Chapter Text
“Parker!”
It took nearly all Peter’s inner willpower to not instantly hop over to the nearest desk and find a vantage point on a wall when he heard his last name being called out. Force of habit, and old habits die hard; habits formed out of near constant anxiety over the next inevitable shitstorm die even harder. Peter cringed to himself when the split second of panic finally fell off his shoulders.
Professor Conner gave Peter an unimpressed look when she saw him tense at the mere mention of his name. And by the upward tilt of her left eyebrow, it was clear that she found his reaction odd. Wait, how long has he been staring at her? That may also be contributing to his Professor looking at him like he just announced he is dropping out to start an Etsy career.
Peter cleared his throat and worried his bottom lip between his teeth, approaching slower than necessary. It’s not that he didn’t trust Professor Conner to not hurt him, it would be foolish to think she would in broad daylight with an audience of students there to witness the act. He was just scared of her, and it was as simple as that. She determined whether or not he passed this class, one of the few classes standing between him and graduation. And she wasn’t exactly known for being understanding in her grading.
“You have yet to turn in your last assignment.” Professor Conner stated bluntly once Peter was standing in front of her lab station. She was a stout woman, in her late fifties, with a head full of greying brown hair tied up into a tight bun.
“You have already used up your one and only extension for the year. Am I to assume that you’ve decided retaking this course is easier than finishing your paper?”
Dread washed over Peter at the idea of having to retake this course. Money wasn’t the issue here, past Peter would have already been thinking up ways of saving up enough couch pennies to cover the cost, he had enough scholarships in line to assist him if it really came down to it. Having to take another semester at MIT and being forced to graduate in December rather than in three months? That was the real issue.
“I’m sorry, Professor Conner, it won’t happen again.” Peter all but babbled out over his stuttering voice. This earned him a small grunt and whispered words that sounded eerily like “That’s what you said last time”.
“Fix this, Parker, or I will have no other option than to fail you. Don’t let whatever is happening outside of this institution destroy your chances at a bright future.”
She finished the brief conversation by nodding to the door, signaling to Peter that they would no longer be discussing this any further. The fate of his grade was now in his hands. Hands that could crush a steel pipe if they were so forced, ones that could stop a punch faster than a bullet, that had seen a decade of combat. Yet he couldn’t stop them from trembling as he exited the lab.
Don’t let whatever is happening outside of this intuition destroy your chances at a bright future. Yeah, easier said than done.
The average college student faced many hardships while in school. It was a way of life really, and a right of passage to spend many waking hours in a pool of tears over something as simple as reading a textbook. Peter’s life had never been that simple, and he would give anything for his extraneous circumstances to revolve around homework. Being Spiderman complicated everything.
It wasn’t like Peter necessarily had a bad life, there were good parts too, Aunt May being one of them. There was just far too much chaos mixed into his life soup to focus too much on the little things. Death and despair had become a constant spice in his overly flavorful reality, and there were many points when he had thought about giving up entirely. That was until a year ago.
A year ago, Peter’s entire existence shifted. He started seeking therapy from one of the mutant counselors at Stark Industries, thankfully covered by his employee benefits, and whatever force that seemed to enjoy stirring the pot stepped back for awhile. He was happy, and he had been thriving. Crime rates had dropped significantly in the last year, mostly thanks to a new hero named Tango, which took a major weight off of Peter’s shoulders. He was nearing graduation at MIT for his Master’s in Biological Sciences and he had a career secured at Stark Industries. Things were finally looking up for him. Twenty-eight and on the road to a brighter future.
All that changed when the first victim was found.
Peter remembers it like it was yesterday. He had been at home in his rinky dink apartment when a news article popped up on his phone. The title read ‘Body Found Dismembered in Skyrise Apartment’. The details of the crime were enough to make Peter’s hair stand on edge.
The maid to a wealthy business man had found her employer dead in his living room. There were four significant details about this crime that made it stand out against all the rest. Firstly, he was still fully clothed and devoid of injuries, mostly, which suggested he hadn’t gotten a chance to fight back. There was nothing stolen from the apartment, including the wad of cash he still had in his pants pocket indicating it wasn’t motivated by money. And, the last horrifying detail, he was missing his head, hands and feet. The only reason he had been identified is because his maid knew he was supposed to be home.
All that violence and his body was still warm and actively gushing blood, suggesting the assailant was still nearby. Though the police ran into a dead end and the trail went cold due to no DNA left at the scene.
For an entire week the public heard nothing about the case, most had forgotten it had happened since it was an isolated incident. Then the next body was located in a Brooklyn alleyway. Then another in Times Square. Another in the middle of a Queens restaurant. The list of victims was stacking up at an alarming rate, half of which were yet to be identified due to the lack of important body parts. Now two months into the spree and the body count was standing at a staggering thirty-six. Whether it was the work of a serial killer or a crime ring, no one knew. The police were stumped and scrambling for any leads they could possibly find. To no avail.
Peter grumbled something to himself about the cold as he exited the Biology building, being blasted in the face by the crisp February air. He adjusted the backpack slung over his right shoulder and subconsciously hugged his ‘I Wear This Periodically’ hoodie closer to his body in an attempt to hold in some heat.
Students of various ages walked on all sides of Peter as he made his way towards the university's exit. Some walked with haste, trying to make it to their next class without being last. Others were taking their time, dreading the inevitable waiting behind the classroom door. Most were like Peter, leaving for the day and not looking back until it was absolutely necessary.
Everyone belonged and had a purpose for being there. All except for one.
Peter’s Spidey sense picked up on the anomaly before he even had a chance to shove an earbud in his ear. Despite how long he had lived with it, the feeling of electricity flying down his spine at the speed of light never failed to startle him. That was the point, wasn’t it? To alert him of danger nearby and activate his fight or flight response. While helpful to Spiderman, it was nonetheless annoying a great deal of the time to Peter Parker.
He spotted him not long after the tingle subsided, and his feet faltered from their steady pace causing the student behind him to run face first into the back of Peter’s head.
“Watch where you’re going, dick.” The girl muttered, rubbing her nose as she sidestepped Peter and disappeared into the crowd. Peter paid her no mind. He was currently focused on the hooded figure lingering off under a tree nearby the library.
It was easy to miss the man if one wasn’t paying attention, and why would you pay attention to someone who was clearly hiding. But Peter was not most people, and his brown eyes were currently locked onto their target, refusing to budge.
The man was large, that was no understatement, he had to be at least 6’3” and the black hoodie was doing nothing to hide the mass of muscles underneath the fabric. Hands were shoved into the front pocket of the hoodie and the hood was pulled up to obscure his face from all those nearby. With Peter’s exceptional vision, he could make out what looked to be a white surgical mask covering the man's face and the wide array of scars that adorned it.
Peter hadn’t realized how long he had been staring until he saw a pair of striking blue staring right back at him. Shit!
Stumbling over his stupidly shaky feet, Peter continued on his path towards home. Even without maintaining eye contact, he could feel the man’s eyes burning into the back of his head. Peter spared a glance backward and confirmed his fears. The man had not let up on his gaze, in fact, it felt more intense now that he had looked at him a second time. If a fight broke out because of this interaction, he couldn’t exactly hold his own outside of his suit. So Peter does the only thing he could in the moment, and he picks up the pace, slipping into the sea of bodies. All while the feeling of being watched remained.
Thankfully, Peter lived fairly close to campus and could walk the distance in no more than fifteen minutes. Today he halved that and came flying in his apartment door at record speed. His chest heaved from either exertion or fear. Which it really was he wasn’t sure. Possibly both he concluded as he snapped the deadbolt in place and tripled checked the locks.
All those emotions went out the window as he felt the gentle feeling of headbutting against his foot. Obi, an overweight and overly affectionate orange cat, greeted Peter at the door as he always does. The large cat made a sound that closely resembled a chirp and went back to claiming Peter. Peter huffed at the gesture and knelt down beside the cat, carding a shaking hand through orange fur.
“Is that so?” Peter mused, picking up the porky cat into his arms before standing up straight again. “Are you sure you really love me? Or is this an elaborate plot to get more treats out of me tonight.” Obi mewed and Peter laughed, scratching Obi behind the ears.
He had never thought of himself as a cat person. Forever being adamant that he was a dog person for most of his life, even going as far as visiting local shelters to try to find a companion. Each time fell through and Peter had accepted his lonely life as he always did. Now he was the owner of not one, but three cats. What kind of tomfoolery was this?
Obi and his twin brother Solo had been found on the street outside of Peter’s apartment building. He had heard the signature mews of scared kittens coming from near a sewer grate while returning from a long patrol. One look at the frightened felines and Peter knew he was screwed, they reminded him of a younger version of himself and he couldn’t in good conscience leave them out there to perish.
Solo was far less social than Obi, often sticking to himself perched up on one of the cat trees or hiding in Peter’s overflowing laundry hamper. The twins were starkly different cats and Peter honestly preferred it that way.
Donut was a completely different, and borderline humiliating story. She had been forcefully given to him by a civilian he had just saved. The elderly woman had all but thrown the Persian cat at Spiderman when she was safely on the ground and refused to take the aggressive cat back as she hurried back into her home. Peter had spent the better half of his patrol trying to find someone to take in the pissed off cat, who had already bitten him nearly ten times mind you, yet no takers. He had been forced to whip around the city with a wiggling cat in his arms, trying his hardest not to drop her to the streets below. In the end, Peter decided to keep her, despite her aggression, she was now part of his small feline family.
Speak of the devil. Peter cocked his head to the side as Donut entered the living room, her long drawled meow evident of her annoyance. She settled herself on the armrest of the couch, curling her poofed tail around her body as she glared at Peter.
“Yeah yeah, I love you too. Remind me to never die in this apartment, I think you might end up eating me.”
—-
Corndogs had become a staple meal for Peter on his patrols, and that had been the case ever since he got a stable job. No longer having to wait until he got home to raid Aunt May’s fridge in the dead of night, hoping she didn’t awaken to something that sounded like a dozen rats making a home in their icebox. It was an easy food, convenient and cheap. He couldn’t waltz around with any of his credit cards, that was a no go if he wanted to keep his identity a secret, and his suit only had so much room for a few dollar bills to sit comfortably in a side pocket.
Peter took a rather large bite of his stale dinner, paying no mind to the obvious taste of freezer burn lingering on his taste buds. He needed food to keep up his patrol, and this would just have to do. He was currently perched on the rooftop of a business, legs kicking out ever-so-slightly with the hum of the city. The corndog was gone in minutes and he was in search of a nearby garbage can when his police scanner picked something up.
To say he wasn’t the tiniest bit excited at the possibility of some real action would be a lie. Currently his patrol consisted of helping an elderly lady find her way back to her apartment, two false alarm car break ins and one person that had screamed for help so they could meet Spiderman. That last one had been a doozy, having to sternly talk to a teenager who was an obvious fan about the dangers of false alerts. A little action never hurt anyone, especially when he had a mass murderer on the loose.
“All units, all units, we have a possible bank robbery in progress on 247th street. Witnesses say they have seen Spiderman on the scene already.”
Peter froze at that. How…? Sure he was nearby, a few blocks away, but he hadn’t been anywhere near 247th street that evening. And he sure as hell would have remembered if he had stopped a bank robbery. Or, for that matter, would know if he was currently stopping a supposed bank robbery.
“Shots fired! We need all nearby units and medical personnel at the scene!”
Within an instant, Peter was on his feet and already shooting a web off in the direction of 247th street, hopping off the roof and forgetting his trash behind. If he remembers it later, he will come back to dispose of it. For now he needs to focus on the active hostile situation and a supposed imposter.
“Since when does Spiderman kill people?!” One officer asked for the radio, clearly having gotten to the scene.
“This isn’t Spiderman! Last I checked he doesn’t shoot people between the eyes at point blank range! We have one confirmed casualty, back up required!” Another replied without missing a beat.
What the absolute fuck was going on?!
Peter swung faster than he usually did, dead set on figuring out why the hell they seem to think Spiderman is killing people, let alone using a gun. Not only that, but there is also a confirmed death on the scene meaning there were likely more along the horizon if he didn’t book it like his life and reputation depended on it.
The police car’s axles whined under his weight as Peter landed atop it, taking his typical battle stance. An officer standing behind the car looked at Peter then back at the scene, the back to Peter in shock. His hands were shaking in fear and it took only one look at the scene to understand why the man looked seconds from soiling his slacks. Peter’s mouth dried in horror.
Blood. Fresh blood. Copious amounts of blood. It covered damn near every surface of the entrance to the bank. The limp body of a woman was laying face down on the sideway, her own blood adding to the grotesque nature of the situation. She had black hair, and from what Peter could make out, she was white, possibly thirty with several facial tattoos. A substantial hole protruded from the back of her skull where a splatter of red and pink now coated her hair.
Oh fuck. Peter suppressed a gag at the sight. Was that…? God it was…
He shot out a web and swiftly entered the bank, not glancing back at the dead woman’s corpse out on the sidewalk. Violence was something Peter was used to, but he never got used to what a human brain looked like. If he didn’t get away from that soon he may upchuck his corndog or worse, cry.
Peter landed silently in the front of the bank, keeping low as to not alert any of the intruders. Yet from what he could see, there was none. The waiting area is devoid of all life or any signs of the attackers. It smelt like mold in this building and the faint scent of gunpowder lingered in the air, singing Peter’s nose hairs. The only sign of life he found was several bloody footprints leading off towards the back of the bank.
“I don’t know what you want- fuck!” A man shouted out from the farthest room, and the sounds of other voices hit Peter’s ears as he approached.
“Blah blah blah, that’s what they all say.” Another voice replied, this one deeper and surprisingly relaxed. “Now. Tell me what I want to know and we’ll be all peachy keens. I have reruns of Gossip Girl ready and begging for me to watch back home, and if you so much as fucking think about making me late for my monthly marathon…?”
The voice trailed off for a second, a literal second. “Oh! I have a better idea. Would you like me to get those brain juices following with a visual?”
Peter startled as the other man made a sobbed noise and fell silent. All he could hear was the calmer voice now. Though he sounded anything but calm at this point as he started speaking animatedly in two different pitches.
Just as Peter rounded the corner, he got a sight that he would never be able to unsee. Laying on the ground with a bloodied up face was a man with blonde hair. He was staring helplessly at his stomach which was split open from hip to hip, intestines spilling out.
“Ah ah ah, the teacher is talking here.” A man dressed in a red clad suit admonished the man, grabbing his face to look up at him. There was a knife currently sticking out of the masked man’s shoulder, though he didn’t seem the least bit concerned about that detail. Why would he when there was a bigger issue at hand.
“Hi, I’m skeezy Tom, I work my days as a dumbfuck bank teller doing fuck knows with all this damn money but by night I am a cum guzzling minion to my even bigger bad boss.” The masked man mimicked the dying man’s voice as he held up one side of ‘Tom’s’ large intestine, squeezing the organ to make it seem like it was a talking puppet.
“Hi, I’m Deadpool, I’ve asked super duper nicely over and over again where I can find said big bad boss, I didn’t even use my katanas once. Why oh why are you being so difficult? Just one name is all I need, Tommy boy!” He used the other half of the severed intestine to mimic his own voice.
“Just one name?” ‘Tom’ puppet replied.
“Just one name and we’ll all live happily ever after! There’ll even be an end credit scene!” ‘Deadpool’ puppet replied. “So, what’ll be, Tom fucker?”
The red suited man, Deadpool, seemed to be having way too much fun manipulating Tom’s organs into an impromptu puppet show to notice that he had a visitor. One moment he was having his Tom and Deadpool puppets make out, the next his hands were being tied together with a sticky solution.
“Ha! Jokes on you! Unexpected bondage is number 17 on my kink list!” Deadpool barked out a laugh and turned to look at Peter, the white eyes of his mask narrowing dangerously at the superhero.
“What… What the hell are you doing?!” Peter couldn’t help the rise in octave his voice did, stalking up to Deadpool and grabbing a fistful of his suit, hauling him up into the air as if he weighed nothing. And Deadpool simply allowed him to do so, kicking his feet like a kid on a swing with his hands still bound in front of him.
“My fucking job. Food ain’t cheap, sweetcheeks.” Deadpool quipped, as if it was normal for him to justify disemboweling someone.
Peter was about to reply about how fucking dumb that logic was when Tom slumped over onto the floor, unmoving. That was all it took for both of them to snap at each other. Deadpool made to plant a solid boot to Peter’s chest, but he never got the chance as he felt his shoulder blades suddenly colliding with the vault on the other side of the room. Bones crunched under the impact and he made an almost moaning sound as he popped his dislocated shoulder back into place.
The moment Deadpool stood up, he got yet another web throw at him, this time hitting him on his left leg and promptly plastering him up against the vault.
“Hey! That’s my banker, get your own to maim!" He shouted across the room, throwing expletive after expletive to no one other than himself as he tried to yank his foot from the webbing. If his hands weren’t currently tied, he'd have been free by now.
Peter checked Tom’s pulse as Deadpool seemed to have a screaming match with himself and let out his own curse. “Fuck.” Tom was dead.
Tom was dead and the perpetrator was right there, feet away from the superhero currently spewing some nonsense about how the ‘fanfic was unfair’. Whatever that meant.
“You killed him.” Peter growled, and that stopped Deadpool's indecent rambling.
“Nu-uh, he died of natural causes.”
Deadpool’s entire demeanor looked like a cross between amused and downright murderous all in the same expressive mask.
“He died of murder!”
For some odd reason, unknown to Peter, Deadpool squealed and nodded his head happily.
“You sound just like Wolvie at the end of the highest gross R rated movie of all time! Gosh, if only Ryan Reynolds could die in my arms. I would die a happy man.” He paused and venomously added to no one. “I know we can’t fucking die! No need to rub salt in my cancer.”
Peter ignored the clearly insane man, leaving him to what he deemed to be hallucinations. As he stared down at the carnage, he shot out another web at Deadpool, landing it directly against his crotch.
“Fuck! Not cool, Webs! I may not die but I will find a way to die if I’m not able to use my fucking dick again! And that'll be completely on you, cause my dick is the motherfucking best!” He had dropped to his knees at the cockshot, and Peter could care less about the other man’s comfort, not after his rampage.
“I’m alerting the authorities. Don’t. Move. Or the next web will be twice as painful.”
Peter stood up just as Deadpool wheezed out a breathy ‘kinky’. The spider hero all but ran out of the room at lightning speed to get the authorities involved. That man needed to be behind bars, or in a mental institution, whatever treated ‘totally fucking psycho’ the best.
Normally Peter would take a nice swing around the city to calm down after an encounter, it helped stretch out his limbs and left him feeling free. Tonight was not a normal night, not with Deadpool involved and that left Peter sitting back on the roof from before, fiddling with his corndog stick.
He had heard stories about the Merc With a Mouth, but never had any run-ins with the man. According to Mr. Stark, he had left New York five years ago and hadn’t come back, which Peter was only half paying attention to in his sleep deprived state. That information meant nothing to him as Deadpool no longer lived in New York, they would never meet. But seeing as the walking Twitter comment section was now back to his old habits on his old turf, Peter really wishes he had paid more attention. All he knew is he was loud, scarily good with almost all weapons, unkillable and had a body count that could possibly kill on its own.
“You seem rattled, Webs. Want me to kiss it better?”
Peter jumped nearly two feet in the air at the voice behind him. Deadpool. But how..? How did he sneak up on him? Where was his Spidey-sense, taking a bathroom break?
“I told you to stay put.” Peter whipped around and pointed an accusing finger at the mercenary. To which Deadpool just shrugged.
“I’m a visual learner, sweetcheeks. If you really wanted me to stay put, you should have sat on me. That would have really done the trick!”
Speaking of, how did he even escape? Peter had amplified the hardening quality of his webfluid years ago, so he knew the merc couldn’t just cut himself free. His question was answered when he saw the stump that was once Deadpool’s right root, still dripping blood on the roof top like a leaky faucet.
“You.. You’re sick.” Peter groaned, tearing his eyes away from the missing limb.
Deadpool, ever the man he was, seemed to take that as a compliment and placed his hands on his hips.
“Why thanks for noticing! Was starting to think you were going to see me as this straight laced, goody two-shoes, ass licker with a moral code so solid it could rival Colossus’ dick.” He jutted his hip to the side for good measure, almost losing his balance at the same time.
Peter took a step back from the man as he literally hopped towards him, feet now backed up to the edge of the roof.
“Did you like my puppet show, Webs? I told you I’m a visual learner but so is like, uh, everyone. Felt it was a nice touch. Though you so ruined the ending by stopping the epic sex scene that the readers would have drooled over.”
Again with the comments that made no sense, and they did nothing to ease Peter’s sense of dread. This man was dangerous and unstable, and that was putting it lightly. He waved guns around like they were toys and ran through life with no care for his well-being, even at the cost of others. This was someone he could never associate himself with, especially not with the whole ‘killing’ part of his anti-hero facade.
After a few moments, Peter found his voice. He ended up cutting off Deadpool’s new rant about another confusing topic with his pointed accusation.
“It’s you, isn’t it?”
Deadpool raised an eyebrow and it translated through his suit somehow.
“Is what me? Got to give me more context here, Webs. ‘Specially before I go confessing to something I didn’t do, which, spoiler alert, I probably actually did.”
Peter sighed and gritted his teeth.
“The murders. This has you written all over them. Confess and maybe the justice system will take some pity on you.”
For a moment Peter almost thinks that Deadpool was going to confess. By the way his mouth bobbed up and down within his mask, opening and closing in confusion. But then he laughed. Really laughed. A full body, belly laugh that had the merc falling onto the ground holding his sides.
“Me?! You think I did that?! Next, you'll say Limp Bizkit is a good band! Oh please, Webs, you’re a right comedian with that one, that’s supposed to be my job here.” Deadpool putted through gasps of laughter.
“I leave the entire body when I kill someone, it’s part of the whole ‘evidence I killed them thing’. Only pussies pull stunts like this, too scared of getting caught to own up to their handiwork.”
Deadpool wiped a fake tear from his eyes, scooting on the roof so he was sitting beside where Peter was still standing.
Peter, despite his own reservations at agreeing, could see some logic in Deadpool’s words. Never once as the mercenary shied away from any of his past kills, and it would be completely out of character for him to change that now so he doesn’t have extra bodies added to his kill count. Frustratingly sound logic, even if Peter still found it in himself to not fully believe the man.
One moment Deadpool is on the roof, the next he is cosplaying a pancake on the ground below. Peter made a strangled noise and moved to rush down to the other man, only for the mangled body to wave at him.
“It’s all good in the hood, no need to worry about big bad Deadpool, sweetcheeks!” Deadpool shouted upwards while peeling himself off the pavement. He flopped his shattered arm to and fro when he hopped up to his only foot.
“Good luck with your decapitated buddies, I am sure they’ll love keeping their heads once you find their killer. Anyhoodles!”
Peter watched cautiously as Wade unceremoniously hopped, more like dragged, himself down the sidewalk a few steps before disappearing into a nearby alleyway. Whatever he had planned for tonight, it certainly hadn’t involved any of this. He can already feel a dull headache forming behind his eyes as he replayed his first interaction with the mercenary.
Jesus… Can he retire at twenty-eight? Is that allowed for superheroes…?