Sister Margrets is packed from the stage front to the stairs leading out. Glasses are steamed up from the humid, cramped mass circling the pit; body heat and sweat, a hundred people breathing and hollering across the room. They scream bloody murder, the venue is fuelled by a mutual, raging anger. Osborne still reigned his corrupt cesspool of a country, the election that could have sparked hope for their futures was lost. So what the hell were they gonna do about it?
Hobie downs his drink, his throat dry after a gruelling hour-long set, tossing the paper cup offstage. Hell, he hates the US as much as anyone else in this place, he’d return back to England any day, but hes found friends here, a community- and he sure as fuck wasn’t gonna let any government separate them. He’s already heard at least eight assassination plans, punks swearing they’ll choke Osborne out with their bare hands. Hobie favours justice over murder, but the truth is, some people are so sick with power and hate that killing them is the only justice that can be served. And if anyone deserved that punishment, it was Norman-fucking-Osborne.
He takes that storm of anger swelling in his chest and lets it run through his fingers, striking a chord on his old guitar, feeling the buzz vibrate through his hands. It charges through his heart in a static pulse- he plays again, in no particular order, he lets those emotions drive him. Murdock crashes symbols, slamming drums in a violently rhythmic beat. Karl plays his own guitar in similar, unchoreographed fashion, swinging himself around the stage.
Hobie adjusts the mic stand, Karl takes lead on guitar as Hobie yells, “We don’t have an army. We don’t have a shield wall of pigs to cower behind,” The crowd jeers, Hobie grins, clenching a fist, “-but we got each other. We gotta look out for each other. We ain’t gonna stand still and let ‘em knock us about.” The music screeches, harsh and vibrant, reverberating off the walls. “We still got our voices, and we still got our fuckin’ music!” He plays the first notes of a practiced song, the rest of the band catch on, falling in sync. The spotlights flash pink and purple, the crowd jumps and howls, spinning and crashing into each other. Kicking and screeching as they dance, ramming into one another, laughing through grins and banging their heads to the music.
Smothered by the crowd, leaning unusually relaxed against the bar, a man nurses a paper cup. This seems like the only place he doesn’t stick out in his dirty red leather get-up: modelling a scarlet-plaid miniskirt with studded belts, sleeveless black vest and haphazardly-cut crop top over his suit, his combat boots are tied with dark blue lace. He doesn't drink; his face is concealed behind a mask. He watches Hobie over the swarm of heads- half-listening to his friend-slash-venue manager, Weasel, but the majority of his focus is drawn towards the lead singer.
He sighs, speaking to Weasel, but his gaze remains fixed on the stage. “Do you still have that spare room upstairs?”
Weasel narrows his eyes, then follows his friend's gaze, then his eyes widen drastically. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. Occupied. No way, Wade.”
“Aw, come on, Weas! I'm a decent roomie when I need to be.”
“No. No way you're crashing up in my place again. Not after last time.” Weasel shudders.
Wade cocks his head, trying to recall. “With the X-Men singer? Figures- he was nasty, not in the bad way- though I guess it depends on what you're into-”
“I don't wanna hear it. I already heard it. All of it. It haunts me, Wade.”
“Aren't the X-men scheduled to play next Saturday? Cause I'd be happy to take Logan for a round two–”
Weasel holds up a hand, pleading with him to stop. “Go. Go sleep under a bridge somewhere. Just- please, stay out of my place.” He goes back to serving others. Wade goes back to swirling his cup, looking up at the stage.
Webs glows with a radioactive energy underneath the neon lights- Wade wonders if he hallucinates the way Hobie’s figure stutters a spectrum of colours, flashing red and blue to hot pink and lime green, black and white then blue again. He seems to move out of time with the rest of the world- shifting in and out of sync, a divergence in his programming. Wade can't drag his eyes away; he stares in awe.
“You are one eye-fuck away from getting blacklisted from this place.” Weasel sighs. “What's with the mask?”
“Aw, you noticed! I added new spikes. You like them?”
“Why are you wearing it. Is this another episode of fucked up face dysphoria or are you working? Cause you know our rule, Wilson. Stay out of my venue when you're on the job.”
“No jobs, Weas. Just needed to make sure he'll recognize me.” He sighs dreamily, “You think he'll remember me? It's been so long..”
“You are insufferable.” Weasel groans.
Wade waves him off, still gazing over at the stage. Casually, he turns to ask, “Would you be my wingman?”
“Never.”
“Wow. No hesitation. At least let me get him a drink?” He asks hopefully.
Weasel sighs, exasperated, slamming a cup down. “Don't you already know the guy?”
“Call it an apology drink.” Wade shrugs, “Haven't seen him in months. Feel like I owe him.”
“Then buy it with your own damn money, Wade. You owe me at least a grand on unpaid tabs. Fuck you, you're not getting one for your rockstar crush.”
Wade mutters something about capitalist bastards. He starts fishing through his pouches for money as the music dies down, replaced with an explosion of cheers and shouts, whistles and laughter.
Wade jumps up, shouting louder than the whole venue to get his attention- “Hey, Webs!!”
He sees those familiar red sparks fizz around his skull as his head shoots up, flicking over in Wade's direction. He spots the red suit and his eyes light up, his face breaking into a wild grin as he jumps through the crowd to get towards him.
“Pool? Dead-fucking-Pool! My guy! Where the hell have you been, mate?”
“The one and only!” Wade kicks away from the bar, holding his arms open. “Been a while, Webs.”
Hobie grabs his vest to pull him into a hug, a vibrant pink glows around him. “Promised you’d come see our last show.”
“Better late than never.” Wade grins, pulling back to see his face again, “How many have I missed..?”
Hobie rolls his eyes, Wade rests an arm on his shoulder, leaning as Hobie counts on his fingers- he doesn’t bother trying to shove him off. “Four. Didn't even bother calling, prick.”
“Sorta lost my phone.. in an explosion…”
“Not surprised. ‘Ts why I was counting on you showing up to the gig.” Hobie punches him lightly on the shoulder. “I missed you, man.”
Wade sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Can I buy you a drink? We can forgive and forget! Just forgive? It won't happen again, cross my heart.”
Hobie grimaces, “Not a fan of the drinks at this place. Shit tastes dodgy.” He shoots a vaguely apologetic look in Weasel’s direction, but he's at the other end of the bar, telling shitty jokes to a small circle of drunk goths.
“There's a milkshake place down the road?” Wade suggests. “Expensive as hell, in classic small business fashion, but fuck, they know how to make a milkshake.”
Hobie's eyes lighten up, he cracks a smile, “Now you're talking, mate. Lead the way.”
Wade curtsies, the gentleman that he is, holding out a hand. Hobie takes it with a grin, swaying a little as he pulls them through the hoard of people, politely avoiding the throuple making out on the stairs up, ducking their heads to avoid the low-ceilng at the exit.
Out into the cold chill of the night, where the air isn't so thick with the dampness of sweat and humid breath, Wade takes a deep breath. Hobie stuffs his hands in his pockets, eyeing Deadpool with curiosity. “You didn’t answer my question. Where’ve you been?”
“Oh, you know. Here and there, work’s been busy since the election. I’ve started taking jobs for free at this rate.”
Hobie raises his eyebrows. “Shits getting worse, huh.” He elbows him in the ribs, “Saw they arrested you a month back. Fucked up those Osborne Nazis down in Brooklyn.” His head rolls to the side as they turn a corner, Wade leads him to a dusty pastel pink cube of a cafe tucked in-between two closed off stores. “How’d you get outta that mess?”
“I have a really good lawyer, Spikes.” Wade winks, pushing open the door. A small bell rings inside. “What d'ya want?”
Hobie shrugs with nonchalance. “Whatever you're having.”
“Great! Cause I can only afford one.” Wade struts into the shop and orders a cookies-and-cream strawberry milkshake sundae surprise, with two straws. Hobie wonders if it's the last thing he'll ever drink, but isn't that just the joy of life. Wade gives him a double thumbs up.
Back out in the cold night, they talk about the state of the world, electric guitars and the possible existence of an infinite multiverse, standing close with the milkshake between them, Deadpool’s mask is pushed up over his nose. The purpose of two straws is forgotten as they end up sharing both of them.
“Why’d you come back now?” Hobie questions, leaning in to take another sip.
Wade leans against him as they walk, his head tilted enough to adore the way the street lights shine on Spidey’s spikes, the studs over his eyebrow and ring on his lip. He flickers black and white, green and pink, black to blue. Even if it is just Wade's deteriorating mind, it sure as fuck has to mean something.
From his silence, Hobie looks back to him, their eyes meet. “You need a place to crash, right?”
Wade takes a deep sigh. “Yeahh. Getting a little tired of the cardboard boxes in alleyways. Pretty dick move, though. Disappearing for months then showing up to beg for a place to stay.”
Hobie snorts, “When’ve you ever cared about being a dick?”
“When I'm being a dick to you, mostly.” Wade grins.
Hobie smiles, rolling his eyes. “Worst part is I always forgive you for it, too. Now you're just taking the piss.” He tosses the empty milkshake cup into a nearby bin, taking Wade's hand and walking ahead, “C’mon, we gotta get the train to Brooklyn.”
–🕸️–