Prologue (ish)
“You're fuckin’ crazy, man!”
“If you didn’t want to get caught stealing a car, maybe you shouldn’t dress like a car thief, you know?” Spider-Man looked the felon up and down, handlessly gesturing to his scruffy face and all black clothes.
“You think you’re better than me? Menace!” The man tried to tug his hand away from the webbing that connected him to the door handle, “The hell is this?” Peter couldn’t help but roll his eyes when the man used his free hand to reach into his pocket. His spider-senses went off like clockwork, however unnecessary, and he shot another web sticking the man's hand to his jeans.
“Really? I’m still the menace?” Spider-Man pulled out a pack of yellow sticky notes and a pen from who-knows-were and started scribbling until he heard sirens. Cheering, he stuck the note to his frightened criminal's forehead, “Aw yeah, it's the boys in blue!”
“What? You can’t leave me here, c’mon man, I have kids!”
He ignored the man's pleading and webbed away as soon as the first police car screeched to a stop on scene, perching himself on the roof of the car lot and eyeing for another to hop to while whatever-his-name-was screamed something about J. Jonah Jameson being right. What's Jameson’s issue with Spidey anyway? He literally saved his life when the Bugle got attacked by the Green Goblin-- not that Jameson didn’t find a way to turn it on Spider-Man regardless.
That whole ordeal was a disaster, in JJJ’s defense. Across the board.
Geez.
Carjackers, muggers, bar fights, it was as if every petty criminal in the city just knew that Peter Parker had an essay on Heisenberg's Indeterminacy Principle due tomorrow.
What kind of physics class assigns essays, anyway?
Spider-Man landed on a rooftop, leaning against the ledge with heavy breaths. He’s hardly half-way through the night, is this what getting old feels like? Bummer.
He’s not even that old yet; Since he got his powers at 14 his drinking life had been over before it could even start (fast metabolism, and all that jazz), that made him feel a little lame when he started college, but 23 is still young! Peter’s the youngest of all his peers, granted most people usually are when they first start a grad-program, but the point stands.
His stomach grumbles and he suddenly remembers why he’s feeling so crummy tonight. His early mid-life crisis will have to wait while Spider-Man searches for an open take-out place so he can stop foaming at the mouth. He crawls down the side of the building, opting to find a restaurant on foot. There's a 24-hour pizza place a block away, tried and true but is he willing to spend twenty bucks on it?
Even his deliberation is interrupted, though, by a hoarse shriek. Because if it's not one thing, it’s another. Double bummer.
Spidey is on his feet, then swinging in less than a second. He quickly discovers that the scream came from an alley just a couple of buildings away. It’s a young woman, no more than twenty-one, haphazardly dry heaving against a dumpster. It reeked of a horrid mixture of bodily odors. He landed half-gracefully on the concrete, “Hey, hey, are you okay? What’s-”
And then he saw it.
He wasn’t even sure what it was. A body? It was mangled beyond all recognition, what looked like fingers sprinkled around in pools of blood and… he wouldn’t even bring himself to look at the rest of it. Needless to say, his appetite vanished.
Could a human body even produce that much blood?
Maybe it wasn’t a body at all. Maybe all those late nights and long days were finally catching up to him. Maybe that rancid, stomach churning smell of pennies and urine was in his head. Maybe it wasn’t even human, just rotten meat from a local butcher that didn’t make it into the dumpster. The fingers? A lot of things can look like severed human fingers. With bright blue acrylic nails. And a fucking engagement ring.
He felt sick. The blood stained concrete spun beneath his feet, the air in his lungs punched out. Peter was all too familiar with that metallic smell, so strong he could practically taste it at the back of his throat.
It had been eight-and-a-half very short years since Green Goblins' big attack on New York. Peter and Gwen were talking again for the first time since the death of Captain Stacy. Because for some stupid, selfish reason, he had decided that her fathers dying wish could be ignored.
And look where it got her.
Just when he had started to think that maybe, just maybe, everything could start to be okay again after Ben. The striking Deja Vu, glaring down at his blood soaked hands, the way it followed the grooves of his palm and dripped down the tips of his fingers. He couldn’t blame anyone else, not like he had with the man who killed Ben. He certainly couldn’t blame Dr. Connors for Gwen's dad, or Mr. Osborn for Gwen. They were unwell, they needed help, and Spider-Man… Peter… he couldn’t save them. Everyone around him is always caught in the crossfire of his problems. Peter Parker was just bad luck. An open umbrella indoors, a broken mirror, a tails-up penny.
A ladybug killer.
The woman's broken, choked back sobs jolted him back to reality. She was looking up at Spider-Man for direction. He blinked at his hands. Dry and gloved. The only thing leaking from the tips of his fingers now is guilt. It's the same violent, deep red, and it pools in his palms all the same. Plaintive and quiet.
“Do you have your phone on you?” He put his hand on the back of her shoulder-blade, in some lame attempt at comfort. She nodded shakily, pulling it out from the back pocket of her jeans, “Call the police,”
She just saw a brutal murder and the best you can offer is that she calls someone else?
“Don’t leave, please,”
“Hey, no, hey, I’m not gonna leave you.” Spider-Man softened his demeanor, “I’ll be right here while they take your statement, I’ll walk you home after, okay?” The woman nodded gratefully, despite his lacking caretaking skills, her manicured nails digging into the fabric of his sleeve for balance while she dialed 9-1-1 with her other hand.
Sirens blared against his skull, hardly lowering to a rumble even at the station.
He really thinks he might throw up.
--------
“You know what else?”
“Huh,”
“Taxis in New York were originally red and green,”
“When did they change them?” Wade prompted, “After Christmas?” The little girl thought about it for a moment, while Wade ushered her to a row of seats near the airport terminal.
“Nineteen… twe-elve, I think,” She drawled, slightly unsure, “It wasn’t for Christmas, though,” Wade slumped down into a chair with a heavy thump from his two duffel bags hitting the floor, Ellie followed en suite with her plastic blue Frozen II backpack, thumping into her seat with the same motion.
“You hungry? We’ve still got a half-hour until boarding,” He dug through his pant pockets for his wallet.
“Arbys,”
“I don’t think this airport has Arbys, Jellie bean,”
“Arby's strawberry milkshake,” She added.
“Ew, those taste like the yogurt from those chewy breakfast bars,”
“Don’t yuck my yum dad,”
“Where’d you learn that phrase?” Wade snorted.
“Grammy,” Ms. Camacho, “She says it all the time to tia Juliet,”
“That's ‘cause your tia has good taste,” He said, very matter-of-factly.
“She puts ketchup on eggs,” Ellie wrinkled her nose, much to Wade’s amusement.
“Don’t yuck my yum, El,” He slipped a ten dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to her, “Go pick out some snacky-stuffs from those vending machines over there, whatever you want. We’ll get a proper meal when we land, alright?”
“Arbys?”
“That's not a proper meal,” Wade said, but Ellie was already trotting off to the vending machine, not even looking back. He smiled, gratefully and ear-to-ear.
“Welcome to The Big Apple, El!” He slid a duffle bag down his shoulder and into his hand, stepping into the airport.
“Do you know why it's called the big apple?” Wade grinned, Ellie had spent the better part of an hour and a half listing off every fact possible about New York City. There were a few points where he thought, naively: That's it! There are no more facts, that's all of them! All the information about New York that exists has just been said! Wade has no idea where she fits all this information, but he has an inkling that he’ll be throwing a lot of money at schools in the not-so-distant future.
“Why?”
“‘Cause of horse races”
“What? Really?” She only nodded in response, somewhat revelling in her fathers genuine interest. Ellie elaborated, something about prizes and then tourism that Wade couldn’t quite connect.
Wade called a cab, the screech of speeding tires were loud through the speaker and in no more than thirty minutes was the screeching and sounds of people yelling heard outside the phone, a bright yellow car coming to a hasty stop right in front of them.
“Mr. Pool! Long time no see,” The cabbie greeted him while Ellie tugged at his sleeve, pulling him down to her height before leaning closer to his ear.
“Who’s mister Pool?” She whispered.
“Ellie, this is an old friend, Dopinder,” Wade stood up straight, half-ignoring her question, and opened the back passenger door to usher her in, “Dopinder, this is my daughter Eleanor,”
“You have a daughter?!”
I was surprised too, he wants to reply, but he doesn’t. Instead, he slides in next to Ellie and quietly opens Google Maps to show Dopinder their destination, using his free hand to help the girl with her seat belt.
“I can do it myself, dad!”
“I can do it myself, dad!” Wade mimicked in a high-pitched voice, earning him an annoyed groan.
“It’s nice to meet you, Eleanor!” She responds with a sheepish mhm, and Dopinder continues, “Your dad and I go way back, he helped me get with Gita!”
“No way, you actually went for it?” Wade clapped his hands together excitedly.
“Well, not exactly… but I’m getting very close!”
“Is Gita your crush?” Ellie piped in, leaning forward in her seat.
“Oh, she is more than a crush, she’s the love of my life!”
“When a boy had a crush on me, he gave me some chewy chips ahoy, does Gita like chips ahoy?”
“A boy what?” Wade looked over at her with a goading grin, “Why is this the first time I’m hearing of any boy?”
“I said no,” She confirmed with confidence, “I’m out of his league,”
“Ok, sassy-pants, what does your grandmother have you watching when you’re with her?” Ms. Camacho you have got to stop watching those shows around Ellie. Wade half-considers texting Ms. Camacho about it, but decides it's not important enough. He opts to snap a photo instead, as evidence that the two of them-- or more specifically that Ellie had landed safely.
It’s a long ride to their destination while Dopinder shares his woes of his love life with an eight-year-old. Wade only occasionally chimes in when Dopinder mentions the Kidnapping Incident he-- Allegedly-- incited, or something else unfit for her ears.
When they finally arrived after a slow three hours, Wade waved Dopinder off with a high five and a promise to get a drink sometime soon and carried his sleeping daughter in one arm up to their new home. He stopped in front, just to take in the look of it. Beige brick walls with windows that trailed every which way and an utterly red front door. Wade briefly turned back to glance at Dopinder, but he’d already left. This was it.
It was a nice place. They had the top floor to themselves, a perk of having favors he hadn’t been around to cash in yet, and a couple of extra bedrooms he wasn’t sure what to do with, but it was yet to be furnished. The relative “fancy-ness” of the eggshell white apartment was a stark contrast to Ellies blue and purple Elsa sleeping bag sprawled out on the pale wooden living room floor.
Wade made a list in his head of all the things they were going to need: definitely a bed for Ellie, she’ll have to pick out her room tomorrow too, maybe she’ll want to paint the walls? What kind of supplies does that require? Her old bedroom had a mural on the wall, maybe he’ll get someone to paint another one. He sat criss-crossed next to his daughter, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath. He was going to make it work, whatever it was.
He needs a job, too, Wade reminds himself. It's not that he was short on money, but it was only a matter of time before he needed to start working again. Better to bite the bullet now, right? Finding a gig shouldn’t be too difficult, what's a couple more excursions in the gold ol’ red and black leather suit? He’s got two pretty good references to get back in the game.
Deadpool surreptitiously slides Arthur and Bea into the sheethes on his back. Careful to peek into the living room and ensure the girl was still asleep. God, is he really going to do this? She shuffles in her sleep and holds tighter onto one of her dolls, and he decides that he has to.
Was this responsible? No, not exactly. He’d have to keep this quick, so he could be back before sunrise. Wade glanced pensively back at Ellie before slipping out the door. He walked the trail with practiced ease to what he could only reasonably refer to as his second home.
“Where you been avocado-fucker?”
“Nice to see you too, Weas,” Wade slumped down into a barstool.
“What brings you back to the states? Thought you had some big crazy thing happening back in Canada,”
“I uh, I did, it’s settled now,” Yeah, Weasel of all people does not need to know about her.
“Suspicious, lucky for you I don’t really care that much, you just here to visit or are you lookin’ for work?” He leaned over the bar with his arms crossed.
“Work,”
“Alright,” Weasel slid a gold card across the counter, he must’ve had it in his hand from the moment he walked in the door, “Buyer needs this done in the next couple weeks, make it quick,”
“You know I only need a night,” Deadpool grinned through his mask.
{A night? That’s mighty confident of you}
[Are you sure you’re still capable? Maybe you should just keep playing family, leave the business to the adults]
The boxes had been quiet for so many hours he’d forgotten about them. Wade grumbled at them to shut up as he hastily hopped up and stomped out the door.
Haa.
Fuck.