Chapter Text
Peter shot out a web, snagging a light post and using it to slingshot himself between two run-down apartment buildings. He bounced off the lid of a dumpster with a grunt, then stretched a hand overhead to grab the bottom rung of a fire escape. It rattled as he scrambled up it, hitting the rooftop at a sprint. He leapt over the gaps between buildings, constantly moving, barely taking the time to breathe.
Peter knew swinging across town in his civvies with only his mask on was pretty risky, but he’d get his ass handed to him if he showed up late for work again. Sometimes he wondered if it even mattered anymore. So what if New York found out that Spider-Man was some boring kid from Queens with nothing going for him but twenty credits at the City University of New York, a sad little apartment, and thirty bucks in his bank account? It wasn’t like Peter had anything left to lose. Except this job. Peter really needed this job.
He splashed through an oily puddle beside a rattling heating unit, staining his jeans, then flipped himself off the roof of an auto repair shop. He didn’t pause in his sprint as he tugged the mask from face and shoved it into his sweatshirt pocket, just as he popped out of the alleyway next to the bodega with the really good deli sandwiches, spinning to avoid hitting a bike messenger.
“Sorry!” he shouted over his shoulder.
Peter ran all the way to the stoplight on Sixth Street, where he bounced on his toes until he couldn’t stand it anymore and lunged into traffic. He slid over the hood of a taxicab on his butt as the driver slammed on his brakes, shouting obscenities out his window while Peter waved.
Peter glanced down at his watch and grimaced. Crap, he was going to be late, and he still had to change.
Peter knew accepting the five-thirty shift would be a tight squeeze; his Organic Chemistry class didn’t end until five-fifteen on Tuesdays. But it was that or work Saturday nights, and those were reserved for patrols.
Peter skidded around the corner and hurled himself toward the darkened entrance to Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Children.
The bouncer opened the door before Peter collided with it, one eyebrow raised.
“Thanks, Marvin!”
The shift from daylight to the smoky darkness of the club had Peter blinking away spots.
“Yo, kid! You’re late!”
Peter winced and turned towards the bar, where the club’s manager glared at him. Peter could understand why they called him Weasel — the beady eyes behind thick glasses, the oversized teeth, the ability to pop out of nowhere when Peter least wanted to see him. However, in the four weeks Peter worked at Sister Margaret’s, he learned that it probably wasn’t only Weasel’s looks that earned him the nickname.
“Yeah, my bad,” Peter replied, rubbing the nape of his neck and walking backwards towards the dressing rooms.
“You’re on in five minutes or you’re fired.”
“Yep! Got it!”
Peter rushed towards the back, tugging his hoodie over his head and unbuttoning his jeans as he went. Thank god Weasel didn’t fire him. This was Peter’s fourth job in as many months, but he made at least five times more cash stripping at Sister Maggie’s than he ever did working checkout at 7/11.
****
Peter tugged a dollar bill from the back of his shorts with a wince and added it to the stack. Dang, it was mostly ones. Cheap jerks.
“I think I hate Tuesday,” Peter announced, dropping the crumpled cash onto the dressing room counter.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re new, you’re learning!” Lisa said, batting her long eyelashes, way too sweet to be serious.
“Gee, thanks,” Peter replied with a roll of his eyes.
“Look, honey, you’ve got skills.” Lisa adjusted the strands of her purple wig. “Out there doing some Cirque du Soleil shit. Plus that pretty little body and baby face. You’re money on legs. The rest is just frosting on the cake, okay?”
“I’m frosting the cake! I wore the g-string like you said!” Peter replied, snapping the waistband sticking out of his shorts. Sure, he hadn’t stripped all the way down, but until they started paying for it, the whale tail was all they would get.
“She means you’re a bad flirt,” Nikki said from her perch at the vanity, catching his eyes in the mirror as she touched up the powder on her face.
Peter pouted, but he took her point. He didn’t really have a lot of practice, and he wasn’t even a good dancer. If he weren’t so flexible and strong, he probably wouldn’t have gotten the job (the sticky hands and feet didn’t hurt either). But Peter was trying. He watched some YouTube videos. He was getting better!
“Alright, Peter. I don’t usually give advice for free, but you’re cute, and I sort of feel bad for you,” Lisa said. “Try some eye contact. Lick your lips, wink, engage. Fancy tricks will only get you so far. You gotta make the customer feel like they’re special, like you’re dancing just for them. Even if all you’re thinking about is the grocery list and the most recent episode of The Bachelorette.”
Peter attempted a wink, but ended up squeezing both eyes shut and looking like he was fighting with a sneeze. The girls snorted out laughs.
“Nah, Pete. Like this.” Lisa pointed at Nikki, beckoning her with a slow curl of her finger.
Nikki pressed a palm against her chest — who me? — as Lisa turned, running a hand over the curve of her ass before she dropped into a squat, legs a mile long in nine-inch heels. She looked over her shoulder, fluttered her lashes, ran her tongue over her teeth, and winked.
Nikki fanned herself as Peter whistled.
She dropped character and stood with a smirk. “Make them beg for your attention with their money. You hardly even have to dance. Now, Nik and I are on. Time to bankrupt some bad guys.”
Nikki followed Lisa to the stage door, clopping like horses on their towering platforms. The music from the club blasted into the dressing room, the heavy bass returning to a muffled thump as the door shut behind them.
Peter sighed. He would never be able to afford the upgrades he wanted to make to his suit if he couldn’t earn some cash. He only had until Friday to come up with the money to pay that guy he found on Craigslist for the Photocathode tubes he needed to repair the night vision on his goggles. The legality of the source was questionable, but Peter hoped the good he would use them for would overshadow the fact that they were probably stolen.
Tuesday clearly wasn’t going to be a good earning day, so Peter decided that if the cash flow was going to be light, he might as well do some recon. Peter Parker’s night might suck, but that didn’t mean Spider-Man couldn’t get some work done.
Peter went to his locker, pulling out a white button-down shirt in a size too small, a pocket protector, the Dockers with the Velcro seams (tailored all by himself), and his favorite red Converse. Maybe it wasn’t the most original costume, but the nerd act usually got Peter a few extra bucks. Once ‘dressed,’ he retrieved the final touch: thick-rimmed glasses nestled in a high-tech Kevlar case.
Peter wiggled the glasses onto his nose.
“Hello, Peter.”
“Hey, E.D.I.T.H. Ready to get to work?”
“Always. Will it be the usual?”
“Yep. Pointbreak Protocol. Scan for criminal records. Flag anyone with violent crimes, multiple felonies. The worse, the better. Associations with Wilson Fisk and the mob are priority.”
“Understood. Have a good show.”
“Thanks!”
So, technically, Peter wasn’t supposed to still have E.D.I.T.H. And technically, nobody knew she was functioning again. The Department of Damage Control turned the system offline after the battle with Mysterio, the housing unit severely damaged. Without Mr. Stark’s 3D printers and nanotechnology, Peter was stuck with the equipment in the university lab and salvaged parts. He even had to repurpose his old glasses, which were a lot bulkier than Tony’s slick designer frames. It took him the better part of a year to get her running again, and even though Peter was still working on restoring full access to Tony’s system, he was able to hack into S.H.I.E.L.D databases undetected.
Sister Margaret’s was pretty much a S.H.I.E.L.D. Most Wanted meetup. Finding someone with a record wasn’t the hard part, even on a Tuesday. It was finding the worst one, and E.D.I.T.H. was pretty helpful for that.
Peter stole a little lip gloss from Nikki’s station. He practiced his flirtatious face in the mirror, but it only made him wince. God, he was pathetic.
Peter spent the next twenty minutes pacing and bouncing anxiously, waiting for his set.
The girls returned from the stage with a decent amount of cash — way more than Peter, for sure. Lisa wished him luck with a slap on the ass, and then it was Peter’s turn again.
The DJ announced him, and he took the stage with a deep breath. The music started.
The stage lights were so bright, Peter couldn’t make out the individual faces in the crowd. He could tell there were at least half a dozen more people lining the stage than there were for his first set. Mercenaries and criminals didn’t come out until well after dark, anyway.
Peter took his time unbuttoning the white-collared shirt in what he hoped was a seductive way, while E.D.I.T.H. scanned the crowd, clocking nearly everyone in the room on someone’s Wanted list. It was mostly low-level goons, threat levels barely even on the radar.
Peter shucked his shirt to applause and wolf whistles. He swung around the pole with a kick, then went to the floor on his knees. With a roll of his hips and an arch of his back, Peter got a secondary view scan of the room. A whole lot of nothing.
Stupid Tuesday.
Peter was ready to call it a wash, but then the screen lit up like a department store Christmas tree, blinking bright red and flashing warnings as the highlights of an extensive dossier scrolled across the lenses.
Threat level: High. Considered armed and dangerous. US Army Special Forces, dishonorable discharge. Expert marksman, swordsman, and hand-to-hand combatant. Topping S.H.I.E.L.D.’s list of undesirables. Mutation: regeneration/immortality. Name: Wade Winston Wilson.
Codename: Deadpool.
Peter swallowed hard and forced his body to keep moving, keep breathing, as Deadpool—in full costume, complete with double katanas and no less than three visible firearms—dropped into a seat in front of the stage. He slapped two twenties at Peter’s feet and blew him a kiss.
Oh crap.