Uninvited guests
True crime was a staple in Peter's childhood. Still is now, in a more ironic and literal sense.
The podcasts, conspiracy videos, blogs; all of it had excited Peter to no end when he was younger. It wasn't because he was sick in that way- he'd call it more of a morbid fascination. When you lose your whole life once, it's easy to lose yourself in the second. And sometimes that, in an odd process of escape, results in fixations and childishly exaggerated monomania.
It was difficult at first, when he'd wake up from night terrors weeping, only to be hushed back to sleep by a frantic and weary-eyed May and Ben. They always showed signs of the same grief and sorrow Peter did. The way their hands would shake when he did something that reminded them of his parents. When their eyes would brim full of tears, but never overflow when the time his parents parted swooped on them like a vulture once a year. In one way or another, they always had signs that they grieved heavily. Maybe even longer than Peter had.
They were just better at dealing with it. Better at hiding it.
And that was something he was never good at.
But no matter how greatly they mourned (no matter how little they tried to show it), they never shared the details of Mary and Richard Parker's death. It was almost taboo to bring them up, since every altercation ended in scrunched sniffles and tight-throated excusals. And after every single one, Peter left none the wiser. Until he found the article.
He'd just been old enough to use the internet by himself (as dictated by Ben's bear-smothering approach to parenting), maybe around 10 years old. And there it was. In its blunt and categoric glory, an article pertaining to everything the media could find on the tragedy of the Parkers. Peter had just wanted to look himself up, a silly thing that all the other kids would do at school to see what little of their digital footprint they could scrounge together and laugh at together. But when the search bar ate up his last name, he shouldn't have been surprised with what is spat out.
After that it was a downward spiral. Unsolved missing persons. Inexplicable murders. Late-night kidnappings. It was all there a click away. And there were hundreds of them. These horrible events shocked Peter and made him feel near sick at first. That was until he realised that, the deeper he dug, more and more relief came with those emotions. Gratitude in some twisted form revealing itself to say that it wasn't ideal, but he wasn't alone. He wasn't the only one who was struck with tragedy and lived to tell the tale.
It was only later that night when he was awaiting another bout of restless sleep, when Peter registered the full extent of his discovery.
He wasn't the only only one.
And that wasn't a thing to feel good about. There were others out there experiencing the same turmoil as him. Heck, maybe the same nightmares too. And that was much more chilling than the onslaught of reports and detailed police write-ups.
But if there were to be one thing to recall at this second, it would be the scene of the crime. Pictures of it were always inserted neatly into the rows of indisputable facts and blunt observations. The bloodstains poorly scrubbed away. Broken furniture scattered haughtily and hazardly around cramped rooms. Shitty lighting.
That's what came to mind when Peter walked into Sister Margaret's.
The entranceway was nice enough. Mainly because you couldn't see anything from the turn-in, separating it from the rest of the establishment. The lights were low hanging and a shade of dampened red, casting an unnatural shadow on the endless posters and graffiti littering the walls by the door.
Wade led the way with his hulking form, shielding Peter from everything immediately in front of them. He hadn't said a word since they opened the door, which Peter listed as extremely on-brand for Deadpool's unspoken 'never explain the important stuff' rule. He talked about the time and their apparent lateness earlier but Peter's sure they could have spared a few seconds for a brief on what the hell was going on. Peter couldn't see much past Deadpool's broad torso, but heard the voice that shot out ahead of them.
"Get the fuck out of my bar." The phrase was spouted with no excessive maliciousness but that didn't mean it wasn't dripping with agitation and impatience. The man behind the counter was cleaning the inside of a dirty glass (that didn't look to be getting any cleaner) with a discoloured rag. Unless rags now came pre-made in shades of piss mustard and rust. The same colour scheme went for his aged shirt, stains and all. A lousy attempt to cover up was there as well, in the form of crumpled flannel raggedy layered on top.
"Hello to you too, sugarplum." Deadpool trotted on, obviously not deterred by the foul language and less than friendly demeanour.
"Can we not go through one conversation without the nicknames-" The sentenced halted and left the man's mouth hung open, a phantom of what he might of said hanging at the tip of his tongue. Peter was left out in the open, as Wade strode onwards and plopped into one of the stools at the counter, swinging his legs back and forth. The man behind the bar's face contorted and twisted behind his almost-too-large glasses in a fusion of plain to see confusion and mediocre shock, enough so to force his sentence short. Peter couldn't find any other way to describe it except that he then seemed to work through the five stages of grief before landing right back at denial.
"No."
"Now, now. No what? No bananas? No cups? No more brain cells left in that weirdly large noggin of yours? Every math teacher out there is tapping their church shoes in shame bud. I, for one, have always defended your upbeat way of sharing your opinion, as un-PG-13 it usually is. To believe you could let me down like this." Wade says. He shook his head slightly and began idly tapping his fingers along the coasters. The sound of the suit peeling off a god-knows-what sticky substance that caked the bar made Peter grimace and lift his eyes to focus on the interaction in front of him. He still hadn't the gall to move forward from the spot he was sighted on, dead still on the just as grotty floorboards.
The man finally shifted and lowered the glass onto the woodwork with a thunk. He laid both hands down atop the surface before taking a deep, rehabilitating breath and turning to Wade. "No." He said in a no-nonsense voice. "No as in No. There's nothing more to be added. Except for the footnote of 'get the preschooler out of my bar'. Now."
"What preschooler? You couldn't be referring to this spruce, fine exemplar of a young man, could you, Weasel?" Wade took advantage of the stool's versatility and swivelled around with an outstretched hand to face Peter smugly, an elbow still tacked to the mystery bar coating.
'Weasel' took his gaze and dragged it up and down Peter's form, which was complete today with an oversized hoody sized out to keep in as much warmth as possible and a star wars key chain Ned had got him clinking off the side of his backpack. His expression seemed to fall even more.
"Yeah, he's real debonair. Now get him out. I don't want his parents storming the place or calling the po 'cause their kid was dumb enough to follow you here. Last thing we need now is the place flooding with feds just cause you've decided to start up a day-care in a fit of middle-aged panic."
Peter lifted a slack hand halfway up in protest. It didn't look like he had all too much of a say in this argument. "Actually I don't have-"
"Don't talk." Peter clamped his mouth shut. "It makes you more kid-like. Just don't say anything and leave. As soon as possible. Which is grown-up talk for 'now'." Weasel picked up the glass in front of him and began to mangle the rag into the cup with an uninterested intensity.
"Hup hup. That's enough. My boy doesn't have to put up with this travesty of a 'welcome to your home that you didn't know was your home until right now' palooza-"
"-This is sure as fuck not his home, Wade-" Weasel interjected.
"-But I didn't bring him for that reason alone," -Wade interrupted the interruption- "thankfully. Otherwise, your enterprise would've been rated one star on the interwebs." He stuck a single finger into the air with harsh vigour, visualizing his meandering threat. "A real blow to your income seeing as your looking at a senior yelper. I've been there since the electronic mail bitching chain days. I got contacts, Velma." The lenses of his suit sharpened and he slowly dropped his finger in the form of a finger gun until it poked the table in a downward fashion."Now that you have met unofficially, and rather rudely so I might add, I will reveal him myself. I introduce to you, my new project, aka my iteration of me by me. New edition release TBD. The one and only kid wonder. Peter!" The advertisement of his companion ended in an outstretched palm, jazz-handing in Peter's general direction.
Weasel was quiet for a moment. Switching between Wade's open mien to Peter who was practically folding into himself. This wasn't going well, Peter thinks. Better than how he met Mr Deadpool, but still not close to typical first encounters. He hated Peter already and to seal the deal, it was obvious enough that even Peter noticed it. The jerked lip and slit-like eyes peering over his dark, brick glasses into Peters soul were more than sufficient in sending that message.
"Peter?" He said it more as a question rather than an address to him. For some reason, he didn't sound convinced.
"Yes. Peter. We've just gone through this. Were you listening or were you spacing out in my dreamy pearl white eyes? A charming sentiment but hardly the time, Wease." The accusation was swathed in both an odd amount of amusement and disappointment. Wade dropped his hand and brought it back to his side so he could turn fully, facing the dishevelled man.
"No, I was listening, you idiot. I just don't, what's the word... oh yeah! I don't care. That's it. You can't just charge in here before I even open up dragging along this Disney reboot. I mean, look at him! He's quaking in his little boots."
Peter furrowed his expression at this. "Am not, I just haven't been able to get a word in." He mumbles. They were talking like he wasn't even here, and frankly, he was really confused as to why. He was just lead into some crummy bar, it wasn't exactly a shield base. What's there to be so upset about?
"That's great. Now keep it up and we might get through this without me having to knock you out." Weasel eased the threat into the conversation casually and with a complete lack of intonation, entirely in sync with his dead expression.
This guy really didn't like him.
"Come on Weasel, you attention whore. This isn't about you. Today is mine and Petey's special day. One so special, my first thought was; 'Wade. Who else do you want to share this monumental occasion with?' And the answer was Blanc Devereaux. But she isn't available so you'll have to do. And here I am trying my darn best to welcome you to our newest family member with the positivity of a divorcee in denial. Isn't that darling of me? And it would be so much much more so if you didn't act like such a wet blanket." Deadpool spun fully, discarding his contact with the bar counter after a sickly flay of his hand. Brown, wide eyes met bland comically wider eyes. "Peter sweetie! Don't be scared, he's just being a sour puss. Get over here so I can finish this train wreck of an interaction and get to business." Wade threw his hand around in the open air, as if he motioned for it, this whole situation would pass by quicker.
Well with that perfect description of Peter's new means to an end, how could he say no? Peter put one foot in front of the other and tried not to look too out of place; which, aka, was quite difficult with two adult men wearing vastly different expressions staring you down. Weasel looked like he wanted to put Peter on a quarantined island and leave him for dead, while Mr Deadpool was dazing at him as if he were going to jump up, pop a grape in his mouth and whip him with an eskimo kiss.
Peter approached the bar, and as soon as he was within reaching distance, was pulled onto the stool adjacent to Deadpools own. The chair squeaked with movement and juddered with the new weight. Peter's pretty sure most things here weren't up to scratch on any public safety regulations. He couldn't direct his line of vision anywhere without meeting a possible health hazard.
Wade turned to him, with what Peter would like to imagine as a grin underneath the mask. "Well for starters, you already know me. The single most attractive Canadian soul in these waters. And if you ever wondered what Barry Gibb would look like if he was fresh from the morgue, there's Weasel."
"Zip it." Weasel was still wiping down the glasses in front of him. Peter couldn't tell if the one he was holding was a new one or not seeing as they all wore the same level of grit and grime. "And now the introductions are over. Leave."
"What's going on with you today? You usually love my thrilling company."
"I don't. And when I do put up with your shit, you usually don't carry kindergartners with you." He dropped the glass again and slotted the rag into his back pocket. He waltzed closer to the two guests and leant forward. In front of Peter specifically. "In all seriousness, you don't want to be here when it starts getting busy kid. To be honest, you don't want to be seen here, let alone be here at all. So skedaddle, or scram, or whatever the hell people tell kids to fuck off with."
Wow, rude.
He's been thrown here and there and not once has anyone offered to clue him in. What the hell was the issue? Sure, he was underage and in a bar, but from what he gathered it was closed and they were clearly here for a reason other than alcohol. Some 'trail period' this was. What was he meant to do to prove himself in this situation? Cause all that was coming to mind was nothing. Absolutely blank. So now, as always, he'd have to try and talk his way through this while knowing zippo.
"I'm really sorry Mr Weasel, but I don't know what the deal here is. I... actually don't really know why I'm here. I'm just here for my trial period." Couldn't hurt to relay what he'd been told. The safe card in these kinds of altercations was to stick to the same story, right?
Peter didn't remember saying anything too surprising but by the way Weasel's brow slackened and his jaw held still you'd think he just had. That lasted for a few seconds, at least, before his mouth slammed shut and his eyes turned hard.
"You didn't tell him."
Wade's grin dropped from a grin to a wry upturn of the corners of his mask. "Well, I got caught up in the daydream of my best-buddy-could-be-my-hubby getting to meet my apprentice-"
"Wait, what apprentice? Is that- is that the whole iteration shit you were going on about. You-" Weasel's entire bearing went still and his expression spun cold with anger. "-you dumb fuck."
"Okay, now I have a feeling you might be a little agitated-"
"A little?! A LITTLE?!" It was difficult from this angle but Peter was sure he could see his fists shaking from the quake that spread up his forearm. "We have one rule that we all follow. No kids. And this definitely looks like a fucking kid from where I'm standing. I mean, Jesus fucking Christ, he looks like a kid from where anyone's standing as long as they're taller than 5'4''!" His voice crescendo-ed throughout his tangent and only raised itself louder as he finished with a glare directed at a certain open-mouthed man. Deadpool looked to have his hands up in surrender. Before a word could leave Wade's mouth, there was a jostle at his side.
"Hey!" The protest from Peter was only slightly stronger compared to the ones previous, but still managed to grab the attention of the two in front of him. "Anyone want to tell me what's going on?".
Eye contact was made between all of them as Peter shifted his gaze waiting for one of them to forfeit an answer, and settled on Wade who had now promptly stopped swinging his legs underneath the tabletop.
"Ok."
-------
"Ok."
Wade and Weasel looked at each other with slight concern etched on their faces. It was barely noticeable though when smothered in the overt confusion they shared.
"Ok?" Weasel relayed. "That's it? Okay? Kid, this is your chance. A golden fucking opportunity dropped into your lap. Go and run for the hills, no one here will judge. Hell, years ago I would have been halfway out the door myself. The only reason I'm not doing that now is because I own this shithole. Don't worry about this psycho, I'll keep him from meddling in whatever the hell you do." He spoke extremely slowly and with hesitance as if Peter didn't truly understand what the situation was and he had to break down the solution for him.
But that's the thing, isn't it? He did understand the situation. And he wasn't near as irked with it as he should be. Maybe it was because he was told the truth upfront, or maybe it was because he'd already made it this far, but it all seemed to make perfect sense. It explained Mr Deadpool's suit, and the less than satisfactory QnA they had in the car, and sort of answered his question on how he found his school. If it was any consolation. which it shouldn't be, it meant that Deadpool was good at his job.
Good at being a mercenary.
Wade was quiet. He had tried to do most of the explaining, adding in his own optimistic turn of phrase, but was shot down more often than not by Weasel who blurted whatever he felt like saying in the same blunt don't-care-to-do manner. Rude as it may be, it made the whole elucidation quicker, which thankfully also meant that Peter didn't have to decode one of Mr Deadpool's rants. Peter guesses that now it's the moment of the hour and everything that Mr Deadpool wasn't telling him is on the table, he's finally taking a break to gauge his reaction.
And who wouldn't? Having an underground mercenary gig and being supposed 'besties' with the guy that runs the operation is a bit of a shell bomb. And Peter's sure that when he gets home tonight, whenever the heck that's going to be, he'll wrestle the issue and run circles around everything wrong with this. Which was probably going to take him all night seeing as everything wrong could be perfectly measured as; a hell of a lot. But that was for later, and he was in the now. And the him in the now had people waiting for a reaction.
"Yeah, ok. I'm... I think I'm okay with this. I don't agree with the principle of it, but it's not the strangest news I've been given I guess." Nothing could really beat getting picked up by one of the world's richest men, being used in a modern-day civil war on a different continent and then being dumped back home without a second thought wearing a million-dollar pet project. Although if he was thinking like that it would technically make him the pet project.
All in all this sitch couldn't shine a light to that.
But it was cutting a real close second.
"Really?" Weasel, once again, didn't sound like he quite believed what he was hearing.
"Really."
"I knew it," Wade says, the simple phrase dripping in not so subtle pride. "I knew you were special Petey. I christen you my special boy from this point onwards." His legs began to restart their feverish swinging below them until Wade jumped up from his seat. "Congratulations! You passed with flying colours Booboo! If I had an A for every A I wanted to stamp on your forehead I'd have a cup full of A's. 'Cause, there's only so many A's one can fit on a forehead. On a different note, this definitely makes the next step easier!"
"...Great?"
For someone who didn't seem all too much of a planner, Deadpool sure had a lot of steps set up.
With a pinch of Peter's cheek and a weird gallop, he hopped onto the counter and knocked over several glasses. The sound of the clatter made Peter flinch. Following his teacher's area of action, he peered over to watch for whatever was the new subject of focus.
"Motherfucker- What do you want?" Weasel pushes Deadpool back slightly, and then dropped to the floor to pick up the broken glass with the rag he'd used on the glasses. It's a good thing this bar had been kept on the down-low otherwise the FDA would've latched onto it in no time.
"My stuff. The stuff I ordered." Wade knocked over two more cups and an ashtray as he leant over to scurrage through the hidden partition of the bar. "Where'd you keep the stash, you slimy fuck?"
Weasel paused his hasty cleaning and lifted Wade's hand out of the way. He went missing for a second before re-emerging from the floor with a medium-sized black duffel bag. "God, here. Take it." He straightened his back with a click and held the sack in front of him.
"OOoo gimme gimme gimme gimme gimme-" Wade's hands clasped the bag's sides (even though the handles were being leant out for him to take) and leapt back to Peter's side with a huff, scraping whatever invisible dust had gotten on his shoulders. "See? That wasn't so bad. Nothing like taking humiliating and awkward interactions in stride huh?"
"Preaching to the choir." Peter said idly, eyes still caught on the bag. So that must be the other cause for being here. It didn't look particularly large, but certain corners and edges of it were bulging, like trying to keep hold of uneven contents, and the seams looked more than just frayed. It was a wonder how it was still holding together.
The response was a rough snort from Wade. He briskly started to walk forwards towards the exit, talking as he skidded for freedom. "C'mon, Petey, the night's young and we still lot's to do. The next course of action; the testing period! Hip Hip Hooray, Buba, you levelled up! So let's go before the boss starts his nagging." He tossed the comment with a thumb pointing behind him at Weasel, who wasn't looking so fresh and fancy on the whole 'make a mess of the bar and ditch' plan Wade was proposing, as he continued picking up the debris from the tornado that seemed to be Deadpool.
A minute set of guilt flumped in the pit of his stomach. Peter felt a little bad for leaving the guy here after barging in and wrecking his workplace. Sure, he was a bit of a douche to him, and from what he's heard it's not like any of the customers would be too picky about it, but after the explanation, it was somewhat more understandable. No one in their right mind would take a minor to a merc bar.
Then again, he guessed that said all it needed to about Mr Deadpool.
"Don't look at me like that." Weasel remarked snarkily, breaking Peter from his thoughts. "It's obviously not his first time coming here, I know what he's like. I can handle some glass kid, just go and get him out of here. Trust me, you'd be doing me a favour."
"Are you sure? We can stay and help-" His words were cut off by a fist grappling his bicep. It wasn't as rough as it was sturdy. Like a guiding hand with a little more tug.
"No, we can't. Tight, tight schedule and so so little time. You can help out next time we pop in Pete, but for now, I need your head in the game." Deadpool spoke with an increased sense of determination. Peter had no idea what was going through his head, but it was apparently enough to justify all but picking Peter up by the arm and dragging him into the entranceway.
With a quick, uncomfortable turn of his head over the shoulder that wasn't hitched up with an iron grip, he looked back at Weasel. "Sorry Mr Weasel, it was nice meeting you!"He rushed to say before leaving the threshold. It definitely wasn't, but Peter's sure that it was mainly the situation that made the interaction lousy, not the guy himself.
If Peter didn't have super hearing he knew he wouldn't have heard the satirical "Yeah, sure thing." that followed him through the now wavering door.
It was only at the corner of the street (which was fortunately not too far) that his arm was released.
"Phew! We made it through that one easier than I thought we would. I was expecting a lot more throwing and hissing or whatever it is the lizard creep does when he's angry."
Wade didn't stop his stride and made sure to keep at a tempo that would keep Peter in tow. Still not slow enough for Peter to walk comfortably though, which was proven every couple of steps where he would have to light jog to maintain Deadpool's pace.
"You count that as good? I barely got a word in, and when I did it was for a confab on how you're a contract killer! Call me old fashioned but it wasn't exactly the standard meet-n-greet pleasantries I'm used to."He scoffed along with the sentiment he was sharing, all but wheezing the sentence in a poor attempt at whispering despite the barren street ahead of them. He hadn't had the time to scold him when they were in company, but they were alone now. The sun had long set so the cold was punitive, chasing after his words and latching onto his breath in a cloud of smog as he spoke.
"Well it sounds bad when you say it like that!" There wasn't a lot of defence in his tone, just pure speculation. From the behaviour so far it didn't seem to Peter that he had any substantial guilt on the subject.
Deadpool marginally slowed his pace, cogs visibly turning in his head. A pause and a half later left his entire mask perking up and his hands flinging themselves into the air, newly invigorated. "Think of it like this Petey, you look up to the Avengers, right? Like every other star-struck dopey teenager out there? Guess what. They've all killed. Some even have their kill count in the thousands. Some have been the cause of entire countries being practically obliterated. I'm not saying I'm any better than they are, the only difference is I get paid for the one's I take out, and I make sure to take out the worst of the worst. Lightens the conscience, if you will."
He continued in hopping distance of Peter as he led the way through alleyways and turns. They passed the occasional hobo but it seemed they knew the drill and kept their heads down when the two unlikely pair passed.
This... was still making sense. He knew if Ned was here he'd whisper-scream his ear off on being gullible and falling for such a transparent trick. And he'd knew it would only increase if he ever discovered that Peter was letting the ex-kidnapper take him willingly to a tertiary location, but his thoughts were more preoccupied with the mercenaries explanation. It's true he looked up to the Avengers, especially Mr Stark. Even after he knew what he'd done when he was still in the arms trade. And who didn't know? With a moniker like 'the merchant of death' it was unimaginable to not know. But that was different, right? He'd changed and become an avenger. He was one of the good guys, lending a hand to the world in ways Peter couldn't even dream up. That's how he was making up for the mistakes of his youth.
But Mr Stark still used him in his war, didn't he?
"I...I guess if it's the bad guys. It's definitely not so bad. I mean, it's still not good, like really not good... but it could be worse?" Notwithstanding his intellection, he felt the bar of his ideals hit the floor.
"That's the spirit! The guys I take out are way worse than the everyday scum you rustle with. Got all sorts from all over the world asking me for a leg-up on the dirtbags in their area. I'm somewhat an international gal. Been around the world, got lipstick stains on my passport day by day feel in this career, bud. Except the lipstick stains aren't lipstick stains, they're hits, and the passport isn't a passport it's me."
The duo skulked into another side path, not in any neighbourhood Peter's had the joy of being in. Filth littered the trackways and thwarted whatever public seating seen from being usable. It couldn't have been past 6 yet two drunks were sat at the opening of the alleyway, nowhere near coherent enough to alert themselves to the company they were sharing in the enclosed avenue. The air was heavy with smoke and created a mist that hung the buildings in a sinister light.
For example- the one they were in front of now. More precisely the back of the building they had stopped in front of.
Not a lot could be discerned from the bare brick wall and wide double doors to the side. Other than the fact that the heavy chain and thick padlock encasing the steel handles gave Peter another clue to the locale and the types in it.
"Welp. In we go."
When Wade sauntered forward with no sign of patting himself down for the key, Peter tilted his head. "Do you have a key? Or do we have to go ask someone? Like with those fancy restaurants with locked toilets."
"I do have a key of sorts." He said, ignoring the latter of Peter's question. With this, the red-clad man spun on his heel to face Peter and flexed his hands. "Say heya to lock and pick." In correlation with each name, a hand was emphasized. Peter paled, and his lips opened to push the words that weren't forming to come out. Wade either didn't notice or ignored the look of incredulity scored on Peter's face, because he went to act out his insinuated scheme, vocalizing the world's worst succour in synchrony.
Wade turned as he snapped the innermost mechanism of the lock with his grip. "It's fine." He discarded the rest of it by throwing it carelessly to the side with a clang. He pushed onwards and the back door creaked with age and capitulated as it introduced an old gym.
"No one will know we were ever here."