Chapter 1
2AM. Quick Coin Laundromat. Queens.
It's brightly lit in white, with large panels shining down on the dingy white floor. It's too bright in Peter Parker's opinion. It's reminiscent a hospital. The obnoxious pink and blue sign outside is flickering. It seems it'd probably be dead silent without the gentle whirring and wooshing of the laundry machines in the background, but that's nothing of note, really. There's exactly four people there, including himself. A short, old, white haired woman in a bahamas tourist T shirt with a smiling sun and some phallic looking palm trees on it, also wearing a pair of sunglasses (It's two in the morning. Why are you wearing sunglasses?), a what-he'd-assume to be homeless man, tired-looking and beaten, muttering and counting out coins in his palm to ensure he had enough to pay the machine, and a suspicious looking man with his hood up in a red sweatshirt. This man was tall and well built, not that Peter would ever notice such a thing. (Peter would definitely notice such a thing, and most definitely did. He mentally scolded himself for being shallow.) He was sat in the corner staring at an iPhone. Bright rainbow-ish looking light was emitting from the screen and small sounds popped into earshot every few seconds. Peter glanced up from the book he'd been reading and noticed a rather unusual amount of red in the laundry machine the man was sitting next to. Good god, it was like a crime scene swirling around in there. Least whoever that guy is has the decency to wash it.
Peter had definitely not planned on being in that laundromat that early in the morning, but after a rather unfortunate -and gross-interaction with a very drunken man after splitting him up from getting too non-consensually-cozy with an innocent woman in an alleyway, poor spiderman's suit was covered in this drunken man's vomit. "Be a superhero, Tony said, I'll help you make the suit, Tony said, it'll be fun, Tony said.." So after shamefully dredging back to his backpack a few blocks away (And trying not to touch anything) Peter ended up in an old, raggedy, far-too-tight-for-anyone's-good Star Wars t-shirt and sweatpants, having forgotten when he brought it along that those were the only clothes in his backpack since spending the night at a friend's studying last week. Now there he was, in Quick Coin Laundromat, in Queens, at two in the morning, watching his beloved suit spin round and round in an old washing machine. He would've just changed in the alley and gone home to wash it, but Peter was uh, how do you say, Poor as Shit. The washing machine broke down yesterday, after becoming an unfortunate victim of a prototype hybrid hydriodic acid-based web fluid being placed too close to the laundry detergent. Aaand he was way too poor to fix it. There goes Peter's favourite t-shirt.
Out of the corner of his eye Peter spotted the red sweatshirt man put his phone away and stand up to do what Peter assumed would be retrieve his laundry. Somehow, he hadn't noticed until the man stood up that the only two other people had left sometime in the last few minutes. More likely than not the man would also be leaving soon, seeing as most the blood appeared to be clean of whatever he had in the machine, meaning Peter could safely take out and change back into his suit without anyone to notice. He went back to his book, spider-senses waiting for the all clear. Well, much to the web-slinger's surprise, the man decided to sit down next to him. An odd choice, as he'd been far enough away to consider sitting down next to him out of the ordinary. Not that taking a seat next to a random stranger in an entirely empty establishment isn't already out of the ordinary, mind you. The stranger leaned over almost immediately to show Peter whatever he had been playing on his phone. "Look." He sounded serious. A bit of a high pitched voice, he had a confident tone though. Peter, having been put a bit on the spot, looked at the iPhone screen, if out of nothing but curiosity as to why it was so important to this guy he look at it. The phone had some bright, loud, pink and yellow game, with little cartoon unicorns and a bunch of glittery shit everywhere. The title at the top said "Pony Princess Horse Race". Slowly, and definitely now in a state of confusion, Peter scratched the back of his head, not having a clue what to say or do. "I got a highscore." the man announced proudly. "I-uh, good for you." Peter hesitated. The guy stored the iPhone back in his pocket and straightened back up. "So, might I ask, what brings you to this establishment at this fine hour, kind sir?" he cooed in a mock English accent. "Oh, uh- Washing machine at home broke down, and this is probably cheaper than trying to fix it." I mean, that wasn't a lie, was it? The one at home is actually broken. Peter was still having a little trouble coming up with answers when he feared someone might find out about the suit. You'd think six years lying to his friends and Aunt May about it might've made him more comfortable coming up with lies, but nope, never changes. At least he lived in an apartment by himself now, as desperate for a roommate he was, if he could actually afford to pay the rent himself he would. It's a whole lot easier to sneak in when there's never anyone else home. Nonetheless, he was still a broke college student. He still had two weeks till this month's was due, so that's still two weeks to find said roommate.
After a moment of the other man staying silent, Peter paused for a second, then reluctantly asked, "So why are you here?" He sighed lightly, and lazily informed Peter, "Oh, same old, same old. The Norwegian woman who usually hand-board-washes my laundry for me got tangled up in a pretty high profile Torsk smuggling job. Customs threw her Rumpe in jail." The man folded his arms and they sat in silence for a moment more. At this point both their machines had finished their cycles, and Peter was growing slightly anxious to get out of there. Although, he will admit this guy was kind of holding his interest. "Don't suppose you'd be interested in scrubbing my delicates on a washboard in traditional Scandinavian garb, would you?" The man paused and looked at him for a moment."I'd pay you.' Peter chuckled uncomfortably. He was joking, right? What the fuck. The red-clad stranger readjusted and put his hand out in gesture of a handshake. "Wade W. Wilson, at your service." The mock english accent returned on his last few words. Hesitantly, Peter reached out and shook his hand. "I'm Peter." He paused. "Parker." "Well, mister Parker, it would seem I have places to be." Wade rolled back the sleeve of his hoodie to glance at a hello Kitty watch. Peter wasn't sure if Wade was aware it was well over three or four hours off. "I-uh, I have to get going too." Again, technically not a lie, he was technically still supposed to be on patrol until sunrise. He silently thanked himself yet again for signing up for evening classes. Wade stood up, made a dramatic show of stretching, and walked over to where he had been sat before. He reached under the seat and pulled out a hello kitty duffel bag, and proceeded to dump the now mostly-dry contents of the laundry machine into said bag. Peter took note of the fact whatever he pulled out was red, and silently joked in his mind that it was probably on account of the amount of blood it seemed to have absorbed.
Realizing he'd soon be alone and able to get back to patrol, he straightened up and got ready to grab the contents of the machine as soon as his new er-acquaintance left. As this new acquaintance walked toward the exit, he turned inattentively and waved at Peter lazily. "Toodles." he whistled. Peter looked at the dingy white floors and realized there was a trail of orangey-water-diluted-blood that had dripped out the exit with whatever had been in that duffle bag. He laughed a little at the realization. He finally grabbed his now vomit-free suit from the dryer and ran to the men's bathroom to change. As spider-man emerged from the back exit into the alley, he swung off into the night, with an inexplicable feeling Wade Wilson was going to be a hard name to forget.