Disillusioned

Peter wasn’t sure how long he had sat, frozen, before the urge to pace overwhelmed him. To move. Do something. Anything. Fight back. To push away, destroy, something, everything. He had begun to seriously consider sprinting from the building, when a voice interrupted the whirling chaos in his head.

“This way, Mr. Parker,” he turned toward the gentle, even voice and saw Captain Rogers—Steve--standing by a well-lit hallway lined with doors. Unthinkingly, he followed the other man down the silent corridor until they reached one Captain Rogers indicated the door with a nod.

As Peter opened the door, he realized that he had been asked to enter a small, but fully equipped gym, the lighting subdued against the dark walls unrelieved by windows. Without thought, he powered across the floor, and slammed his fist, whole body behind the blow, into a black leather punching bag suspended from the ceiling. The bag burst with an explosive crack, and jets of sand shot upward and into the mellow pools of light like sparks, or a distant rainstorm.  

“What the shit Parker!” Peter pivoted, to see Tony staring at him. Stark’s expression was completely flabbergasted. “You're one of my science geeks…how the hell are you doing that?” 

Natasha none-too-subtly kicked Tony in the shin, causing the man to swear and hop sideways.

“Sorry, sorry,” the genius muttered through the pain. “I’m- We’re sorry for your loss.”

Peter nodded his head jerkily. He knew he'd be hearing that phrase nonstop for weeks from when his Uncle died.  Just hearing that phrase from Stark’s mouth ground the pain deeper into his heart that Aunt May was gone. And people were sorry…

Always fucking sorry. He strode further into the room, footfalls loud, even on the gym’s padded flooring; each step the only echoing sound. Further ahead hung a line of ten boxing bags, suspended on chains, silent and still.

He lashed out with a foot, slamming into the first bag, tearing the leather to rags and spilling sand across the floor, patterns of force and gravity in golden sand. The grieving young man did not slow, or change the fierce metronome of his lightning tattoo as he pounded his fists into the bags in quick brutal succession. The sand showered and hissed onto the dark floor. He reached the eighth bag and raised his fist to strike before dropping to his knees on the soft padding. Seven punching bags swung on their chains behind him, a gentle metallic clink in descending rhythm and the whisper hiss of the last grains of sand the only sound. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, realising all the others in the room had had to stand silent watch over his breakdown. “Didn't mean to break your bags, but I'm okay now.”

“Fuck me, Parker,” Stark stepped forward to crouch beside the other man, just out of arm’s reach. “How strong are you? Who are you really?”

Peter lowered his eyes, uttered a grunt of laughter with an hysterical edge. He ran his fingers through his short-cropped dark hair, once, twice, and moved back to lean against a rowing machine, facing the puzzled group in the room. 

“This is not how I ever thought this would go,” he murmured, voice flat and posture completely drained. “I'm just your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man.” 

Nobody moved for a still breathless second then Peter found himself surrounded; at first, he flinched, prepared for an attack; he realised hands were patting his back or just touching where they could. They might have been sympathetic to a potentially dangerous scientist from Stark labs, however this wasn't a stranger with superpowers: this was their friend and they weren't afraid of him. They genuinely cared.

“Mr. Stark, there is a matter requiring the urgent attention of the Avengers;” the robotic voice of Jarvis broke into the moment with solemn finality. “Robbery in progress at Oscorp laboratories. The men are known associates to the men arrested last month with the stolen alien tech. The assailants have used unknown weapons to gain entry to the secure facilities. There is an unknown number of casualties. Immediate action recommended.”

“Uh,” As one, the group shuffled awkwardly and glanced around at each other obviously uneasy about leaving their teammate alone at such a sensitive time.

“Before any of you even think it: I'm going too.” Peter scrubbed a hand across his face and pulled a small red cube from his pocket. Rubbing his thumb upwards along it, the cube lit up and began doubling in size until it rested in his open hand, twice the size a fist. Opening the cube, he pulled a small disc from within which he pressed against the exposed skin of his wrist: like liquid the metal flowed up and across his body; his Spider-Man suit covered every inch of his skin below his neck. Rapidly,  he stripped off his lab clothing, putting them into the box which he sealed again and with another stroke of his thumb, this time downward, the cube began to shrink until it fitted easily into a pouch attached to his utility belt. 

In a matter of seconds, the man had changed from nerdy scientist to scarlet-skinned hero in front of his gob-smacked teammates. 

“I mean, if I didn't just see that, I would not have believed it in a million years,” Hawkeyes muttered, eyes flicking over the suited man in front of him. “You're even quicker than the tin can.” 

Spider-Man smirked. The expression felt awkward on his face, but he just ran his hand from the back of his neck and down over his face; the red material following the movement until he was fully masked. 

“Well, since you old timers still need some time to get changed, I guess I'll just go over and do a little recon, maybe rescue a damsel in distress and save the day. Maybe there'll be someone left when you arrive,” he joked, his tone strained, but light. “Now if someone could show me to a window, I plan to throw myself off this building.” 

Steve gripped his shoulder and squeezed it briefly. 

“Recon only Spider-Man; we'll be there in ten.” 

Right. Peter waved briefly and followed a silent Natasha out to the lounge room again, which she crossed in efficient strides. Opening the double door, she led him to a wraparound balcony and pointed to a small switch on the wall beside the door.

“Intercom. Jarvis will buzz you in if the door is ever locked.” He could hear the unspoken words; Welcome anytime and come back. “Wait for back up kid. Don't do anything stupid.”

Spider-Man jumped from the building, shooting his webs out to catch on another gleaming high rise. The rush of the fall made his blood pump harder and his heart pound with adrenaline. The ground flew up to meet him as he threw out another arm and arched his body; his momentum caused him to soar back up into the sky as he followed an unseen series of arcs across the city, heading straight for the Oscorp tower.

I’m 

—-

“So, what's the sitch?” A campy feminine voice queried into Spider-Man's ear. Although his Spidey sense hadn't warned him of the approach, his heightened hearing had picked up the merc’s muffled swearing as he'd hauled himself onto the roof.

“You again” He said with a wryly amused smile; he didn’t turn from the view of the building’s enormous and completely pompous glass windows. It was a blatant ‘Look at me! I’m vulnerable rob me!’ “Here to fight bad guys or join them Deadpool?” 

 “Hey!” Came the indignant response. Deadpool plopped himself down beside the crouching hero; feet swinging over the edge of the building. “I’m not a bad guy! I’m misunderstood. I hardly ever unalive people anymore!” 

“The first time we met you decapitated someone,” Spider-Man shot back. 

“Aw! You say that so sweetly! Baby boy, you remember our first meeting!” Deadpool clasped his hand against his chest in a dramatic swoon. When Spider-Man failed to react, the man crossed his arms and pouted. “I meant: I haven’t unalived anyone in this conversation!”

Spider-Man turned to him at that. 

“Are you saying it was a possibility that you’d unalive someone during this conversation? Between the two of us?” Spider-Man shifted his weight slightly, preparing to leap from the buildings if he needed to escape. As much as he felt Deadpool was an old friend, he barely knew the masked man or his fighting abilities. “Do I need to worry, Deadpool?” 

“Oh no, not you!” The white fabric eyes on the mask widened comically; and that just shouldn’t be possible. “I meant me! It would be rude to fall asleep or walk away from a boring conversation, so sometimes I’ll unalive myself.”

“Unalive yourself?” Spider-Man asked, completely bewildered. His aunt had taught him to be polite but that seemed a tad excessive. Even she would think that was over the top and she always wrote thank you cards.

A sharp pain caused Peter blink away sudden tears as he realised he was still thinking of her in the present tense. No. His heart shuddered. 

“So, what just happened in your head Spidey? You blanked out on me for a moment there.” Deadpool moved closer, causing Spider-Man to lean back. 

“I’m here to work, Deadpool,” Spider-Man snapped back, and dragged his attention to the building opposite. “Either help, or come back when people’s lives aren’t at stake.” 

“Touchy. What’s got your knickers in a twist?” Deadpool joked, as he poked the masked hero in the side gently. 

“Nothing has my knickers in a twist, Deadpool.” He could feel the frustration tightening his muscles, causing him to tense up as he prepared an argument he already knew he didn’t have the heart to provide. 

“Well obviously;” Peter could hear the eye roll in the man’s tone. “I mean spandex like ours doesn’t keep that smooth pert arse in perfect shape if it’s contending with underwear.” 

“Are you insinuating I go commando, Deadpool?” Spider-Man asked voice wry. He kept his gaze on his target, however his body had turned slightly towards the other man. 

Deadpool spluttered briefly as he struggled between laughter and keeping his serious facade. 

“Because I can assure you Deadpool, I am very much naked under this suit,” he continued in a casual tone. 

Deadpool immediately choked on his suppressed laughter; pounding on his chest to catch his breath and wheezing hungrily once he does. 

—-

It was one of the worst days Spider-Man had had in a long while. That wasn’t including losing his aunt. The attack had been a distraction and the only thing that kept it from getting worse was that the suited up mercenary had decided to take Spider-Man’s orders for the duration of the battle. The two of them had to contain and incapacitate sixteen would be robbers while the rest of the team attended to the real threat; a stealth team using highly illegal alien tech breaking into a S.H.I.E.L.D storage facility. 

Apparently they knew what they wanted and what was of use to them. The team set off a series of explosions; the ensuing mayhem had caused the Avengers to chose between retrieving the now stolen tech or containing a meltdown of stored artefacts hidden along Main st. Obviously human causality at the very public level became first priority. 

—-

“I’m not hungry,” Spider-Man sighed as his companion forced a taco into his waiting hands. He poked at the wilted lettuce and set it aside only to have the merc pick it up and place it back into his hands. 

“Eat,” Deadpool demanded through full cheeks. He’d somehow stuffed an entire taco into his mouth without Peter seeing the face under the mask. 

“I’m not hungry,” Peter replied robotically shifting in his seat on the roof ledge they’d found themselves sitting on. It had been a long exhausting day and all Spider-Man wanted to do was crawl into his bed and clock out. However the mercenary had demanded his payment for ‘services rendered’ when he helped with all the attacks and clean up earlier that day. He had sat Spider-Man on a roof top and disappeared causing the young hero to question why he obeyed the mercenary so readily; Deadpool arriving back with a bag full of tacos. He’d plopped down beside the masked hero demanding he eat. 

“Eat spidey,” he pointed a leather clad finger at him. “When was the last time you ate today?” 

Peter stopped as the phrase, said in a motherly tone, chided him from memory. 

“Yo spidey?” Fingers clicked in front of his face making him jump. Deadpool was leaning over him much closer than before causing an uncomfortable flip in his stomach. 

“Sorry I just-“ he waved the other man off but didn’t know how t finish that sentence so he just left it. 

“Ok what gives Spider-babe?” Deadpool crossed his muscular arms and cocked his head inquisitively. “Have you eaten today?” 

“Um... does coffee count?” Peter felt inexplicably chastised by the masked face in front of him. 

“You’re a growing boy! Coffee does not count! Why haven’t you eaten today? Crime fighting burns a lot of calories,” 

“Uh well,” Spider-Man played with the taco in his hands finding the courage to talk to someone in the wilted veggies and soggy shell. “Well this morning I found out that my aunt died. She was the last person I had left in my family and now she’s gone I’ve got no one.” 

“Well shit spidey you’ve been doing this too long for that to be your tragic backstory; you’re not going to turn villain are you?” Deadpool stared off into the distance rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 

“What? No!” Peter glared at the other man. “It just sucks is all. I dunno.”

“Well then eat,” Deadpool lifted the hand that still held the forgotten lonely taco. “Mexican food is comfort food.” 

“You’re the first person I’ve told. My best friend hasn’t called me back and there’s no one else,” Peter weight the taco in his hands for something to do. 

“What about the tin can boy band?” Deadpool teases gently making Peter smile despite everything. 

“They were there when I was told because I’m considered dangerous and an emotional outburst could be destructive.” 

“You sound like you’re quoting someone.” 

“Fury.” 

“Ah.” 

The conversation petered our so Spider-Man did the only thing he could think of doing. He pulled his mask up over his nose exposing everything below that point and took a bite of the taco. 

Deadpool placed the bag between them opening it to reveal another thirty wrapped tacos. Peter grabbed another one before realising he had finished his first and began to eat in earnest. 

He was sobbing great wracking breathes through the bites with a masked mercenary sitting companionably beside him offering silent support.