Heaped up worries
"We want you to buy a gun!"
Peter's face contorted, falling downwards with his mouth into a full face frown. "Huh?"
"A gun. You. Buying one. Preferably now." Wade shifted in his seat to face him and look him in the eye as he broke down his statement step by step.
"No no no no... I'm thinking no. No. Is what I'm thinking." Peter pushed against the counter and steadied himself backwards to get a full shot of his company, nearly tripping his feet up in the stool bar beneath the seat. His face was still conforming in the centre, as his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes squinted and his lips pursed in all-round confusion.
"Well you could come back tomorrow I guess, if it's that biga' deal." Weasel put down his pen and began to fiddle with the corners of the notebook he was writing in, pricking his ears up. His attempt to be discreet was pathetic and wasted.
"No, not that, I mean... I don't do guns." Peter stated it as if it were obvious, but the look on Weasel's face said otherwise.
"You do now, Pete." He cut in, already sounding tired from the conversation with too much breath clinging on to the words as they left his mouth in a short sigh.
"I 100% do not."
"C'mon, it'll be fun! Like a school trip with no school or trip. Just the overhanging threat of getting shot by the quiet kid." Wade perked. At least someone was having fun in this conversation.
"Uh, nope. Nope nope nope. This is me refusing. Do you hear it? Cause I feel like you two are not hearing it." Peter bunched his hands in growing vexation. His fists filling out into a faint carmine.
Weasel took a deep sigh, and shifted in his spot, still fussing around his account book. "Look, you might not see it now, but you getting a gun would be better for everyone involved-"
"In what world does me getting a gun equate to everyone being better off? Cause it's not this one. In fact, I don't think in any world, does me having a gun mean peace and love or anything you could count as 'better for everyone'." Peter air-speech marked. What the hell was up with these guys today? Usually he just hung out here before he and Wade went for training, but today seemed to be the day where they lost the plot. Well, they weren't really with it to begin with, but today seems to be especially crummy.
"If you would let me finish." Weasel shot a sharp look in Peter's direction, rendering him quiet. A second was left to make sure he was done before Weasel continued, his account book completely discarded to the side now, pushing against rags and filthy glasses beneath the counter.
"You've been coming here more often right?"
"...yeah."
"You hang out with this psycho as well, right?"
Peter nods, ignoring Wade's faint "Hey...".
"Well someone sooner or later is gonna notice this, and when that happens it's best if you know what to do."
"No. I can look after myself, and I don't need a death machine in my pocket to handle it."
"And pray tell how will you handle it? Cause last I checked you're a scrawny 100-pound kid who doesn't look like they've ever opened a pickle jar by themselves let alone fight off assaulters. Who'd you think you are, Shazam?"
"God you're a geek."
"Shut up." Weasel deadpans. "My point still stands. When those guys come a' running, you're gonna be the first link in the chain to be snapped off. No offence, Kid."
"Gee, thanks. Real consoling."
Peter turned his head and made eye contact with Deadpool briefly. They both knew he could hold his own fairly well now. He sure as hell can last longer than the few measly seconds he could stand in the first week of their private training sessions. But if they both knew that was the case, why the hell was Wade still on the pro-gun side? Well, on this situations pro-gun side. In all other circumstances, it was a given.
Deadpool broke away and turned back down at his drink. It was extremely alcoholic as far as Peter could tell, the scent wafting upwards from the glass and bouncing from Wade's breath. Of course, the contents of the drink didn't prevent it from having a Deadpool spin in form. It was a cluster of sprinkles, pink liquid and whip cream with a swirly straw jutting out at the top and straight into Wade's mask (the bar didn't even have straws in stock so Peter wondered where the hell he got that from). He took a long slip, as Peter watched the liquid spoon around the curves of the straw, before smacking his lips and making his point clear in the conversation.
"Pick up a gun, Peter."
No nicknames. No hunny-bun or special boy. Not even an unwelcome allegory.
Just Peter.
"...What happened?" Peter furrowed his brow and tightened his mouth. Something was definitely wrong. Weasel didn't even want him here in the first place and now he was telling him to pick up a weapon? Weasel wasn't Wade, he didn't know what Peter could and couldn't do. So how come they were both so adamant on this?
"Huh? Nothing happened. I gave you the reasons earlier." Weasel went to fussing with the cups around him, looking away from Peter and pursing his lips.
Peter snorts harshly. "Something's definitely happened if Wade's talking like that." An accusatory finger found its way in Wade's direction, along with the harsher-than-truly-meant tone.
"Talking like what booboo? All serious and sombre? Is it too hard to believe I cherish your health?" A hand flew to his chest and pressed heavily as Wade cooned softly in feign shock.
"What has health got to do with anything, we're talking about me getting a gun-"
"AHA, so you are getting a gun. Wonderful. Glad we came to this agreement without me having to glue one to your cute tush." The interruption caused Peter to pause for a second before his eyes widened.
No. No way in hell were they doing it this way.
"What? No- I didn't say-"
"I've got a spare in the back." Weasel turned from where he was behind the counter and went further into the bar, where customers were commonly restricted. The door swung back and forth after he sped through, leaving nothing but loud squeaking of hinges in his place.
"But I just said I don't wan-"
"I'll grab a holster from your storage." Wade jumped up and made way to go down to the basement hatch near the steps before his wrist was grabbed hard. In fact, much harder than Peter had meant to.
Peter's breathing grew heavy again as he stopped and gazed down, entranced in the all to the familiar image of an arm in his grip. Images flashed in Peters mind. The stink of the alleyway covered by the metallic odour that he didn't want to remember. The rough ground that felt too much like burning dunes and burnt litter. A grinding snap that rang through his entire body making him shake as if he was the one who got attacked. Like he was the one whose arm was mangled. The things he thought behind his eyes grew faster and more violent by the second. Going further back until his entire body froze under a familiar weight.
"-id! Earth to Kid?" Peter suddenly felt the hand cupping his cheek and shaking his head. He looked up and saw Deadpool's eyes pooling in as much concern that can be portrayed through a suit. His voice was quieter and his intonation soft, pulling him out of whatever rabbit hole he fell down. "Jeez, I thought you'd gone all Manchurian candidate."
"What? No. No, I just. I thought I was somewhere else for some reason." Peter finally loosened his grip on Deadpool's wrist, freeing it completely. Despite this, Wade's hand did not move. Instead, it went to grab his own in retaliation as Wade levelled his own eyes with Peters. The lines pinned across Wade's suit deepened and squeaked as they compressed.
"I just- I don't want the gun." His voice was soft now, embarrassed even. He felt like a little kid trying to go against this, complaints being ignored and childish persuasion and distractions being used left and right. Peter felt like he was whining, and that didn't help cause the thought of it just made him mope more. And if there was anything he wanted to avoid, it was to be seen as some dumb kid that Wade would have to deal with.
He didn't want that again.
"I know Pete, but this will work itself out. Do you think I wanted to pick up a gun way back when? Hell yes. But I also understood that different people have different views on this stuff. And I also know that no one cares about those views when they are, in fact, the one holding a gun. Why, when I was a whippersnapper like-"
A groan left Peter's throat and his line of thought fell straight back into place, picking up where it left off with new desperation underneath. "Listen to me! I'm telling you-"
Wade's mouth fell back into a straight line. "And I'm telling you. Take the gun."
"But-"
"But what? You don't pick one up and get killed? You refuse now and it costs you your life later on? Listen, you don't have to keep it and covet from now till all time, and all that holy matrimony stuff. We just want you to know how to use it, carry it around for a bit to get a feel for it. Let it become something natural for you first and then stop having it about. Cause then there's always the choice to have it, Pete." Deadpool was now crouching down, the holster forgotten in favour of Peter. "No stress. No pain. You just have to do this one thing for us. A small favour between mentor and mentee."
Peter's brain slowed down and a contemplative expression flooded his face. A favour? So... it wasn't mandatory? He still didn't want to do it, but he hadn't really thought about the effects of not having one. It's true that he came into a lot of contact with criminals that were way too trigger happy than he'd like. And having the skills to properly seek them out didn't sound so bad when Wade talked about it.
He also knew what having a gun meant as well. The shot that rang through his ears when he was having trouble sleeping. The blood he had to pick out from under his nails for a week after the incident. The funeral where he had to console his heartbroken aunt.
The guilt that knelled deep when he said nothing about what he saw.
"I know you don't want to. But please." Wade gripped his hand a little harder. "For little old me."
"I don't think I can. I-" One look at Wade's mask looking him in that same unreadable expression that he wore when they first met made him buckle at the thought of it all. He was looking out for him. Whether Peter liked the means or not, Wade was trying. And that's a lot more than he deserved.
"...I'll think about it."
"Great! I'm so proud of you for this decision. This is gonna be so much fun! Like if Christmas and Hunakkah had a beautiful ugly baby of endless money and presents with a hefty side of unexplainable, pious guilt. You're well and truly going to morph into a mini-me! #We're-on-the-right-track-baby-we-were-born-this-way."
Peter threw out a nervous chuckle, still feeling shakey (with a horrible sinking in his gut, but hey, that'll pass. Probably). "Yeah..."
"It's fine, I see that look on you're face." Wade let Peter go and stood up, helping lift Peter up by the shoulder as well. "Skedaddle home kid, I just know that whoever you got back there is cooking cookies wondering where you are, or whatever the hell Disney kids like you have going on at su casa. I'll throw you a ping later? That's what the kids say these days right? Ping you later?" The hand that was previously holding onto Peter's flew up to his face in the motion of a telephone.
"Yeah, sure. That... that sounds good."
"Fandaby-dosic! Now off into the sunset you go Pookie! Shoo shoo." His hands curved and fluttered back and forth as he ushered a silent Peter roughly through the door and out of the bar, swerving his head last minute away from the low-hanging light (the thing was a damn hazard).
Once gone, Wade stood by the door for a long time before he was certain Peter, with his freaky little soundbugs, was completely out of earshot. He turned around quickly to see a dismayed Weasel resting behind the bar with an unloaded trainee gun in his white-knuckled grip.
"You going to say anything? Or are you reverting back to your silent lizard ways?" Wade quips. He was just met with a longer and deeper silence. "Come now, tell me what's going on behind those coke bottle lenses. I may be able to bestow some Gandalf-level knowledge on you." Seconds went by where not a pin drop could be heard before Weasel finally opened his mouth.
"That was sick."
The midsection of Wade's mask wrinkled in retaliation to the accusation. "So what." Weasel dropped the gun with a thunk onto the wooden countertop and continued to say nothing. "Well, I didn't know what to do. I freaked! You heard him, there was no way in hell he was gonna pick up that gun." Wade sped walked back into his seat and flung his head into his hands overdramatically, knocking about several chairs down on the way, making no effort to avoid them.
"So what? We would have found a way around it. We always work these things out. That doesn't mean you can just go around saying stuff like that to a kid who looks up to you, dipshit. 'Favour' my ass." Both of his palms were steady on the counter, flat down to level himself. His voice was on edge and frustrated, flooding his face with the same emotion.
Wade exhaled harshly through his nose (an odd sound to hear against his restricting mask), jostling his shoulder up and down like he'd been told a joke. "Peter doesn't look up to me. He just thinks he does."
"Did you drop your common sense at the door or when you sat down? God, you're insufferable. You and your Sloth goonie look-alike mug. I mean seriously, did you request for it to be a carbon copy, or was it just the world's worst stroke of luck since MTV got dissolved."
"Gotta rep-"
"Rep Carson Daley-"
"Carson Daley, yeah." Wease shook his head and reset himself. He squared out his shoulders and reaffirmed his disgruntled expression. "The point is, I knew I shouldn't have let him near here. It's bad news."
"Peter? Bad news? He's a puppy, Wease. A cute, wide-eyed asthmatic puppy."
"Exactly." Weasel huffed in a gruff tone. He picked up the account book and slammed it shut in his hands. He turned to walk to the back again, the gun back in his grip, but stopped before he pushed past the back door.
"We should have just told him about that guy following him last week."
-------
The air was chilling and frost grew from every window Peter passed on his way home. The sky was dark and swirling with inky clouds etching themselves into the heavens. It was early on in the night, no later than 7, but the air was thick with smoke and persistently blowing the rich scent of liquor from bars that seemed to be present street after street.
Peter barely noticed any of it though. Not the brisk cars speeding by him, not the groups of drunk people pushing by him to get to the next club. None of it. His head was still looping the conversation (if he could even call it that) from a few minutes ago. He should have been more assertive, he thinks. Should have been strong and stood his ground. Set his boundaries. All that healthy coping stuff.
But it was the little voice in his head again. The one that whispered if he said anything, he would have been thrown out, be seen as lesser. He cared about his wishes, but he's come to find that he cared more about keeping his mentor. If he messed up... He didn't know how often he could handle that kind of rejection. Not after he's gotten a taste of being noticed. Of being looked after.
"Peter?"
"Mh?" Peter swivelled to the side and was met with a familiar smartly dressed man with his distinguishable intense red lenses, perched on his nose. They gave the feeling that he saw a lot more than he let on. A kind of feeling that made Peter a little uneasy, exemplified now as he squirmed a little at the attorney's confrontation. "Mr Murdock? What are you doing in Queens? I thought..." Peter trailed off and swished his head from left to right, finding no recognizable landmark in sight.
"Queens? I don't think we're quite in Queens. More like in the dead middle of its overly aggressive neighbour." Matt brought the cane he was slanting on in front of him and drew closer to Peter with each word, a kind curiosity perched on his face in tow with his glasses. "Does your Aunt know you're out this late?"
"I- I mean she has the night shift so not exactly. But I was on my way home right now! I swear. I was meant to be there already but I... I'm lost."
"You think?"
Peter chuckled. "Yeah... What about you?"
"Oh me? Just had to go back to the office to pick something up." Matt shifted, pulling one of his sleeves down lower slightly behind his back. An action that otherwise would have been unnoticeable if it wasn't something that Peter does time and time again to hide the bruises and scratches at school. It was shrugged off nonetheless. The guy was a blind lawyer for christ sake. No way in hell he'd have something like that to hide. "You know what they say, no rest for the legally inclined."
"Of course. It's an age-old saying, up there with all the greats. Pay a penny, gain crippling debt. Step on a crack, break your lawyers back."
The poor attempt at nervous humour unsheathed a handsome grin from Matt. The kid was sweet. Much sweeter than a kid who's lost in a dangerous neighbourhood in the small hours should be. Another fact that made Matt troubled, dousing his smile faintly.
"Actually, I think I forgot something at the office again. Some cases I need to review for tomorrow. Any chance I could request some company? We could chat. And I'll point you in the right direction home afterwards." Matt adroitly veered his cane back to his side, standing straighter. "Who knows? You might get some free coffee out of it."
"At this time of night?"
"Maybe tea then."
Peter paused. He thought about the rumours at school, the empty home he had waiting for him and the fire-arm heart-to-heart he had with certified world-class criminals. A walk with someone who'd listen sounded like it was too good to be true. "Well if you wouldn't mind."
A small smile graced Matt's features again, his hand gripping the ferrule of his cane tighter. "Of course, I wouldn't Peter."