"He that is taken and put into prison or chains is not conquered,
though overcome; for he is still an enemy."
Thomas Hobbes
The thing was, Wade didn't normally like the inmates.
They didn't like him either--he had a large history of brutality, and the muscles to match his reputation--which was evident in their nickname for him. Deadpool. Most likely from his number of kills while in the military, though how they managed to get that information, he would never know. He knew, maybe better than anyone, that evil could come in all shapes and sizes, but the guy in front of him...
He just didn't strike Wade as a nefarious criminal.
PeterParker, his file said, also known by some as The Spider. A twenty-something twink from Queens, with more brains than he had ass (something that doesn't seem possible, but 'aight). And, supposedly, a murderer. Something that immediately had alarms blaring in Wade's head, was the name Fisk. Wilson Fisk was a criminal very well known by the people in the prison and legal system; he had lined many pockets for them to do his dirty work, Wade included until he had made the decision to cut himself off.
So, anyone thrown in by Fisk was someone innocent, or too dangerous for him to handle.
Judging by the way Parker's eyes were lowered, and how he shuffled his feet, Wade was willing to bet that he was innocent. Or just very, very good at his game. At least Wade could be grateful that he hadn't ogled at his scars yet.
There were some small mercies.
He frowned down at the file; Parker was supposed to be roomed with Kingsley, who just so happened to be very well acquainted with Fisk. Whoever wrote the list was an idiot, or they wanted the kid dead. "So, who'd you kill, kid? There's not a name here."
Parker paled, but he only squared his jaw and looked Wade dead in the eye. The sneer that curled his lips didn't sit right on his face, but Wade supposed that that made sense; he had a face that was built for happiness. Good things. "Your guess is as good as mine. Funny how the name was brushed aside in my farce of a trial as well. I was framed." He raised and eyebrow even as he hunched his shoulders, daring Wade to question him.
"Thought so," Wade said, leaning forward and lowering his voice slightly. "If you wanna hit me, I can throw you in solitary easy-peasy so you don't have to room with Kingsley. He's a... friend, of Fisk's."
"Look, man, I don't want to hurt anyone," Parker said, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. "I can take care of myself, and deal with my own problems without hurting anyone. I'm not--not a killer, or a vicious monster, you know?"
Wade snorted. "Baby-boy, I think you might be the farthest thing from an evil killer or whatever it is . I'm just trying to offer you an exit so you don't, you know, die on me. This is prison, you have to hurt people eventually, or you'll be making it out of here in a body-bag. I mean, you'll probably still be a babe, even if you are dead, so don't worry about that at least."
Parker seemed to war with himself for a few seconds, his nose wrinkled in a way Wade wouldn't want to call cute (except it very much was). "I have a mean right hook," he said weakly, offering Wade a crooked grin. Wade returned it.
"As the fabulous Britney Spears once said-" Wade didn't get the chance to finish his sentence before Parker's fist slammed into his jaw, an audible crack sounding out as he was knocked from his feet. "Holy shit!" he cried, holding his jaw. "You might actually turn out to be a killer, that was like being hit with a fucking brick! Holy shit!"
Parker had the decency to look sheepish, at least, playing with his fingers like he hadn't managed to knock a man twice his weight and body-mass off his feet. "Hit me baby, one more time?" Wade couldn't even formulate a proper response to that--half of him was itching to pay the kid back, even if he had technically asked for it, and the other half was wanting to laugh at the whole situation.
"I'm impressed," Wade said, hitting the button on the wall of his office for backup. "You might survive in here after all, Parker."
"Gee, thanks," sarcasm sounded good on him, Wade had to say. "And just call me Peter. I going to want to pretend I'm not in prison sometimes."
"Petey-Pie it is!" Wade laughed, and motioned for Peter to turn around as he stood up. "And, good luck with that, sweetums. Kingsley gets out in a week, so I'll make sure you're confined for that long too--and, now that I think about it, he's probably only here for you, seeing as he got thrown in for two weeks. Any ideas as to why that is, dear sugarplum?"
"Oh joy," Peter said, drier than a desert, and about as giving. "What's taking your security people so long, anyway?"
Wade shrugged. "They're all junkies, alcoholics, and criminals, so they're probably waiting for you to straight up kill me. I've never made the best impression on any of them, methinks. They'll be here soon-ish, so make sure you act a little bit psychotic."
He waited for Peter to elaborate a little; give Wade a little goss', a little something for his bruised face, but was sorely disappointed when his door is all but slammed down by his colleagues. He opened his mouth to say something, but decided to let his lack of voice speak for itself. Him not talking would probably make them freak out a little more. "Everythin' good, Wilson?" a nameless lackey said. "You never push the button."
"Bastard decided to take a swing," Wade shrugged, gesturing towards a grinning Peter. Damn, psycho looked good on him. He was a brilliant actor after all; Wade could definitely be assisting an actual, cold-blooded killer over the innocent little thing Peter had first appeared as.
Peter sent him a wink as he was manhandled away, and Wade decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
The week passed quickly. There were no further incidents, and no angry Fisk banging on Wade's door, which was probably the sign of something less than ideal happening in the woodwork (though Wade couldn't bring himself to care).
Something that didn't pass quickly, however, was the memory of Peter's smile from his mind. He couldn't help it, okay? It wasn't good, it wasn't appropriate, but he couldn't drive it from his mind. Peter was strong, and witty, and good at slipping on different personas like they were nothing and everything all at once. And he was innocent, too; Wade could count on one hand the number of people that didn't deserve to be where they were, and still have nine fingers let over.
Wade was a person that got attached quickly, and for the littlest reasons.
They way Peter smiled, the way his eyes sparkled in the crappy prison lights, and the way he was so obviously brilliant to match Wade's average-ness. And the fact that Wade might have definitely found proof that Peter was definitely, positively not a killer.
Normally, Wade would ask to be paid for interrogating the shit out of Kingsley, or going the extra mile and enlisting in Weasel's help online. In a few short days, he had been able to gather more information than he knew what to do with, and a lot of it revolved around Petey-Pie's more sketchy internet games. There was one short word to describe it, and it left Wade impressed and horny at the same time.
A vigilante.
That was what Peter was. A badass, virus leaving, police tipping, information gathering, do-gooding vigilante. It made his little nickname make a whole lot more sense as well (The Spider? The web? Wade could have slapped himself for not seeing it sooner), and solidified Wade's good impression of him. Despite the badass stuff he did online, he never broke the laws to any severe extent, unless it had something to do with taking down real bad guys. The guy never even pirated movies! All in all, he was probably closer to a saint than a criminal.
Plus, Wade couldn't dislike anyone that helped bust kiddie porn sites. He loved kids, and the thought of his Ellie-Belly being exploited like that normally sent him into a murderous rage to last hours. Which, coincidentally, is why most of the more disgusting criminals hated him. Sometimes, he genuinely didn't know why he did what he did; he couldn't stomach looking at some of them, and beating them was only acceptable a few times.
And resulted in him getting a dent in his pay, unless someone with money wanted them beaten for whatever reason. And he hated doing people's dirty work for them.
He had left that in the past a while ago, and for a good reason (one that started and ended with pig-tails and tea-parties).
And now he was throwing himself into the midst once more, drowning himself in shark-infested waters for a small slip of a man, one that packed a punch and didn't let him get away with his bullshit. He was ruining everything he had built up, his career and semi-stable life, for someone he barely knew. Anyone else smarter than him would give up, and pretend to be surprised to find him hanging from the rafters later, but not Wade.
God, he was getting soft.
The calm before the storm, his week had been relatively boring, though it had all led to this moment. This moment, with Peter Parker reclining (somehow) in the stiff chair in front of Wade's desk. It was harder to get the prisoner's escorts to leave Wade alone with him than it should have been, but he had really pressed a panic button over a punch just a short while ago, so it was to be expected.
It was still annoying, though.
"I really am sorry about your cheek," Peter-Piper said, sounding too earnest and sincere to be real. Wade believed him anyway. "I have trouble controlling my strength sometimes, and I didn't think--I'm just sorry. You were trying to help me, and you probably got a really bad impression of me from that-"
Wade scoffed. "I can't trust a man that throws his punches, baby-face, I like to know who I'm dealing with and why. Don't sweat it, really."
It looked like a million tons had been removed from Peter's shoulders, making him look less like a forty year old, and more like the twenty-four year old he was, and Wade took pride in that. Just because he was in prison, the kid didn't need to give up everything in his life. Wade couldn't help the shiver that ran down his spine at the thought of hanging, and not by someone else's hands either.
No, he decided. Definitely not.
"So why am I here, then?" Peter asked. "I honestly thought you were gonna get revenge or something, with how long you spent convincing those other dudes to leave us alone. Or, y'know, make me do something... weird."
That comment sent Wade spiralling into a coughing fit designed to kill him. "Jesus, b--Peter! I know I ain't no saint, but I'm not a predator or anything! Jesus Christ."
"Sorry!" And, for crying out loud, he really did look sorry. "I just--I just have bad experiences in the past, you know? I didn't mean to accuse you or anything, but I can't help but think it sometimes!" He paled, then, like he knew he had said too much to someone he didn't know as well (or should want to know), and Wade decided to let it go, despite the anger he felt coiling in his stomach. Hot and heavy, it wound around his intestines like a snake, squeezing tighter and tighter until he just deflated where he sat.
"I know you're innocent," he changed gears, avoiding Peter's eyes. "You know you're innocent. And we both know you're in danger here."
"Okay," Peter said, sending Wade a dazzling grin that felt too much like a thankyou for comfort. "Now, then: how do we prove it?"
The plan wasn't complicated.
In fact, Wade would go as far as to call it easy, allowing himself to stay mostly in the background as people on the outside got to work on Peter's case. They had Peter cause trouble whenever they suspected someone was there for reasons outside of being dumb enough to get caught, which made most of the other prisoners give him a wider berth than they normally would grant a newbie.
It worked out by itself, really; Peter didn't want to make friends while he was there, because he was more than likely going to end up with a knife in his back if he even tried, and Wade needed him to be isolated so he could pull him out to talk easily, without arousing suspicion.
Though, Wade on the other hand, was more than happy to meet and talk to Peter's buddies on the outside. A lot of them had the best names Wade had ever heard of, which made for great conversation. His favourites included Black Widow (a Russian hacker-for-hire, who mostly focused on corruption within governments over smaller stuff), Iron Man (a genius who obviously had a lot of money, based on how many weapon manufacturers he had gotten shut down), and The Director (who kept them all in contact and helped connect them to clients and resources).
It was just so intriguing; the mystery, the suspense, the anonymity of it all, it spoke to the drama queen in Wade like little had over the years. He had missed this, really, and he wondered why he had taken so long to be introduced to this relatively low-risk (when it came to being shot, though Wade was basically a cockroach when it came to avoiding bullets) community of amazing shit.
He went home, sometimes, and worried if he was doing the right thing. Ellie would always notice his mood, and smack him; telling him to grow up in the sternest voice she could muster.
He was learning to relax a little more now. There would always be concerns but, like his insecurities over his scars, they faded into the background with better things to distract him. His scars were mostly from being a P.O.W, and he wasn't proud of them like most people thought he should be.
"They're proof of your resilience," people have said to him before. "You shouldn't be ashamed of that."
He supposed it made sense to them, but they didn't have to look in the mirror and not recognise the person looking back. Or see and deal with the reactions of people who didn't know any better than to stare, and pay him attention that he didn't want. He was learning to cope better, with people around to knock him back on course whenever he got too caught up in it all.
He wasn't proud of anything but what made him who he was; the way he was around Ellie, and the way he was around Peter made him proud. It made him feel normal, even though it should do anything but, considering every circumstance that stood in their way (Ellie's mom, murder, stuff like that).
And he and Peter got close.
Peter opened up about his childhood (Wade made sure that the name Steven Westcott was burned into his brain permanently), and Wade followed suit. Wade opened up about his past careers, and Peter did the same (a nature photographer and he was apart of an illegal, underground wrestling ring for a while), and it was nice. Wade hadn't been able to talk to people like he could with Peter for years, if not more, and he was so glad that Fate had thrown them together.
It was official. He was in love.
In love with a convicted killer, who was more of a hero than most of the cops that Wade knew. And, if he died trying to get him out, he'd die a happy man.
*
The End.