Chapter 1
Maybe passive death by starvation messed up some of the already screwed atoms in his head or whatever, but Deadpool is probably going to come from this burger.
Which is, well, pretty disappointing. Not that the burger isn’t good enough to warrant it—god is this shit good—but his suit is clean and new for what must be the first time in ages (a gift, courtesy of Wolfgang puck and his merry crew of robin hood-en) but mini-Wade is standing stock still at attention and the farmer who grew this tomato must have jizzed in it the power of love and jesus christ himself because holy shit, tomatoes are never this good?
You ever maybe consider you just havn’t fucked anyone in a while? The closest you're gonna get to some action is that slice of ham you're drooling over.
[The ham doesn’t want us either]
“That was plain hurtful, guys,” He pouts, shoveling another bite in his mouth and oh, fucking great; it doesn’t taste as revolutionary anymore. Nothing like the reminder of your single-ness to ruin a perfectly good meal.
He’s still gonna eat it, though, because food isn’t cheap and the last of it went to sharpening his katanas. Whatever. Who cares. Dignity is for people who can afford it.
[Why would anyone want to fuck you when you almost bit your finger off just now.]
“Uh, because I’m a catch? There’s no other piece of fresh, shriveled ass like this anywhere this side of New York.”
Did a blind woman tell you that
“Don’t be stupid. Spider-man did.” A beat, and Wade rolls the mask down over his face, hands tucked behind his head. The rest of his burger has been abandoned for whatever starved, dying pigeon needs it. His appetite isn’t as gut-wrenching. “It was a dream, and he was dressed suspiciously like Marilyn Monroe, but a guy like us takes what he can get.”
White and Yellow lull in to silence, partly because there's nothing else to talk about and partly because mentioning Spider-man in any sense tends to shut them up for a while, so Deadpool sits back and enjoys the silence, heavily considering the pros and cons of jerking on off right there on the building all Homelander–style when a guy just sort of—
Appears.
Well.
Okay, so, he doesn’t appear. There's this really cool ripping thing that happens and then an honest to god portal shows up out of nowhere, and Deadpool cranes his head, squinting to make out the form that steps out of it when—
“Oh, wow,” He says, because he’s shameless and he’s horny and people shouldn't be built like that if pervs like Deadpool can just roam free in the world and even though he’s at least five blocks away he knows this guy would be a blast in bed.
Tall, dark, and clad in a suit that looks like a color swapped version of his, Wade (and mini-Wade) watches with very piqued interest as a man lumbers out wards, stretching his arm like there's a crick in it he’ll never be able to lose. Maybe it’s from carrying those shoulders. Can those things even be called shoulders? If this guy was standing on a lawn, the HOA would probably have to be called just to trim down those absolute traps.
[See, it’s thinking like this keeping us from getting all hot and bothered in spidey spandex.]
I don't know why we’re not just jerking off. Good meal, good view; you’re so high maintenance now.
“No-can-do, Whitey Tighties,” He slips his katanas back into their sheaves, heaving himself upwards before eyeing the ledge with no lack of resignation. These things are always much easier to go up than down. He shrugs, then takes a running head start before leaping off and aiming at what is hopefully a fire escape and not an open window pane. “Spidey says we should be good, up–” A crash, and his body goes skidding down the pavement, curling into a ball. Definitely broke something. “Upstanding citi–” He cradles his side, stumbling to a stand. “–Citizens. Yeah, that's–that's broken. For sure. ” He stumbles down the street, grunting.“This is me doing my part.”
[Sticking our nose in other people's lives?]
“It’s not sticking my nose if he just shredded open the atoms of air, Yellow!” A woman to his left grimaces, giving him a wide berth, and he’s thankful for the space as his voice drops to a hiss, skipping around a corner. “I will blow my brains out if it means you’ll give me some peace.”
You lose ninety-eight percent of your character appeal without us.
“Ninety-eight is a bit of an overstatement.” But then oh, well, there he is. Hunky in the—
Not…blue?
“He was in a suit.” Wade says, blanking. In front of him is an absolute monster of a man, chiseled back with a tight white button up barely clinging onto it and the nicest, sweetest ass he’s seen in a while. Deadpool has to bite back a whistle. “He was wearing a suit, right? Like a full on mega villain, I-suck-my-own-dick sort of thing. Am I stupid? I could be stupid.”
He must be, because Hunk-without-the suit is currently towering over what must be the world's smallest churro cart, thumbing through some old fashioned leather back wallet before pulling out a crisp twenty. He looks like a sane, healthy man. He looks normal.
He looks hot.
That, too.
“Do you think if I ask really nicely,” He mutters, slipping nearer the treeline, “He’ll stuff me like a churro?”
[The churro would pop and so would you. Christ, what is he, seven feet tall?]
Popping is pretty fun. I wouldn’t mind popping if it comes from him
“Regeneration is good for that kind of stuff.” It’s mumbled under his breath as he slinks behind the crowd, watching Hunky weave his way through people as if he doesn’t have the shoulder span of a fridge. It’s disconcerting enough that Wade forces himself to focus on the fact that this guy spawned from a portal and not on his fantastic, gift-from-god ass.
For all that Deadpool just—is, in his day to day life, stealth isn’t something he’s particularly adverse to, and he watches with keen interest as the man eats one bite of his churro before making a face, chucking it. His steps are heavy and sure, like he has somewhere to be but has all the time to get there, and there's this—this anger about him that seems impossible to shake. It’s woven into his very being, stitched into the hard set of his jaw and down the clenched flex of his fists.
(‘Very familiar,’ a part of him purrs. ‘Very, very familiar.’
There is something not right about him, about this. It goes beyond the portal and the suit and into something primal, inhumane.)
(‘Like you,’ the voice says. It is not white or yellow or even his own consciousness. ‘Like us.’)
The plaza gives way to streets gives way to alleys, and Wade decides now is as good a time as any to make himself known.
“So,” He says, more for lack of conversation starters than anything. In front of him, Hunky jerks, stilling in his tracks. His hands still where they've been tapping at his wristwatch. “Nice weather we’re having, huh?”
There’s a pause. Like, a really long one.
“Who–” Hunky turns to look at him and oh. Oh, yeah, he can get behind this. His scowl is almost miles deep.“Who..are you?”
“Deadpool!” He holds out a hand to high-five, and Hunky stares at him like he’s grown a second head. He doesn’t miss a beat, slapping his out hand before bounding further upwards. “Ex-merc extraordinaire, at your service.”
“Deadpool,” Hunk repeats, and is that an accent? Holy shit, Wade is going to die today.
Die of an impossible, fantastic boner. His lips twist, hands slotting down his waist. “Is that..a costume? Like Spiderman? If it is,” His eyes flatten, “Then I’m not interested.”
[He thinks we’re Spiderman!!!]
He’s clearly new to the universe, Yellow.
“Uh, not a fan, buddy. I’m Deadpool. Regeneration powers?” He motions to himself, suddenly caught off guard. No way this guy doesn’t know him. “Cancer treatment gone wrong? Tragic backstory? The best half of Ryan Reynolds?”
Nothing. Not a single note of recognition.
Huh.
“Okay, here–” He pulls out one of his smaller pistols, shoving it into Hunky's hands faster than he can start running away. “Just like, shoot me. Shoot my foot. Something useless. If you want to get real overzealous, shoot me in the head. You’ll see what I mean.”
Hunk makes this low sound, guttural and absolutely hating. The pistol slips from his grip and skids down the pavement. “I don’t know who you are, but you need to leave me alone. You are clearly dera–” He pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like mierda, before amending his words. “You are clearly…invading, my privacy. So go.”
“Ah! See, I can’t really do that. Crazy story, but I just saw you break through the space time continuum in a way that surely can’t be good for whatever the avengers have been up to, and this is a drag, I know, but–” Wade shrugs, twisting on his heel. “What can I do? This could’ve been an email. Or like, a text. Hey, what if you give me your number, and we continue this back at my pla–”
“What did you just say?” Hunk grinds out, and Deadpool's mouth clicks shut. This must be a touchy subject.
“Yeah, uh, you might wanna be more subtle about that whole…thing. Your suit was neat, by the way. Do you shop the same place Spidey does?” He perks up, masked eyes suddenly going wide. “Oh! Oh! Is your work out the same one Spidey does? Tell me if I’m coming on too strong, but your ass is a godsend, really. Your thighs must be killer.” He sneaks a peek down, wolf whistling. “Wow. Okay, um,” Hunks face darkens by the minute, and Deadpool's mouth has started running on its own, words spilling out faster than he can think them. His laugh is strained and a little pitchy. “That invitation to my place is still on the table, by the way, if you care.”
“You saw something,” Hunk sa—okay, Miguel. His name is Miguel. Let’s get this over with and assume Deadpool already knows his name is Miguel, because he does, and this is a bit of a pain.
Anyways.
“You saw something,” Miguel says, and Wade sees a flash of canines that are sharper than they're meant to be. “Shut the fu–shut up and tell me–like a normal person–what you saw.” His face twists, shatters and molds itself over again, and it takes an uncomfortably long moment for Deadpool to realize this is this guy's attempt at a smile. Christ.
[Are those fangs? Because I’m seeing fangs. There's a non-zero probability Marvels just booted Morbius over to us]
Morbius isn’t this hot.
[Speak for yourself.]
“Uh,” Deadpool blinks, taking a step back. It’s not that he minds, but were they this close before? Has this guy been looming over him the whole time he’s been running his trap?
[I’m not not into that]
“I mean, I was on that building over there—”He turns around, pointing somewhere vaguely to his left, and there's a blurring of feet and this sharp, quick sting near his pulse point.
Oh.
Well would you look at that.
“Did you just..bite me?” His voice is hoarse and holy shit, he’s drinking his blood?“Hey, that really wasn’t—that wasn’t necesa…” Aw, fuck.
His legs just gave out.
Miguel watches his body slump onto the ground, doesn’t even wince when Deadpools skull cracks against the brick wall behind them. His eyes are dark and unreadable, and Deadpools blood paints a sickly picture, trailing down his chin and smearing against the collar of his button up. Wade doesn’t even realize he’s coming until his body gives a weak, pitiful spasm, and wetness coats the inside of his boxers. Miguel's lip curls, disgusted.
“You won’t die, but you won’t remember once you wake up.” He taps something incomprehensible into his watch, not looking back. “I am not a fan of cosplayers, or stalkers.” A beat, and he can hardly keep his eyes open to watch as a vortex rips itself open mere feet from them, swirling in a way reminiscent of magic/ Miguel prowls towards it, voice flat. “Be happy I didn’t kill you.”
“Wait–” Miguel steps in, and Deadpool claws himself off the floor, crawling forward. “Wait, c’mon, You have to at least tell me what–what you're doing here. Huunnkyy,” His arm reaches forward, and he lets it drop into the bottom half of the portal, huffing a breath. Whatever Miguel put in his system, it’s definitely doing wonders. “Okay, ‘Pool. It’s all in your head. Just get up,” He wheezes, letting his head drop onto the ground. “It’s not even that hard. All in your head. All in your–”
The portal closes with a zip, and Deadpool stares at what had once been his forearm. In its place, a bloodied stump spills blood into the concrete, and he watches the brownish-grey turn into black.
“Fucking great.” He mutters, then, louder—“Fuckinggreat.”