Chapter Text
Deadpool’s conversation with Headshrinker Wakka had gone surprisingly well. He’d been able to discuss an “exit plan” with her cuz he was profoundly interested in that topic, while the doctor kept her expectations real and her strategies practical. He was going to wear his leathers in order to feel safe, and if necessary talk to himself to organize his thoughts. These were compromises, concessions required to manage his mental illness and respect his priorities, which were fundamentally to not mindlessly kill himself or others. Instead Deadpool planned to find worthwhile ways to channel his adrenaline and violent urges, such as challenging feats of endurance, extreme sports, and dying/killing for righteous causes [[only]]. He’d keep on the move, to stay under the radar but also to maintain a state of activity that best suited to his mental health. This was a plan that played to Deadpool’s strengths, and he liked it as much as he could given the unhappy circumstances.
The first thing Deadpool did after leaving Peter and Stark Tower was run for as far as he could, for as long as he could. At first, fueled by his own broken heart, it felt like he was evading capture, or maybe chasing freedom, and it was both thrilling and completely manic. His first stop was Tokyo, where he took a train out to the Kegon Falls, a historical jumping spot for spurned lovers. Then, mostly to spite the shrink on principle, but also for the self-satisfaction of the symbolism, Wade stripped down and threw himself naked over the precipice. He squeezed his eyes closed tight as his body hit the rocks and broke apart, his favorite memory of Peter’s adoring expression filling his mind. The shattering pain of his death felt divinely right, like a storm-wrought wave breaking on the warm shore of his reincarnation.
After he’d gotten that little melodrama out of his system, his new same-old-body found it a lot easier to follow the plan.
[♪♬ I spent a lot of nights on the run. And oh I think, like I’m lost and can’t be found. I’m just waiting for my day to come. ♪♬]
He traveled to Seoul, Mumbai, Hanoi. He didn’t take any jobs, but easily kept himself afloat by robbing the reigning criminals of each city. He had to knock out a couple of people, a couple of times, but usually he could clear the targets out without being seen. Then there was Brisbane, where he tried not to let all the young brunettes remind him of Peter; then Santiago, where he bought a used motorcycle, and drove off into the mountains. He taught himself to free climb and fly in a wingsuit; and if he died a couple times, well, that was to be expected of such activities. Next up was San Paolo, where he was solicited by a girl; Deadpool had no patience for child traffickers, and so broke the killing guideline by taking out an entire crime family, heartlessly and systematically.
He received an emailed warning from Stark after that one. ((Big Brother is still watching.))
Of course he was. There was only so far under the radar that someone like Pool could be. He’d switched to black on black leathers to be less recognizable, but a man in a mask will always be conspicuous. So he stowed away on a rusty old freighter bound for a continent less wired for sound. The long days and nights of isolation, either spent hiding or sneaking about the boat, were a good warm up for the next leg of journey. In Dakar, Senegal, he traded in his hot leathers for tan army fatigues, though he kept his breathable Spandex mask. Then he haggled for a cheap Jeep and took off across the Sahara with his katanas, a couple canisters of fuel, and a bunch of food that either got eaten or went bad within a few days. The old Jeep died a couple days after that, and then Pool was confronted with his unique brand of dilemma.
[[Only a jackass is arrogant enough to try crossing the Sahara on foot. Obviously impossible.]]
[For a mortal perhaps. We could do it, not even an issue.]
[[Mmm. . . Shockingly good point. . . I doubt you could handle it though. All that commitment and dedication, you know.]]
[Are you calling me chicken? ARE YOU TALKING TO MEHHH?!]
Never one to back down from a challenge, Deadpool took off at a well-paced and sustainable jog. While his mask and fatigues protected his scarred skin from sunburn, the heat combined with prolonged dehydration and starvation to create its own ring of hell; and yet the ongoing intentionality of the experience made it a cleansing kind of suffering. This was a conscious choice: the monotony, the forced asceticism, and the focus on survival, it all helped quiet his mind. Sometimes hours would pass without a single word from the boxes, and it was a soothing revelation that this was even possible. Learning at the feet of Forest Gump, he came to accept that Shit Happens, and that this wisdom could be applied equally to his breakup with Peter as to his abusive childhood, his horrific transformation, and his brutal torture at the hands of Dr. Killbrew.
[♪♬ And I think, oh I don’t want to let you down. Cuz something inside has changed, and maybe we don’t want to stay the same. . . ♪♬]
Somewhere in Chad, under the dark of night, he raided a camp while in a state of delirium, taking only a camel that he named Humpty-Dumpty. He didn’t so much ride her as spew verbal diarrhea all over his hapless audience, confessing his tragic life story in gory detail, and taking comfort from her stoic companionship. After a fortnight, he finally came to the end of his protracted tale of sorrow, so he took the opportunity to set her free near an oasis. He’d taken to sleeping curled next to his companion, and if they traveled together any longer, he was afraid he’d find himself humping a camel.
[Hahaha! Get it?!]
When he finally dragged his emaciated, ragged, and filthy body out of the desert six weeks later, the police in Kharatoum tried to arrest him. In no state for a sustained struggle, Deadpool let them kill him, then later snuck out of the morgue. The entire experience was clean and practical, and that too was a revelation: that death could be simple, strategic, and genuinely detached from emotional trauma.
[[This is what we make of it. Play to our strengths.]]
In a glaring red flag to Stark, Deadpool had to access his Cayman Islands account to procure a comfy place to recover in Nairobi, no questions asked. Once allowed plentiful food and rest, he regained his full strength within a few days and then decided he was up for a bigger challenge. So he took a bus to Mogadishu, where, disguised with a burqa and a stolen ID, he caught a plane to Medina. From there he traveled north in a series of stolen vehicles, before finally crossing over into Syria on foot, in the dead of night. ISIS was about to have a bad week.
[♪♬ I got guns in my head and they won’t go, spirits in my head and they won’t go. But the gun still rattles, the gun still rattles, oh. . . ♪♬]
It took Deadpool five days to shoot, blow, and hack his way to Aleppo. Two days after that, he was confronted by an acquaintance, apparently now undercover for Mossad as a rebel. The message conveyed was that he had dealt ISIS a crippling blow, and that it was time to disappear, so that the United States military complex coul spend billions of dollar and President Trump could take the credit. Deadpool left the exchange a cool 10 mil richer, plus a visa to Berlin.
[Finally! Back in business!]
In Berlin he had a couple leather combat suits made for himself, one all black and one black on red. While he waited for his custom orders to be completed, he wandered around the city with no idea how to spend his money or occupy himself in a healthy way. His second night there, he paid a hot young thing to suck his dick in the alley; he pretended that talented tongue was Peter’s, and that he hadn’t had to pay extra for being a terrifying and disgusting creep. The encounter only made him feel Peter’s loss more, so he swore not to repeat the experience.
The next day he took a train to Krakow. There he was shot in the head while breaking into a giant safe at the drug don’s ridiculously fortified mansion; later he woke up, shrieking in agony as his body was incinerated. A slow torturous regeneration was followed by the terrifying discovery that he was trapped in the incinerator, cramped, suffocating, and burning. In the hours that followed Wade died several times, only to wake again, in horrific physical pain and mentally fraying further with each resurrection. When the incinerator door finally opened, he shot out in a frenzy and immediately broke his unwitting savior’s neck.
Wade stole the dead man’s clothes, guns, and money, then made his way brutally through the compound. He fought dirty and ugly, slaughtering anyone between him and escape, and then he was running, running, but not as far or fast as he usually could. His body was exhausted and hurting from his rapid series of full regenerations: his bones ached, and his skin bled, and his stomach was scraped raw with starvation.
[♪♬ And I don’t want a never ending life, I just want to be alive while I’m here. And I don’t want to see another night, lost inside a lonely life while I’m here. ♪♬]
Wade snuck back into his cheap hotel to avoid the staff, where he ordered a rude amount of delivery, but otherwise petulantly neglected himself for days. He was tired of running and he missed the life he he’d built for himself at Peter’s side: Chimichangas and Rosa’s delightfully mixed-up pizza, loud American music and rude New York City attitudes; even the ridiculous Avengers and all their stupid drama. He missed Aunt May and Clint and Ellie, and most of all Peter, though he was currently trying to Jedi mindtrick himself into not thinking about his ex. Ever. He’d accidently caught Spiderman on the telly a few times, and couldn’t turn away. The webslinger appeared as strong and fast as ever, protecting New York from petty predators and international villains alike. Pool was happy for him.
[[In that twisted, self-flagellating way. Of course.]]
So Peter got to be Spiderman and Wade had been muzzled. The thought didn’t leave him angry as much as profoundly unsatisfied. He felt more in charge of his mental health than he ever had since Weapon X: he hadn’t deliberately suicided once since Japan, he wasn’t struggling [much] with homicidal tendencies, and he was managing his various psychotic symptoms with [[moderate]] success. But he was still unhappy, and the less hectic his internal life became, the more he noticed the sphere of absence that surrounded him like a magic barrier.
He’d missed Halloween with Ellie, Thanksgiving with Aunt May, Christmas with Peter, as well as what would’ve been their one year anniversary; maybe even Call of Duty championships with Clint, and Sam, and Bucky. All those months on the move, through the lonely struggles and the painful coping, Yellow had developed an intimate mastery of Sims mode. Most other times, Wade was allowed to feel the profound loneliness and loss of his life, even allowed to cry about it on occasion, but Yellow always flipped the switch if the great chasm of feelings got too dangerous. Special days in particular were spent in a patchwork of mourning and disconnected game play.
“I don’t wanna feel like this anymore, why haven’t you flipped us?” Pool challenged, staring morosely at the ceiling. He was laying bonelessly on a hotel bed in Krakow, wearing a ski mask and sweats in place of his incinerated battle suit.
[[Cuz we got this. The incinerator experience was gnarly, no denying it, but we’ve done this before and we’ll do it again. This is what dealing better looks like.]]
[Who wants to just “deal” for the rest of an immortal life? Shoot me now.]
“And what about the soul-sucking loneliness? Am I just supposed to deal with that too? Settle for two boxes for the rest of eternity?”
In a concession to that aching solitude, Deadpool had continued to talk to himself while alone, not out of stress so much as a conscious effort to maintain his sanity. The boxes generally blabbed on regardless, and talking back made him feel marginally better. So, as long he was able to control himself, he was going to use the self-talk to ease his psychological tensions. Too bad it was only a stopgap for the persistent fucking loneliness.
[[Or, you know, we could actually DO something about it.]]
[Yes, yes, YES! Let’s find another desperate hooker that looks remotely like Peter!]
“No!” [[NO! We’re not thinking about him!]]
Yellow had a point though. If Wade missed home so much, maybe he should go back “home”. It didn’t matter if he only had a weak grasp of the concept, he had enough understanding to head in the right direction. He literally jumped out of bed and bolted into action. That afternoon he took a train to Warsaw, where he flew out under his actual identity, and landed in an equally frozen Toronto, back in North America for the first time in five months.
“‘Wendy! I’m home!’” Pool cackled to himself as he disembarked from 747, trying to restrain his excitement.
[Love that movie! We’re basically Jack Nicholson in the Shining, if Kubrick had wanted to make a real horror movie where Jack couldn’t die.]
[[Shut up. We’re in an airport, which means keep our shit together before we get detained.]]
The boxes were quiet for a couple minutes so that Deadpool could get through passport control without getting shot. Trying to fly in wearing the full cover burka would’ve been entertaining, but he was trying to lay low. He took off his hood for the officer, whose eyes went from suspicious to horrified.
[♪♬ They call you Mr. Personality, cuz you so ugly! I heard that when you were born, the doctor slapped yo mamma. Oooh, that’s ugly. ♪♬]
The poor flustered woman rushed him through after that, and Wade twisted himself to look as hideous and deformed as possible. He hunched his body and limped, squinted one eye while bulging the other, and drooled strategically.
[Wait, wait! ♪♬ You asked my grandma if she needed help with her bags. I’ve never seen an old lady run so fast! Oooh, man, that’s ugly! ♪♬]
[[Heh-cough, heh-cough. I’m not laughing, that’s not funny. We are NOT in a good mood.]]
[Fuck off! You enjoy tormenting airport personnel as much as I do! Something we can all agree on!]
Indeed. It was very satisfying to stroll out of the airport into the February afternoon. Subzero temperatures, check; grey skies, check; friendly Canadians staring at him while castigating themselves, check! He wrapped his thick, hooded parka around him and, frankly, looked less suspicious than he did in his battle costume. The flight had left him restless, so he checked in at a Best Western and went for a brisk march through snow-logged Toronto. He bought a burner phone, some groceries, and a cactus, and then headed back to the hotel. A couple blocks away, he received a text message on his new phone.
((Still watching))
Deadpool didn’t recognize the number, but he could guess. ((Fuck off Stark. Not gonna shit in my own back yard))
It was both a promise and a claim, to which Stark didn’t respond, and that was fine by him. A couple weeks later, by which time he’d leased a crummy apartment on Toronto’s dodgy East side, a box of his personal junk arrived, including his intricately carved pool-stick spear, some old clothes and cutlery, and his trusty collection of sex toys. As a man who owned incredibly little, and wanted even less, the gesture touched him surprisingly hard. By establishing a real base here, and making a space for himself; by filling it with a cactus and a telly and some other shit, he was in fact gathering himself. Stark’s assistance, whether intentional or not, felt like a recognition of his efforts.
[So. Turns out Iron Man is only a douche seventy percent of the time. The other thirty percent of the time is spent successfully making up for all the douchery. How does the lucky bastard do it?]
((Thanx metal head))
! *_* !
Deadpool hadn’t seen Ellie in almost a year, so he made a point to come for a visit on her birthday. He considered the NYC metropolitan area Off Limits these days, but this was an extenuating circumstance. He took great efforts to avoid Spiderman and the Avengers, for all that Marvel Universe Rules allowed for that possibility.
He arranged with Agent Preston to take her ice skating in Central Park. If he looked ridiculous in his full battle suit and skates, he made up for it by having all the skills of a redneck Canadian on steroids. Young Wade, in Buttfuck, Canada, had played a lot of ice hockey, and it showed in the way Deadpool tore around the ice rink, pulling Ellie behind him as he weaved around the wary crowd. She screamed with laughter, and her face had lit up with joy and excitement, which Deadpool studied closer than the crowded trajectory he was supposedly navigating. After a few close calls and couple warnings, they were told bluntly to leave. It didn’t matter though, because Ellie was looking at him with that same adoration that he used to see in Peter’s face, and he walked out of that place a King.
Though perhaps he should’ve been smart enough to avoid Central Park. When random shit goes down in NYC, as it frequently does, Central Park is one of a handful of paranormal hubs (Stark Tower and the Baxter Building being two others). Add in a trouble magnet like Deadpool, and fate virtually guaranteed a supernatural shit storm at that specific time and place. Indeed, just as they were leaving, the staff abruptly announced the rink’s emergency closure. Due to security threats in the area, everyone was instructed to leave the Park and go home. Seconds later, the crowd was treated to the sight of Iron Man blazing across the sky.
“Wow, Dad, look! Iron Man!” Ellie squealed.
[Hell, Yeee-ah! IT’S PARTY TIME!!!]
[[Wait! What about Ellie?! She can’t come with!]]
Deadpool frowned under his mask, defying orders and pulling Ellie into the woods. “Ellie, I’ll protect you, I swear, but you need to do as I say. Okay?”
Deadpool stopped at the base of an evergreen tree with a somewhat low hanging branch, asking again, “Okay?”
Ellie looked nervous, but nodded. “I’m gonna help you into this tree and you’re gonna hide there. Don’t make any noise, and don’t come down, no matter what happens. Understand?”
“Yes,” Ellie replied quietly as Deadpool kneeled and helped her onto his shoulders. When he stood, she was able to climb into the bow of the tree.
“Remember what my superhero power is?” Pool whispered urgently, relieved that his daughter’s face appeared relatively inconspicuous amidst the pine needles.
“Yes.”
She looked and sounded scared, but Pool had to make her understand in the scarce moments they had. “Don’t come down, no matter what you see. I’ll be alright, however bad it looks.”
That was all he could do, so he turned to the situation at hand. Being no civilian, Deadpool knew that his safest bet was to eliminate the threat. Running only ever repositioned the threat at your back.
[♪♬ Real gangsta ass niggas don’t run for shit, cuz real gangsta ass niggas don’t run fast. . . Damn it feels good to be a gangsta! ♪♬]
He cursed himself for not bringing his weapons, though that had been one of Agent Preston’s conditions, and glanced around for something suitable. Unfortunately, a park is a crap place to find weapons, so Deadpool settled for an abandoned set of ice skates and hoped that close combat was an appropriate response to the menace.
Mere seconds later a gargantuan dinosaur – [[That’s a goddamn Tee Rex, motherfuckers!]] – came stomping through a wooded enclave. The screaming started immediately, as the stragglers now ran for their lives. The prehistoric predator came to a stop on the walkway intersection, bellowing Jurassic Park style, and Deadpool didn’t even have to think about it. He sprinted towards the monster as fast as he could, a skate in each pistoning hand, reaching the giant lizard before it had even reacted to his presence. Pool used the skates like picks, quickly stabbing and scaling the beast as it thrashed and clawed at him. He managed to scramble behind Sexy Rexy’s head, tightly straddling the large skull as he raised the skates high, only to bring them down sharply, impaling the dinosaur’s eyes straight through to its brain. The T. Rex staggered, and then collapsed heavily, Deadpool jumping free just as its giant carcass smacked loudly to the ground.
[♪♬ Another one bites the dust! Another one gone, and another one gone, another one bites the dust! ♪♬]
Deadpool’s eyes shot into the conifers, confirming Ellie’s safety before registering a loud, carrying voice, “That was a truly impressive display, ally Deadpool. Truly the fastest I have seen such a beast brought down in close combat.”
Pool pivoted behind him to see that Thor had landed near the giant fallen beast, only to start inspecting it like a trophy. Deadpool barely had a moment to take in the Fabio-alien before his buddies started arriving – Black Widow ran into the clearing just seconds before Falcon flew in and hovered above them. Then, in a final indignity, Spiderman swung down from a tree and jogged stiffly into the clearing.
[[PEEETERRR!!!]] [Spidey!]
“Don’t shoot! I’m not black!” Pool cried, dramatically flinging the bloody skates through the air as he reached for the sky, hopefully diverting attention from his sideways drift away from a specific tree.
“Deadpool,” Black Widow challenged, stalking closer and looking irritated. “This cannot be a coincidence.”
“But it is! I’m not responsible for the damn dino, I just fucking killed one!” Pool would totally turn this into a hissy fit if it kept their attention in his direction, though he slipped into a casual fighting stance just in case. “Give me a break, Widow. I’m just passing through, be out of your hair by this evening.”
The Widow stopped, right out of striking distance, eyes calculating. “Wrong answer. I want to know why you’re in Central Park.”
“Just ice skating, honest. Swear on my dead everybody’s grave.” Deadpool couldn’t help it, he glanced at Spiderman again. He was standing back, yet also clearly watching their exchange. He looked strong and perfect in a snug Spandex costume that left little to the imagination, and Pool felt an awful chasm of yearning open up in his chest. How could it feel as fresh and painful as the day it ended?
“That’s pretty hard to believe,” she challenged skeptically.
[I can be pretty unbelievable.]
“It’s true, we were skating!” came a pouty tweenage shout. Seized by panic, Pool spun around in time to see Ellie stomping self-righteously out of the wooded area and straight into the confrontation. “My Dad just saved everyone from a T-Rex! Why y’all standing around giving him grief? Ain’t there some, like, dinosaurs to round up or something?”
[Uhhh. . . she totally reminds me of someone.]
[[Oh. Em. Gee. I totally have a mini-me.]]
Thor joined the conversation at the same time, appearing next to Deadpool and clapping his shoulder with a body-jarring blow. “I agree with the child-warrior, and I applaud your bravery, Deadpool. This vicious creature has a particularly strong jaw, I encourage you to take one of its mighty teeth for your collection.”
“Why, THANK YOU,” Pool enthused melodramatically. “I don’t collect teeth, but it is nice to be appreciated.”
“Wait,” Falcon demanded, landing next to Black Widow and trotting closer. “Since when do you have a daughter?”
“Since she was born, duh,” Pool snapped back, unwilling to permit any interest in Ellie. She’d come to stand beside her Dad, only for him to position himself in front of her like a human shield. Later she’d be getting the mother of all lectures regarding safety, complete with all the horrible, gory ways that she could die.
“Does this mean you actually were ice skating?” Falcon needled, smirking widely. “I would’ve paid to see that! Deadpool on skates! Like Disney on ice!”
[Laugh it up, Dodo Number 2. I’m gonna sabotage your wings while you sleep.]
“I bet it was spectacular,” Spidey asserted demurely, cautiously joining the group.
“It was spectacular!” Ellie shouted from behind Pool’s back, pull on his shoulder for leverage while apparently jumping up and down. “Don’t you know all Canadians can ice skate?! I’m half Canadian!”
[Okay, so that’s adorable.]
Except that Spiderman had continued his approach, slinking closer until he was within arm’s reach, then even closer, and Pool braced for –
“Hi. I’m Spiderman.” The little fucker was reaching past him to offer a hand to Ellie, and Deadpool had to check the urge to chew Spidey’s trespassing arm right off. He glared so hard it had to be visible even through the leather mask.
His daughter slowly held out her own slender arm and the younger man took it in his. “I’m Ellie. I’m not really from Canada, I’m from Queens. So I know who you are. Everyone loves Spiderman.”
[[I love you, Peter.]]
“[I think I’m gonna vomit],” Deadpool blurted loudly, only to feel like a real asshole when Spidey shrunk back at his words. He’d clearly let talking to himself go too far if Whitey was getting through unfiltered. He turned in shame and tried to pull Ellie away, but the tween wasn’t having it.
“Wait!” Ellie whined with an immature stamp of her foot. “You told me that you were friends with Spiderman!”
Deadpool froze at those damning words, waiting inexplicably to be struck by lightening.
[If by “friends” you mean: tirelessly defiled his flexible young body in every way imaginable.]
“On that note. . . I’ve got places to go, dinosaurs to slay,” Falcon interrupted, promptly launching into the air.
As he turned back to face Peter, Pool noted that Widow was also pulling Thor away. Ellie was looking between him and Spiderman as if she could see what even he couldn’t understand.
“We’re still friends, aren’t we?” Spiderman offered magnanimously, looking at Deadpool though the words were obviously for Ellie’s benefit.
Ashamed of his own initial reaction, Deadpool now nodded manically, jittering with an energy that for once had trouble forming words. “Friends! Right. Of course. Definitely. Friends. Hahaha!”
[[That sounded completely psycho. So much for months of so-called progress.]]
Deadpool took a hold of Ellie’s shoulders and quickly led/pushed her away. “We gotta get you back home before the Pteranodons get here. Now THOSE THINGS are mean! You should look into some sorta portal to the Savage Land. That’s where I’d place my money. See yuh, Spidey!”
He power walked his daughter a few blocks to the subway, then they took a couple trains to get her home. In the desert he’d drawn out his tale to Humpty-Dumpty for two weeks,, but forty minutes was plenty of time to gloss over the main ups and downs of his complicated relationship with Spiderman. As they neared Agent Preston’s brownstone, Ellie summed it up easily as, “So he used to be your boyfriend, and maybe you still love each other. Why don’t you get back together then?”
Deadpool slapped himself on the forehead. “Did you miss the part about all the pain and suffering?”
Ellie paused on the stoop, turning to her Dad. “Didn’t sound too bad to me. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, amirte?”
“You must be a chip off the old block, girlie,” Pool returned affectionately. “Cuz that’s basically my theme song. Ask anyone.”
“Thanks for coming, Dad,” Ellie said with a sudden, unexpected maturity. “I know this isn’t your scene.”
Deadpool smiled widely. “You make me wish it was. You’re pretty fucking amazing, and today was a riot!”
If he wasn’t so painfully aware of his own limitations, he’d be greatly tempted to take on a ballsy, precocious daughter. It’d fill his very primal desire for family, and to be needed. If only he could’ve provided her with half the life she deserved; if only his very existence didn’t put her in danger.
So they hugged it out and Deadpool took the next plane back to Toronto. He made a point of staying away from the entire Tri-state area for a while and tidied up his efforts to stay under the radar (insofar as that is possible in a recognizable black and red mask). He was not on speaking terms with Fury at the moment, but he might have to change that if he was going to stay in North America for the indefinite future. There was a significant lack of righteous work for a flashy assassin would didn’t want to make a splash.
Almost three weeks after Ellie’s birthday, Deadpool received a text he couldn’t ignore. ((Get to nyc stat. Calling in ALL favors u owe me))
There were not a lot of people to which Pool owed favors, only one man that came to mind. ((That u pigeon-guy?))
((Need ur help, poolboy))
Deadpool scowled at his screen. He was reluctant to go back to the City, and even more reluctant to rub elbows with the Avengers. Seeing Peter had left him off-balance for days, and he didn’t want to risk what meager mental stability he’d cultivated these last months. It was persons, places, things, and all that addiction blah blah. On the other hand, he did owe Barton several significant favors, including his assistance in saving Spidey from Doctor Octopus. And Pool really didn’t want the man bringing up the nightmare with the turkey baster.
[[We owe him big time. He was almost a friend, and we don’t have any of those.]]
[Sounds like a PART-TAY to me!!!]
“Grrr!” Deadpool growled at Yellow, shadowboxing with air for a moment as he vented his frustration over his sometimes ally siding with Barton over their own mental health. It was two boxes against one primary personality, and Deadpool recognized defeat when he saw it. So he packed a bag and took a train back to the Big Apple, even more anxious than before, because now they knew he was coming. As per Hawkeye’s directions, he met the other man on the top of an apartment building near Empire U’s main campus. The archer must’ve tracked Pool’s approach because he didn’t move from his position as Deadpool approached loudly from behind.
“So whatcha lookin’ at?” Deadpool sing-songed as he stretched out next to Hawkeye, who was laying on the roof and peering off the edge with a pair of binoculars.
Without looking away from his target, Barton offered up another set of binoculars, so Pool took a moment to observe the Starbucks across the street. Boring, boring, hot chick in a short skirt, more boring –
[[Petey-pie!]]
“What the fuck?!” Pool exclaimed as he scrambled away from the edge of roof, confusion and shock warring with the sudden onset anxiety. A beat later he realized that, of course, it was a set up.
[I’mma tear your arms off, deep fry them in boiling grease, smoother them in hot sauce, and EAT ME SOME GODDAMN CHICKEN WINGS!]
Hawkeye turned towards him, but that was all he had time before Deadpool dived on him in a flurry of messy fists and knees. “You mangy vulture! You think this is funny?! You like messing with the fucking sad clown at the circus?! I’ll show you a sad motherfucking clown!”
“No! Stop! Jesus Christ!” Hawkeye basically curled into a ball and covered his head, which only worked as a defensive strategy because Pool was channeling his inner teenage girl – basically sitting on the other man and slapping him haphazardly aside the head. “Just stop for a minute and listen to me!”
Pool slowed his attack until Hawkeye was able to push him off, and then they were both sitting on the roof, eying each other warily. “Speak fast,” Deadpool demanded bitchily. “And it better be good.”
Hawkeye raised his hands in appeasement, but otherwise did not seem overly concerned about the situation. “Just hear me out, okay? I’m not laughing at you, Wade, I wouldn’t do that. We’re sorta friends, right?”
[[Call the Pope, it’s a goddamn miracle. We could have ONE “sorta” friend. Maybe.]]
It took Deadpool a long, frustrating handful of seconds to realize that he had no idea how to answer the archer. “Is that supposed to be a trick question?”
Hawkeye’s mouth took a dismayed downturn, but when he spoke his voice was confident and reassuring. “No, it’s not a trick question. We’re friends, okay? Which is why I’m coming to you with this. Cuz I TRUST that you’re the right person to handle it.”
[It’s a trap! Throw him off the roof!]
Deadpool’s eyes just narrowed suspiciously as he studied Hawkeye’s partially concealed face, though to no avail. He’d withhold his judgment on their supposed friendship until the shit show had fully unfolded. After a beat he spun on his butt and crawled closer to the side of the roof, demanding snarkily, “And what exactly is “this”, pray tell?”
Hawkeye scooted closer until once again they were laying on their bellies, shoulders almost touching as they watched over the side of the building. “Now I don’t have a lot of evidence, cuz Peter’s basically been in hiding. But I’m worried that he’s still not himself.”
Deadpool’s entire body tensed at the suggestion. He immediately adjusted the binoculars and looked again, picking Peter easily out of crowd and studying him closely – as though he’d be able to recognize Peter’s possession any better than the first time. He was just sitting at the table, sipping some latte crap and frowning adorably at his laptop. Surely a supervillian like Doctor Octopus couldn’t pout his lip so plumply, or slant his sharp eyebrows so expressively. . .
[We should ask him if he wants to fuck. See what happens. That’d give us an answer.]
[[Jackass! Absolute shit for brains, even before all the brain damage!]]
“I don’t think I’m the best person for this job,” Deadpool muttered, stomach cramping and mood souring with bad memories.
[Wait –]
[[What?!]]
“Dude. You haven’t even heard the details,” Hawkeye scolded with a very bro-ish shoulder bump. “I just want you to tail him for five days, that’s all. Then give me your opinion. Whatever you might think, you still know him better than anyone.”
Deadpool couldn’t look at Peter and block out the boxes at the same time, so he ducked his head and tried to think clearly. He didn’t want to watch Peter moving on without him; but however small the risk, he couldn’t ignore the possibility that Octavius could still exist somewhere within Peter. “What am I supposed to do if shit goes down?”
“Gee, I guess you save his life,” Hawkeye replied snottily, still looking though his binoculars. “But it won’t come to that. Spidey’s got his routine down pretty cold.”
[Shit always goes down when we’re around.]
Deadpool raised his eyes again, to spy Peter in the distance. Since their last encounter, he had found it harder not to think about the younger man, and the demise of their relationship had become the tender kind of pain that he liked to press on. He still wanted Peter, still fantasized about him in moments of weakness, and still ached at the loss of the most intimate relationship of his life. Watching him this way was captivating in what had to be a really unhealthy way.
[I want I want I want.]
[[What if our supposed friend is actually trying to drive us crazy? Ever thought about that?]]
[Who gives a fuck? I still want.]
“Fine. But only three days. And this makes us even.”
[[Hardly.]]
! ~_~ !
Hawkeye was right, after a fashion. Spiderman had his routine down cold, and so did Peter Parker. Each day began as follows: Peter got up in his new Brooklyn apartment, went for a run around the Brooklyn neighborhood, returned home to shower, then took the train to Stark Tower or Empire University. He then invariably spent the next twelve hours bouncing between these two places, apparently only ever working or studying or occasionally stopping for coffee. In the evening he would return home with take out, only to leave again in the middle of the night, patrolling the City as Spiderman.
That first morning, Wade went out with just a grey hoodie and a baseball cap to conceal himself. Despite his disfigurement, he was good at this sort of work and certainly good enough to plant a bug on Peter’s backpack, unnoticed, as the young man hurried down a busy Park Avenue. The bug was one of Stark’s that he’d repurposed, as it had to be to pass basic detection in the Tower. It transmitted both audio and tracking data, allowing Deadpool to keep relatively close dibs on Peter as he brought the backpack almost everywhere with him. At night he had to follow Spiderman the old fashioned way, and settled for losing and finding him several times over a period of hours.
It all just seemed so, so. . .
[[Dreary. Faded. That’s not our Peter.]]
Okay, so the experimental stuff at Stark Tower was a snoozefest anyway, as were the photography and biophysics classes at Empire U; but Peter himself seemed to have lost some luster. He didn’t joke or geek out like he used to, indeed barely spoke to anyone outside of formal settings. Stark briefly checked in on him at work the second day, which seemed to be the extent of his contact with the Avengers. He left his backpack at his workstation the third day, for about the length of a therapy session. No one visited him at his apartment, though the first evening he did talk halfheartedly to Aunt May on the phone.
What was more of a shock to Deadpool was that even Spidey seemed to be a shadow of himself. The older man had been blown away by Spiderman well before he’d ever met Peter Parker. That Spiderman had been a bundle of dangerous energy, swinging and flipping and fighting, shooting webs and one-liners with both vigor and flare. This Spiderman was too restrained and precise in his motions, and too economical with his words, like it wasn’t fun anymore.
[[I think the word you are looking for is Boring.]]
[THANK YOU, Yellow! Stab-yo’self-in-the-fuckin’-eye boring!]
Depressing was more like it.
On the third evening, a Thursday, Peter left his place to meet a leggy redhead, obviously a knockout even under the black winter coat. Peter had dressed up as well and looked deliciously fuckable in his tight pants, but like the predictable dork that he was, he’d brought his trusty backpack. Dressed in the disfigured hobo getup, Wade trailed them a couple icy blocks, jealous but also relieved. Peter deserved to be happy, to move on and have good things. This chick was definitely a Good Thing.
[I’d love to peep on their bedroom dancin’!]
[[Fucktards everywhere, shoot me now.]]
At the restaurant, he opted to scale a fire escape and hang out on the roof above, intent on listening to their conversation. . . Only to discover that the bombshell was the famous ex, MJ, and that, while she flirted lightly with him, his boy Peter had absolutely No Game.
“How’s the new job?” MJ inquired. Peter blabbed about science for five minutes, and MJ’s silence spoke to her own interest.
[Yawn.]
“Isn’t is cool working for Tony Stark though?” she prompted, trying to change topics to something more interesting. Peter hummed and said nothing.
[What are you DOING? We have great stories about Stark! Tell a funny one to make her laugh, then follow it up with a sexy one to get her thinking.]
“You still living in Harlem?” Deadpool’s ears perked up. What did she know about their old digs?
“Nah. Back in Brooklyn now.”
“What’s the new place look like?” MJ inquired. . . And then Peter failed to follow that up with an invitation to come check it out in person.
[What a car crash!]
Peter at least managed to ask a couple questions about her latest acting projects, but sounded mildly disengaged throughout.
[Not a. Single. Effing. Joke. About doing a little role play themselves after dinner. This is hopeless. Baby boy never gonna get laid.]
[[Heh heh. Meh heh heh.]]
[Hey look, DP! Yellow’s the crazy one for once!]
Wade couldn’t help it. He followed them after the restaurant too, onto a subway train that was recklessly close to his targets. Fortunately, the power of the Invisible Hobo Attire is mighty and universal, allowing Wade to remain unrecognized as he disembarked the train with the attractive couple. He trailed them to MJ’s apartment, where Peter said his farewells with a cringe worthy kiss to the cheek.
[Killing me heeere!]
Peter went home and, in another break from routine, didn’t patrol that night.
! ~_~ !
The three days of surveillance were complete, and the next morning Deadpool strode righteously into Stark Tower in his full leather combat suit.
“I demand an audience with Clint Barton,” he announced as pompously as possible, slapping his gloved hand down loudly on the desk.
To her credit, the desk attendant didn’t ask his name, calmly calling up and relaying Deadpool’s message. After a brief exchange, she lowered the phone and announced, “Eighty-ninth floor, conference room D.”
The ride up on the elevator was stifling, and Pool couldn’t help but inquire nervously, “Jaaarvis?”
“Yes, sir.”
He grinned under his mask, relief flooding and transforming his body. “Nothing, just checking.”
[[The last thing we need is competition in the arena of nonexistent voices.]]
[I’ll cut you, bitch!]
[[He will. He killed off Black.]
[Hunh?]
“How you been doing, brah?” Pool threw out there as he would with any normal guy.
A beat of silence and then Jarvis replied stoically, “Not bad. I have rebuffed every attack on my system, and assisted my creator in a great many ways, the exact number of which can be specified within a given time frame.”
“Good to hear. I’ve been on a roll of my own.”
The elevator opened and Deadpool strode down the hallway with intentional strength and poise. He hoped this conference room doubled as a sparring ring, cuz he was gonna kick Hawkeye’s ass.
“Hey asshole!”
The table had wisely been shoved to the wall, and Barton was standing in the far side of the room, dressed in civilian attire and holding a mean-looking tazer. “You need to calm down, man!”
Deadpool stalked closer angrily, regardless of the risk, and yet stopped a couple feet from the other man. “You let me think he was possessed!”
“No!” Barton waved the tazer in Pool’s face. “I told you he wasn’t okay, and YOU assumed that!”
“You manipulated me!” Deadpool retorted, waving his middle finger in Barton’s face as though it could compete with the tazer.
“For your own good, dickweed!” Barton defended. “I AM your fucking friend, and Peter’s! Did you NOTICE anything in your days of observation?”
[[Typical. We finally bag us a real friend and he’s a manipulative, interfering hemorrhoid-fungus.]]
Pool scowled at Clint and ground his teeth. “He’s got his own place, he’s back in school, and he’s holding down a good job. He’s getting his life back together. He even had a date last night.”
“Oh, I bet that went well,” Barton replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes and flopping his arms around. “Did he mope all over his poor victim?”
Deadpool cringed and had to concede, “Well, sorta. But having No Game is NOT the same as being possessed!”
“He’s miserable, Pool! Obviously! He spends all his time working and patrolling. The couple times I’ve gotten him to come hang out, he’s passed out on the couch.”
“So?! What’m I supposed to do about that?”
Clint looked at him like he was an imbecile, before finally changing his approach, “And what about you, Pool? You dropped off the face of the Earth for, what, four or five months? Been rediscovering the joys of life during this time?”
[It’s been a regular laugh a minute. Let’s see. . .there was the transatlantic boat, the walk across the Sahara, and, oh yeah, slaughtering half of ISIS.]
Deadpool glared angrily at his “friend”, feeling very conflicted about the entire messy situation, and Jarvis took the opportunity to interrupt, “Excuse me, Mr. Deadpool?”
Both men froze for a beat, before Deadpool responded, “Yes?”
“Peter Parker is requesting an audience.” Did Jarvis sound just a little bit sarcastic in his tone and wording?
[This can’t be a coincidence. He must’ve been scoping out the Tower. Getting rusty, DP!]
“Granted,” Deadpool barked, still glaring and Clint. His voice deepened dangerously, “I’m gonna cut your heart out with a spoon! Why? Cuz it’s dull, you twit, it’ll HURT more.”
“Would it help if I told you that I love that movie?” Clint taunted with a quirky side grin. “Prince of Thieves really floats my boat, guides my arrow so to speak.”
[[This asshole reminds me of someone. . . ]]
They traded a few more aggressive zingers before the door slid open and Peter entered the fray, dressed in civvies and looking ready to rumble, “You two! I shoulda known!”
“We’re just concerned for your welfare,” Clint preempted obnoxiously, with lightening quick verbal reflexes; he had his hands up in mock surrender, one still gripping the tazer.
“This isn’t my fault,” Deadpool rushed to defend, pointing to the archer. “He set me up – ah, fuck!”
[I’m going to break each and every bone in his body, one every ten minutes until he dies!]
“I wanna know why you're stalking me!” Peter demanded angrily, drawing closer. “I saw you last night on the train! You better not start harassing MJ, or it WILL get ugly!”
The accusations and threat cut deep, though Deadpool could hardly hold it against the younger man. He drew back as he vowed, “I wouldn’t. Of course not.”
[Peter doesn’t want a creep creeping on his new life? Why on Earth not?]
[[Lock us away in the Negative Zone if we ever get that bad.]]
“STOP! Both you idiots!” Clint commanded with natural, if rarely used authority. He paused for a beat, looking sternly at each man to make sure that he had their attention. “Yes, I perhaps spoke misleadingly, so that you would agree to look at the evidence. Which is pretty glaring in this case. Admit it, Peter, you’ve put your life back together, for which I applaud you, but you’re no happier. And Pool. Tell me again how much you’ve enjoyed traveling the world alone.”
Deadpool couldn’t help but glance at Peter then. Was it possible that Peter had missed him as much as he’d missed Peter? The blossom of hope felt delicate and in dire need of sunshine and air. Wade felt an irrational urge to yank off his mask and confess every second and detail of their time apart. . . but he couldn’t, especially not in front of Clint. His neck bent down in surrender, not even looking as he reluctantly conceded, “No, not enjoyed.”
Deadpool could feel Peter’s heavy gaze upon him, thoughtful and calculating. The silence that drew out was thick and expectant, and the longer it drew on, the tenser Deadpool became.
[Well?! Do we pass judgment? Do we meet fucking requirements?!]
“Could you maybe excuse us for a minute?” Peter asked pointedly, and Pool glanced up just quick enough to confirm that he was talking to Clint.
“Hunh? Oh, gladly! Couldn’t be happier to!” the archer exclaimed, bolting for the door and taking his tazer with him. It left Peter to stare at Deadpool’s bowed dome.
“I’ve missed you,” Peter announced easily, and the words provoked a shiver to run up Pool’s back. He shrunk back instinctively at the unexpected emotional assault, unaccustomed to feeling this raw while wearing his protective leathers. Hadn’t he just spent months steadying his mind and thickening his hide?
[[Peter. . .]]
Peter reached for a gloved hand, stilling Pool’s retreat. “Please.”
Deadpool had to say something. He had no idea what, just something true, something intimate, some offering from his side. He took a steadying breath and tried to make sense, “I’ve gotten pretty good at not thinking about you, but it’s a constant effort. Like I could go off the deep end if I thought too much about, about. . . what we lost. So I don’t, cuz I gotta manage the Crazy, and that’s just how it is.”
Peter gave a weak chuckle, squeezing Pool’s limp hand. “I understand better now, perhaps. I haven’t avoided thinking about you, but I’ve had to relearn how to think about everything that happened. I still struggle just to get out of bed some mornings, and it’s those days that I can barely stumble through. But tomorrow’s another chance at life, and I’ll do it all over again, for better or worse. Day after day until months have passed and apparently I’ve gotten my shit together.”
Under his mask Wade’s lips twisted up in a painfully tight smile, and the fragile hope grew fractionally in his chest. It was a bittersweet relief to be able identify and empathize with Peter’s words for once, while acknowledging the terrible trauma that created the shared experience. “Fuck, baby boy. I know exactly how that is. I’m just sorry it happened to you.”
Peter shrugged and looked away, dropping Pool’s hand so it suddenly felt heavy and clumsy. The persistent awkwardness was emotionally eviscerating, so he let his nerves overflow and blurted, “I’m living in Toronto these days, you know.”
[See what we did there? Come check out my digs some time.]
“Yeah.” Peter gave a jittery smile. “That’s what Stark said after we ran into you in Central Park. He’s been lying to me and tracking you this whole time.”
“I assumed as much,” Pool conceded with a full body shrug and good grace. Then he slanted his masked face towards Peter to express his sincerity, “But I swear, I wasn’t stalking you. Barton convinced me that you’d been possessed again, and charged me with surveillance.”
Peter scowled slightly at him, all skeptical and hands on his hips all prissy-like. “And you bought that?”
“Sure, at first,” Deadpool admitted with a shrug. “But I, uh, probably let it go farther than I should have.”
[That’s what she said.]
[[That’s what WE said, jizzbrain. Let us count the ways!]]
“STOP!” Deadpool ordered vehemently, stamping his boot loudly even on the carpet. The boxes shut up for a moment, and Deadpool forced himself focus on Peter. “Sorry. I’ve been doing better, really, but I’m, uh, back to talking to myself.”
Deadpool didn’t like the look of maybe pity on Peter’s face as he shook his head and said, “Don’t be sorry. I’ve never minded.” That was pretty hard to believe. “I just hope they aren’t saying anything too horrible.”
[Any chance for a pity fuck?]
Deadpool had never been on good terms with an ex, and he couldn’t say he particularly cared for the experience now. How was he supposed to protect himself from the pain when Peter kept sending touchy feels and kind words his way? “Nothing worse than usual.”
“So you spied on everything going on in my life. What. . . what have you been up to?”
“You won’t believe me if I tell you,” Deadpool warned, guilt robbing him of his enthusiasm. The manic rant on this topic, which he’d composed many times in his head, would remain scripted but undelivered.
“Oh yeah?” Peter teased back gently. “I’m pretty jaded. I’ve seen some pretty unbelievable things.”
[♪♬ Do you believe in life after love? I really don’t think we’re strong enough! ♪♬]
“I stowed away on a ship crossing the Atlantic,” he offered hesitantly, testing for the reaction.
“Hm,” Peter barely acknowledged.
So Pool upped the ante, “I threw myself off a waterfall in Japan, where spurned lovers famously jump to their deaths.”
“Of course you did.” Peter actually turned away from him and sat in a conference chair, which wouldn’t do at all.
“I crossed the Sahara on foot!” Pool announced proudly, hauling his ass up on the table next to the other man. He crossed and swung his long legs in front of him provocatively.
“Well, that is something I suppose,” Peter conceded lazily, glancing away with feigned disinterest.
“I slaughtered the better half of ISIS!” Deadpool boasted menacingly, leaning in close so that their faces were inches apart and Peter couldn’t look away.
“So that’s what happened,” Peter deadpanned, eyebrow arched.
“You aren’t impressed at all?” Deadpool whined in petulant disappointment, lip pouting under his mask.
“I’ve always been impressed, Wade. You know that,” Peter flattered and assured with an affectionate smile. “It certainly sounds more exciting than what I’ve been doing here.”
[[We love you, Peter! You always have the right words to say!]]
“I don’t think rebuilding your life is supposed to be exciting,” Deadpool offered, nervous about their easy repartee but also eager to reach out, to encourage this revival. “Plus, all that epic adventure shit sounds a lot better on paper. Ninety five percent suffering and deprivation is what it was, followed by five percent teeth cracking adrenaline. It was good for the soul, I guess; or in my case, it was good for the mind, but it still SUCKED big time. I missed. . . uh, you know, the developed world and everything.”
[We missed waking up to your perfect face, jerking off to your amazing lips, then sucking you awake, your pretty cock in my mouth and my fingers parting your cheeks; we missed licking the sweat off your back, the cum off your stomach, chocolate from inside your mouth; we missed the dirty words whispered in your ear, the love songs belted from our lungs, and the teasing, twisting dance we did around each other, like two flames burning intricately into one.]
[[THAT’s what you’ve taken from the incinerator experience that you don’t even remember?!]]
Peter smiled at him, and then seemed to slip reluctantly out of the chair. “I need to head to class now. . . But it sounds like we have a lot to talk about. You gonna be in town for a few days?”
[Now that’s an invitation if I’ve ever heard one.]
Wary excitement sloshed through Deadpool. “It’s gonna take at least that long to pay Barton back.”
Peter gave him a one-sided smirk, “You get on that.”