apparent.

“...I...You...Seriously? FINE. What's the ratio of water to this mockery?”

I take the bag out of his hands while rummaging through the drawer again. Armed now with a spoon, I dip it in the bag.

“Here - I just go like this”, I demonstrate swallowing a spoonful of the bitter grinds and hand the spoon back to him.

Even through the mask, I can see that he is staring slack-jawed at me. When he doesn't make a move, I put the bag and spoon on the counter and walk past him into the bathroom.

I'm brushing my teeth by the mirror when he follows me in past the curtain.

“Explain yourself”, he says flatly, with his arms folded across his chest.

I battle speaking with a mouthful of toothpaste.

“Wha? It does tha shame fing.”

“Oh no it certainly does not, young lady!”

I spit into the sink and wipe my mouth.

“Well it's all I've got, sorry. And I gotta go.”

I make a move to pass him, but there simply is not enough space in the bathroom.

“Deadpool-”, I start to threaten.

“Wade”, he interjects.

I cross my own arms now.

“It's Deadpool when you're wearing the suit. It's Wade when you're wearing something normal.”

Deadpool pulls his mask off, his eyes locked into mine. He gives a crooked smile before throwing his arms up in defeat.

“Fair enough!”, he laughs, as he leaves the room first.

I turn back towards the mirror above the sink, and get my first look at my face flushed. When, precisely, did I lose all control over my life??

Probably when I was bitten by a radioactive spider.

With a deep breath, I turn away from my reflection and leave the bathroom. I start collecting my things before heading to the door. Like yesterday, I pause my actions and think about my mercenary roommate.

“So...uh...I’ll be going now”, I struggle with my words.

“Yeah alright.” Deadpool responds nonchalantly.

I turn around to face him, only to find him half out of his suit in the living room. His entire torso is exposed, giving me a full view of the crisscrossed scars that are a perfect match for the ones on his head.

“So are ya goin’ or stayin’?”, he asks.

“Going. I’m definitely going. Now. Goodbye. Wade.”

I throw his name at the end of my rambling while I rush out of the door with my board tucked under my arm. I fly down the stairs in a new, new record, and hit the streets.

It must be a ridiculous sight, me on a skateboard. When I’m not in spandex, I’m a jeans and t-shirt kind of gal. I’m usually always late for something, so I don’t have time to put on makeup or dress up my hair. It’s just as well, as the time I spend on the board whips my pixie cut into a style that no brush could maintain. The glasses I originally needed to correct my vision as a kid, now serve a new function - to dim my enhanced eyesight from the spider bite. Otherwise I’m likely to trip over my own feet as I take in every sharp, minute detail of seemingly ordinary objects. Even my main mode of transportation, the skateboard, serves a dual function. My body is in constant alert, needing to move and react to all elements. I literally can’t sit still - it’s torture. Dodging people traffic in the city is a great way to keep me active without causing suspicion.

Reaching my destination, I jump off the board and lean on the edge to grab it off the ground when it stands up. Walking through the building doors, I show my credentials to the security guard and toss the board with the contents of my pockets on the conveyer belt, and move through the metal detector. Security is kind of a big thing here in the Avengers Tower.

But just for civilians.

Weirdly enough, I’m welcomed more as a masked stranger than the biochem intern. Spider-man creeping through an open window is more widely accepted than walking through the front door as Patricia Parker.

I contemplate, not for the first time, about the unfairness of it all while making my way to my locker. I store the board and shrug into my lab coat, clipping the name tag onto the front pocket.

Working as an intern at the Avengers Tower is almost as amazing as being invited in as Spider-man. Tony Stark and Dr. Bruce Banner co-head the entire program, and we are always working on impossible new theories in science and physics. The best days are when we test formulas with alien substances. It’s science geek paradise - an excitement I don’t get to show as Spider-man. I compartmentalize my dual life to keep my secret. Working so close to the Avengers is risky, but worth it, academically.

As I break for lunch, I browse the internet with one hand and eat with the other. I’m trying to track my orders from yesterday, which will help get me back into my web slinging activities. My phone vibrates with a new text message. The number is unfamiliar but the name “Pimp Daddy Pool”, surrounded by heart emojis, is programed into my phone.

Hey boo. Wyd?

You went through my phone?? And you know exactly what I'm doing.

How do I know YOU didn't go through MY phone?

I'm working. What do you want.

Can't be working that hard, you haven't moved in hours. Bor-ring.

How does Deadpool know-

Since when are you on Stark’s payroll anyway?

I put down my fork and use both hands to type furiously.

Since never. I'm an intern, remember? Since when do you bug my phone??

Since last night. An intern superhero? Sounds fake but w/e.

I'm a biochem intern. That's it.

There's a brief pause before I receive his next text.

They don't know?

NO ONE knows. Except you...you remember our little arrangement, don't you?

OMG ROTFL LOL TMIYSTAYSITTA

That last one?

Not obvious enough? Touching Myself In Your Shower Thinking About You Sticking It To The Avengers.

I pinch the bridge of my nose in utter exhaustion and sigh audibly. During my text exchange with Deadpool, I didn't notice someone walking deliberately over to where I'm sitting.

“Everything okay, Patricia?”

His voice startles me and I drop the phone out of my one hand and it lands on the table face down with a PLUNK. I look up to see the kind face of Dr. Banner.

“Oh! S-sorry. Yes, everything is … under control”, I try to compose myself.

Working with Bruce Banner is every intern’s dream, at least on the biochem side. I'm one of the lucky few that's been able to fulfill this dream, often enough that he knows my name. It doesn't exactly make me very popular with the other interns, but that's nothing new for me. Dr. Banner gives a nervous smile toward me before continuing.

“I hope I'm not interrupting your lunch? I just wanted you to know that I've tested your formula from last week? The one using Chitaurian DNA? Aaand it works!”

My mouth hangs open. This is huge.

“It worked? It works?!”, I exclaim.

“There was some, um, minor external combustion...actually - do you mind if I pull you from your current project to work on this one? T-that is, if you want?”

I jump up and out of my seat in excitement.

“Are you kidding me?! Uh, I mean,”, I regain my composure, “I would love to get started right away, Dr. Banner.”

He chuckles softly at the sight of me.

“Perfect. I'll walk with you?”

I gather my garbage for disposal and check my messages while walking with Dr. Banner.

Are you imagining my dick again?

I could send you a pic if that helps.

…

Thanks but no thanks!

Can't talk now - working late.

Text me, I'll pick up dinner.

Well, that's an unexpected perk of having a roommate.

I smile to myself as I power off the phone and slip it into my pocket. Dr. Banner holds open the lab door for me and I'm instantly in my nerd element.

Glass beakers, radioactive isotopes, and bunsen burners, oh my!

Chapter 6: Pretty in Pink

True to his written word, Deadpool had dinner waiting for me from the time I texted him to however long it takes me to skate home. It looks as though he had a busy shopping adventure today, as the food is arranged on actual paper plates and a shiny new drip coffee machine sits on the counter. As I enter the room, I notice that not only is Wade not wearing his suit, but over a pair of plain black boxers, he's wearing a pink frilly apron.

Purposely ignoring the obvious, I nudge my head in the direction of the food.

“Sandwiches?”, I ask.

“Cuban sandwiches”, he clarifies, “from the truck two blocks down”.

Sadly enough, I haven't eaten this well, or this worldly, since living at home with my aunt and uncle. It's oddly comforting.

My mercenary roommate may be blackmailing me, but at least he feeds me well.

Not actually owning any chairs, I prop my elbows on the counter over my plate of food.

“Smells amazing. I, uh, thank you”, I say sheepishly.

Wade is on the other side of the counter, facing me, still in the kitchenette.

“Should taste amazing too. Bon Appétit!”

He takes the first bite and starts making loud obnoxious sounds while chewing. I start on my own sandwich with a bit more manners. In between bites I try initiating a conversation.

“So, um, I like your apron”, I start.

“Oh ‘ou notished?”, he grins with his mouth full.

I laugh despite of myself and take another bite. Wade swallows and gestures behind him.

“Didja see what I bought? This is how coffee was meant to be made. By a machine! I threw away that abomination from this morning.”

He takes his last bite of sandwich, and continues.

“Fookin’ inshant coffee.”

I roll my eyes as I finish my own sandwich.

“Thanks for this, Wade”, I thank him properly.

I grab his plate and my own as I start collecting garbage in a small bag. He moves into the living room, shedding the apron. He's bending over in front of his duffle bag in just boxers. My garbage collecting has halted, as I take in the sight.

Letting my glasses purposely slip further down my nose, I stare openly at the man before me. Or, at least, his backside.

And what a backside!

His back is so deeply scarred, it almost looks like he's fresh out of a whipping attacking. Gleaming white and red stripes of scars literally cover his entire body. I knew his legs were massive, but seeing them uncovered has given me a whole new perspective of just how muscle bound this mercenary is. And, as much as it pains me to even just internally admit this, his ass is out of this world. Just pure muscle, from what I can see his Jockeys covering.

Wade is dressing himself in sweats, his back still facing me. I would expect my blatant staring would cause me to blush, but it seems all of my blood has rushed down south instead.

Oh, no. I cannot be attracted to Deadpool. Think about his kill count! Think about when we fought against each other! This about -

Dat ass.

Wade has pulled the waistband of his sweatpants over my fixation, and they now sit at his hips. I turn quickly in the other direction as I see him do the same.

“Oh yeah”, he starts, as if we were in the middle of a conversation, “your oven’s busted. The Cuban food was actually Plan B from what I originally planned. You gotta call your landlord or some shit?”

I place the bag of garbage near the door and join him in the livingroom, bending close to the couch.

“Mmm it's not so much as broken, as I disconnected the gas. It's where I store my Spider-man stuff.”

The words fly out of mouth too fast to filter. I pause my actions by the couch and mentally curse myself.

“Holy shit, you weren't kidding!”

Wade is already reaching into the oven before I can stop him. All of the same, I jump up to grab the suit out of his hands.

“You know I spent majority of the day looking for this shit? I finally gave up when I texted you. Figured you must rent a storage locker, same as me. Never dawned on me to check the oven. The fucking oven! Genius!”, he praises.

With my arms full of the suit pieces that I've taken from him, Wade grabs the Web shooters and inspects them.

“DON’T!”

I make a move to snatch that too, but he holds it high above his head, where I can't reach it. He grins widely, proud of himself.

“Oh come on, Parker, I've always wanted to play with these things!”

I stuff the contents of my arms back into the oven and hold out my hand expectantly.

“Well, I wouldn't if I were you. The liquid webbing in those shooters is highly compressed. When it's released, the built up energy-”

“I’M SPIDEYPOOL!”

Wade doesn't wait for me to finish. He presses the small trigger of the shooter, and as expected, the force knocks him across the room and breaks his wrist in an instant.

Well, I tried to warn him…

“Fucking hell”, he murmurs.

I walk over to him and hold out my hand again for the shooter. He makes a big show of using his limp-wristed arm to give it back.

“What did we learn?”, I say condescendingly.

“Abso-fucking-lutely nothing! Why don't you have limpy hands too??”

“Super strength, remember?”

“Your powers super suck”, he grumbles from the floor.

“You super suck!”, I retort.

“What's your origin anyway, do you have a spider dad? Shouldn't that web be coming from your ass?”

He sounds put out as he asks. I slam the oven shut and spin to face him.

“First - ew. Second - why would I tell you my origin?”

Wade struggles to his feet and starts setting his hand to heal.

“Oh that's where you're drawing the line? Not at me moving in, or knowing your daily schedule, or micro chipping your phone, or going through your messages, or sleeping together-”

“We are not sleeping together!”, I shout, “and it is definitely not okay that you bugged my phone!”

I feel my body temperature rising with my anger. Wade facepalms himself and seems to be taking deep breaths.

“Ya’know….It works both ways”, he mumbles through his fingers.

“Huh?”

“The GPS tracker on your phone - it's synced with mine. So we can...yaknow...watch each others backs. I'm serious about the blacklist thing - someone is out to silence me for good, and if I'm going to count on anyone for backup, it's only gunna be you, Parker.”

I let his words soak in. He's made mention before, that I am - or Spider-man at least - is his hero; but I had always brushed it off.

I do spend a lot of time with Jonah Jameson, my number one fan.

That Deadpool would trust me enough, even still after he saw what's under the suit, to have his back...it says a lot about his character than often goes unnoticed by my hero colleagues, and it hits close to my heart. I'm too humbled to hold onto my anger, and I start to calm down.

“And if you wanna go through my messages to make shit even, I mean, that's fine”, his words sounding sincere.

I take a deep, audible sigh.

“No that's not - Look - I'm putting a lot of trust in you, okay? And it hasn't exactly been by choice.”

I run my fingers through my hair in exasperation and take off my glasses.

“You're the only one who knows about Spider-man. I have a lot at stake by trusting you. And the hardest part about this whole fucked up situation is that I do trust you…and that's just a little terrifying for me... Does that make sense?”

Wade has been holding his wrist the entire time, and by the way he's flexing it, it seems to have healed already. His gaze shifts around the room - the floor, the walls, the couch - and finally he meets my eyes.

“I can go”, Wade all but whispers the statement.

His words catch me by surprise. I should let him go. I should be here, in my empty apartment, going about my lonely existence. I should keep mine and Wade’s relationship to just Spider-man and Deadpool. Costumed acquaintances only.

Should I really let go of the only person who's accepted me as both the vigilante and the girl behind the mask?

“No”, I answer as quietly as he asked.

There's a solid thirty seconds of awkward silence between us. Is it my turn to talk? Do I have to apologize for my outburst, or am I waiting for an apology from him for rifling through my things?

Thankfully, Wade snaps back to normal. He begins complimenting himself for the dinner he didn't cook, and launches into a self debate on what to watch tonight. All the while I am still standing by the couch.

Wade plops down on the only piece of furniture that I own with flourish. I finally snap back into routine as well, and once again crouch by the armrest.

“So pilots don’t really seem to be your thing”, Wade continues above me, “so how about we skip the foreplay, a sentence I would never usually say - believe me, and skip right ahead to the classics. No setup required. The ultimate feel good tv family you wish was your own - The Golden Girls! Hey what the fuck you doin’ down there anyway?”

“Making the bed”, I answer right as the crusty lever finally gives, and the back of the couch falls to the floor.

The sudden motion makes Wade topple over with the couch, his feet still in the air. I stand up and wipe my hands on my pants and take in the sight.

“Tadaa?”

Wade’s only movement is to turn his head to stare at me.

“What. The. Fuck. Parker.”

I'm struck with a sudden fit of giggles, which is half in part due to the hilarity of the scene, and partly due to my exhaustion. The action is not one I'm accustomed to, and I cover my mouth with my right hand to stifle the sound. When was the last time I giggled?

Probably when Uncle Ben was still alive.

The thought instantly sobers me. Laughing fit over, I make my way to my dwindling pile of clean clothes, preparing to take a shower.

“Put on what you like; after my shower I have to get started on school work”, I say over my shoulder.

“That is literally the most boring thing anyone has ever told me”, Wade pouts.

I hide a pair of fresh panties in my black lounge pants before turning back around to face him.

“It may be boring, but it’s also worth it to graduate a semester early”, I scold him.

Wade wrinkles his scarred face while he assesses me up and down.

“What are you graduating from again? Kindergarten? That's adorable.”

I know he's teasing me, but the truth is I have what my aunt calls a “baby face”. She also says I should enjoy it while it lasts, but frankly, I wish I actually looked my age. Maybe I'd get a little more respect at school and at The Bugle.

Yeah, keep dreaming for that last one.

“In a few weeks I’ll be graduating with my Master’s Degree, thank you very much. Maybe even at the top of my class”, I state.

Wade gives me one more long look from head to toe before forcing his eyes back to the tv. He doesn't look at me when he replies.

“Brains, brawn, and beauty”, he mutters.

Blushing for, oh about the fifteenth time today, I head straight to the bathroom without another word.

I turn on the water before undressing myself in front of the mirror. For the first time in years, I take the time to study my face. While Wade hadn't verbatim called me beautiful, I would be lying if I said his words didn't feel like butterflies were in my stomach. Coupled with his unwavering trust in me, I felt more flattered than I ever have before.

Kicking ass around the city dressed as Spider-man always gives me a small pep in my step, but this flattery feels different.

I feel different.

Steam from the empty shower consumes the room, fogging my reflection out. I step into the shower and start washing my hair with my mind still wandering. With my hands still lathered with shampoo, I reach behind my neck and knead the muscles there.

I wonder how Wade’s hands would feel on my neck.

They would probably feel more calloused than my own, and definitely not as slender. He could probably keep kneading the muscle there with one hand, and slide his other hand down my side.

I close my eyes while the front of my body stays under the spray. I slowly begin moving my left hand down, barely touching my skin. Despite the heat of the water, I have goosebumps from the sensation.

Wade’s a perv, though. His hands wouldn't stay idle for very long.

Imagining his hands as my own, I snake the left one across my abdomen, gradually bringing it back up until I cup one breast. My right hand abandons my sore neck, and I bring it down my chest. I start gingerly cupping my breasts at first, before kneading them with a bit more urgency.

I think of Wade’s height difference to mine, and imagine him right behind me. Pressing me into his hard body.

I start pinching both nipples, experimentally at first. Rolling my hardening buds between my forefingers and thumbs, I apply more and more pressure. I tug at my own nipples, the slight pain exciting me.

My imagination is desperately trying to focus on the texture of what Wade’s hands must feel like, as I slide my right hand further down.

With my left hand still furiously assaulting my nipples, i press my right palm firmly against my mound. I rub it up and down, noticing how sensitive the top seems to be. I start sliding my fingers through the folds, pinching and tugging the clitoris as I continue rocking my hand up and down.

My left hand leaves my breast, and I brace it against the shower wall.

Those butterflies from before are back.

My stomach feels tight with the anticipation that something is about to happen. Something (or someone) is about to come.

I work my hand faster than ever and throw my head back, not caring about the water hitting my face. That is, until the water turns ice cold, effectively extinguishing the fire of my loins; and leaves me jumping out of the shower with an audible squeak.

Luckily, my reckless assault on my body under the shower head had rinsed the shampoo completely out of my hair. However, regrettably, I am without release.

I reach back in the shower to turn the ice water off and I begin to aggressively dry myself with a towel.

My last clean towel.

Doubling the occupancy in my apartment has somehow tripled my dirty laundry output. Sizing up the toppling basket of laundry, I ponder why I didn't throw Wade out when I had the chance.

Maybe it was to perv on him and make him the star of my erotic fantasies.

I pull my night shirt over my head and digest the thought. I'm not usually so weighted by sexual urges, and i can't deny that Wade’s presence is the cause of this. Why him of all people, though, is the question.

Journalism, science, and crime fighting are all male dominant fields in which my life is centered on. There is certainly no shortage of handsome, intelligent men to crush on. Yet here I find myself fantasizing about a scarred, immature mercenary, whose intentions seem to be to fatten me up.

Before I exit the bathroom, I pull the curtain divider off to the side to let the residual steam escape. I join Wade on the couch/bed, where he's laying on his stomach with his feet kicking the air, watching Golden Girls. He turns to me with his palms still supporting his chin.

“Enjoy your shower?”

Ohmigod he knows.

There's no way he knows. I try to play it cool.

“It was just a shower”, I say, keeping my voice even as I roll my shoulders.

“You were in there for a long time, is all”, he continues.

I dip my body down towards the floor as I reach for my laptop I keep tucked under the couch. I avoid all eye contact with Wade.

“Sorry to inconvenience you with my well maintained personal hygiene.”

I try to sound sarcastic, hoping he'll drop the subject. Which, of course, he does not.

“Didja slip? Thought I heard a noise-”

“Why do they all live together - are they related?” I nod towards the tv while opening my laptop.

Wade seems to contemplate accepting the sudden topic change from me.

Please please please please

“Why bother owning a tv if you've never watched anything? Lookit, these two broads are mother and daughter, but the rest of these dames have been brought together by fate...”

His love for the Golden Girls wins over his temptation to torment me. Wade launches into a general synopsis of the entire series, which turns into a psychological (one sided) discussion of deeper meanings behind the characters and their actions.

What I started dismissing as mindless blabbering, was actually turning into an interesting verbal dissertation. I keep my mind from tuning Wade out completely, while still working on my studies.

It's hours later when the silence startles me into full alert. I immediately look to Wade, who has fallen asleep, still on his stomach. The tv is displaying a simple black screen with white text that reads “Are you still watching The Golden Girls?”. I focus back on my glowing monitor and decide to shut it down for the night.

Shifting my body lower on the bed, I find a more comfortable position - my head propped on the arm rest and my feet in Wade’s side.

I know he's larger than me, but does he really need all this room??

The sofa bed is small, and even at the angle I'm positioned in, I can still pry the remote from Wade’s hand. I glance back at the tv and its question, and give Wade a soft kick in the ribs while I adjust myself again. He doesn't move or make a sound from the impact.

Barely audible, I speak to Sleeping Beauty.

“It was a spider bite.”

Without checking to see if he heard me, I select “Continue Watching” and close my eyes while listening to the newly familiar tune.

Chapter 7: Sunday Funday

Notes:

Just a quick note to say THANK YOU for everyone who has read the story! This is my first fanfiction, and the only writing that I have ever shared with anyone. All of your comments, kudos, and bookmarks have been amazing! It's not always easy to find the time to write, but seeing these numbers increase daily, really inspire me. Thanks again! <3
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I awake to possibly the best scenario that I could ever have hope for - the smell of bacon.

“Just bacon?”, I ask mid yawn.

When I awoke, Wade was already missing from the bed, and the smell of rendering pig fat had consumed the apartment. Rolling off the couch, I had found him back in the pink frilly apron - this time over his Deadpool suit - cooking over the stovetop.

He answers with his back towards me, “As my cooking spiritual guide, Julia Child, once said, ‘I'm awfully sorry for people who are taken in by all of today's dietary mumbo jumbo. They are not getting any enjoyment out of their food.’ So I hope you ain't got a problem eatin’ Babe for breakfast.”

I take my place on the opposite side of the counter, leaning on it as I did for the previous meal.

“No problem at all”, I yawn.

Wade has made a spread of paper plates across the countertop, and with a click of the oven dial to turn it off, he adds one last plate to the party.

“Behold”, he announces with flourish, “I present to you - Breakfast!”

Wade takes a deep inhale before continuing.

“We have crispy strips, chewy strips, bacon bits, bacon fat, slices of Canadian bacon, and the crowning jewel to this sexy array of morning essentials - coffee. Made right.”

Wade slides me a disposable travel mug of black coffee, and takes his own into his large hands and inhales the aroma deeply. His mask is off and he looks completely satisfied with a face full of steam.

“You know...It's not like I don't appreciate a good cup of coffee,” I say, grabbing a strip of the chewy bacon.

Wade has three slices of the crispy strips hanging out of his mouth as he talks.

“Yeah I get it - generic broke college kid excuse. But I'm pretty sure your kind is supposed to be inventing new ways to eat ramen noodles - not desecrate coffee.”

I chuckle as I reach for a handful of the chopped bacon bits, avoiding the tub of pure fat altogether.

“So, biochemistry, huh? Are you like, cloning more Dollys up in Stark’s lab?” he asks.

I wrinkle my nose before answering.

“Well, legally speaking, I can't really comment on what we work on. But, uh, it's definitely not cloning sheep. Or anything else for that matter.”

Taking my first long sip of coffee, I feel my shoulders relax.

“Ethics, and all that”, I finish.

Wade snorts.

“Didn't realize Stark had any ethics...or morals”, he grunts.

“Well...I...He does. I mean, he's a hero - an original Avenger!”

If I sound flabbergasted, it's because I am.

“Whoa there kiddo, don't get yer underoo’s in a twist. Here - try my country’s piggy delicacy.”
Wade spears a slice of the Canadian bacon with a knife from one of his belt’s many compartments.

Not wanting a repeat of last night's blow up, I accept the offering, taking the knife along with it. Mine and Wade’s fingers brush against each other during the hand off, but I'm too worked up to dwell on the moment of brief contact.

Twirling the ham slice on the knife, I focus on remaining calm.

“You don't seem to have a very high opinion of Mr. Stark”, I say, avoiding his gaze.

“It's not a question of opinion when it comes to morals. Either you got ‘em or you don't.”

“Coming from the mercenary”, I mutter.

Wade shrugs his shoulders.

“Some people deserve being unalived”, he says matter-of-factly.

While having this conversation, we both are continuing our breakfast. Our actions betraying the seriousness of the discussion. I take a few more sips of coffee.

“I don't believe that. I think everyone deserves another chance at redemption. And I think Mr. Stark - Iron Man - agrees.”

“Yeah, only after he made himself a metal suit.”

“He uses that metal suit to save lives!”

“Lives he couldn't give a damn about while in a less lethal suit. Businessmen like him, when you strip away the public facade, all think the same way. We're all numbers and dollar signs. Easily expendable.”

Standing up straight, I walk further in the kitchen, behind Wade, and pour another cup of coffee.

“Maybe it’s not Tony Stark that you distrust”, I assess, “but someone who reminds you of him. Either way, you shouldn't be so quick to judge him without getting to know him.”

Coffee cup in one hand, I return Wade’s knife in the other, sans bacon. He takes it without turning around.

“Yeah - I know she's right”, Wade mutters to himself.

Wade conversing with the boxes (his words) in his head is nothing new for me. It's a trait I've come to accept since meeting him.

Besides, who am I to judge anyone for talking to themselves?

“So, uh, you're Canadian?” I ask, changing the subject.

Wade spins around to face me, still in the kitchenette.

“That's Canadian Eh, thank yew very much”, he says with a grin.

“I thought you said you were in the army or something?”

He leans back into the counter.

“Canada has an army.”

I snort into my cup.

“What for? It's Canada”, I laugh.

“It's still a country with political and social power who needs to defend itself from foreign enemies!” Wade scolds.

Shrugging my shoulders, I throw his own words back at him.

“Sounds fake but whatever.”

Wade laughs as he puts his coffee cup down and begins to untie his apron strings.

“You interested in another pot?”, he asks, nodding towards the coffee maker.

I'm clearing the mess from breakfast while he stands in the middle of the chaos.

“Hmm, no, I gotta get going soon. Thanks though, and for breakfast”, I reply before looking him up and down. “What's with the suit, anyway? Isn't it a little early to be dressed to kill?”

Wade drapes the apron over the countertop and fishes out his mask from another belt compartment.

He poses with his hands on his waist and exclaims, “Crime doesn't sleep in, so neither do I!”

I stop cleaning to give him another look.

“I thought you said you've been blacklisted? If you think I'm going to let you stay here while you're still being hired as a mercenary-”

“Hey now - this job is legit!”, he interrupts me, “I got the call from SHIELD this morning.”

“SHIELD called you? As in The Avengers, SHIELD?”

Wade secures his mask in place and nods theatrically.

SHIELD called him, but not me?

I resume cleaning, to keep my hands busy.

“They, uh, call you often? The Avengers?”, I ask without looking up.

“Aw baby girl, are you jealous?”

“NO!”, I answer a bit too quickly.

“Don't mope too hard, Sweetums - it's not always fun and games when they call.”

“I am not moping!”

I tie up the small garbage bag with a little too much force, and the bag rips, spilling garbage back onto the floor. I stand there, staring at the wreckage, concentrating on my breathing.

Dial down the super strength. Just breathe. Relax-

“You're right”, Deadpool starts, “You're not moping, you're mopping! Ha! Get it??”

I turn my gaze upward and stare at him incredulously.

“Don't you have somewhere to be?”, I ask, keeping my voice soft and even.

Deadpool leans over and points to his mask, secured on his face.

“Kiss before I go?”

Stepping over the fresh garbage pile, I loop my fingers in his belt. My actions seem to surprise him, as he makes no comment as I continue walking, pushing slightly to move Deadpool along with me. I'm keeping eye contact the entire time until we turn out of the kitchenette, and I push him against the door.

“Go”, I growl.

Deadpool puts his hands out in a surrendering-like maneuver as he opens and exits through the door. As I shut it close, I hear him in the hallway.

“Maybe she doesn't even own a mop. Millennials with their swifers and robot vacuums.”

Leaning against the closed door, I hear Deadpool descend down the stairs, muttering to himself. I run my hands through my hair and down to my temples for a quick massage.

Pushing myself away from the door, I scoop up as much garbage as I can before changing into fresh clothes for the day. Breakfast is nice, but it cost me a bit of time.

Deadpool costs me a bit of time.

Although how can I complain with a stomach full of cured meats?

It's only five minutes since pushing Deadpool out of the door, and I'm doing the same, picking up my skateboard on the way.

The skate to work isn't nearly as fast, with my stomach still digesting food and my mind digesting Wade’s words.

By the time I make it to the Avengers Tower and through security, I am well and fully late to the lab.

Well it's not like I get paid to be here.

I enter the lab I was working in yesterday with Dr. Banner as quietly as I can, hoping not to single myself out. It's a skill I frequently use when I'm late for classes as well.

A skill I apparently need to improve upon.

Sneaking into the lab is a moot point, as all three pairs of goggle protected eyes are on me the moment I cracked open the door. Thankfully, they all look to be interns like myself, and not Dr. Banner, whose disapproval I would not like to see.

Instead I'm greeted by the disapproval of my peers, who undoubtedly have noticed my late entrance. One intern, a woman around my age with her long auburn hair tucked into a perfect bun on top of her head, turns to the monitor beside her.

“We’re all here now, sir”, she speaks clearly.

“Great, thank you”, croaks a voice from the screen.

I watch the monitor, still by the door frame, as a disheveled Dr. Banner comes into view. He must have turned last night, which would account for why he's not here in person. Becoming the Hulk takes a lot of energy out of him, and it's not unusual for him to stay out of the lab for a few days afterwards.

So the Avengers needed Hulk last night and Deadpool today. But not Spider-man.

Shaking my head out of my thoughts, I step closer to the monitor to listen to Dr. Banner, who is apologizing for the video feed setup.

“Again, I’m so sorry I can’t join you in the lab today. This work is too important to halt progression on-”

Dr. Banner pauses mid sentence to drink water, as his voice is cracking frequently. He clears his throat and tries again.

“Patricia, you take point on this project, since this is your formula that we’re working with. Carmen, Steve, and Sandeep will work alongside-”

Another coughing fit. While I’m sympathetic to Dr. Banner’s condition, being idle for so long is making my skin crawl. My legs start to shake and I ring my hands together, waiting to get to work.

“Just - Just press the call button on the monitor if you need me. I’ll be here. For anything. Keep me informed.”

The monitor goes fuzzy, not completely black, and I suppose that’s our cue to get to work. I look at my fellow interns, one or two look a little more familiar (maybe from class?) but otherwise strangers.

“Uh, so… I guess”, I stammer - painfully uncomfortable being the center of attention.

The three of them look identically unimpressed with me, and dismiss me almost immediately. They each take a section of the lab, and grabbing a pair of goggles, I do the same.

None of us talk much during the first couple of hours, spare Steve. His mouth I definitely do remember from class, as it’s usually always running. Although on his best day, Steve can’t hold a candle to the constantly running mouth of…

Is that Deadpool?

Yep. That’s Deadpool. Outside of the lab in the Avengers Tower. Waving frantically at me through the glass window of the door. Him in his merc suit, and me in my lab coat. If I ignore him, maybe he’ll…start jumping up and down. Wonderful.

Sighing, I put down my instruments and stride as quickly as I can across the lab. All eyes are on my at this point, and it’s just as uncomfortable as it was a few hours ago. I tear off the goggles as I exit the door and stand face to face with Deadpool.

Well as best as I can, considering the height difference.

“What are you doing here?” My voice is hushed to keep from echoing in the hallway.

“I told you the job was legit! I just got through the briefing - BORING - and can you believe my luck at seeing you here, in sciencey action?! Where’s Jolly Green? That’s his name on the door isn’t it??”

Deadpool is craning is neck to get another look through the small window. I grab him by his bicep and lead him to a more secluded area, where hopefully we’re not heard or seen.

“Whoa there tiger! I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I am technically on the job right now.”

He lets me lead him away from the door and I theatrically roll my eyes at him. His smile is outlined through the mask.

“Alright, you talked me into it. But just a quickie and then Daddy’s gotta go to work.”

“Would you please shut up!”, I close my eyes while pinching the bridge of my nose. “How am I supposed to explain my connection to you?”

“Uh you mean, other than soul mates? I thought you worked for the paper - don’t you read them? I’m everybody’s favorite anti-hero! So you know me - what’s there to explain?”, he replies nonchalantly.

I open my eyes and look around the corridor. The Tower is host to a wide array of personnel - heroes, agents, lawyers, engineers, scientists, janitors, security, and of course - interns like myself. A few people have already passed us in the hall, and besides a passing glance - no one looks very interested in our discussion.

“Even so…” I mutter, refusing to admit that he seems to be right.

“And anyway”, Deadpool gives the floor his attention and cradles the back of his head with one hand, “I suppose I should do this in person instead of text…”

“What, are you breaking up with me?”, I say with a laugh.

“No way, yer not gettin’ rid of me that easily. I just want to say sorry or whatever. For breakfast. I didn't mean to get you angry. Although you're real cute when you're angry...and when you’re frustrated and embarrassed and when you're studying real hard and-”

“Okay okay! Apology accepted!”, I interrupt.

I can feel my face warming up again in a blush, his words resonating with me. Deadpool has shifted his gaze from the floor to my face without saying another word.

It only takes 4 seconds of silence to make it awkward - say something!

“I, uh, I'm sorry for pushing you out of the door. It wasn't what you said - I just…”, I pause mid sentence as someone walks by, “I just get frustrated at myself when I can't control my strength, you know?”

I can see Deadpool’s face twist under the mask.

“It was just a bag-”

“Just a bag becomes just a table, just a marble floor, just a building, or just a life. I can't afford to lose control, not for a moment, not even for ‘just a bag’.”

Deadpool straightens his posture, which makes him tower over me.

“This might sound fucked up coming from me”, Deadpool places his hand on my shoulder, “but that kind of thinkin’ is just not healthy.”

Laughing softly, I shrug his hand off of me.

“So we’re both mentally damaged and we both have jobs to do. See you at dinner? I'll pick up this time.”

“Sounds like heaven baby girl, and I can say that because of all the dying and coming back to life that I do, but this job is gunna keep me busy for a while.”

“Oh. Well, if you want some backup, I know a guy…”

I am positively itching to put on my own suit and swing through the city. Besides, if this is a SHIELD mission, that only buffs up my hero resume.

“A Spideypool team up?? That's a wet dream come true!”

My eyes scan the hallway once more to make sure we are at least temporarily alone.

“Yeah, I know, you've made me read your fanfiction, remember?”, I reply.

Only that Spider-man had much different equipment than the real one does.

Deadpool has his head in his hands, legs twisted with each other, as he looks dramatically...dramatic.

“Arg!!”, he wails, “I know but we can't! I gave scouts honor!”

Not completely sure that he's still talking to me, I grab his arm once more to get his focus back to the conversation. He looks down at my touch, and seems to get a hold of himself.

“Sorry sweetums, but this is a solo, international mission. When I'm caught, no one can know SHIELD was my employer. Can't risk a team on this.”

I drop my hand from where I was holding onto Deadpool, and it falls to my side.

“Don't you mean if you're caught?”

“...It's... not that kind of mission”, he answers softly.

...And there’s that 4 seconds of silence to make this conversation officially awkward.

“But, um, rain check? On that dinner?”, Deadpool asks, and I hear the desperation in his tone.

“Sure. I mean, of course. You'll have to come back home eventually, right?”

My hands start fidgeting again like before.

Deadpool stays quiet for a moment once more, most likely having his own internal dialog. I speak again, to end my humility.

“So, uh, I better get back in the lab...and you should…”

“...Get while the gettin’s good”, he finishes.

He walks me back to the lab door before continuing down the hall, walking backwards, waving frantically as he had before. I smile as I watch him make a fool of himself to the passing people, bumping into them and any other object in the hallway, including the walls. When he turns the corner and out of my eyesight, I re-enter the lab, where all three sets of eyes are already on me. Again.

Deja Vu.

“Patricia? I think we’re set to test the revised formula now”, Dr. Banner’s voice breaks the silence of the room from the monitor I had completely forgotten about.

Color draining from my face, my response is only a curt nod as I hastily grab my safety goggles once more.

The formula (MY formula) is a success. We celebrate by returning back to our original projects, sans Big Brother Banner. I dedicate my last few hours in the lab to work as hard as I can, skipping lunch, to make up for my social call with Deadpool. I do not want to be labeled as a slacker. This internship is everything to me.

It isn't until my my stomach starts protesting, loudly, that I check the time and discover that once again I'm late for another engagement.

Not as if Aunt May will be surprised though.

I leave my lab area spotless and rush out of the Tower, skateboard tucked under my arm. Before I slam the board down, I inspect the line of taxis, ready for patrons. Sitting still for 10 minutes doesn't exactly appeal to me, but it would shave my travel time in half.

Rummaging through my pockets, I find mostly loose change. I look to the taxis once more before sighing heavily, and drop the board to the pavement.

Might as well ‘get while the gettin’s good’.

Evening traffic is mostly at a standstill, and I'm easily able to weave my way through to my old neighborhood, where Aunt May still resides. I lean my board against the house once I'm standing on the small porch. I give the front door two light knocks before walking in.

“Patty!”, my aunt greets me enthusiastically.

She wraps her frail frame around me in a warm hug.

“Sorry I'm late, Aunt May”, I apologize while returning the embrace.

“Oh pish posh, dear, you're here now! Take a seat, I've got dinner all prepared.”

May disappears into the kitchen, and I kick off my shoes quickly, to join her.

Returning home every week makes me breath a little easier. Everything is the same here as it was even before the spider bite. It's such a calming thought that no matter what happens, I can always come back here. Back home.

Aunt May has just set the plates down when I enter our small dining room. I take my usual chair, and she takes hers. Bowing our heads, we both say a quick grace before our meal, just as we always do.

The actions, the food, the nostalgia is sublime.

We make small talk about our week. Which, when you take away the Spider-man aspect, mine is a bit dull. I gush a bit at the lab portion, still excited that Dr. Banner chose to work with me.

“That's so wonderful, Patty!”, she praises.

I smile to myself at the memory.

The Avengers needed me, not just as Spider-man, but brainy Patty!

“...have to wonder if there's not an alternative motive, picking you to steer the team…”, I catch her saying.

I pause, fork of lasagna in mid-air.

“Huh?”

“Well of course you've always excelled at science - you're a natural, Patty. But do you think his attention for you could be a little something extra?”

“...Uhhh no.”, I choke.

“You needn’t look so horrified, dear! I know how much you admire him, is all…”

“I respect him, Aunt May. He has a brilliant mind and he's an Avenger. But romantically…”, I shrug my shoulders and take the bite of suspended food. “Not interested.”

“So then you are interested in someone.”, she surmises.

Dammit, I fell into this trap again!

“No! Definitely not!”, I practically shout.

“Well alright, no need to be testy. I just want to make sure you are getting out in the world, meeting new people. You know there was a time when you told me everything.” She sighs heavily. “And then the teenage years hit. And then college. And your own apartment…”

Do not submit to the guilt trip!

“...and now we only talk once a week, that is, when you're not too busy…”

Oh she is pulling out all the stops today!

I push the remnants of meat on my plate around in tiny circles and decide to give in...a little.

“...there is this one guy…”

That's all she needs to get that gleam back into her eyes and give me her rapt attention, urging me to continue.

“...We're not together, or anything. We've just been...spending a lot of time with each other”, I say as vaguely as possible.

“And does this gentleman have a name?”

I swear, she's practically drooling at this point.

“Wade”, I state simply.

A smile from ear to ear appears on her face.

“Oh Patty! I'm so proud of you for making a new friend! You should have invited him over!”

I start to stand, collecting our plates and glasses to clear the table.

“He got called away for work, so-”

She doesn't miss a beat.

“-and work is?”

I hesitate, still at the table, balancing the flatware. I can't tell her the truth.

But I can't keep lying her.

“He… he's a.... He's a hired gun.”

The answer shocks her, as I can hear her heart beat faster and she blinks her eyes in rapid procession; but her voice remains calm.

“Oh. Oh, I see. Well that's…”, she seems to struggle for the right words to say. “That's very interesting. Perhaps next week you can bring him around - I'd love to meet your new friend, dear.”

Her recovery is flawless. I smile as I continue into the kitchen.

“Yeah. Maybe next week”, I say over my shoulder.

We spend the rest of evening in the living room, enjoying our after dinner coffee. Our conversation stays light, and away from anything that could potentially involve Wade.

Which is good; because although it feels amazing to be able to be honest with her in that regard, any more information on Wade can potentially link me to Spider-man.

And that's a topic I'm going to avoid as long as possible.

Taking her yawning as a cue, I bring our empty cups to the kitchen for a quick wash before I start to leave. As I slip my sneakers back on, Aunt May brings out a hefty box and hands it to me.

“I had almost forgotten, Patty, this came in the mail for you!”

I tuck the box under my arm and against my hip without inspecting it.
“Ah! Thanks, Aunt May!” I lean in to kiss her on the cheek. “And thank you for dinner; it was perfection - like always!”

“You’re welcome my dear. Are you sure I can’t call you a taxi? It can’t be safe, using that old skateboard of yours-”

“I’ll be careful, Aunt May, don’t worry.”

It’s a conversation we have after every visit. Before I can make it through the door though, she rests her hand on my arm, stopping me in my tracks.

“I do worry, dear. No matter how old you get, no matter how far you are, and no matter who you’re with and what you’re doing; I worry about you.”

I take her hands in mine to reassure her and flash a bright smile.

“I’ll be careful, Aunt May, don’t worry”, I repeat.

She swats me playfully and we say our goodbyes once more.

It’s late by the time I reach my apartment, and the day has me exhausted. Before I do anything though, I first open the box from Aunt May’s - containing my suit replacements that I had ordered. If I want to go patrolling tomorrow, the suit has to be ready to go.

I sit on the couch, still in the bed position from this morning, and lay out all of my gear and make a mental list of what needs to be done before bed.

The lenses need to be cut carefully and attached to my mask, the new webbing cartridges need to be replaced, and the chest binder needs to be broken in...

I dig through my pocket and check my phone for any new messages...there are none.

Just as well, no more distractions!

I look back to the pile of work to get done, and then to the TV that has seen more action these last few days than it ever has with me before. Rescuing the remote from the couch cushions, I log into Deadpool’s Netflix and press play on where our marathon last left off at.

Back to work, I secure the first lens in place, meticulously placing small cuts with the exacto knife, singing softly with the music.

“...and the card attached would say, thank you for bein’ a friend.”

Chapter 8: Weird Science

===DANGER===

I wake suddenly, sitting upright with my fists clenched to my sides. I force my eyes to adjust immediately, refusing to blink away the pain of the morning sun. My spidey-senses at full alert, I await for the first strike against me-

FROM MY HEART AND FROM MY HAND WHY DON'T PEOPLE UNDERSTAND-

I fumble with my phone to silence the alarm; fingers mashing any button that will do the trick.

Almost a decade since the spider bite, you'd think I'd be used to waking up like this.

Except when Deadpool’s spends the night, I don't wake up like this.

Pushing that thought aside, I wipe the panic sweat off of my forehead and check my phone once more. The alarm has been silenced, and there are no new messages since I last checked.

Gently tossing the phone to the corner of the bed, I raise both of my arms to cover my eyes as I yawn soundlessly. I stretch my legs, still in my jeans from the previous day, and continue stretching my arms over my head. I fall back and stare at the familiar water stains on the ceiling while I debate the merits of getting up for the day.

I could take a long, hot shower…

I could surprise my professors and actually show up early for class…

I could eat another real breakfast with the food Deadpool bought…

My stomach casts the majority vote with a low gurgle, and the decision has been made. Sitting up for the second time this morning, I commit to the day, and rise fully.

Ruffling my hair in an attempt to unmat it, I stumble my way into the kitchen. Throwing open the fridge, I find it in the same state it was in before my mercenary roommate moved in - empty. Wade must have only bought the food we ate, nothing extra.

Except for the coffee.

Hope restored, I quickly close the fridge door and scuttle to the portion of the counter with the new drip machine Wade had purchased.

Yasss!

I'm unsure of the ratio for the beans and water, having rarely ever made my own cup, so I unceremoniously dump about half of the meager bag of grinds into the filter. I use tap water to fill the basin to the full mark, and flip the switch on. The machine grumbles awake, much like my stomach did this morning.

Deciding that a watched pot never boils, I walk further through the kitchenette, and into the bathroom. My shower is far less exciting than my last one. I spend the majority of the time just standing in the spray, trying not to fall back asleep, but also not opening my eyes much.

At least the suit is ready to wear tonight.

Resigning to the fact that, yes - I do have to stay awake now, I shut off the water and wrap myself in towels.

Towel.

There's only one clean towel left.

It's slim pickings for clean clothes as well. Cursing softly, I find an old t-shirt to pair with a pair of jeans that aren't the freshest, but will do. My short hair is quickly drying without any hope of product being placed in it.

A typical morning for me, really.

Back in the kitchen, I grab another disposable mug and fill it to the brim with coffee. Some of the slightly-cooler-than-boiling-but-not-nearly-cool-enough liquid spills on my hands when I attempt to secure the lid. Cursing once more, I grab the cup, my phone, my satchel, and the board - and as delicately as I can, descend the stairs with my arms full.

I make it to the street without spilling another drop. Skateboard to the ground, I take my first sip of coffee. And have instant regrets.

The drink falls on the scale somewhere between water and coffee; but would never, ever, be considered coffee. Anywhere. And certainly never by me.

But it is the only sustenance that I have.

I venture another sip.

Nope. Nuh-uh. No way.

With one foot on the board, I kick my other against the pavement to start moving. The first trash can I pass, I dump the entire cup without stopping.

With no time to spare, I pick up the pace and make my way to class; without enough sleep, without breakfast, and without a decent shot of caffeine.

A typical morning for me, really.

When I make it to class, I find myself in a rare situation that I'm actually a few minutes early. I still take my usual spot in the back of the lecture hall, my board propped up in the seat next to me. I dig through my worn thin satchel for the book I'll need during this class. As I do, a familiar face seats himself in the only empty chair next to me.

“Hey, Patty, right?”

I look up, both hands still in the satchel, to find Steve, the intern from yesterday.

“Uh, yeah. T-that’s me”, I stammer.

Not enough caffeine for this.

Steve gives a friendly smile and continues.

“Yeah I thought I recognized you. You live off campus?”

I nod.

“I can't believe you still rock a skateboard!”

He laughs as though he's made a joke.

Really not enough caffeine to do this.

My hands find the notebook I was searching for, and I place it on the desk in front of me. My hands free now, I use one to push my glasses up further up on my face.

“It gets me from here to there”, I reply in a not so friendly manner.

“Just not always on time, right?”, he laughs again, “Man, yesterday was crazy! I’m still riding high that I got in some actual practical lab work at The Tower! Under The Hulk, no less!”

Steve leans back in his chair, arms rested behind his head and turns his head toward me.

“But that’s normal for you, right? Working with The Hulk?”, He asks.

If he only knew…

“We’ve, uh, collaborated before, sure.”

I glance around the room for a sign that class may start soon to spare me this awkward conversation. Steve puts his arms down and leans closer towards me.

“Have you ever worked with Stark himself?”

“Engineering isn’t really my forte”, I answer vaguely.

“But you have met with him before”, Steve states, rather than asks.

“It’s really more of that I’ve been in the same room as Dr. Banner and Mr. Stark while they were meeting.”

Steve leans back into his seat as we see the professor walk up front, preparing to start the class. He keeps his voice lower as he continues to talk.

“And that costumed guy yesterday? The one armed to the teeth with guns and swords?”

I keep my focus up front without glancing back to Steve.

“What about him?”, I whisper back.

“You’re Banner’s preferred lab assistant, you have frequent meetings with Stark, and you’re dating one of The Avengers? Just impressed, is all.”

“Deadpool is not an Avenger!”, I reply, struggling to keep my voice low.

“Right. But you are dating one of their heroes for hire?”

“NO!”, I shout quickly and, to my horror, loudly.

The professor pauses mid-sentence to give us a glare, and heads whip to the back of the hall to find out what the commotion is. Feeling more embarrassed than I have in the few days I’ve spent with Deadpool, I straighten my posture and try to look as studious as I can.

“So you think you can put in a good word for me? At The Tower?”, Steve whispers more quietly than before.

I don’t reply, but close my eyes momentarily in frustration.

There is not enough caffeine in the known universe to deal with this…

Taking my silence as a hint (finally!), he follows my lead and keeps his eyes forward for the rest of the class. When it ends, I don’t bother packing the books up - I gather everything in my arms and flee the room as fast as I can.

Luckily, Steve doesn’t share my next class with me.

Without him around, I slip into my normal routine of the day of being a wallflower. I get through the rest of my classes undisturbed. My phone too has taken the same course; no one has tried to contact me all day.

On the way to the library after classes, I skim through the contents of the phone's software updates until I find what I'm looking for - the GPS tracker Wade had installed.

If he's true to his word, I should be able to track where he is, just the same as he could do to me. My finger hovers over the application icon.

What if he was lying when he said it worked both ways? What if he was telling the truth about the tracker, but he's still in the city - avoiding me? What if I track him overseas, and his tracker alerts him that I was keeping tabs on him?

What if I just gave him the benefit of the doubt that he told the truth, he's on a mission, and he'll contact me when he can?

Self doubt and sanity thoroughly checked back into place, I swipe to close all of my apps and shove my phone back into my pocket.

I spend the afternoon in the library, working on future projects and studying ahead. The second alarm programmed into my phone lets me know when it's time to pack up. Before the sun sets, I'm walking back up the flight of stairs of my apartment building.

My senses are on high due to my weekend off web slinging duty. Every appliance in use by my neighbors is echoing in my brain - stereos, televisions, air conditioners, vacuums, blenders... I drop my satchel and skateboard as soon as I enter my apartment door and immediately start stripping.

I grab the suit from the oven and hurriedly start redressing. I'm still fastening the web shooters to my wrists as I walk into the living room area. I throw open a window with one hand, and pull the mask over my head with the other.

I didn’t choose this apartment because of it’s scenic views of the city. Living on the top floor of a tall building grants me the added stealth I need to sneak in and out as Spider-man.

As I’ve done a thousand times before, I crawl up and out of the window without making a sound. I scale up the outside wall and onto the roof. As usual, no one else is up here - as the only roof access would be the rusty fire escape. I step to the edge of the building and peer down at the traffic below. The city lights have all come alive in preparation of the setting sun. I roll my shoulders into my back, and swerve my hips side to side to stretch.

In New York City, you don’t have to wait very long for a police siren. I’m only halfway through my stretches when I hear one nearby. Too anxious to wait for another chance, I immediately aim my wrist for the closest building and give the webbing it’s first target of the night. I give it a preliminary tug to test its strength, then jump off the building’s edge and swing toward the sound of the sirens.

The first jump of the night is exhilarating, and I make a whooping sound as I fall and swing to the next building, momentum giving me the speed I need to catch up to the flashing lights now visible in the distance. It doesn’t take me long to catch up to the patrol car, but unfortunately for me, it was just a domestic dispute that they were racing towards.

Still on a rooftop, only much closer to the ground than I started out, I crouch low to make myself unseen. Listening intently, I can block out the other noises and focus solely on the radio inside the police car. It’s a cheap trick I use to speed up the night, so I don’t spend hours just brooding on a roof, waiting for something to happen. The police radio puts a call out for a robbery taking place just a few blocks ahead.

That’s good enough for me.

I jump to the next building and scale it’s wall, before doing the same to the next. The buildings in this city block are old, which makes it easier for me to climb. Slick and smooth surfaces aren’t impossible to cling to and climb on, but require a bit more effort on my part.

The burglary was a success. Not for the perps, but definitely for me. It almost seems a shame to waste the new webbing to tie up the two thugs with the police being right around the corner; but I’m Spider-Man first and Spider-man’s photographer second. I take a few pictures with a hand held camera of both myself and my handiwork before I run off and search for higher ground.

I take refuge on the roof of a nightclub, whose neon signs are bright and flashing. Not ordinarily a place I stop at, but it provides great camouflage for someone else I know.

Launching myself straight up from the side wall I was clinging to, I land on the rooftops edge.

“You could have just used the fire escape.”

“Oh really? Is that how you got up here?”

Waiting for me on the club’s rooftop was Johnny Storm, fully aflame. I walk over to him and we bump fists, his flames softening before impact.

“Nothing so stylish,” he answers, “Did you see that line below us just to get into this place? I vote we ditch the suits, blow past that line, and have a good time tonight. What do you say, Pete?”

I cringe a bit at the name. Johnny and I are close, but to give him my real name, would have brought on a lot more questions.

“Who's to say we won't have a good time tonight patrolling the city, making the streets safe? Hey, pose for sec.”

I point my camera at Johnny and his flames get a bit more vibrant as he let's me take a picture.

“What, are you taking classes from Cap for how to be the biggest boy scout ever?”

He nods at the camera.

“Need a shot of you for The Bugle?”, he offers.

I've been selling Jonah Jameson Spider-man pictures for years. The first time the paper gave me a photo credit, by error they printed Peter Parker instead of Patricia. It was an error they kept making, week after week. Mr. Jameson had told me that if he corrected it now, it would show favoritism. So the name stuck for The Bugle’s purposes, that's the name I gave Johnny, and that's the story of why I can only do online banking to cash my paychecks.

“Nah, I got some shots of me tying up some thieves earlier”, I answer.

Johnny walks the edge of the building, flames dull again.

“Haven't seen Black Cat out lately - think she'll make an appearance? I wouldn't mind a photo session with her.”

“Mmm”, I make a non-committal response, “Wanna head east? Looks like this block is quiet.”

“Lead the way, Web-Head.”

Johnny grins and rises from the roof effortlessly.

If only spiders could fly.

“Just try to keep up, Matchstick.”

I give myself a running head start and leap from this build to the next, the distances much wider than the residential neighborhood that I came from. I stick the landing and keep running, the next building getting a web shot.

“So what happened at the party? You promised details!”, Johnny calls from above.

I cringe mid flight, ready to recall my embarrassment.

“Man, I was killing it at first. Pairing up with the best!”

“And then?”

My series of swinging in the air momentarily paused, I scale another building as we build altitude.

“And then I ran out of webbing.”

Johnny hovers above me.

“Well that's embarrassing.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”, I agree.

Reaching this new rooftop, I scan the city.

“Fire, three o'clock.”, he says.

I look in the distance and spot the flicker as well. In Hells Kitchen, of course. There's an unspoken rule about that area; leave it to Daredevil, or he'll leave you in the gutter.

Speaking from personal experience, Daredevil is extremely territorial when it comes to the biggest blight of our city.

Johnny takes off in the direction of the fire before I can warn him. I follow suit, swinging from the high rises.

“So the ass kicking came after your webbing ran out?”, Johnny asks when I catch up below him.

“Not even!”, I call out, “I got backed into a corner by a group of jerks, no Avengers in sight, but I was holding my own until one of them broke the cardinal rule.”

“Yeah?”, he laughs, “What's that?”

“You don't bring a laser to a fist fight!”

Johnny laughs as he lands on a roof, the closest vantage point to the fire. I join him by his side, taking count of the firemen that have reached the scene.

It isn't enough.

I scan the building, looking for an entrance I can use. The flames have engulfed the entire structure. Even with the hose below, the people trapped on the upper levels have no escape.

“You take the lead, enter through the top floor corner window, and I'll follow behind.”, I address him.

“Search and rescue?”, he asks.

I nod in affirmation. Johnny and I patrol together at least once a week, so we have certain procedures down to a science.

Crashing through glass, my senses are immediately overtaken by the smoke. Johnny has gone ahead, and I hear him call out to me.

“Got one in here, Spidey!”

Honing in my senses, I focus on my sight, and despite the smoke filling the room, I'm able to see well enough to grab a discarded shirt before seeking out Johnny. When I find him, he's near a body, crouched in a corner.

As long as Johnny stays aflame, he's immune to the fire surrounding us. Unfortunately, he's also left without a way to touch anybody without burning them as well. Our “search and rescue” plan is literally him searching, and me rescuing.

I put the shirt up to our new friend's nose and mouth, signaling to breath through it. She seems too weak to stay awake long though, so I throw her over my shoulder as we continue looking for survivors.

“So what happened after the laser?”, Johnny shouts above the flames, “I'm guessing someone picked you up.”

With the oxygen burning up, it's difficult to talk, but keeping a level head in this situation is ideal.

“You ever hear of a guy called Deadpool?”

Johnny catches a falling beam, letting us pass before joining the front again.

“The mercenary you guys keep on retainer?”

Johnny knows I'm not an official Avenger, but there's a small inter-hero spat between The Fantastic Four and The Avengers. Johnny, while still being loyal to his family first, often serves as the go-between for the two groups.

“Yeah, go figure, he's the one who saved my life.”

We find another survivor, this one completely passed out, but still breathing. I find a thin blanket to wrap him in, and throw him over my other shoulder.

Thank you, super strength!

“So what's he want for payment? That's how mercenaries work, isn't it?”

We travel down a flight of stairs only barely still intact. We need to finish the mission fast before this becomes a “search and watch Spider-man get too cocky and subsequently die” situation.

“Ah, friendship, I guess.”, I answer, slightly out of breath.

Johnny turns and gives me an incredulous look.

I shrug my shoulders the best that I can, considering the weight.

“Deadpool doesn't really fit the mold.”, I elaborate.

He turns his attention further down the hall and beckons me. I readjust my dead weight passengers and follow.

“I guess not, with the stories I've heard”, I hear him mutter.

A third person found, this one fully conscious, I guide him to the front side of the building. There's no chance of all of us leaving through the front entrance, so we're going to have to make our own exit.

This wall looks good.

I steer Conscious Man behind me, and Johnny blasts a considerable hole in the side of the building, close to where the firefighters are. The FDNY, to their credit, recover fast from the surprise explosion and falling debris. Before we can pick up our conversation again, the firemen's ladder reaches us, perfectly aligned to make our escape.

I slowly descend the ladder, still balancing our new sleepy friends. Johnny flies full speed back into the building, no doubt checking for anyone we may have missed.

If only spiders were fireproof.

Once on the ground, I gingerly hand off the precious cargo, only now submitting to a coughing fit. I see Johnny fly out of the building, dragging a small bundle. He lands with ease, quickly letting go of the fabric before it can set fire.

Of course he has to one-up me by rescuing a puppy.

“I can call for backup for the flames?”, I hear him offer.

“You've done enough, we'll take it from here.”

The city loves The Human Torch. Meanwhile, I make a hasty get-away before I can be spotted. Spider-man isn't about to get the key to the city any time soon, not with the bad press I get from The Bugle.

Before I fully retreat into an alley, I look back and take a quick picture of Johnny, getting (cautious) pats on the back from the Fire Department.

We meet up a few blocks down, my mask up to my nose to get some fresh air.

“Did you at least get some shots of yourself at the rescue?”, he asks while landing.

“And have Jameson blame me for the fire? No thanks!”, I laugh.

“What's the point of being your own photographer if you can't shameless promote yourself?”

Johnny looks down at the streets once more. The night isn't spent yet, and we're in prime territory for crime.

“To keep the lights on. I wouldn't expect you to understand, you being your own night light and all”, I joke.

He flicks a flame in my direction, and I easily dodge to the side.

“Come on, funny man, let's check out the scene over there.”

We bounce from one bust to the next, with only small breaks in between. By the time we part ways and I crawl back in through my apartment window, I'm utterly exhausted. I contemplate passing out just in my suit, but the smell of the fire from earlier is settling in the apartment now.

I pull off the mask completely and head straight into the shower, suit and all. First I scrub the mask, hanging it on the curtain bar when I'm done. Then, as I'm soaping up the suit, I'm also stripping the pieces off - ringing each one thoroughly before they join the mask. I stay under the spray until the water runs clean, the heat already fading some time ago.

Sleepily, I dry myself off the best that I can using the still damp towel from this morning. Grabbing a sweatshirt from the dirty clothes mountain, I declare myself ready for bed.

Not bothering with any white noise tonight, I fall face first into bed. As an afterthought, my hand searches deftly for my phone nearby. Finding it, I bring the screen close to my face.

No new messages.

I drift to sleep, phone still clutched in my hand.

Chapter 9: Enjoy the Silence

===DANGER===

My eyes snap open, and in an instant, I am rolling onto my back with my knees tight to my chest, ready to launch off a would-be attacker.

FROM MY HEART-

I disable the phone alarm in record time. Relaxing my body, I mentally evaluate the sore spots my muscles haven't healed from yet.

I roll my head from left to right.

Yep, my neck is sore, as usual.

I raise my arms to the ceiling.

No stiffness there.

Bring my arms back to the bed, I push them underneath me, and arch my body upwards.

Back and torso feel good.

My back once again flush with the bed, I stretch my legs, which triggers a yawn as well.

Calves are sore, nothing new there.

My body passing the test, I roll out of bed, yawning again while adjusting the furniture back into a couch.

I stretch one last time while standing, arms straight up over my head. Adjusting the sweatshirt that rode up while doing so, I discover that this is not mine.

It's an oversized grey hoodie with the words “I Love Eating Tacos” imprinted on the front. Below the text is a crude cartoonish drawing of a vagina-taco hybrid.

No wonder my laundry is overflowing, Deadpool’s been mixing his clothes with mine.

Rolling my eyes, I rummage through my kitchen cabinets for anything resembling food.
The coffee yesterday was too weak, and there are even less beans now than before. I desperately throw open every drawer, looking for my bag of instant coffee.

It's nowhere to be found.

“Son of a bitch!”, I shout to no one in particular.

Deadpool must have been so offended by my poor man’s java, that he threw the bag away.

Giving up, I continue on into the bathroom. I give the mass of dirty clothes a good long look while brushing my teeth. It’s mountainous pile mocking me and my failed attempts of getting it washed.

“So’ o’ a bish!”, I yell to nobody before spitting into the sink.

I wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.

I mean, it's not my sweatshirt.

Back in the livingroom, I sort through the last of my clean clothes, finding a long sleeve top Aunt May had bought for me at Christmas. It has red and green horizontal stripes, reminding me more of Freddy Krueger than Santa Claus. I slip it on along with my jeans from yesterday.

Please don't let this be the day that I run into everyone I know.

I slip on my sneakers and grab my satchel, loaded with books, my camera, my phone, and my mostly dry Spider-man suit.

Hitting the streets early, I'm able to avoid traffic and pedestrians as I skate my way to the Bugle’s office. Unfortunately, I'm also on the streets during the first batch of goodies at every bakery I pass. My stomach protests angrily each time I pass the scent of fresh pastries.

Arriving on the front steps of The Bugle, I grab the skateboard from under my feet as I walk through the giant glass doors. The lobby is empty, spare my favorite security guard, Clyde. I smile as I approach his station to sign in.

“Well look who actually came in on time!”, he broadcasts while returning my smile.

I scribble my name down, the first sign-in on today’s page, and raise my board to pass to him.

I open my mouth for a witty comeback, but only a yawn escapes. A massive yawn. The kind of yawn where you know your mouth is open for way too long and way too wide, and yet you still can't be bothered to even attempt to cover it with your hand.

“Wow, okay”, Clyde chuckles as he grabs the board to tuck away, “How about in exchange for this, I'll give you this.”

Clyde produces a bear claw seemingly out of nowhere and hands it to me.

My eyes widen as I hastily grab the pastry out of his hands and take the first bite. Closing my eyes to enjoy the sensation, I tilt my head back at the ceiling.

“Marry me”, I mutter with my mouth full.

“You’re about fourteen years late, baby girl”, he laughs.

I snap back to reality before taking the second bite. The harmless nickname Clyde gives me reminds me of a certain MIA mercenary, and with his fate still a mystery, it solemns me.

“Thanks for this”, I say with a tip of the bear claw still in possession.

“Any time, kiddo, as long as it's on time. You know he's waiting up there for you.”

The color drains from my face a little, remembering the verbal lashing I received last time.

I've faced Mr. Jameson a thousand times before, I can do this.

I thank Clyde again and head to the elevators. During the trip up, I demolish the bear claw, still licking my fingers when the doors open.

The office floor is a dead zone, with only a few personnel quietly tapping at their keyboards. I walk quickly to Mr. Jameson’s office door, knocking carefully before entering.

The doors and walls are glass, so I can see him sitting at his office chair before I even enter, staring intently at his computer monitor.

“Good morning Mr-”

“Pictures, Parker”, he interrupts.

“Yessir!”

I step more lively towards his desk, resting my satchel on it, digging for my camera. Finding it, I clumsily remove the storage device and hand it to his outstretched hand.

He immediately plugs it into his computer and clicks through the pictures.

“Crap. Crap. Crap. Blurry. Crap. Passable. Crap. I'll make it work. It'll do. Crap. Crap. And crap”, he assesses.

He drags about half of the pictures onto his own drive and throws the memory stick back at me. I catch it with ease and start repacking my bag while he clicks away.

“This ain't a goddamn art gallery, Parker”, he says without looking up.

“....sir?”

“If I want puff pieces showcasing your skin diseased boyfriend, I'll let you know. Until then, keep those pictures off my screen. Capiche?”

Skin diseased boyfriend?

I scroll through the pictures on the camera itself, still cradled in my hand. The equipment is my backup, and not always reliable. The camera reel never loads the pictures in chronological order. Sure enough, the fourth picture in is a picture of Wade, sans clothing, striking a pose with a finger in his mouth and his ass sticking out.

“I-I...it won't happen again. Sir”, I stutter.

“See that it doesn't”, he says dismissively. “These pictures of Torch from last night?”

I'm zipping up my bag and hauling the satchel back on my shoulders.

“Yes, sir. A big fire broke out in an apartment building in Hells Kitchen.”

“Hmmm”

Mr. Jameson stops typing for a moment and I clear my throat.

“Uh, you know, Spider-man was there too. If, uh, you wanted to mention that in your article as well.”

“Oh yeah?”, he starts typing once more.

Enthused, I nod.

“Maybe we'll work an angle that Spider-man started the fire. ‘The Human Torch Stomps Out Firebug Spider-man’”, he muses.

Figures.

Mr. Jameson waves his hand in a shooing manner.

“I'll have Gretchen print your check this afternoon.”

“Thank you, sir”, I sigh.

Seems wrong to thank the man ruining my reputation. Then again, I do provide the ammunition.

I walk out of Mr. Jameson’s office and down the row of cubicles until I reach the elevator. The doors open quickly, with passengers getting off on this floor. I step aside without making eye contact and wait to step through. I'm alone on the ride down.

Leaning against the steel wall, I fish out my phone and start writing a new message to Pimp Daddy.

You can't just leave a picture like that on the camera I report to my boss on!

I delete the message before hitting send. I try rewriting it, a little more nicely.

Good news; The Bugle is using your picture in the headline featuring the biggest asses in NYC.

Deleting the message once more, I try a more simple one.

When are you coming home?

The elevator doors open, and I let out a sigh as I push myself upright and walk out into the lobby. Still holding the phone with the unsent message, I walk to the security desk, where there's a lot of hustle and bustle gathering. Clyde never breaks eye contact with the man he's speaking with while he bends slightly at the knee to retrieve my skateboard. He passes it over the counter to me without a word in my direction.

“I'm telling you, I must see Jonah Jameson immediately-”

“-and I'm telling you, no one gets to that floor without proper clearance, of which you don't have. Sir.”

Deciding to not interject, I give a curt nod as I grab the board and head out of the building. Clyde is friendly and always up for a good joke - but he's also serious about his job and sticks to the rules.

That guy doesn't stand a chance against Clyde.

Once I'm through the doors, I keep walking with my board tucked under my arm, staring at my still unsent message,hesitating on hitting ‘send’.

What am I even trying to say to him? That everything and everyone reminds me of him and that I, what, I miss him??

I hold the delete button on my phone to erase the message completely. Shoving the phone in my back pocket, I jump on the board and skate around the people and construction on the sidewalks.

While not able to completely run away from my own mind, this path definitely helps as a distraction as I make my way to ESU’s lecture hall. It's my only class of the day, and if I want to stay distracted, I better come up with a full schedule today. I can't be left alone processing these thoughts that I may actually enjoy Wade’s company...maybe even on a romantic level...

“Watch it, Krueger!”, someone shouts as I clip their shoulder.

“Sorry!”, I yell behind me, without breaking pace.

Definitely add laundry to that list today.

Reaching the steps of the hall, I tuck my board under my arm once more and shuffle inside. I look towards my usual spot at the back of the room and have an instant flashback of the previous day.

“...but he is your boyfriend…”

Literally shaking the thought out of my head, I keep walking toward the front of the room, and take a seat in the second row.

The class goes by the same, with me rewriting the notes I had already studied ahead for. I keep myself so immersed in the lesson, I'm surprised when it ends, and the hall empties seemingly in just a few seconds.

Leisurely I start packing up my own bag, surprisingly not in a hurry today. I feel eyes on me as I'm doing so, and my spidey-senses start making my skin crawl. Knowing I'm in no real danger, I bring my eyes upward without tilting my head.

It's the professor standing in front of me, with just the first row of seats separating us from each other. She looks uncomfortable as she shifts her weight from one foot to the next. I stand up straighter and look around the room to find it empty except for us.

“Sorry professor”, I apologize, “I’m almost packed-”

“Is everything alright, Miss Parker?”, she interrupts.

“Uh, yes?”, I reply questioningly.

“At home, I mean to say”, she elaborates. Her voice turns softer. “I can't say I haven't noticed the signs; low class participation, spotty attendance, unexplained bruises. Now I'm hearing about a stalker boyfriend.”

I'm a deer caught in the headlights. I do not open up to people and mix together the parts of my private life. Each quadrant is to unaware of the happenings of the other. School isn’t meant to know of my personal battle of self worth. The Bugle doesn't need to know about about that or my grades. The Tower isn't to know about my social life or how I make ends meat. AND NO ONE IS TO KNOW ABOUT MY LIFE AS SPIDER-MAN.

The day Deadpool saved my life is the day each one of these lines became blurred.

Or it could be a coincidence.

“Now I'm not one to get involved in campus gossip, but if you need help, ESU provides wonderful guidance counselors to students...”

She's been continuing this entire time. I recognize that she means well, but the timing couldn't be worse. I keep up a careful charade for each person I interact with, and maybe I can't pinpoint the moment it started to crumble down around me to when Deadpool entered my life, but damn if he isn't a good scapegoat.

“...If there's someone toxic in your life, it doesn't matter if his suit is made from polyester or spandex. Heroes aren't infallible. You still deserve a happy and healthy life.”

“I - uh - I appreciate what you're saying”, I finally jump in, “but I think there's a misunderstanding. I'm just a loner who lives too far off campus to get here on time.”

I give my best fake laugh to ease the tension. She doesn't look convinced.

“I mean - you've seen my ride”, I hold up the skateboard, “I'm not always so graceful. I'm constantly falling, or bumping into walls, or people…”

I let my voice trail off as I use my standard excuses. These accusations are hardly the first that I've heard (minus the stalker boyfriend). Although hearing myself try to explain away the concern, that which was once a believable story sounds like complete bullshit.

Which it is.

But still - when did my excuses start sounding so lame?

“And the boyfriend?”, the professor interrupts my thoughts.

“Nonexistent.”

At least that's the truth.

She turns on the spot without another word and takes long strides to her desk. Thinking our conversation is over, I sling my satchel over my shoulder and pick up my board once more. I carefully shimmy out of the aisle of desks to make my way toward the exit, when she stops me again.

“Miss Parker”

She comes up behind me and hands me a piece of paper with her handwriting on it.

“The name and number of a good counselor”, she explains, “South building”.

“Really though-”, I start.

“Whatever it is in your life, that you think you need to hide from everyone, is not healthy. You isolate yourself; using some high school level responses to mask the truth as to why. The world has grown up, Patricia, and you'll have to as well. It's a cruel fact of life that we all must accept”, she points her finger to the note still in my hand, “and there’s no shame in asking for help to get through the rough times.”

She folds her arms neatly against her chest, gauging my reaction. I let her words sink in before responding.

“I-I”, I start to stammer, and take a deep breath.

Spider-man doesn't stammer.

“Thank you for your concern”, my voice deepens a fraction, “I'll keep your words in mind, thank you.”

I tuck the slip of paper in my bag, careful not to let it settle to the black hole that is the bottom.

“And thank you for this”, I refer to paper I've safely tucked away.

I allow my posture to be straight, and I stand perfectly still while we stare each other down. Seemingly satisfied with my actions, she turns once again on her heel and gracefully walks away.

Without another word exchanged between us, I turn in the opposite direction, careful not to run toward the exit, as every cell in my body is screaming to do.

Skipping the library for today, I continue walking off campus without breaking pace or looking back. I walk through the city, still carrying my satchel and skateboard. After I've walked a few blocks, I turn down an empty alley.

Scanning quickly, I scale the building a little less than easily due to the awkward load I'm carrying. I reach the top and do another scan.

No people - check.
No cameras - check.
No higher vantage point -

I look up and around to the surrounding buildings. They may be just as tall as this one, but the high railings conceal anyone from seeing where I'm standing.

Check.

I strip quickly, but not as urgently as last night. Donning the suit, I tuck my regular clothes into the satchel with my textbook and phone. Pushing my bundle of normalcy out of sight, I pull on the mask and let my senses free from the mental blocks I usually cage them in.

Fastening the web shooters securely to my wrists, I walk toward the edge of the building. My sights are on the tall and obnoxiously shiny building two blocks west, The Avengers Tower.

Taking one last deep breath, I shoot a strand of webbing to the next building. Not being very high off the ground yet, I jump up as I swing down, climbing the webbing while swinging so that I don't clip the civilians below.

A few people spot me as I make my way to the Tower, and I wave back with my free hand before landing on the building's side, and ascend up to my preferred window, nearly at the top of the Tower, Tony Stark’s office.

Before my hand reaches his windows, they’re swung open and Tony pops his head out.

“You know I have to pay extra to have the window washers up here every week, scrubbing your sticky finger film off of here?”

I stop, mid crawl.

“I'm not sticky!”

“Yeah? What do you use to climb on glass with - tiny hairs?”, Tony baits me.

“If that was true, you could be scaling buildings with just your chin”, I fire back.

“Facial hair insult? Low blow, kid.” Tony makes a gesture with his head “Get in here!”

The windows in Tony’s office are wide, and swing open like doors. They were built with his active lifestyle in mind, but they seem to mostly benefit me.

I step inside the office, and find us in a rare moment where it's just the two of us. Tony uses this office primarily for Iron Man business - otherwise he's working in one of the engineering labs within the Tower.

“Honestly, what does it take to get you to check in every once in awhile? You won't give me your contact information-”, he starts listing.

“The last time I gave you my email address, you reversed searched it to pinpoint my location!”, I all but yell, cutting him off.

Tony and I rarely argue, if this is what we're doing right now. If Wade’s absence has taught me anything, it's that I have a lot of pent up anger that needs to be unleashed once and awhile.

“That was an emergency-”

“And all of those times when you sneak a tracker on my suit? Are those emergencies too?”

“I-”

“And when you sent those drones to follow me. Still emergencies?”

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose in the same way I do when I'm overly frustrated, and I briefly wonder who started doing it first.

“Yes. Maybe for future emergencies, but emergencies nonetheless. There are no secrets amongst Avengers.”

I'm careful not to put my hands on my hips, which would only accentuate them in a not-so-manly way. It's always in the back of my head to not appear feminine, especially in front of people desperate to know my identity. Instead I half lean on the wall opposite of Tony’s desk, where he's currently taken a seat on instead of behind.

“So what's it going to take, kid? Should I erect a spotlight on the Tower to shine a giant arachnid on the city’s cloudline?”, Tony jokes.

I snort a little in my mask, mostly because of his word choice.

“Can you imagine the pandemonium in the streets when people see a giant spider in the sky?”, I reply, still smiling behind my mask.

Tony pushes himself off his desk and grabs a nearby tablet, swiping at the screen.

“Didn't go for the dick joke, huh? Our little spider is growing up!”, Tony says without looking up.

He seems to find the screen he was looking for, and with a broader single swipe, he brings the image to the wall I'm still leaning on. Slowly, I back away to take in the blown up picture, ending up standing next to Tony.

For all of the ‘growing up’ I'm doing, you'd think I could grow just a few inches taller…

Focusing back on the wall, I discover that it's a picture of me he has on giant display. In a not so flattering pose, the picture is from the Kang battle - taken right after my heroic web slingshot. It highlights the exact moment when I realized I was out of webbing was about to be hit from behind - the origin of when I became surrounded and needed Deadpool’s help in the first place.

Ah, memories.

“Who is your photographer? Because this is not my good side.” I jokingly start patting down my torso. “Let me give you the card of my guy.”

“It's the drone coverage”, Tony replies without mirth, “and this is the last picture they got of you in frame. What happened?”

I shrug my shoulders.

“Those five guys ambushed me, we ended up in that building,” I point to a spot on the picture, “and yadda yadda yadda.”

“Don't yadda yadda yadda me. Save that for boring stuff like describing a conversation with your girlfriend, not a fight where you were clearly outnumbered.”

Tony walks around his desk, opening a drawer to pull out a couple of protein bars. He tosses me one, which I catch easily.

“And”, he continues, “never yadda yadda yadda sex. Good sex. Like with that girlfriend of yours, the redhead. You can use actual details of that.”

I've already pulled my mask to my nose to chow down on what will probably be my lunch for today. I don’t pause my movements as I reply.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“No no, of course not,” Tony grins, “she’s just a girl who constantly needs your saving. I get it.”

I roll my eyes, an action lost on Tony, and I take another hefty bite of the bar. Tony rolls his own bars in the palms of his hands, still unopened.

“They recovered a laser from that wreckage”. Tony’s voice is a little softer than usual.

I swallow the food in my mouth in an audible gulp. He was not going to let this go.

“You understand what I’m saying, kid?”, he goes on, “I’ve got reports of a fired laser weapon, along with the grisly remains of Alien War Generals, inside the wreckage where you were last spotted. And then you go MIA. I need an explanation. I need to know if you did what the scene looks like you did.”

Protein bar consumed and sitting heavy in my stomach, I pull my mask back past my mouth.

“You think I fired that laser?”, I ask incredulously.

“Someone did. Along with decapitation, a body split in two - look - I know you reign in that super strength of yours. I’ve seen what you can do. If you lost control during this fight-”

“I did lose control”, I cut him off. “I got separated from the group, and I thought I could hold my own, but I was out numbered. They used that laser on me.”

His hunger apparently abandoned, Tony sets his uneaten protein bar on his desk.

“You got hit with a laser and what? Stood back up, took the laser for yourself and fired back?”

“I got hit with a laser and it was lights out. I didn’t wake up until after the fight. What Deadpool did in between then-”

“I thought you said you were alone?”, Tony interrupts me this time.

I cross my arms and square my jaw. This interrogation has me agitated all over again.

“I was alone. Until Deadpool showed up. Maybe you should take your accusations to him.”

My aggravation is clearly showing, facial features not needed. Tony sighs, signaling his own frustration.

“We did. He didn’t mention you, or even fighting anyone. He said he was just there as a spectator. Why he was cleared after that, I have no idea. Fucking nutjob. I knew he was lying. It’s just impossible to get a straight story out of him!”

Uh oh. Have I gotten Deadpool into trouble? Of course he didn’t mention me - it would just lead to more questions about me!

Releasing my arms, I relax a little more while on my feet. I hold out both palms in a defensive pose.

“Look, from my perspective - Deadpool showed up at just the right time to get me out of that situation and to a place where I could heal.” I try to smooth over the tense conversation.

“He probably just doesn’t want his reputation tarnished with the word out that he may have actually saved anyone.” Tony mumbles.

I open my mouth to defend Deadpool, but the words don’t come out.

It’s a little on point, isn’t it? It’s almost the exact barter Wade used to land himself as my roommate - keeping his mercenary rep intact with his previous “clients”, despite his new work with SHEILD.

Tony takes my silence as an agreement, as he continues his personal assessment of Deadpool.

“The man has no moral compass - just lives his joke of a life any way he sees fit. Most of what he says doesn’t make sense - and when it does it’s just lies anyway.”

Feeling uneasy, I snake one arm behind my head and give my neck a small squeeze.

“He also saved my life, Tony.”

Addressing him as anything but ‘Mr. Stark’, “sir”, or “Iron Man” is new for me, and it grabs his attention immediately. I try to deepen my voice an octave.

“I mean, you won’t hear me complaining”, I finish.

“Yeah”, he sighs. “He makes for a decent operative every once in awhile.”

My interest sparks.

“You ah - you recruit him for something?”

Subtlety, thy name is Spider-man.

“Nothing fun, trust me. Deadpool is more harm than good on most things. But for this job, he carries the exact skillset we need.”

I’ve stopped a moving train with just my webbing and strength before. What does he have that I don’t??

“And what’s that?” I mutter.

“He can’t die. Not for long any way.”

Tony swipes the projection away and starts taping at the surface of the tablet in his hands. The nonchalant way he can bring up Wade’s healing factor makes me uneasy, and I’m suddenly regretting that protein bar.

Deadpool. Not Wade.

My new binder is feeling unusually tight. I ghost my left hand up to my chest as I forcibly slow my breathing.

“O...kay,” Tony doesn’t look up from his typing. “So you were hit head on, you were carried to safety, and that’s the last of the battle you saw, right?”

“R-right”, I answer.

“And you didn’t fire any lasers.”

“None.”

“Swell.”

Tony lays the tablet back on the desk and gives me his attention once more.

“You okay, kid? You still hungry? You look it. Why don’t we order up-”

“I-I gotta go”, I stutter hurriedly.

Crossing the room quickly, I throw a glance in Tony’s direction as I swing open the windows.

“We’re good here, right?”, I ask.

Tony looks at me incredulously, with one brow cocked.

“Uh, yeah. All good.”
“Great.”, I reply while turning my back.

I’m on the window ledge when Tony calls back out.

“Hang on there, Sport! We still need to settle this communication problem you and I are having.”

“What problem?”

Turning on my heels, I face Tony still in his office. I can feel the cool air on my back, through my thin suit.

“You’re flashing the skyline with a huge boner or something, and until that’s ready - just have Johnny call me.”

I make my grand exit by doing a back-flip from the window ledge. Once I’m upside down, and no longer facing The Tower, I shoot a rope of webbing to the next high rise and swing away, effectively ending the conversation.

The air whipping past my face as I swing from building to building is an instant stress reliever. The only thing that would make it better is if I could do it without the mask.

And without the damned chest binder!

I continue on for a few blocks, gradually losing height, until I change directions to change back into my civilian clothes. I don’t think Tony would dare bug me this time, but better safe than having my secret identity revealed.

Crawling back up to the building, I do a quick security check before grabbing my satchel from it’s hiding place. I decide to dress over the suit, shedding only the mask and tugging down the high spandex collar. It’ll be easier than changing again in a couple hours, and there’s no way I can sit at home tonight. Not with all of these thoughts clouding my head.

When I’m Spider-man, my life is easy. Stop the bad guys and delivery witty remarks while kicking ass.

Life as Patricia though, has grown more complicated with each passing year. I’ve lost more than my fair share of people I’ve loved - some lost in grief and others loss of life. I struggle financially, losing every job I’ve tried to hold down, with the exception of The Bugle and my internship. School has definitely made the few friendships I’ve managed to maintain from High School become thin.

I see more of Mary Jane as Spider-Man than I do as Patricia… And seeing how she gets into more trouble the longer she hangs around me; maybe it’s time to let that go as well.

Lost in thought, I find myself standing outside of my apartment building, not fully remembering the actions of how I got here.

So much for hyper awareness.

Grabbing the skateboard from under my feet, I make my way inside. As I climb the stairs, I absentmindedly go to grab my phone to check for any missed messages. I pause mid flight, phone still clutched in my hand.

What am I hoping for? A message from Wade? Two days after he left? What could he text to make me feel better? Why is everything centered around him? If anyone is going to make me feel better…

“It’s me”, I finish aloud.

Shoving my phone back into my satchel, I quicken my pace up the stairs. I’ve decided on an early patrol today. No homework, no Avengers, and definitely no boys.

But maybe a camera.

I grab my backup camera and tuck it into a small pocket I’ve hidden inside my suit. I discarded my clothes in a pile in the middle of the room. As I walk to the largest window in the room, I throw a glance behind me and survey the apartment.

Simply put - it’s messy. And the dirty laundry smell doesn’t help either.

Nope. Web-slinging comes before tidiness.

Thoroughly resolved, I pull my mask over my head, securing the ends in the suit’s high neck. I open the window and slowly climb up and out.

Notes:

A/N
Get ready for some action in the next chapter!
And an eternal Thank You for everyone reading this! Your comments and kudos really drove me to FINALLY finish this chapter.
:)

Chapter 10: Rainbow Connection

Notes:

WOW This chapter was a long time coming! Huge thanks to everyone reading and enjoying this story! Every comment and kudo I received was inspiration to break free of my writer's block.
I promised some "action" for this chapter, and as I was writing it, it was clear our main character needed some more time to come into herself, so to speak.
GOOD NEWS though - I was so inspired to write this chapter - that I wrote the next chapter as well! And there we will find that allusive action. I just have to format it, and I'll post it asap.
Also, there's a bit of tech speak going on in this chapter. I'm not a science expert, I just grabbed some language from this site; so full credit to them for the terms I used: https://pubs.acs.org/doi/10.1021/acs.biochem.8b00167
__________________________________________________________

Nine hours of web-slinging, thirteen would-be muggings, two attempted ATM robberies, one mad man dressed as a snake, and four Red Bulls later - I crashed.

Hard.

I even came home at a reasonable hour, considering the early start I had the previous day. But ask me how I went from spandex suit to body half flung on the couch wearing only a sweatshirt and panties - I have no idea. Somewhere in between crawling back through the window and crashing on the lumpy sofa, I must have taken a shower - if my still damp hair is any indication to go by.

It must be early, since neither my spidey-sense nor phone alarm isn’t what woke me from my beautiful slumber. I groan excessively as I do my standard check that all body parts move as they should.

Sitting up, I look around for my phone and spot it on the floor, near the door. Next to a pile of dirty clothes. Which is blocking the entrance to my kitchenette of neglected garbage.

That's not just garbage I'm smelling.

Nope. Mixed into the air is the distinctive stench of body odor clinging onto cheap cotton blends, and it's coming from the dark cavern that is my bathroom.

Soundlessly, I turn my head towards the windows, and discover no light seeping in.

So I haven't been sleeping long. Maybe an hour or two.

Closing my eyes, I count to three before jumping to my feet. I stretch up toward the ceiling and stare at the water stains above my head. Counting to three once more, I relax my muscles and limbs and get to work.

Kicking the clothes already on the floor into a pile, I bend down to retrieve my phone.

Dead. Fantastic.

I let out a short sigh as I shuffle to the kitchen, stuffing my front pocket with the dead phone and its charger. My attention back to cleaning, I start tossing loose garbage into a single plastic shopping bag.

Satisfied with the clean up thus far, I persevere into the bathroom. I take a deep breath before gathering towels and clothes into my arms and run to the pile started in the living room.

Hyper senses include hyper olfaction, or sense of smell.

And boy, does this bundle smell BAD.

Hurrying from one room to the other, I've successfully collected all of the dirty laundry on the living room floor. The sheer amount is as impressive as it is terrifying. In fact, it's way too much laundry to fit into my single load carrying bag.

Looking around the room, I search for anything else I can use to help lug this laundry. Unfortunately, my sparsely decorated apartment leaves few options. My eyes fall on my sofa/bed. Or more accurately, the sheet I use as a cover for it.

“Needs must when the devil drives”, I mutter to myself.

Freeing the sheet, I drape it over the laundry pile and start to roll the mass until all clothing is sitting on top of the sheet.

After slipping on a pair of old running shorts (from my “I got this sudden muscle definition from my newly adapted jogging routine” line of excuses), I pull the four corners of the sheet and loosely knot them together.

Dragging the load behind me, I make my way to the door, grabbing my entire Laundry Savings Fund before leaving the apartment. The bundle barely makes it through the door frame, and I'm careful not to pull too hard. I'm not Tony Stark, able to afford to replace the things that I might break.

My bag out of harm’s way, I close my eyes to concentrate on the sounds of just my building. I focus on how many light bulbs are buzzing, footsteps being made, water running; and there's barely any activity.

Everyone's asleep except me. Not a new experience.

Knowing I won't run into any neighbors, I haul the sack of laundry over my shoulders with ease, and quietly begin my descent down the stairs.

The load is awkward, but light, and the only challenge I face is squeezing through the next door frame, outside.

That hurdle passed, I don't break pace until I reach the 24 hour laundromat down the block. I scan the room quickly to find myself (surprise surprise) alone. I pick the machines closest to the front and stuff two washers to the brim with the mixed collection of mine and Wade’s clothes.

Insert the tired debate of Wade vs Deadpool here.

I slam the quarters into the machines simultaneously, and luckily the washers don't bend from the force. Instead they groan to life, and I quickly distribute the last of my detergent between the two.

Taking a step back, I count out the additional change I'll need for the dryers. I’ve managed to save just enough quarters plus two to spare.

Better not spend it all in one place!

Before I can feel sorry for myself, my enhanced hearing picks up a slow shuffle down the street. I peer through the window to see a woman, disheveled but friendly looking, push a rusty shopping cart down the sidewalk. She's known locally, living under the overpass, and every morning she brews a vat of coffee and sells it by the cup to anyone unfortunate enough to be awake at this hour.

One luxury I'm guilty of taking advantage of is sleeping in whenever I can. When I was still in high school, my web-slinging activities fit into a very finite schedule. I know of my coffee brewing angel, I've even seen her on the streets as I've been crawling back home, but this has been my first chance to partake of her wares.

Separating the spare two quarters from the bunch, I rush out and past the laundromat door and straight to the woman, who has started crossing the street.

I've heard she'll exchange a cup of coffee for whatever you can spare, local cops being her more wealthy clientele; but fifty cents is all I can spare today.

Most days, really.

My light pace reaches her before she turned down an alley, and I gently approach the front of her cart, stopping her.

The shopping cart is old, metal and rusting. The wheels make a terrible grinding sound when she pushes it, and I'm grateful for it to stop momentarily while I hand her the change.

Our exchange is wordless - she grins toothlessly while handing over the steaming cup, and I try to return the smile as best as I can. Her cart starts moaning again as she resumes her journey.

The short walk back to the laundromat is less urgent now, and I take pleasure in the Styrofoam cup slowly warming my hands as I use both to hold it.

Once I'm back inside, I take a seat on the long, worn bench alongside the window front and plug the phone charger into the nearby outlet. Sitting sideways, I bend my knees toward my chest and enjoy the first full sip of coffee I've had since Wade made breakfast.

Everything comes back to Wade, doesn't it?

Then sun reveals its first few rays, lighting up the street a few more shades. I take another long sip of coffee with the laundry tumbling behind me. My gaze still transfixed to the window, I deftly reach down to my phone and hold the power button to start its slow process of turning on. In the meantime, I'm left alone with my thoughts.

And of course those thoughts loop right back around to the merc with a mouth.

Here I am, washing his clothes, while he's off Avenger-ing it up who knows where. I may as well be barefoot and pregnant, making him a mountain of sandwiches while I'm at it.

Of course, being pregnant means at least I'm getting some action.

The washer behind be shakes violently, the result of my severely unbalanced load. I look back toward the noisy machine, knowing I should get up and rebalance the load, when a simple tune emits from my phone - it's finally powered on. My phone decidedly more important than the washer, I let it rumble on and do my best to block out the sound.

To my surprise, an additional tune plays - I have a missed text message! Several, actually. With my left hand still clutching my coffee, I hurriedly open my text app using my right. It's from….

Not Wade.

Mary Jane Watson. As an old friend from high school, we do our best to stay current with each others lives. After school it was weekly pizza dates, then it was grabbing a coffee every so often, and now it's occasional texts. The friendship is still there, but the free time - not so much.

A theatre girl to her core, Mary Jane has ties to nearly all the major local production companies in the city, always landing her the primo auditions. Unfortunately, she doesn't always get the part, but she never stops trying.

Patty!!!
Guess what???
…
Ugh ur taking 2 long!
I GOT THE PART!!
Urs truly will be playing lead in Beauty & the Beast at the frickin Ambassador Theatre!! Could you just die???
Text me back, bitch! <3 MJ

Finally, I can feel a genuine smile spread across my face. After years of working the circuit, MJ has landed a major role at a major theatre.

It's still early, but I can't help but text her back immediately.

Wow that's incredible! Congratulations! Tell me everything - when are the dates?

After sending the text, I do the obligatory check to see if Wade has tried to get in touch with me. Unsurprisingly the answer is no. However, when my phone makes another chirp, I am astounded to see that MJ has texted back.

Thx! Im so excited I cant sleep! Omg its a crazy story! The play starts nxt wk! The lead dropped out - flu or sumthing - and they had a ‘selective audition’ and I made the cut! Can u believe it!? <3 MJ

Next week??? I guess it's serendipitous for all the times we watched Beauty & the Beast as kids!

Hahaha tru! This is it Penny - the role I was born to play! The show only runs for 10 days tho. No excuses - ur coming right?? <3 MJ

I wouldn't miss it! You're going to be great!

Ill hold u 2 it! The theatre even gave me a few tickets for fam/frnds. Ill save 2 for u and Aunt May …. Or a +1? <3 MJ

I can't even escape the boyfriend talk through text!

I text back quickly.

Aunt May will be thrilled!

Not receiving another text right away, I put the phone back down beside me and drink the last swallow of my coffee. I stand and stretch once more, before walking my empty cup to the trash bin. The washing machines are both whirling, a sign that its cycle is almost complete. I walk slowly up to them, and as if on cue, they both finish at the same time as I stop.

The combined weight of both bundles of wet clothes are clumsy to maneuver, but without an audience I chuck them into the nearby dryers with ease. My phones chirps again from the bench. Returning to read it, I feel the sour expression forming on my face.

Srsly Pats- no bf? <3 MJ

Final year until that Master’s Degree, MJ! You know how it is.

I def know a tired excuse when I hear 1. <3 MJ

What’s that supposed to mean, exactly?

That ur as beautiful & smart as you are closed off from people. <3 MJ

I’m in school while holding down two jobs, MJ - I hardly call that closed off.

Ur acing school like you always have and u make ur own hours. Plenty of people pull that off while dating. Arent you interested? <3 MJ

Am I?

My fingers paused above the digital keypad, I take a mental inventory of the benefits of dating.

Someone who sees me at my best and worst, and cares about me just the same.
Someone I can share my true self with.
Someone to support me, in any venture I pursue.
Someone to laugh with.
Someone to cry with.
Someone to hold.
Someone to kiss.
Someone who wants me.
Someone who loves me.

Of course I want all of that! I may spend my days with my nose in a book and my evenings kicking ass in spandex - but that doesn’t mean I don’t want more. I still want what most people want, including companionship. It just doesn’t come as easy to me as it does for everyone else on the planet, apparently.

MJ’s been with the same boyfriend since high school - what does she know about relationship struggles?

Rage washes over me and I fall deeper into thought. Did everyone decide to take a magnifying glass to my life all at the same time? So I’ve put on a facade while sorting my life out - so what? They all seemed to like it just fine up until now.

Its okay if ur not. Or u know if ur into other people. I know u were close to Gwen, and we never talked about it… <3 MJ

Trigger overload. I snap my attention back to texting.

I’m interested in living my life the way I want to. Is that alright with you? Or should I open my heart as well as my legs to the first man to pay attention to me?

Wow. Okay. Ignoring that 2nd part. I just want to see u happy, Pats. <3 MJ

I’d be a lot happier if everyone would just accept me for who I am. Shockingly, a boyfriend in my life does not define my happiness.

I never said it would! Have no boyfriends, have a thousand - idc! But dont pretend like u dont purposefully keep people at arms distance from urself and thats not living happily. <3 MJ

And you’re the embodiment of happiness, are you?

Idk what that means but i open myself up to people, ive been hurt and ive been loved, and ive grown from my experiences. What do u do? <3 MJ

You mean besides save the city on a nightly basis since high school?

Before I can reply, MJ sends a follow up text.

I didnt mean to start a fight, Patty. Its early - maybe we should both get some sleep and talk about this over lunch tomorrow? Im buying! <3 MJ

I’ll call you tomorrow.

Our text chain goes silent, and I power off my phone for good measure.

That’ll show people that I’m not closed off!

I should add that to the list of relationship goals - appreciates my sarcasm.

The sun now partially risen, the streets become more alive with activity. Just as my drying load tumbles to a halt, a few people have wandered in the laundry mat as well. Pulling a metal chair in front of the machines, I drape my sheet over it and begin unceremoniously dumping the dry clothes on top. Both dryers now empty, I tie up my bundle once more and haul it over my shoulder like Santa Claus. It’s as light as it was before, but it’s also comfortably warming my back as well.

Before exiting the building, I catch an older patron staring at me - a young, petite girl with a mountain slung over her shoulder. Usually I’m more careful on how Patricia Parker appears to others….but today?

“Ho, ho, ho”, I say as I walk by.

My voice is flat and without making eye contact, I walk out the door and walk toward my apartment. Using my right foot, I give the door a light kick to nudge it open. I lay open my knapsack of clothes onto the bed and sit down in the thick of it to begin organizing. My thoughts are racing through my brain as I mindlessly fold clothes and sort them into piles.

Everyone is telling me to ‘open up’ and be more honest - who’s to say they’ll even LIKE the ‘real me’?

Two pair of jeans, folded and put off to the right of where I sit.

They liked Patricia Parker as the quiet, science nerd. NOW they want to see the more personable side?

A button up blouse, folded neatly and set next to the jeans.

They liked the unpredictable, sarcastic Spider-Man. NOW they want to see the more responsible side?

A large black hoodie, Wade’s. I fold it less carefully and put it to the left of me.

As if I don’t have enough on my plate.

Large black pants - Wade’s. To the left.

Straight A student…

One of my hoodies. To the right.

Savvy intern…

Wade’s shirt. Left.

Sufficing photographer…

My panties. Right.

Soft hearted niece…

Wade’s boxers. Left.

Spider-Man. Let's not forget that one.

Wade's Deadpool muscle tank.

I throw it across the room. It's light, so despite the force of my throw behind it, it doesn't land very far away.

Frustrated, I leap to my feet, still on the bed, fists in the air, and shout.

“I’M FUCKING SPIDER-MAN!”

Violently, I start kicking over the neat piles of clothes I had just made, making sure they land in every corner of the room. I step down from my lumpy platform and grab a pair of jeans that landed near the kitchen. Keeping my back toward the disaster I just made, I replace my jogging shorts with the jeans. Purposefully leaving my phone behind, I leave the apartment with just my skateboard and camera under my arm.

The skate towards The Bugle helps keep me distracted, and I’ve calmed down by the time I walk through the lobby. Clyde isn’t working today, which is just as well for the amount of small talk I’m interested in having.

That is, to say, none.

There are a few people arriving in the office, but not many are at their desks yet, save Mr. Jameson. Although he doesn’t seem to notice me walking toward his glass door, I give one small knock while walking in. He darts his eyes above the screen he was intently reading before my interruption, recognizes me, and continues to study the screen. He holds one hand out expectantly, and wordlessly I stride to his desk and hand over my camera’s memory drive. Sitting back in his chair, it’s clear he’s almost done with his reading while he simultaneously plugs in the dongle from his computer to the camera. While the program loads, he grants me another look.

“Laundry day, Parker?” he quips.

“Guessed it in one, sir.” I mumble my reply.

Mr. Jameson clicks through last night’s photos with his usual sour expression.

“Looks like your boy blunder got the drop on him last night. A few times.” He comments. “I’m surprised, Parker. Usually you bring me just the hero shots.”

“Well you know that saying about meeting your heroes only to be disappointed”, I half heartedly reply.

His gaze drifts from the screen to assess me once more.

“That’s the spirit.” His reply is monotone and sarcastic sounding.

His attention back on the screen, he clicks through his options once more before uploading the pictures he chooses. I don’t take notice of which ones.

Instead my attention is focused on a bit of lint in the corner of the room, invisible to most, but not to me. The circulating AC in the room is soft, yet it’s causing the lint to gently dance about, caught on a single fiber of the short threaded nylon carpet.

Mr. Jameson pushes his chair back to stand in place, and my eyes reluctantly move from the corner of the room, to where he was sitting, to meet his eyes now higher than before, lifting my head to do so. He holds out the memory drive, waiting for me to take it back. Reaching to retrieve it, Mr. Jameson doesn’t loosen his grip, and for a moment we’re both holding the small device between us.

“You get what you put into the world, Parker.” He begins.

I say nothing to interrupt, but I’m sure my face says it all - total confusion.

Mr. Jameson continues.

“Nothing more, nothing less. You want rainbows in your world - go make some fucking rainbows. But if all you’re making is muck and clutter, don’t be surprised if that’s what your world is filled with.”

He lets go of his hold on the memory drive and sits back down, his attention back at his computer with the same concentration as when I entered the room. Meanwhile, my arm is still raised, dongle in hand.

Not looking back up, he once again shoos me away.

“What are you waiting for, Parker, a hug? Someone at accounting should be in by now, they’ll have your check.”

Lowering my hand, I pop the memory drive back into the camera and turn towards the door. My hand on the handle, I pause for a moment, turning my head partly back towards Mr. Jameson.

“Thank you, sir”, I all but whisper.

I’m given no reply, nor do I wait for one. I proceed out of Mr. Jameson’s office and head to collect my check. Never one to offer anything sagely before, I’m left in silent awe over his words to me.

Going through the rest of the morning on autopilot - I pocket my check, make it to class (on time!), and focus intently on the practical lab lesson - so much so that I'm the first of the class to replicate our assignment. I’m dismissed from class early, and, as usual, go straight to the library to work on my other class assignments. It’s well into the afternoon before my stomach lets its empty presence known, interrupting my studying. Without protest, I clear my workspace and walk to the campus cafeteria.

Too angry to think straight at the time, I neglected to take my wallet when I left the apartment this morning.

I wonder if I the bank would cash my Bugle check in person. Without an ID. With a man’s name. Of which I can’t prove I’m affiliated with.

Rifling through my pockets out of habit, instead of my paycheck, I pull out my rewards card for the sub shop. It’s clear the card went through the wash, but was still legible, and most importantly - all holes punched for a free sub.

Did I have ten subs since getting this card? Did my last one get double punched? Is this a card I had, lost, and replaced with another? Do I care? FREE SUB.

Delighted with my luck, I stand in line, tray in hand, and order lunch. My spent card surrendered, my eyes scan the cafeteria for an empty table - my usual dining preference. One spotted on the far side of the room, I start walking towards it when I notice the table adjacent has a few familiar faces from class. They’re talking, laughing, and eating over their open books.

Dare I be social? Switch up my routine? Open up? ‘Make some fucking rainbows’?

Pivoting slightly from my course, I walk to the table with my classmates. They’re so engrossed in their conversations, they don’t notice my arrival.

“Um”, I start shakily, “Hey guys”.

The group stops talking instantly, and they all stare at me without replying. For a moment I contemplate turning around and sit by myself as originally planned.

What did I expect? I can call myself a loner by choice, but the reality is that I’ve always been ‘the weird kid’, ostracized since middle school. What would be different now?

“Hey - Parker, right? Come sit - there’s plenty of room!”
A kind voice pulls me out of my head, and I’m suddenly given a new place to sit after a bit of seat shuffling. I sit down a bit hesitant, whispering my thanks, and the group conversation picks back up. Quietly I unwrap my sandwich, content to just sit, eat, and listen.

“We’re measuring the flexibility of the enzyme, not just how it reactions to temperature - your chart is way off!”

The same girl who invited me to sit down (Maya, I think?) makes an attempt to take the notebook across from her.

“Yes BUT we’re measuring flexibility WITH temperature - it’s one in the same!”

Ah, this guy I know.

Inadvertently, I’ve seated myself next to Steve, who protectively grabs his notebook off the table and away from Maya’s hands.

Maya sighs, obviously frustrated, and the rest of the group laughs at the two. Another classmate seated next to her, (actually named Peter) nods towards me while smiling.

“Parker’s acing this class, she’ll know. Show her your chart.”

Frozen mid-bite, I look around the table with all eyes back on me. Slowly I put down my lunch, swallowing the bite before I speak.

“Uh what’s up?”

Steve pushes his notebook in my face while I attempt to wipe my hands on my sweatshirt before accepting it.

“Yeah she’ll prove that I’m closer to the equation than the rest of you chumps! Go on, Parker, tell them!”

Glancing at the rough chart on the paper and Maya’s open book across from the table, I piece together the assignment they’re working on - catalyzing the biosynthesis of typtophan, which I had completed the week prior.

He may be a goofball, but Steve is actually extremely proficient at assignments, and he’s often pitted against Maya - just as smart but with more of an attitude. I look between the two, realizing that I’m expected to take a side.

Ah ha - but the typtophan they are referencing is Sulfolobus Soldataricus, which is circular and has no sides! Nerdy Patricia for the win!

“Uh actually you’re both on the right path”, I start.

Placing the notebook back on the table, facing everyone else, I pick up a discarded pencil and start making a few edits to the chart.

“The measurement of the solvent viscosity affect at 15 Celsius - which you cross reference here-”, I tap Maya’s book, “-at the kink in the Arrhenius diagram of ssIGPS at negative 40 Celsius… See?”

The table is quiet when I finish mapping out the equation.

Uh oh … too much nerd talk?

“Shit, she’s right”, comments another girl halfway down the table (yeah no idea on her name).

The table remains silent while they look between the same page in their book as the chart Steve and I finished. Suddenly, laughter.

“I told you my girl would back me up!” Steve howls.

“You were still wrong!”, Maya bites back.

Picking back up my lunch with two hands, I start eating again.

“Okay, seriously guys, I don’t want to see a single textbook at my party tonight. Bring one and it will be drenched in beer AND vomit - for good measure. It’d be nice to see YOU there though, Parker.” Another table spectator comments.

Beside me, Steve is packing up his bag and smiles at me.

“What do you say, Parker? Grace us with your presence?”

Having just taken my last bite, I chew quickly to respond.

Did I just get asked to a party?

“Wow,” I nearly choke, “I mean, thanks. But I actually ... can’t ... tonight.”

“Got a date with the Hero?” Steve teases.

“Not a hero”, I quip.

Again, I have the focus of the entire table again.

“Oooooh who’s The Not Hero?”

Choosing to delay the answer, I dab at the corners of my mouth with my napkin before placing it on my now empty tray. Unfortunately, this just prompts the question being answered by someone else.

“Dressed to the nines in leather and guns; you should have seen the two of them canoodling at Stark Tower!” Maya sets the scene differently than I recall.

I start to actually choke at her words. Steve laughs and passes me his half drank bottle of water. Without hesitating, I take a few big gulps.

“Risky business, showing PTA at The Tower - could land you in hot water with the boss himself!”, Peter chimes in.

“We’re just friends”, I clarify. “And besides, he’s out of town. I just have regular, unromantic plans tonight.”

“Well it won’t be the last party I throw. What’s your number, I’ll text you for the next one.”

“Yeah, actually if you wouldn’t mind, I could use a second opinion with some points in my dissertation I’ve been working on.”

“I’ll add you to the group chat!”

Looking up, everyone has their phones at the ready, waiting for my number. I prattle it off, still in shock.

“Uh, I actually left mine at home. So if you text me, um, just let me know who you are and I’ll add you back”, I explain.

The lunch table disperses, and we all say our quick goodbye’s to each other. Not having any other classes for the day, I head home, skating through mid-day traffic.

When I open the door to my apartment, I’m completely stunned by the mess that awaits me. I had nearly forgotten the tantrum of this morning.

This mess isn’t who I am.

Propping the skateboard in its designated corner, I walk to the sofa, picking up the clothes from the floor along the way. I make quick work cleaning up my mess. I even break out the cleaning supplies, gifted long ago by Aunt May, and give the windows an overhaul. The sun is setting, illuminating my apartment in an orange glow, by the time I’m finished.

Taking a quick shower, I change into my suit rather than sweats, and tuck my phone into my boot, nestled against my leg. It's time for my unromantic plans for the evening - fighting crime.

The sun has completely gone down when I crawl to the top of the apartment building and stretch. Vigilantism isn’t restricted to night, but it does have a certain rightness to it.

Keeping to smaller, local crime, I take my first break after a couple hours on a high rooftop. Perched in the shadows, I take out my phone and power it on.

Instead of a blank home screen, I’m greeted by several messages - all from the lunch table. I smile to myself, under the mask, as I write quick replies to everyone.

“I made a fucking rainbow”, I laugh to myself.

Chapter 11: It's Britney, Bitch

“Fuck making rainbows!” I growl into my pillow.

I spent Wednesday night kicking crime’s ass and making fun witty comments in my newly formed social circle’s group text. My apartment is clean. My coursework is two weeks ahead of schedule.

WHY. CAN’T. I. SLEEP!?

I’m able to nod off here and there … sometimes in class … but I cannot sleep for more than an hour at a time.

Try strait melatonin - its OTC.
-PW

New social circle = opening up. I shared in the group text my no sleeping woes. Peter’s suggestion would be valid if I didn’t have an overactive metabolism that makes most supplements useless for me.

Thanks! I'll try it.
-PP

Instead of going down that road, I thank him. Since we’re the only ones up at this unlucky hour, I put down the phone and contemplate my options.

It’s Friday, and I have hours before another practical lab session. I could lay here, in bed, and hope for sleep OR I could just resign to greet the day.

Both options suck.

I swing my legs over the bed and stand up. Yawning wide, I pull the lever to transform the bed into the sofa. Holding my arms out like I am presenting the world's greatest magic trick, I mumble a “tadaa”.

I wonder if this is what going crazy feels like.

You know who you could ask...

Getting dressed quickly, I grab my satchel - layering the bottom with a certain spandex suit, and covering the top with a zip up hoodie, wallet, camera, and phone. I’m out of the door in record time. First stop - The Bugle.

Mr. Jameson is just hanging up his coat when I walk into his office, camera memory drive in hand.

“Jesus, Parker, aren’t you millenials infamous for sleeping the day away?”

He accepts the driver and sits down at his computer to log in for the day.

For the first time ever, I take a seat in one of the two leather chairs placed in front of Mr. Jameson’s desk. It makes a loud protesting sound, as if to illustrate that not many people actually sit here.

“You know the saying about the early bird getting the worm, sir”, I reply with a grin.

His computer on, Mr. Jameson starts clicking through the photos. I met up with Johnny again last night, and Torch photos always sell. But if Mr. Jameson is impressed, he isn’t showing it.

“Yeah but it’s the second mouse that gets the cheese”, he scoffs. “I’ll take twenty.”

“Twenty?” I practically shout. He never buys so many in one day. “That’s almost the entire roll.”

He makes a twisted face before replying.

“Fantastic Four anniversary or some bullshit.” He hands the memory drive back to me. “Here’s another proverb for you - don’t look a gift horse in the mouth!”

“Yes sir. Thank you.”

Practically jumping out of my chair, I cross the room to leave. I’m nearly salivating thinking about this paycheck.

Also I’m hungry.

Yeah there’s that as well.

My deposit complete by the time the elevator door opens on the ground floor, I decide to do a little shopping.

Board to the pavement, I skate until a delightful smell from an opening bakery stops me in my tracks. Walking inside, my stomach rolls in ecstasy on the promise of what’s to come. Purchase complete, I continue on my way towards an all too familiar neighborhood.

It’s still early, so when I knock on the front door, I wait patiently to be greeted. After a minute, the door opens just a crack, until it’s fully pulled open.

“Patty? Oh, Patty, what a wonderful surprise! Come in, come in!” Aunt May moves aside as she ushers me in.

Aunt May gives me a hug once I’m inside, and notices the small package in my hands.

“I was up early, dropping off pictures to The Bugle, when I thought I’d stop by to see you with our favorite bakery treats!” I explain. “First batch of the morning!”

A grin reaching ear to ear appears on my aunt’s face.

“Oh Patty, you sneaky devil! Come into the kitchen, I’ll pour us some coffee.”

We sit down at the wooden dining table, sweet rolls on our plates just like old times. I practically inhale the first cup of coffee.

I admit it - swallowing a spoonful of instant coffee is the worst.

This though, this is heaven.

Taking our post pastry talk from the dining room to the living room is more relaxing than it ought to be, considering I’m sipping on my third cup of coffee.

Reclining on the sofa, I glance down at my phone to check the time. Still plenty of it, I text a short reply to the activity in the group text.

“Messaging a friend, Patty?” Aunt May asks, seemingly innocent.

I smile as I put away my phone, to give her my undivided attention.

“A couple, actually.” I reply between sips of coffee. “A few classmates I’ve started talking with.”

“Well that’s wonderful, dear!” She sounds genuinely happy for me. She takes a few of her own sips of coffee before pursuing. “...And your friend Wade? Still talking with him?”

Ah ha - there’s that needling I was missing.

“I would be, if he was around. SHIELD hired him for a job almost a week ago and I haven’t heard from him since.”

Ordinarily I would be more cautious to share so much information with her, but I’m still trying to sort out my feelings for Deadpool, and maybe hearing her opinion would help.

“That sounds dangerous, Patty.” Her brows come together with concern.

“Wade is pretty indestructible.” I reason, perhaps more to myself than to her.

“Is he dangerous, Patty?” Her question is quiet, and soft.

“I mean, yeah”, I snort. Quickly, I collect myself. “He can be. But he’s never hurt me, if that’s what you’re asking. And I honestly don’t think he ever could.”

Aunt May lets out a breath it seemed like she was holding.

“Of course not, dear.”

Our conversation continues on, as if we didn’t just talk about how I have a mercenary in my life. I wash our plates and cups before I head out to door to make it to class.

The lab work does take me a little longer than usual, now that I’ve fallen into a clique with some of my classmates, but I find that I don’t mind so much.

Who knew working in a sterile lab, tearing apart and building back up protein molecules could be even MORE fun with some off color inside jokes?

Finishing the assignments of the day, I grab my satchel and skateboard from under my workstation. I give a small half wave at the group still working and make my exit.

Halfway down the long corridor, I my skin starts to crawl - a mild spidey-sense that puts me on alert.

“Hey Parker, wait up!” Steve appears next to me, his hand on my shoulder. “A bunch of us are getting drinks tonight - you in?”

“Oh I don’t think … I mean … I ... Uh...” , I stammer.

“Come on - it’s the start of the weekend”, He pleads. “And the bars downtown are running a Fantastic Four Happy Hour Special - from 4pm through 4am. Come on, I’m buying first round!”

Socializing and having drinks on a patrol night?

Sounds like a Johnny Storm approved evening to me!

“Well…”, I contemplate. “What time is everyone meeting up?”

Steve flashes a toothy grin. “Around 7, unless you want to get the party started sooner?”

If I start early, I could fit in the hours I was planning on web-slinging AND still make it to the bar.

It’s not like I was planning on sleeping, anyways.

“Okay”, I agree. “Have someone text me the bar you guys decide on and I’ll be there.”

It seems strange to me that Steve is so excited by my addition to the group plans, but I’m too excited for myself that I choose not to overthink it.

Patricia Paker is going out for drink. With friends.

Adjusting the vigilantism schedule means skipping the library today and going straight into spandex mode. Leaving campus entirely, I skate until I find an alley I’ve used before to make the quick change. It’s close to Stark Tower, where local crime isn’t so rampant, so it’ll be safe to leave my bag tucked away here.

Luckily, I’m also in the vicinity of a police precinct building, who just rolled out a line of units not headed toward the Fantastic Four parade. Deciding to follow them pays off, as it turns into a gang bust - and not for just any street gang, The Hand.

I’m able to snap a few pictures of the men and women in blue in action before I tuck the camera away to lend a hand. This is obviously not a main headquarters for The Hand, but they’re armed heavily enough to do some serious damage.

Between dodging bullets, shurikens, and katanas; my schedule fills itself pretty quickly.

How does The Hand afford all of this stuff? I thought crime wasn’t supposed to pay!

Falling into usual habit, I’m running late for drinks. Before I open the door to the bar I was texted to be at, I check to make sure I’m dressed properly. That is to say, not still wearing Spider-man’s pants or something...again.

Anonymity, thy name is Patricia.

Being fashionably late doesn’t seem to bother anyone however, as I’m greeted with a chanting of my name from a particularly noisy group from the back wall. Drinks are immediately shoved in my hand, one right after the other, in attempt to get me ‘caught up’.

If only my metabolism wasn’t working overtime on this watered down beer on tap!

Mimicking the actions of the group, I play up the part of being just as wasted as everybody else.

Extra chatty? Check.>
Extra loud? Check.
Extra clumsy? Check.

Evendentally, Steve seems to have the same checklist, and is focusing all points at me. He’s even being very liberal with the physical contact, putting his arm on me at various times.

It’s very late when the group breaks up, and I’m both very happy to have experienced this night out, and very VERY happy to go home. Steve walks the first couple of blocks with me, and it’s just the two of us.

“You have to hang out with us more, Parker!” He howls. “How about tomorrow?”

My drunk act is fading, as it’s hard to keep it going for just a spectator of one.

“We both have our internships tomorrow, remember?” I remind him.

“Riiiight. Right”, he contemplates. “How about after?”

Mentally I tally the tasks to get done at The Tower tomorrow. It’s a time consuming list.

“I’ll be getting out late tomorrow Steve, I don't think I’ll have time to do this again two nights in a row.”

He stops walking, his hand on my arm. Easily I could shrug him off, but I stop as well.

“Just you and me, then? Grab some dinner, see where things go from there?” He leans in close to me, his pupils dilated.

He’s drunk. Or flirting.

Or maybe both.

Perhaps he saw the confusion on my face and wanted to clear it up, or maybe he takes long awkward silences as a green light, but whatever his reasoning was, he kisses me unexpectedly.

At first, I do nothing. His hand from my arm reaches up and around to the back of my hand, holding it there to try to deepen the kiss. Which he does by trying to snake his tongue in my mouth. A bold move that does NOT pay off.

While I should be caught up in the sensation of the kiss, or the movie worthy potential of a ‘from friends to lovers’ aspect, all I can focus on is what’s wrong with the kiss.

We’re in a grimey neighborhood. His hands feel cold and clammy, while his mouth is uncomfortably warm on mine. His breath is horrendous - making this kiss feel more like I’m making out with the world’s worst sourdough loaf. What’s possibly worst is that I don’t think he even knows my first name.

I don’t want this and I don’t want him.

Experiment over, I give him a light push to break the kiss. He studies my face as I make direct eye contact with him.

“Not feeling it?” He asks, somberly.

His directness throws me off.

“Uh...no. Sorry.” I answer.

Steve takes a step away from me and places one hand on the back of his own head.

“Well, I had to try”, he says sheepishly.

“You did?” I blurt out.

“Of course!”, he laughs. “You’re the total package, Parker. I’d regret it if I didn’t at least try.” He holds out his other hand to me. “Still friends?”

Terrible kiss aside, Steve has been nothing but kind to me. I take his hand without another thought and give it a shake.

“Of course”, I answer, smiling.

We part ways after that, and it’s well past midnight before I reach my apartment building. Straightaway, I hop into the shower, letting the warm spray ease my muscle tensions.

Maintaining the cleanliness from earlier this week, I pick up my discarded clothes from the floor, and unpack my satchel. Unwrapping the damp towel from my body, I slip on a pair of panties matched with a dark tank top.

I plug in my phone to charge on the kitchen counter, and prepare the bed.

Tonight’s the night. The night I get some actual sleep. The universe owes me.

Sitting in the bed, upright and legs crossed, I turn on the tv. I consider the wide selection of options that will lure me into precious sleep, but before I can hit ‘select’, I hear a familiar tune.

“...My loneliness is killing me AND IIII, I must confess, I still believe STILL BELIEVE...”

The terribly off key pop song is coming from outside of my apartment, still on the staircase, if the heavy footfalls can be accurately judged by. I remain sitting, frozen in place, while staring in the direction of my closed door.

“...When I’m not with you I lose my mind…”

Top step reached.

“...Gimmie a siiiiiigggggn…”

In front of the door.

“HIT ME BABY, ONE MORE TIME!”

Deadpool bursts through the door, hitting the light switch as be barges in. He’s in his full suit, with a convenience store baggie in hand. His singing stops when he sees me on the bed.

“Oh baby girl, sorry - were you sleeping? I figured you’d be halfway across town, swinging from the rooftops!” he apologises. “Soooo glad you’re home, though! I thought I’d have to track you down - which would only be difficult if you didn’t have your phone on you! Oh your phone’s right here. Hey who’s Steve Hopkins? He’s texting you a story!”

“You’re back”, I state simply.

Deadpool cocks his head to one side. “Ye-ah.”

“You didn’t call. You didn’t text.” I keep my voice steady, despite the anger swelling up.

“Covert operation, babes. I didn’t even have my phone until I got back to the city.”

Standing up so his height advantage doesn’t have him completely looking down at me, I ball my hands into fists beside me.

“So you’ve made it back to the city, you got your phone back,” I gesture to the plastic bag still in his hand, “you went shopping; but you still couldn’t send me a text to check in??”

His free hand shoots up, and he waves his index finger at me. “Uh uh - I did not go shopping! At least not in the conventional way. This is a present for you!”

Skepticism still on my face, he proceeds into the apartment and rests the bag on the counter. Unwrapping it, he holds out a single black glove.

“Only Michael Jackson can pull off that look”, I joke.

“HA”, he mocks. “Let’s circle back to your pop music reference later. This is a special glove I nabbed from my mission. I thought it would help you. See - thinking of you!”

“What’s so special about it?” Now I’m intrigued.

He slips off one of his leather gloves and replaces it with my ‘present’, giving me a quick reminder of what his skin looks like underneath the suit.

Focus.

“Check this out”, he explains. “It sends a manageable, pulsating vibration; without transferring the frequency to your own hand!”

I raise a single eyebrow. “Did you memorize the user manual?”

Deadpool makes a scoffing noise. “You ain’t the only big brains in the room, sweet-ums.”

Fair point. There’s not a weapon on made on Earth that Deadpool doesn’t know every working detail about.

“Okay”, I concede. “So with this glove I can do, what exactly? Give The Vulture a back massage?”

“Sure. Or land a punch in Hydro-Man’s face. Or disrupt Sandman’s punch to your face.”

Oh.

Seeing the comprehension on my face now, Deadpool continues enthusiastically.

“The settings are in the cuff here, see? The lowest setting doesn’t do much, but working with the medium to high range can do anything from giving Hydro-Man a firm handshake to body slamming him, professional wrestling style!”

“Wow. That’s ... actually helpful, thanks. What was it initially used for?”

He makes a ‘pffffttt’ noise through his mask. “Who knows. But this is guaranteed Spidey useful! Already tested and everything!”

Confusion spreads back across my face. “What do you mean you’ve already tested it?”

Deadpool leans back into the counter, facing the living room. His newly gloved hand flexing up and down as he plays with the cuff some more.

“Oh man it was the craziest thing!” He starts. “I’m in this city for less than an hour, and I’m walking by the harbor when WHOOSH out pops Hydro-Man. I mean can you believe it? I’m literally thinking how psyched you’re going to be with this thing, and how every time you punch this guy in the face, you’re going to be thinking of me, but not in a bad way? More like a ‘ooh I’m so glad Deadpool is in my life’ sort of way - when he suddenly just appears right in front of me. So I kicked his ass with the glove and then the cops showed up and hauled him away and they were like ‘thank you, Deadpool, here’s the keys to the city for being our number one hero’!”

I’ve crossed my arms in front of my chest while Deadpool droned on and on.

“So you tested it by beating Hydro-Man?”, I inquiry.

“Yeah.”

“Whom you had specifically had in mind that this would be most beneficial for me to fight against using the glove?”

“Y-yeah.”

“And he just happened to come across your path?”

“Listen if you’re trying to make a point here, I’m not seein’ it”

I persevere on. “So you’ve used the glove against the guy that I could have used the glove on, and now he’s locked up, and I don’t have the opportunity to use the glove on him.”

Deadpool thinks for a moment. “Ooooh. I see what I did there. We could break him out! You could kick his ass this time and put him back in jail?”

“I would rather kick your ass!” I shout, losing my patience.

Deadpool uncrosses his legs. “Because of the glove?”

“Because of your mouth! You come into my life, demand to be a part of it - you leave - and you waltz back into it with some crazy ass story? I was worried about you - you asshole!”

He stands up straight, with his arms to his sides.

“YOU’RE the asshole - not appreciating my present!”

“Not appreciating? You know what, give me the glove!” I shout.

He protectively hides his one hand behind him. “No!”

Launching myself at him, I try to grab it quickly. Unfortunately he anticipates it, twisting his body at the same time. My smaller stature actually working to my advantage, I drop to the floor to maneuver around him.

“Give it to me!” I scream as I reach for his hand.

He moves swiftly and weaves his hand in front of him now. “Fuck you, I’m keeping it now!”

I jump on his back, my weight throws off his balance and he staggers forward a few steps. Now that some space has opened up, I can easily push my arms on his shoulders and flip over his head, landing in front of him. I grab his torso and make him do some air somersaults of his own - slamming him onto the bed, and pouncing on top of him.

Grabbing his one wrist with both of my hands, I try to shimmy the glove off. Unfortunately I forgot that it’s on, and I get a large shock that resonates throughout my entire body.

Though only paralyzed for a moment, it’s all the time Deadpool needs to gain the upperhand and reverse our positions. He tosses the glove directly behind him as he grabs both of my arms and pins them under his legs.

Preparing to launch my body upwards to get get out from underneath him, the glove shifts from where it had been tossed, and lands in my lap - still vibrating. The sensation jolts me - not because it’s painful, but for quite the opposite reason.

Not seeing the situation behind him, and with me laying almost still to keep my composure, Deadpool relishes his victory over me.

“Ha! Score one for me! I am the greatest - why are you squirmin’ like that?”

I close my eyes out of embarrassment as he looks behind him for the glove. He’s obviously figured out what happened by now.

“Get. Off. Now.” I say as I grit my teeth.

I was going for my ‘Spider-man voice’ - low and masculine; but this came out a little more high pitched and breathier than usual.

Deadpool does retrieve the glove, and I experience immediate relief. However, he hasn’t moved off of my body and he slips the glove back on his hand.

“Okayyy”, he drawls, with a bit of mischief in his voice. “Now you say that this is the best present that you’ve ever had.”

“What?” I ask, incredulously.

“Just sayy ittt.”

“No! I’m not saying-”

Deadpool wiggles his gloved fingers in front of me, before moving his arm behind him.

“Sayy ittt.”

“Deadpool if you don’t get off from me-”

However I was going to finish my threat, any sense of constructing a coherent sentence has vanished. With the glove on a low vibration, Deadpool brushes his fingers lightly over my panties. With no response from me, he does it again - back and forth.

Steadying my breathing, I try to speak again. “We shouldn’t-”

His fingers trace the pattern with a little more force now, rendering me speechless again.

Deadpool himself is being unusually quiet; perhaps waiting for me to tell him to stop or kick him off of me - we both know I have strength to do it.

Instead I feel my eyes roll back, and it’s hard to concentrate on anything but his touch. Sucking in my bottom lip, I catch it with my teeth and bite it, drawing a tiny amount of blood. Deadpool takes his other hand and cradles my head delicately.

“...so fucking sexy” I catch him whisper.

I close my eyes and let out a soft moan before I can stop myself.

With that as an invitation, his fingers below break from the pattern, and start massaging me faster and with more confidence. He spreads his fingers in a V formation to cradle my thinly covered womanhood from the sides, stroking it up and down; before he introduces a third finger in the middle. He continues to make long and even strokes, and it takes me a moment to realize that I’m matching his movement with more moans.

Opening my eyes, I do my best to make eye contact with him - a difficult task when I can’t see his eyes through his mask.

“Your mask-” My voice is shaky.

His fingers don’t falter from the rhythm. “Huh?”

“If we’re doing this”, I explain between breaths, “then you’re taking off your mask.”

He contemplates for a moment - maybe to argue with his boxes?

“Deadpool” I plead.

It’s all the encouragement he needs, as he reaches up with one hand and pulls off the mask.

Finally, I’m face to face with Wade, drowning in his dark brown eyes. I can feel my chest rising and falling, my breasts pushed against one another due to my hands still pinned by my sides. I make no effort to move them.

With his free hand, Wade runs it along my body, starting from my torso and traveling up. He brushes against the side of my left breast and continues up. His hand returns to my face, caressing it. His thumb strays from the rest of where his fingers remain, and he pushes it gently between my lips. I part them, and he dives his thumb into my mouth. Carefully, I close my mouth around his thumb and softly suck on it, while he moves it in and out.

Letting out his own groan, his fingers push aside my panties, and he begins thrusting in between my slick folds. The vibration feels stronger now, pleasuring me down in my midsection. I moan around Wade’s thumb, and suck on it more vigorously.

“Fuck...you’re so....I can’t…” He stutters.

Wade lifts his torso and takes his hand away from my face. My arms are free now, but I keep them still beside me. He’s fumbling around with his pants zipper with his one hand, the other one never stopping its welcomed barrage on my lower region.

“If you wanna stop” he reaches into the front of his leather pants, “now’s the time to say something, darlin’.”

He manages to pull his erection out of his pants one-handed, and it is impressive. I may not have seen many (any) dicks in my life before, but I know bigger-than-average when I see it. He strokes it himself a few times before bringing it closer to me. Instinctively, I open my mouth to receive it. Wade kneels closer to my face, pinning my arms once more. The moment the tip of his cock meets my tongue, he rears his head back, swearing.

Momentarily distracted, his fingers slip inside me even deeper, his thumb bumping against my clit. The action makes me gasp - which is proven difficult when Wade slams the rest of his cock into my mouth. It causes me to gag slightly, and he hurriedly pulls it back out.

“Are you okay? Is this…?” With his concern, his fingers have slowed, but the vibration is still pulsating.

I blink a few times, my eyes tearing a bit, and nod. I open my mouth a fraction to encourage him back. He does return, more gingerly than before. The slower pace allows me to relax my jaw, opening it wider for him. I raise my tongue and glide it along his member as he rocks it back and forth.

Wade’s fingers mimic the new tempo, slow but sure.

Too slow.

My hips, acting of their own accord, start to raise further up, causing his fingers to hit deeper.

Now moaning around his cock with more urgency than before, Wade loses his controlled rhythm. He’s driving his fingers in and out of me, pinching my clit while doing so. He grabs the back of my head to help lift it up, and I’m able to take the entirety of his shaft.

“Ah good. Fuck. So good. You take it so good.”

His encouragement takes me over the edge, and I feel an energy building up inside of me. Closing my eyes, I tighten my lips around Wade’s cock as he vigorously fucks my mouth. The energy is moving, and spreading, and I moan louder as it takes over my body, which arches one last time as pure bliss washes over me.

Wade cums with a huge roar, and it erupts in my mouth and down my throat, feeling hot and thick. Gradually removing his fingers from my culvusing groin, Wade steadies himself with both hands on the bed and pulls his dick out of my mouth. It leaves a trail of his cum from my throat to my lips, and I wipe it away when he dismounts off of me. He lowers himself next to me, still breathing heavily after his orgasm, same as me.

We both lay on our backs, concentrating on breathing, when he breaks the silence.

“Sorry. I should have warned ya or pulled out.”

I make a movement to wave my hand, but it’s fallen alseep from being pinned for so long.

“ s’fine”, is all I can muster to say.

Wade is able to raise his hands, and he takes both of his gloves off after tucking himself back in his pants.

“So”, he breaks the silence once more, “was that the best present you’ve ever had, or what?”

Our bodies laying parallel on the bed, I roll onto my side, putting some of my weight onto him. Using the crook of his arm as a head rest, I don’t look up as I reply.

“Shut the fuck up, Wade.”

Promptly and immediately, I fall asleep.