With a kick in the head
They had a system, now. A weird, nonsensical system that involved a burner phone, a police scanner, and a supposedly wanted mercenary. Peter would usually prompt Daredevil for information involving a case, he would receive a message from the horned hero with a place and a time, and somehow Deadpool would just…show up. It was kind of nice, almost like working together with the Avengers again, or more like teaming up with the alternate versions of himself. Peter’s 1 and 3 were far more similar to his ragtag group than the ‘Earth's Mightiest Heroes’; they had a far better sense of humor, too.
Daredevil was gruff and strict, and he always seemed to have a deep drive or goal that pushed him to fight. Peter admired that—the desire to protect the city, to protect someone—and he often felt himself turning to the more seasoned hero for help above anyone else. They understood each other in a way only scrappy makeshift vigilantes could, somehow below the funded and expertly trained Avengers, but also more personable with the city, more familiar with who they were fighting for.
Deadpool was unhinged, to put it lightly. He was loud and goofy, doing the most to achieve a bit or a comical performance. Peter also related to that (although the was far less dedicated), in trying to find the levity to a situation, in not taking himself so seriously. It was difficult sometimes when he got wrapped up in his own issues, in his grief, but in the suit he was allowed to be free, removed from Peter Parker and all of his mistakes. He was allowed to clown, as Deadpool would probably refer to it as. He didn’t know much about him past what Daredevil had told him, and what he had hastily googled after their first meet up, but he seemed to be working on moving on from a darker career path. He seemed like he wanted to help.
He was also unhinged, if you can recall Peter mentioning, and it was brought out not only in his subdued bloodlust, but also in the strange, unprompted things he said.
It was just after they’d successfully busted a trafficking operation, climbing up to the rooftops to lick their wounds and catch their breaths as the cops sorted through the aftermath. Spider-Man wasn’t the best of friends with the police, especially not after the entire Mysterio situation, which still hung over him even if no one could place his true name to the crime.
Daredevil and Deadpool seemed to be in a similar condition; the horned vigilante would always tilt his head, warning low of the incoming cruisers and making sure the three of them escaped with little notice. Peter couldn’t help but leave a sticky note, every once and a while, explaining just how much work they’d done in the absence of any licensed law enforcement. Sticking them to the ground with his webs that would disintegrate in a few hours was just a small victory on his part, a sense of vindication in the light of annoying cops.
Peter was nursing a most definitely sprained wrist, sighing and wondering how much he’d have to stitch up his suit after getting a few slices with stray bullets or barely dodged knives. Deadpool had gotten shot a few times, but it didn’t seem to bother him any, digging out the bullets that didn’t fly straight through and lounging on his back as his skin knitted itself back together.
Peter found it strange, and interesting in a morbid kind of way, but he was also courteous enough to turn his face away at the gritty, gory bits so the mercenary could heal as he needed without prying eyes. Daredevil seemed like he’d cracked a rib or two, leaning heavy against the ledge and favoring one side over the other. Peter had helped him climb up, and he was now wondering if he should hop into the nearest convenience store to get a bag of ice for the poor guy.
“We should get dinner,” Deadpool said, after they’d sat in silence for a while. Peter sort of jumped at his voice, stuck in his own head as he waited for his wrist to stop throbbing insistently. The only indication that Daredevil was even listening was the smallest tilt of his head, still mostly turned towards the city below them.
“It’s 2 am.” The other answered, evenly, and Deadpool nodded, even though he was laying kind of far behind him.
“You’re right. I was being too forward,” He thought for a moment, then added, “We should get married.”
Peter had to cover his mouth to stop himself from snorting, which was somehow both less and more effective than he expected through a mask.
“We really shouldn’t.” Daredevil answered, still irritatingly stoic, and Peter wondered if he could teach him how to do that too, alongside the boxing lessons.
The ‘reformed’ mercenary sat up on his elbows, leaning his head back to look at them. “Yeah, but wouldn’t it be kind of fun?”
“No.”
Deadpool sighed, crossing his arms and knocking himself back down to the cement. “I love how we disagree, baby,” He crooned, straight up into the air.
“Don’t call me that.” Daredevil replied, his tone no louder, even and irritated.
“Okay!” Deadpool sent him two thumbs up, which again met the air. Peter watched, exasperated when he turned to him, and he knew he was batting his eyelashes under the white lenses. He started struggling to his feet, wheezing as his barely-healed body protested against the quick movement. “We should—“
“Not gonna happen,” Peter interrupted, and he slammed his fists to the ground, dejected.
“Fine!” Deadpool stood and turned, huffing, facing the opposite direction that Daredevil was, subsequently turning away from Peter as well. He wondered how he found himself in this situation. Then he tried to force himself to stop wondering because he would start laughing, and Deadpool would probably pout harder if he did that.
Peter ended up getting the ice, and a bit of gauze for Deadpool, who was still dripping with blood and ‘cosplaying swiss cheese’ as he’d dubbed it. They were all out of commission for the night, so he made sure they were okay before bidding his farewell, staggering down the side of the building and heading towards the subway. He knew if he tried to swing, he would only jostle his arm more, and he was only kind of an idiot when it came to self-care, so he walked. He strolled into an alleyway, scaling the wall and making a few detours before finally returning to his apartment, stripping off his suit and collapsing in bed. He kind of wished he’d kept some of the ice for himself, but it didn’t matter anyways.
He laid there, and he thought. He was trying to categorize his new ‘team’, but to no avail, walking himself in circles and tiring himself out. They had a dynamic that Peter had never really experienced before, but he kept trying to place or compare to past circumstances. He found himself sinking into a soft, weird familiarity with the other two costumed freaks. He found himself enjoying their company. It was almost like having friends again, even when he continued to pull away from the people in his civilian life. It was almost like having someone looking out for him, even when they didn’t know who he was under the mask.
He always found himself thinking of Ben, or May, or even Tony, and trying to slot the two red-clad men into those roles. They never fit, or it would feel wrong and obtrusive in some sense to replace them, but it was also an easy distinction. They weren’t his parents, or guardians, or any figure that would replace such, but they were there. Peter liked that—he let himself like it.
When Deadpool offered to buy him a taco at 4 in the morning on a Wednesday, he let him, and they swung their legs over the top of a storage container in a construction site. Daredevil was off running around somewhere back in Hell’s Kitchen, but he had clapped Peter on the shoulder and told him to get some rest. They were there, and they saw him, and they liked him.
He was sort of getting better at accepting the whole “help” thing. Even when it entailed an angry cautionary tale and a retired killer. Even when it meant spitting out a mouthful of rice and chicken after Deadpool said the stupidest, funniest thing he’d ever heard in his entire goddamn life. Even when it meant giving his phone number to him, and to Daredevil, for that matter, and telling them to contact him whenever. Even when it meant being known, in a tiny little capacity.
He was evolving. He was swallowing his guilt. He was having fun. He liked to think it was what May would’ve wanted for him; to keep living.