Chapter Text
Peter could not have been more surprised when Deadpool pushed his way into the Daily Bugle’s break room through the window (twelve stories up, but who’s counting?) and scanned the room. Jameson’s secretary, Betty, (who Peter had gone on one date with before she’d let slip that she hated Spiderman and, well, the magic had been lost) let out a little shrieking noise and made a run for the door. Deadpool gave her a flippant wave as she fled but didn’t follow.
Peter was only in the break room to warm up some left-over soup Aunt May had pushed into his hand before he’d left the house that morning. For some reason, this break room only had one microwave and a mini-fridge despite having at last count seven coffee pots. He tore his eyes away from where Deadpool was standing menacingly (if one can be menacing with fluffy, fingerless, panda gloves on one’s hands) by the window still scanning the room, in order to check how much time was left on the soup in the microwave. A minute and forty seconds. Damn.
Deadpool still wasn’t talking, which was slightly more worrying than the glock he was holding and the katanas strapped to his back. Peter, as Spiderman, had had a few run-ins with Deadpool, and he’d learned in those short periods that Deadpool just didn’t do silent. It wasn’t a thing he was good at. And Peter, still as Spiderman, was totally ok with that, because Peter tended to ramble a lot as well, and it was nice to find someone to commiserate with. They’d even grabbed hot dogs once and sat on a roof to eat and talk. It had been a nice ending to a nice night of crime-fighting. Deadpool could talk the ears off a china doll. He was never silent, except, apparently, now he was.
Peter glanced at the other two people left in the room. Jeff was an editor’s assistant, and he looked like he was about to piss his pants. Carol was higher up but had been stealing staplers from management for the past three years and Peter didn’t think she’d last much longer, not with Jameson in charge, but maybe Jameson wouldn’t have to fire her because she looked about to die of fright. Peter realized belatedly that he should probably also be looking at least a bit scared. But, meh, work sucked, (read as: Jameson sucked) and he just couldn’t bring himself to care. He was starting college in the fall, so for this one summer he was free from school, but Jameson had obviously taken that to mean that it was hunting season on Peter’s free time and he was exhausted from running around taking photos for every article Jameson could even think of having written. So, meh.
“Alright,” Deadpool said, finally breaking his silence, “I’m just going to ask this once.”
Jeff squeaked and took a step back. Carol clutched at her heart and dropped her bag, scattering staplers across the floor. The microwave beeped and Peter removed his soup which he began to eat with a plastic spoon. It was broccoli cheddar and divine. He hummed.
“Which one of you asshats is P. Parker?” Deadpool asked, waving his glock around.
Jeff and Carol simultaneously pointed wavering fingers at Peter and then made a break for the door. Peter narrowed his eyes at them and took another slurp of soup.
“What can I do ya for?” Peter asked. He should probably try acting at least a little scared. There was, after all, a mercenary pointing a gun at him in his place of work. But, he actually liked Deadpool, and it was hard to pretend to be frightened of someone he thought was that funny, so…meh.
“P. Parker?” Deadpool asked, and Peter could tell he was smiling, even through his mask. He holstered the gun and stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Nice to meet you. I have a business proposition. You’re going to take it and it’s going to be awesome.”
Peter quirked a smile at the masked man and shifted his soup to one hand so he could finish Deadpool’s handshake. “What kind of business proposition? I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with, you know, killing people. I’m just a simple photographer.” Not that he really thought Deadpool would ask a civilian to help out with murder, but it was best to cover all his bases.
And then Peter’s stomach dropped and he had to clutch the bowl of soup to his chest just so it wouldn’t splatter on the ground. What if this wasn’t a civilian deal? What if Deadpool had figured out Spiderman’s secret identity and had come to confront him about it? What if this was blackmail? Or worse? Deadpool was an ok guy, but that did not mean that Peter trusted him with his secret identity. That would be disastrous.
Deadpool flapped his hands, obviously misreading Peter’s expression, because the next words out of his mouth were, “Don’t be worrying your little head now, darlin’. I’m not here to unalive you or nothin’, I just want to talk to you about some of your photos concerning the friendly neighborhood Spider-hottie.”
Peter wasn’t sure he’d ever felt such relief piled on top of embarrassment. Thank god Deadpool hadn’t figured out who he was but, uh, Spider-hottie? Really?
“Uhhh,” Peter said articulately.
Deadpool pulled a newspaper from behind him (from a pocket? From not a pocket?) and flipped it over to show a large black and white photo of Spiderman. Peter recognized it as one he’d rigged to take during a fight with Doc Ock a few weeks previous. Deadpool tapped one gloved finger against the words below it which Peter knew read: Photographer: P. Parker.
“That’s you, right?” Deadpool asked. “You’re the photo-guy who takes all these sweet pics of Spidey.”
Peter nodded slowly.
“Oh good!” Deadpool said and quickly folded the newspaper up and shoved it into what Peter hoped was his back pocket. “First, Mr. Parker, Sir, let me say what an honor it is to be talking to the man who can make Spidey’s ass look as fine in 2D as it does in real life.” His hands were clasped together and pressed to his chest. Peter would not have been surprised if Deadpool was also batting his eyelashes beneath his mask.
“Spiderman’s…ass…” Peter said slowly. He could feel heat rising in his cheeks and tried to will it away.
Deadpool nodded emphatically. “Oh hells yeah! I wanna tap that so hard…” He trailed off, his eyes focused in the middle distance.
Peter thought that maybe this called for him vomiting. It seemed like something that would be appropriate to do. Or laughter? Should he be disgusted or find this hilarious? Or maybe he should be thinking about how annoying it was to be cornered by a mercenary in his place of work. Yeah, he should probably be feeling that emotion.
But, he didn’t think he was feeling any of those emotions, at least none that he recognized. He didn’t want to vomit, or mime vomiting for that matter, and he didn’t want to laugh, and he didn’t want to yell. If he was being honest, he was in a state of emotionless shock (which may or may not be an oxymoron) and so had no idea what he should be feeling or what he wanted to feel or any of that jazz.
Which Peter supposed, after a moment of contemplation, might be a good thing considering that Deadpool didn’t seem to be leaving any time soon.
“But!” Deadpool finally said, shaking his head and startling Peter, who had also been staring off into the middle distance, “That’s not what I came here to talk about, Mr. Parker, sir.”
“Oh my god,” Peter found himself saying, without any input from his brain whatsoever, “you can call me Peter.”
“Oooohhh,” Deadpool simpered, “does that mean you like me?”
Peter found himself laughing after all, and with wide eyes but a smile on his face he said, “More like, I just turned eighteen and I don’t think I’m old enough to be a ‘sir’ to anyone, you feel?”
“Wowza,” Deadpool said, “hot jailbait alert.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “I just said I’m eighteen. Full adult alert more like it.” He downed the rest of his soup and placed it on the counter where there was no sink. He’d wash it in the bathroom later, or wrap the bowl in paper towels and wash it at home. Whichever one made him feel less like a slob at that moment. “Anyway, you said you wanted to talk to me for an actual reason, right? Well go on then!”
Deadpool sighed, long and suffering, as if he were the one being hindered by this. “Well, like I said so prettily to you before, baby boy, I really like the way you capture Spidey’s fine ass. I will throw cash in your face if you make me look as good.”
Peter’s eyebrows scrunched up. The combination of “fine ass” and “make me look as good” had him blurting out “I don’t do porn” before he could think.
Which, actually, yeah, that’s how most of his conversations went, him spitting out words before they reached his brain.
Deadpool made an exaggerated disappointed noise and sagged a little. “Awwww, but I wanted to be in a porno! Adult films for the win! Put three X’s in there, baby!” Then he bounced back up again. “Nah, I’m just joshing with you, Parker. See, this is a much more above-board business proposition. I promise. No porn. Unless it’s co-starring you.” He leered down at Peter which for some reason made Peter feel much better. He could handle joking about porn. That was a safe gray area. “Damn, you’ve got an ass almost as fine as Spidey’s!”
“Hey!” Peter objected putting his hands on his hips. “What makes his ass better than mine, huh?” And then he contemplated throwing himself down a flight of stairs because why the fuck would he say that? To DEADPOOL???
Deadpool snickered. “No, we’re not getting into a who’s-ass-is-best competition, unfortunately,” he said, but it didn’t seem to be directed at Peter so he let it go. “No,” Deadpool reiterated, and then focusing back at Peter said, “No, I want you to make me look like a hero.”
Peter blinked and for a moment didn’t speak. He scratched the back of his head. “Alright, I’m going to give it to you straight, Deadpool, I am, like, one-hundred-percent confused right now. Could you run that by me again?”
“I. Want you,” he said slowly, “to make me look. Like a hero.”
Peter blinked again and cocked his head to the side. “What, like a makeover or something? ‘Cause I don’t know my way around a blush palette any more than I know how to make porn.”
Oh god, Peter, he thought to himself, stop talking about porn!
Deadpool let out a little giggle before he could stop it, and then straightened his shoulders once more, seeming to shake away the humor. “No, I want you to take my photo like you do Spidey’s. Then everyone will see how much of a hero I can be.”
“You rhymed,” Peter felt the need to point out.
“I do that sometimes,” Deadpool confided in a whisper, as if he were sharing some secret that no one else knew.
“Alright,” Peter said, “we’ve got a lot of topics to tackle concerning…everything you just said. Let’s start with: why do you want to look like a hero? For example, aren’t you a mercenary? There’s not much hero-ing there, just murdering people for money.” Peter realized belatedly that he probably shouldn’t be complaining to the mercenary about mercenaries, because well, mercenaries kill people and Peter was a people. He didn’t particularly want to die. “Not that I don’t think you could be a hero…” he winced, because now it sounded like he was backpedaling, “but, you know…” he trailed off, unsure how to move forward after having shoved his foot into his mouth.
“I retired.” He said it like it was common knowledge and he was annoyed that he kept having to repeat himself.
“Ah,” Peter said understandingly, which was a huge lie because he didn’t understand jack shit.
“Right? So I retired from unaliving people for moolah,” he rubbed his fingers and thumb together in the symbol for ‘cash,’ “but people won’t leave me alone about it. Baby boy, you have no idea how annoying it is having people harass you to kill their wives or husbands or ex-kidnappers or whatever only to get pissed when you tell them you’ve retired. They then try to kill you.”
“Uh, no,” Peter agreed, “I can’t say I’ve ever had that happen to me.”
“Well it’s no fun.” He crossed his arms and pouted.
“So you want to look like a hero… so people won’t assume you’re still a mercenary?”
“Exactly, Parker! If they see that I’m a hero they’ll stop coming for me, ya see?”
Peter nodded slowly. “Wouldn’t it be easier than to just be a hero? Or act heroically? If you do enough good things you’ll get into the paper eventually.”
“But I have!” he whined. “I haven’t killed anyone in months!”
“Uh…” Peter squinted at the mercenary. The ex-mercenary. Whatever. “Not killing people doesn’t actually equal being a hero. You know that, right?”
Deadpool made an intrigued noise. “So what does it take to be a hero?”
Peter shrugged. “I don’t know. Saving people? Rescuing hostages and stopping robberies? That sort of thing?”
Deadpool crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side. He looked like he was contemplating something. “But…without unaliving them.” The sentence sounded like a statement, but Peter nodded anyway.
“You got it. Don’t kill people, and stop people from being killed. A motto to live by.”
Deadpool was silent for a moment before beginning to bounce on his toes. “Do you think Captain America would be impressed? Or Spiderman?”
“If you became a hero?” Peter felt his lips relaxing into a smile without his volition. “Yeah. I think they probably would.”
“Yes!” Deadpool fist-pumped the air. “I’m going to be a he-ro, I’m going to be a he-ro,” he sing-songed.
Peter laughed. “Yes. Deadpool the crime-fighting ex-merc with a mouth. I can see it now.” Then another of his questions popped to the forefront of his brain and he paused. “I do want to know why you think that my taking photos of you could help you out.”
“You take a lot of pictures of Spidey,” Deadpool pointed out unnecessarily. “And you make him look,” he shuddered and made a moaning noise, “delicious.”
Peter found himself blushing again. “Ok, maybe, I mean, let’s never talk about this again, but the articles that go along with those photos aren’t good at all. They cast him in a really bad light, the worst light. Jameson hates Spiderman more than Hitler. I mean, Jameson hates Hitler less than he hates Spiderman. I don’t mean that Jameson and Hitler are having a competition about who can hate Spiderman more. Hitler is dead.”
At that Deadpool looked completely thrown, and Peter discovered that he found that adorable. And what the ever-loving fuck did that mean? Peter chalked it up to having met him before, already having a soft spot for the merc—ex-merc, from his time hero-ing around New York.
“Do they?” Deadpool asked. “I’ve never actually read any of the articles.”
Peter chuckled. “Seriously? You broke in here and made three of my coworkers run screaming from the room and you didn’t even read the articles? They all suck! Deadpool, if I may call you that,” the ex-merc nodded, “dude, Jameson’s favorite nickname for Spiderman is ‘Menace.’ And if they’re that rude to a superhero, what do you think they’d say to an actual, well, antihero?”
Deadpool crossed his arms over his chest and once again proceeded to pout. “You could have given the photos to someone else. Someone nicer.”
“Hah! And lose my job? I don’t think so.”
Deadpool drew one of his guns and pointed it unerringly at Peter’s head. “I could make you do it. I can be really very persuasive when I want. No really, I can!”
Peter leveled him with an unimpressed look. “No. You really couldn’t.”
“Is that a challenge?” He gasped dramatically.
“I don’t know, Deadpool, would you really shoot me?”
Deadpool looked at his gun and then replaced it in his holster. He sighed. “I guess not, sweet cheeks.
Peter grinned at the man. “There you go. A real hero after all.”
Peter heard the stamp of many feet coming down the hall before it registered for Deadpool, but it wasn’t but a few seconds later that Deadpool was swanning out the window with all the flare and drama that Peter had come to expect of the now ex-merc.
By the time three armed police officers had burst into the break room Deadpool was long gone and Peter had poured himself a mug of coffee. He saluted the officers with the mug and gave them a winning smile.