Work Text:
“Where are the cameras?” Peter asked as he walked into the taco place he worked at, in full uniform and ready for his graveyard shift. “This had better be a goddamn prank.”
First of all: the floor was supposed to be white tile, not red. Fuck, that blood was going to stain - and then he was going to have to explain to the manager why the classy ceramic flooring they just bought, and spent more than he made in a year on, was now night-of-the-living-dead blood red . There goes the promotion to assistant manager he was gunning for. God fucking damn it. I mean, there were also bodies on the tables, and everywhere else frankly, but Peter recognized them as the group of regulars that called the chick that ran food “hot tits”, so he looked the other way.
“Cameras? I’d certainly hope not.” Is that Deadpool? Totally awesome! In an ‘oh shit I hope he’s here for me’ kind of way. Peter rolled his eyes, making his way behind the counter and putting on an apron while the other employees ran outside and (presumably) called the police. Without clocking out. Great! Amateurs. I mean, Jesus H Christ, this is Queens for fucks sake! I mean, don’t take the graveyard shift if you can’t handle the sight of a body. Or multiple.
Peter didn’t respond as he clocked everybody out and himself in before he got in shit, then slowly made his way to the front counter, casting a defeated look at the corpse splayed across it. Deadpool’s grin faltered.
“This your katana?” Peter asked dully although he didn’t need to, gesturing to the katana pierced through the corpse’s mouth and into the counter. Deadpool nodded earnestly, silent for once. “Please collect it.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I’ve lived in New York for my entire life, went through the whole ass public school system, plus university, and I only ever learned three things of value: never go to New Jersey unless you’re on crack, if you ever see a rat, scream at it until you can’t see it anymore - and don’t touch somebody else’s murder weapon.”
“That’s a good policy,” Deadpool muttered, removing the katana and wiping the blood off on his thigh.
“You wear red, huh?”
Deadpool’s head snapped up, and he nodded, sheathing the sword.
“That’s smart,” Peter said wistfully, pushing the body off of the counter so it landed limply at Deadpool’s feet. “I wish our uniforms were red.”
“Wait, what?”
“What can I get for you today?” Peter asked, suddenly all cheer and smiles.
Deadpool didn’t look at the menu. “I’ll get a number 4.”
“Good choice!” Peter commended with a wide, bright, warm smile. “That’ll be $12.48!”
“You sure I can’t get a superhero discount?” Wade laughed, already pulling a $20 bill out of his wallet.
“I am absolutely, 100% certain you aren’t a superhero.” Peter smiled and took the money, struggling on approximately 15 minutes of sleep to count out his change.
Deadpool raised an eyebrow under his mask. “Then what do you call this?” He gripped the front of his suit, stretching it then letting it snap back against his chest.
“BDSM gear,” a hint of a real smile crossed Peter’s face as Deadpool choked.
“And this?” Deadpool gestured around at the bodies.
“Murder.” Deadpool snickered as Peter closed the register, dropping the change into his tip jar and moving to the glass protected assembly counter to start on the order.
“Did you just put my change in your tip jar?”
“What are you going to do, katana boy, call the police?”
Deadpool all out belly laughed at that. “I mean, no but-”
“I’m going to stop you right there,” Peter started, assembling the soft taco without even looking at them. “Not only do I have to clean all of this up-” Deadpool cringed “-but now I get to lose at least five hours of pay being questioned by the police, then another week of mandatory sick leave for the “psychological trauma” - whatever the fuck that is!” Peter started on the other taco as Deadpool’s masked features contorted into what he assumed was self realization and horror. Welcome to 2am, bitch. “Plus the fucking mandatory therapy, which is at least subsidized by what little insurance I do have because you know I sprung for mental health services after the first time one of you vigilante fuckers pulled this shit. Not to mention that I was up for promotion to assistant manager, which is gone now! Along with my $2 an hour raise that I need to even be able to afford to eat here, and to finally get on those fucking antidepressants I’ve been prescribed for three years. I’ve just been drinking instead because it’s cheaper and it helps me sleep and telling my psychiatrist I’ve been taking them because how am I supposed to tell the only person that believes in me that I’m a failure? But actually I’m literally just barely holding it together and-”
“Jesus fucking Christ…” Deadpool seemed almost apologetic, and Peter realized he’d been talking for too long. “I’m so sorry.”
“Anyway,” Peter wrapped up awkwardly, blushing as he handed Deadpool the takeout bag and started filling up the soda that came with it. “You just cost me, like, a thousand dollars - at least . So fuck off.”
“God,” he sounded almost genuinely concerned, “how many people have I done this to?”
“That I know of? When you killed all those people, there was like six people here. And they’re, like, chicken shit teenagers. Which is sad, actually. You brutally murdered these pieces of shit in front of children.”
Deadpool reached into his wallet, pulling out a $100 bill and shoving it through the coin slot in Peter’s tip jar. “I’m just… glad someone told me. I had no idea I was such an asshole.”
“Uh, thank you,” Peter stared down at his tip jar in shock, voice higher pitched than usual. “Just try and be more considerate next time. I mean, whatever happened to knifing someone in an alleyway?” He chuckled. “You know, the old New York?”
“What would you do if you caught me knifing someone in an alleyway?”
“I don’t know, bask in the childhood memories?” Peter handed Deadpool his soft drink and side of gross nachos.
Deadpool giggled, “god that’s twisted. I like you already-” Deadpool leaned in to read his nametag “-Peter? Petey? It’s good to meet you. My name’s Wade. How are you not famous or something?”
Once Peter got over the shock of knowing Deadpool’s real name, he found his footing again. “Well, I am famous.”
“Holy shit, really?” Wade sounded confused and excited. Oh my god, Peter had him. He fucking had him. Keep cool, don’t ruin it, he told himself as he kept his poker face.
“Yeah, they got a handful of streets named after me.”
“What, like “Petey” avenue or something?”
“You ever heard of Queens?”
Peter broke out into a grin, and it took Deadpool a whole second to get the joke, then another to recover from the whiplash. By then, Peter was already laughing hysterically at Wade’s stiff reaction, and before long Wade was laughing so hard he had to put his tacos down.
They both glanced towards the glass door, blue and red lights flashing from outside.
“You should take my number,” Deadpool said, backpedaling at Peter’s shocked gaze. “For emergencies,” he added, grabbing the pen from behind Peter’s ear and scribbling out a number across Peter’s wrist. Peter didn’t protest one bit.
“You better leave through the back door,” Peter reminded.
“Pft, duh,” Deadpool said, slipping out just before the police busted in, firearms dawn and safety off.
“What can I get for you, officers?” Peter tried sheepishly, hands in the air.
The next day, after a harsh night of police questioning and cleaning up blood after all the bodies had been carted away (the blood had stained, by the way), Peter’s super boss, the owner, called and shakily offered him a promotion to manager with a $7 raise, which would bring him up to $15 an hour. Peter asked for $16.50 and the night off, a demand that was immediately appeased.
An hour later, a bottle of antidepressants and a box of chocolate showed up at his door with a note addressed to “the bravest queen in all of Queens”.
Thank you. Peter texted the number scrawled across his wrist, sprawled out on the couch and halfway through the chocolate.
An almost immediate reply. it’s what you deserve petey
Peter read the text the second it came up on his phone, but waited five minutes to reply because that’s what MJ said to do. - And what do you deserve?
i think i might deserve a date.
Peter replied as soon as he saw it. From me?
who else?
I don’t know, a fellow murderer?
Peter could almost hear Wade’s smile through the screen. classy
Yep.
how about it?
Peter grinned. Let me think about it.
no
Why not?
because then you’ll overthink it. He was right.
Peter thought about how Wade and him had joked last night. How well they had gotten along.
One date.
yay! ~ im paying
No you’re not.
you sure?
Yeah, incidentally I just got a crazy raise. Peter paused. That and some douchebag made a mess at work last night and left me an $100 tip.
doesn’t sound like much of a douchebag to me
Only time will tell~
was he at least hot?
Oh, you know it katana boy.