Chapter Text
Rain has just started to fall over the New York skyline when Neil finishes his patrol. With one last glimpse towards Manhattan, he gets a running start along the roof of his current building and flings himself into open air. Neil thwips out a line that catches on the next building over and begins swinging towards his apartment in Queens.
The path is mind-numbing in its familiarity, but Neil throws in a few random turns and backtracks. The Queensboro Bridge is aglow as Neil weaves through the supports and cables. He passes by an industrial site on the side of Newtown Creek and pauses for a few seconds; when he ensures there is no unusual activity in the area, he carries on. Neil lets himself relax a bit once he gets further into Queens and takes advantage of the extra space. Direct swings turn into flips and somersaults and Neil cherishes the adrenaline rush.
The sky has barely begun to lighten when he touches down across the street from his building. Neil waits a few minutes, surveying the intersections around him and straining his hearing. After confirming that nothing is amiss, he leaps across the gap and soundlessly catches hold of the rusted fire escape. It is short work to climb to the correct story and jimmy the window open. He’s not comfortable enough to leave his window unlocked, but he has manipulated the lock so a single super-strength tug is enough to open it. After one last glance behind him, Neil ducks inside and closes the window behind him.
Neil’s apartment is painfully small and even more painfully overpriced. The studio barely has space for his twin mattress, and he has just enough room in his kitchen for a single set of dishes, but it’s on the second to top floor and has one person-sized window that leads to a fire escape, so Neil makes do. The landlady is an older, disinterested woman, and Neil takes care to pay his rent on time and ensure he is seen taking the stairs to his apartment on occasion. The one time he’s met with his handler in the past year, he did so at headquarters; the FBI hasn’t entered his apartment since he first moved in. As far as his neighbors are concerned, Neil Josten is quiet, a bit shy, but perfectly ordinary.
As far as the rest of New York is concerned, Neil Josten doesn’t exist.
But Spider-Man certainly does.
Neil did not choose the name. He actively dislikes the name, but he doesn’t care to talk to the press long enough for it to change. So Spider-Man it is, for better or worse.
Neil also did not intend to become a superhero. It had started with rooftop runs. The streets of New York were always loud and crowded, and the overstimulation of his now enhanced senses had been hell on his nerves. Desperation had sent him to the skyline, but the opportunity to fully explore his new strength, speed, and stamina had kept him there. He’d opted to wear a makeshift uniform of grey workout clothes, and he always kept his hood up to blend in with the shadows.
Two months into his newest pastime, a scream had distracted him mid-leap. A woman had been cornered in an alleyway by two men, and her pleas struck a chord in the back of Neil’s mind that was distinctly different from the sixth sense that hounded his days. In a second, he had been back in the car with Lola, in the basement laboratory with his father, on the beach with his mother. In those moments, he had been helpless to withstand the abuses of his life. Now, months after his official enrollment into WITSEC and a spider bite changing him from the inside out, he was anything but helpless.
Neil hadn’t registered leaping into the alley. He did remember breaking one man’s arm and slamming another’s head into a dumpster. When the woman shakily thanked him, he said nothing and then leapt back to the roofs. Out of curiosity, he’d checked various media sources for the next week, but the press never caught wind of the thwarted assault.
They also didn’t catch wind of the purse thief he tripped up a couple nights later. Or the mugger he dropped off of second story scaffolding the week after. Or even the budding human trafficker he’d shoved into the front doors of the police station.
In fact, it was nearly a month later when he gift wrapped three jewelry store thieves for the cops that the press picked up on a “friendly neighborhood helper.” That was also the moment that Neil acknowledged that maybe this was no longer an outlier, but a quickly growing habit. With no small amount of self-recrimination, Neil had unearthed the harddrive, notes, and reports he’d hidden in his floorboards his first day at his new apartment.
As he’d combed through his father’s work — strategically and painstakingly kept out of the hands of the FBI — Neil had felt his mother’s nails clawing through his hair. Her vicious whispers had leaked into his ears, berating his lack of self-preservation and stupidity. Her hits battered down his ribs, reaching for his lungs and his heart without mercy.
It was only once he’d flipped to a page detailing a chemical compound based on spider silk that his mother’s ghost vanished. Instead he remembered the gratitude of the people he saved, the relieved slump of their shoulders, the perception of safety that Neil would probably never know.
He’d come to know the city well in the past few months of rooftop runs, and it took Neil little time to break into a local high school’s chemistry lab. He pocketed the necessary mechanical parts from various factories, and with a healthy amount of Googling, feverishly reviewing his father’s notes, and sheer determination, he made his first set of webshooters.
The next morning, “Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man!” was Fox News’ biggest headline. The only picture was one of the criminals he’d stopped the night before wrapped head-to-toe in webs, but the city nevertheless took to spider-watching with gusto. Neil rolled his eyes at the tacky name, added a half balaclava mask to his all-grey ensemble, and headed out the next night.
From there, his reputation only grew.
Six months into his vigilantism stint, Neil returned to his apartment from patrol to see a package on the fire escape outside his window. After several hours’ worth of staring and paranoia, he’d eventually ripped open the brown paper parcel. There was a piece of stationary that simply said “For Spider-Man” in sloped, sloppy script. Only by virtue of his enhanced senses was Neil able to catch the scent of liquor coming from the card. His sixth sense remained silent, so Neil cautiously unfolded what appeared to be a bundle of dark fabric within the package.
At first glance, he’d thought it was simply a spool of grey spandex. Eventually, he caught on to the web designs throughout the fabric, the expensive pull beneath his fingertips, and the expert tailoring outlining sleeves, legs, and a hole for his neck. A black spider stretched over the chest.
Beneath the suit was a sleek mask with reflective white lenses and more grey web patterns. The full face mask had promised him more protection than his balaclava, and it would help hide the distinctive color of his hair.
Neil had waited a week before even trying the suit on, and another week before he’d worn it on the streets. The expensive fabric had allowed room for his natural agility to flourish and his speed across the city benefited from the form-fitting design.
The press was still only able to get shots of grey blurs when it came to Spider-Man, but the people of the city seemed to enjoy his leaning into the moniker. The feeling of being so seen and of belonging to something — even if it was nothing more than the black outline of a spider — was a strange phenomenon to Neil. The warmth it sparked in his heart was a dangerous, disquieting thing, but as he flipped amongst the skyscrapers of Manhattan, Neil thought perhaps he liked it.
The night after the rain takes Neil by Newtown Creek, he hits the streets again. The rain holds off for most of the night, but the clouds are thick and foreboding overhead. Wednesday nights typically don’t offer much excitement, but there are still a few muggings, break ins, and gang altercations scattered throughout Queens; he even stumbles across a lost kid and nudges him in the direction of the nearest police station with some strategically shot webs.
Around midnight, Neil swings across the East River into the Bronx. A few blocks in, he notices a pair of men marked with signals of the Ghosts wandering around some back alleys. Alarms go off in Neil’s head as the pair constantly check over their shoulders and keep to the shadows, so he turns to follow them from the rooftops.
The first perp is tall and thick with a gruff demeanor; he seems underwhelmed by his company. The second has acne scars across his cheeks and a high-pitched voice. Neil observes his stutters and self-conscious gait and assumes he’s a new recruit.
“Does the boss know how many they’re bringing?” the newbie asks, audible to Neil only by virtue of his enhanced hearing.
“No,” his partner grumbles.
“Oh.” The silence lasts a couple of seconds before the newbie finds his voice again. “What are the chances of a shootout or something? Are they gonna turn on us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh.” Neil rolls his eyes and hopes the kid starts to ask useful questions soon. “How much longer do we have to walk again?”
The older man lets out a long-suffering sigh but answers anyway. “You ever been to Hunts Point?” The newbie nods. “Good. Now shut up ‘til we cross Bruckner, at least .”
Neil doesn’t wait for the response. He takes off, swinging and flipping at breakneck speeds even as the buildings get shorter. His suit stretches with the pull of his muscles and his webshooters are reassuring weights on his wrists. Kevin Day’s handiwork has held up well over the past eight months, only needing some repairs when Neil is not fast enough to avoid the occasional knife, bullet, or explosion. He is rarely not fast enough.
Nevertheless, every time Neil makes the trip over to the bright orange tower that serves as Exy Industries’ headquarters, Kevin finds ways to berate his agility, aim, and on one memorable occasion, his ability to stick to walls. He may be a genius and generous with his wealth, but Kevin also has a particularly shining personality that makes Neil very determined to keep himself and his suit out of harm's way.
The trip to Hunts Point takes less than ten minutes, and Neil manages to locate the Ghosts’ preferred warehouse in even less time. Neil doesn’t make a sound as he cracks a skylight open and crawls onto the ceiling. He is expecting to find a few gang members already gathered or even a deal in progress, but instead, the smell of gunpowder is heavy in the air. In addition to piles of boxes and some heavy machinery, a dozen gang members are scattered around below him, most groaning or cursing their various injuries. From the looks of it, a cyclone of broken limbs, bullet wounds, and slashes of increasing severity had swept through the two gangs, leaving all of them unable to walk and some unconscious.
Neil notes the downed gang members, their apparent affiliates (amongst the Ghosts are various Red Rose members), and the impressive range of damage before crawling to the nearest wall. Whoever took these men out appears to be long gone, but Neil still keeps to the shadows as he descends to the floor.
He skirts around a couple pallets and a forklift on his way to the center of the warehouse. The largest concentration of gang members is near the entrance to a large container that has been cracked open; a prone figure is splayed halfway across the top of the crate.
Neil makes it within a yard of the container before one of the conscious goons spots him.
“Fuck you Spider-Man,” the man spits at him. With what looks like great effort, he throws a vulgar signal Neil’s way. Neil doesn’t deign to reply, but he takes care to step on the man’s abdomen as he walks by; the bullet wound in the man’s side squirts more blood and he screams.
“Whoops,” Neil deadpans. “You might want to get that looked at.”
When Neil reaches the crate, he notes the empty interior. Packing is scattered around the floor though, distinctive enough that Neil can guess the planned deal involved guns. Very big and powerful guns that are now missing. Perfect.
Neil also notes that the prone figure sprawled across the crate is dead. A single bullet hole has neatly been punched through his skull, execution style. Neil studies the half of the man’s face that he can see and comes back with a name: Daniel Masters, the head of the Ghosts.
Well, shit . Neil patrols enough in the Bronx to know the Ghosts’ hierarchy well and this will be crippling to them. He is not looking forward to the power struggle that will rock the neighborhood over the next few months.
Neil turns to ask another goon about their attacker, but then he picks up on barely audible sirens. Someone probably reported the gunshots, cutting short any hope Neil had of getting more information before the cops showed up.
Sighing, Neil shoots a web for the skylight and pulls himself onto the roof once more. He may make use of the cops when he needs a perp put away or someone needs protection that he can’t provide, but he doesn’t trust them. They’re corrupt and biased and dangerous, and he’s run afoul of law enforcement too often in his life to willingly associate with them now, WITSEC be damned.
So Neil ducks behind an air conditioning unit when flashing blue lights reflect off of the building’s walls. The rain finally broke through the cloud cover when he was in the warehouse, and the police cars and their drivers blur as the downpour picks up. Neil takes stock of his quickly dampening suit and the now bustling crime scene and decides to call it a night.
Right as Neil aims his webshooter for a telephone pole that will take him in the direction of the East River, he sees a figure across the parking lot that the police cruisers had pulled into.
Standing on the edge of a neighboring warehouse, the figure is dressed in all black with two thin lengths poking over their shoulders; Neil assumes they’re carrying swords, maybe katanas. The lights of the cop cars between them illuminate them in flashes, and Neil picks up on the glints of at least two guns and many knives. Immediately, Neil thinks of the mess in the warehouse under his feet and knows that this person is responsible for it.
With deliberate care, the figure tilts their head. It’s hard to tell any details from this far and with the rain, but Neil thinks they might be his height or shorter, and their broad shoulders look solid and unafraid. Slowly, they raise their hand, tap their forehead with two fingers, and then point them right at Neil. It is a convoluted salute, and then the figure jerks his hand — a gun firing right at Neil’s head — and immediately runs for the opposite side of the roof.
Their standoff broken, Neil slings a web for the neighboring warehouse and arcs over the parking lot. He hears various shouts of alarm from below, but Neil doesn’t care. The cops know his MO, so they wouldn’t even try to pin this on him.
It takes Neil only a few seconds to make it to where the figure was standing, and he dashes for the edge of the roof where he saw the figure disappear. No one is in the alleyway below and there is no other movement on the other nearby buildings.
Neil still spends the next hour criss-crossing over the surrounding square mile. He stops at every flash of black or jangle of metal, but he can’t find whoever is responsible for singlehandedly crippling the Ghosts. The figure has disappeared, swallowed up by the rain and the pre-dawn bustle of the Bronx.
Neil has always thought there was a clandestine beauty in the Manhattan skyline, especially once it became his personal track and jungle gym. But now part of it is on fire, and as far as Neil is concerned, Kevin is to blame.
"Kevin," Neil says in his borrowed Avengers earpiece, just to be contrary. "I blame you for this."
"What?!" Kevin squawks. The blast of his repulsors are an occasional buzz in the background. "I've been actively trying to prevent this! All of the data pointed to the attack being on Thursday, so how was I—"
"Recon," Neil cuts in. He sees a teenager being chased into an alley by two flying robots, so he lands on one and webs the other to a telephone pole. "Bribes for intel. Gut feeling. Anything other than relying on statistics to predict AIM's favorite day of the week to attack."
The kid he's saved gives him an odd look at that, but he ignores it in favor of scooping them against his side and dropping them five blocks over at the police line.
Kevin is still waxing poetic about his AI and measurements and predictions when Neil makes it back to the edge of the fight. "—and besides, you like math, Spider-Man, so where do you get off on—"
"Yeah, I like math," Neil cuts in. "That doesn't mean I rely on it to determine when and how I fight crime. Criminals aren't just their stats, Kevin. God."
Based on the outraged gasp over the comms, Kevin has plenty to say about that. Thankfully, he's cut off by a gruff voice, loud and angry sounding. It is only by force of will and four months of infrequent exposure that Neil doesn't jerk at the sound of an older man's voice.
"Iron Man, shut up and focus on taking down that control tower," Wymack orders. Neil assumes he's overseeing the fight from the top of Exy Tower or maybe the floating battlestation he's heard the official Avengers mention before. "Spider-Man, no names in the field. And there's a parking garage full of civilians trapped at West 55th and Seventh. Think you can handle it?"
"On it." Neil shoves the nearest robot into a wall then takes a running jump for a street lamp. He makes use of billboards, fire escapes, and even an old building's gothic architecture to parkour across the city. The attack has been going on for nearly two hours by this point, and AIM's flying robots are no longer a blanket across the cityscape; they've sorted themselves into groups to focus on more pointed targets. From above, it looks like the city has acne, with spots of smoke curling from blocks where the fighting is more prevalent.
On his way past Hell's Kitchen, he spots a red blob facing off against a circle of the robots. Neil's only teamed up with Daredevil a handful of times for patrols, but the few times they've sparred on empty rooftops, the man's fists had left an impact. Neil waves in Daredevil's direction just in case he's looking, then whips around a corner to take him back towards Central Park.
Wymack's parking garage eventually comes into view, and Neil directs his trajectory towards where he sees a group of robots snaking into the building's opening. Neil debates taking the stealthy approach and sneaking in above the robots' heads, but then he hears the rend of metal and a woman's scream. Neil's head empties of thoughts and he shoots himself feet-first into the first of many pests. Some of the robots have spindly mechanical limbs sticking out of their stout bodies, so Neil takes to using them as sticking points for his webs. He wraps the robots around each other and slings them into walls; he punches straight through multiple power sources and even takes out half a dozen with one strategic throw of a nearby white car. He cuts through the pod efficiently and viciously, and only once the robots are neutralized does he turn to the civilians.
By the looks of it, the group had created a small barricade of cars in the back corner of the parking garage's first level. Not a bad plan, at least until a robot had torn one of the car doors clean off. Neil assumes that was the source of the sounds he heard earlier and is relieved that no one seems to be hurt.
"You guys can't stay here," Neil says, hopping on top of one of the nearest cars. "I can escort you to the cop's evac line, but we've got to all stay in a group. Okay?"
"That..." one man says, looking back towards the graveyard of robot corpses. His face is white and Neil prepares to reassure him, to promise to keep protecting him. "That Tesla was brand fucking new! What the fuck, dude!?"
Huh.
"Right..." Neil drawls. A middle school girl towards the back of the group full on facepalms. "Next time I save your life, I'll be sure to use a Rolls-Royce then."
"Are you not going to pay for it?!" The man's face is quickly going from white to bright red. Neil is almost impressed at the speed. "It cost me $70,000 and it doesn't even ha—"
"Send the bill to Kevin Day," Neil interrupts. In his earpiece, Kevin questions what's going on in increasingly aggressive ways. Neil happily ignores him.
The makeshift car barrier doesn't have any gaps for people to get through, so Neil hops to the ground and pushes a truck out of the way. The casual display of strength seems to do more for shutting up the Tesla owner than promises of Kevin's wealth, so Neil takes it as a win.
"Like I said, we need to stay close. The police line is eight blocks west, and I'll be with you the whole way. Is everyone ready?"
Most people in the group nod, and the ones who don't look vaguely queasy and spaced out. Nodding decisively, Neil leads the group to the entrance of the parking garage, ears pricked for the whir of additional robots.
"Parking garage is clear," Neil reports to Wymack. "I'm taking them to the police line on 63rd. Any trouble showing up on scans?"
"Nothing right now, but there is another pod heading towards your current location. Might already be handled though."
Handled by who, Neil isn't sure. Iron Man and Black Widow are still near the East River, taking care of the AIM control tower. Last he heard, Hawkeye was leading evac efforts in the south, and Daredevil isn't fast enough to have made it here from Hell's Kitchen in the past ten minutes. No one else is hooked into the comms, and Neil isn't aware of any other New York vigilantes, honorary Avengers or otherwise. Regardless, Neil has two dozen civilians to get to safety, so he shakes off his questions and motions the group to follow him into the street.
A couple of the civilians attempt to talk to him as they traverse the abandoned street, but he shuts them down using nothing but an eery, masked stare. The slanted eyes of the suit do wonders for intimidation, he must admit. Kevin must never know how handy it is.
Four blocks in, Neil picks up the distant whir of another pod. Another block passes, and the sounds of machinery keep getting louder. The constant buzz is interspersed with clangs of metal and the occasional explosion; Neil assumes it's from whoever Wymack was talking about earlier. With only two blocks before the police line, Neil tells the civilian to go ahead of him. They waste no time arguing and take off for the nearest police cruiser. Neil turns to face the approaching pod and curses when he sees at least three dozen robots heading straight for him.
(There is a half-heard, muffled conversation happening behind him. One cop, a rookie by the sound of it, wants to fire on the pod. His superior tells him to wait, that the robots might tire out Spider-Man so they can finally bring him in. This is why Neil doesn't trust cops.)
"Big pod on 61st, at the west corner of Central Park. I count at least 35. Send backup when you can," Neil says into his earpiece. Then he silences his comms, cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders, and shoots a web right into the middle of the cloud of approaching nuts and bolts. He's not sure where exactly the web lands, but its anchor is sturdy enough for him to slingshot himself directly into the middle of the pod.
His arrival is like a cannonball into a pond; the robots surrounding him jolt, and the unexpectedness alone causes a couple of collisions and explosions. Neil somersaults around the various flames, electric prods, and bullets the robots send his way, and he quickly downs a handful of robots using a combination of kicks and webs.
Five robots in, more gunshots shatter the air, slower and more concise than the bots' automatic ammo. Neil throws one robot into another, then twists to land on top of a nearby streetlight, seeking the source of the shooting.
A familiar figure stands across the street from Neil, at the far edge of the pod. Short, dressed in all black with a full face mask, and sporting two katanas on their back; now that Neil is closer, he can fully see the broad stretch of the man's shoulder and the shift of his biceps as he throws a knife through one robot and into another. As he swiftly shoots another three robots down, Neil wonders if he should tell Wymack to cancel the request for backup.
Neil's brief streetlamp respite is interrupted by another robot speeding straight towards him. He effortlessly flips over his attacker, slinging the robot into the streetlamp post with a web. Once again, Neil finds himself swinging through a jumble of mechanical bodies, punching, kicking, and tangling them as he goes. By now, Neil and the man in black have diminished the pod's numbers by about 15, giving Neil more room to move.
Just as Neil attaches a web to another robot, he sees one of the machines break away and careen in the other man's direction. The man in black already has a knife in hand, and he's clearly prepared for the attack, but Neil has a robot on a leash and a great way to use it. With a single swing, Neil slams the robots together, taking out the threat to the man in black.
It's hard to tell with the full face mask, but he's fairly certain the man is sending him a vicious glare. Neil smiles beneath his own mask, taps two fingers to his temple, and says, "You're welcome. I'm Spider-Man, by the way."
The man in black doesn't respond, but he does draw his handgun again. He points it seemingly right at Neil and pulls the trigger twice, but Neil's sixth sense doesn't so much as whisper. Neil stands stockstill as the bullets whip past his left ear and embed themselves in a robot several feet away.
Assuming the conversation is over, Neil shrugs and shoots a web over his shoulder. He flies back towards the pod with the man in black only a few steps behind him. The rest of the battle passes quickly, with Neil's determination and speed sowing chaos among the robots, and the man in black's lethality and conciseness picking individuals off with ease. The surrounding city block is a disaster, but Neil is comforted that no robots managed to make it closer to the police line where the civilians are gathered. He's also viciously delighted by the shocked and disappointed faces of the pigs that had been planning to bring him in not even a half hour ago. Good luck with that, he thinks vindictively.
"Deadpool," a voice says behind Neil, deep and a little raspy. Neil spins to face the man in black, and for a split second, he doesn't understand what has been said, but then he registers the name.
Deadpool. The Merc with No Mouth. Kevin had mentioned him once when Neil went in for suit updates, and he's heard a few mentions of him throughout the city over the past year. People say he'll kill anyone if the pay is good enough. People say he's invulnerable and that's why he's so fearless in fights. People say he's mute or that his mouth is stitched shut, making him quiet at best and incommunicable at worst.
At least Neil knows that last rumor doesn't seem to be true.
"Deadpool, huh?" Neil asks. He's sure his shit-eating grin comes through in his tone. "Does your tragic superhero backstory involve almost drowning as a kid?"
"Does yours involve spider-adjacent bestiality?"
Oh, The Merc with a Mouth has jokes .
“I don’t swing that way,” retorts Neil. “Actually, the only swinging I do is between buildings.”
“Your puns make me want to drown you.”
“Really living up to your name, huh?” Neil smiles. "Still, I appreciate the help. It was nice to—"
Neil cuts off as his sixth sense sounds in his hand, sudden and piercing. He jerks backs toward where the remains of the robots lay scattered around the street, but he isn't able to move further before—
BOOM .
Neil's world turns upside down, his senses whiting out and his body losing its bearing. Time stretches and condenses, and all Neil can register is a ring, ring, ring buzzing in his ears. Something touches his shoulder — a hand, large and strong and sturdy — and Neil jerks. Sensation rushes back and he realizes he's on his back, half a block from where he had just been standing with gravel digging into his suit. A dark blob that slowly resolves into Deadpool's masked head floats above him. The ringing in his ears does not go away.
Deadpool releases Neil's shoulder as soon as he jolts, but he doesn't shift from his position over Neil's prone form. Neil thinks of the cops' earlier conversation and is grateful for it. Slowly, Neil pushes himself up to sitting, gritting his teeth and powering through the nausea that comes rushing forward. Once the world stops spinning, Neil looks back to Deadpool and notes that the man's mask is moving; from the way his chin shifts beneath the leather, Neil assumes he's talking.
"I can't hear you," Neil says. He's not sure of his own volume, but he feels the words echo through his own throat. He gestures towards his ears with a hand to hopefully get his words across.
Deadpool watches Neil for a second, then nods. He seems to have understood Neil's words just fine, seemingly no worse off from the explosion. Neil supposes that the rumor about Deadpool being invulnerable might just be true.
The ringing in Neil's ears has gotten quieter, but it still drowns out the sounds of the city. His healing factor is only so good, he muses as he slowly and stubbornly pushes himself to his feet. He sways a bit when he first rises, but Deadpool doesn't reach forward to steady him. He just watches him with his head tilted infinitesimally.
"What happened?" Neil asks. He notes the debris around him and what looks like a blast radius several yards away. He wonders if they had missed a robot in the original melee.
Deadpool points at the nearest robot corpse, then mimes an explosion with his hands. In a motion shockingly reminiscent of Neil's own feelings on the matters, Deadpool gives the robot parts a solid kick.
"Do you think there are others?" Neil honestly isn't sure if he means other bombs, other robots, or just other threats.
Deadpool shakes his head slightly, then nods in the direction over Neil's head.
Turning slowly to avoid further dizziness, Neil looks up and notes that the smoke over the city has started to clear out. The fires that had been raging amongst sources of battle are seemingly gone, the battle ended. Just to be sure, Neil worms his right hand up into his mask, trying to keep the neck down to cover as much skin as possible. He digs his comm out of his ear and unmutes it before handing it to Deadpool.
"It's an Avengers comm," he explains. The ringing in his ears has gone away enough for him to almost make out his own words. "Can you check in with Wymack? Make sure everything's okay?"
Deadpool stares at the earpiece for several seconds before plucking it from Neil's hands. He maneuvers the comm into his ear in a move similar to Neil's, though the leather of his mask is not as easy to manipulate as Neil's own suit. Neil catches a sliver of pale skin along his neck, the flex of a jugular as Deadpool swallows.
He watches closely as Deadpool listens to whatever is being said. Neil doesn't see his chin move, so the others probably don't even realize the man is listening in on the chaos that is Avengers comm chatter. Nevertheless, Neil can't find it in himself to doubt it when Deadpool gives a thumbs up.
The battle is over. Everything is fine.
Neil nods gratefully and accepts the comm back once Deadpool weasels it out of his mask again. Neil tucks it into one of the hidden pouches on his suit. He glances once more towards the police line, which seems to be preparing to mobilize, likely to provide post-battle aid.
The adrenaline of the past several hours is fading, and Neil finds himself confronted with various aches and soreness. The dizziness has faded enough for him to assist with cleanup, but his temporary tinnitus would make him more of a hindrance than anything. Neil sighs and faces Deadpool once more. The man has not moved since giving Neil his earpiece back, and Neil finds his stillness almost as reassuring as his skill in a fight.
"Thank you," he says. Deadpool offers him another two finger salute, and Neil can't help but smile. "I'll see you around."
With that, Neil shoots a web to the nearest building lip and swings towards the east. He's looking forward to getting a nap in before patrol that night.
Part of Neil had balked at the idea of going out again so soon after the shitshow that was AIM’s attack on Manhattan. However, the other, louder part that feels like bees buzzing under his skin had forced him to the streets, somersaulting between buildings in a desperate bid to outrun the paranoia that hounds him on bad days.
Neil’s father is long dead, and any threat against his life is basically nonexistent when he’s out of the suit, but when particularly bad blasts or dangerously persistent cops remind him of his own mortality, only one method of coping can help Neil settle back into his own body. Running has been a balm on his soul since he was a child, so it makes sense that it remains consistent now, even while his running takes place across rooftops.
Crime is usually calmer after supervillain attacks, so Neil only runs into a couple muggings and an attempted theft. He even helps a drunk college kid get home, though he doesn’t respond to any of his slurred questions or taunts along the way.
Neil is debating heading back towards Queens when he swings past one building with colorful lights shining through the ground floor windows and notices someone sitting on the edge of the roof. In the time it takes for him to swing closer, they come into focus: all black suit, two katanas lying next to them, and shockingly enough, a head of blond hair.
Deadpool doesn’t so much as flinch when Neil lands in the center of the roof; he just raises a lit cigarette to his lips and inhales deeply. Neil takes that as an invitation to approach.
“Those things’ll kill you,” he says, stopping a couple feet down from Deadpool’s position. The building is only five stories high, and Neil watches a group of women leave the ground floor with ice cream cones in hand.
“They’ll have to get in line,” Deadpool responds, voice raspy from the smoke. Neil nods and settles on the edge of the roof, legs swinging over open air. Deadpool slides a sideways glance in his direction.
“Can I have one?” Neil asks, gesturing towards Deadpool’s own stick.
The man tilts his head, but his face has not lost the apathy he’s worn since Neil first saw him on the roof. “These things’ll kill you,” he mocks, but pulls out a new stick and a lighter anyway.
Neil nods his thanks and accepts them. He quickly lights the end and pulls up his mask just enough to take a drag. Then, he pulls his mask back down and holds the cigarette close enough for the smell of the smoke to make it through the fabric.
“You’re supposed to smoke it,” Deadpool eventually says. He takes a pointed drag of his own cigarette and accepts back his offered lighter.
Neil hums in acknowledgement and nods. “I just like the smell.”
“You’re wasting a perfectly good cigarette.”
“I didn’t realize there were stipulations when you gave it to me.”
Deadpool says nothing, but his blank face is now turned towards Neil, focusing solely on him. Surprisingly, Neil’s skin doesn’t crawl at the heavy weight of the man’s gaze, but he does return the favor, studying the curves and dips of Deadpool’s face. Deadpool has hazel eyes, Neil notes absently, and they are startlingly blank.
Between tracing the path of his cheekbone from his nose outward, Neil notices a pop of color near Deadpool’s ear. A path of blood winds itself from his ear canal, trailing down his neck, and disappearing into the black of his suit. Neil looks at Deadpool’s other ear and sees the same thing.
“The explosion…” Neil says slowly. Deadpool blinks slowly, waiting for him to finish. “It knocked out your hearing too?”
“I never said it didn’t.”
“I know, but people say you’re invincible. And you were able to hear things, respond to my questions. How?”
Taking another drag, Deadpool turns to face forwards again. “What will you give me?” he asks.
Neil furrows his brows beneath his mask and says, “I don’t have much money…”
“Not that. Information. A truth for a truth.”
“Oh. What do you want to know?”
Again, Deadpool turns to face Neil; there is almost a spark in his eyes now. A sharpness that Neil hadn’t seen before. “It’s not invulnerability. It’s a healing factor, fast enough to heal me in seconds. You could stab me in the heart and I’d survive. How did you get your powers?”
Blinking at the swift turnaround, Neil muses that yet another rumor about Deadpool has been proven wrong. Still, a deal is a deal. “I was bitten by a radioactive spider. A scientist genetically engineered them, and I happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. I was sick all night, and when I woke up, I was like this. Superstrength, sticky fingers, and all.”
Neil neatly leaves out how the scientist was his supervillain father and that he was in the wrong place because he was being tortured within an inch of his life. That information isn’t important.
Deadpool nods and takes another drag of his cigarette. It’s nearly down to the filter. “This was a fun game,” he says. Stubbing out his butt, Deadpool climbs to his feet and grabs his katanas. He pulls his mask from where it has been dangling from his belt and pulls it over his head. Neil watches his hazel eyes disappear between the disarming white eyeholes.
“We’ll have another round soon,” Deadpool says. He gives Neil his now-signature two fingered salute and meanders towards the roof door.
“I look forward to it,” Neil responds. He stubs out his own cigarette and rolls off the edge of the roof; his webs catch him before he hits the ground. As he swings away, Neil doesn’t dare look to the roof to see if Deadpool had looked back.
When Deadpool had said they’d have another round of their truth game ‘soon’, Neil hadn’t thought he’d see the man within the next week. But when Neil happens to swing past Deadpool sitting on the same roof as before, he doesn’t think twice before pivoting and landing beside the man.
Deadpool isn’t smoking this time, but there is a tense set to his shoulders and the tilt of his masked head. Neil tells him that he was planning on heading into Chinatown for patrol, and without a word, Deadpool rises to join him.
Even after such a brief time fighting together the week before, the two are able to merge their fighting styles seamlessly. Neil has to slow down his swinging a bit to compensate for Deadpool’s running across the rooftops, but Deadpool’s skill and katanas make up the time in faster takedowns.
They talk rarely and infrequently throughout the night, but when they return to Deadpool’s rooftop sometime after 3 AM, Neil rewards Deadpool’s help with an honest answer to the question, “Why Spider-Man.”
“I didn’t choose it. The media picked it after I debuted my webs. Kevin made the suit off of that, so I guess I’m stuck with it now.”
Deadpool passes Neil a cigarette and lighter; Neil trades him the question, “Why were you helping fight off AIM last week?”
He’s not sure what exactly he expects as an answer; maybe something regarding money or an insatiable need to help defend innocents. Instead, Deadpool mutters around his cigarette, “I owed Kevin a favor. I don’t like to be in people’s debt.”
“You know Kevin? Why do you owe him a favor?”
Deadpool is no longer wearing his mask, so Neil is privy to the full power of the glare he flicks Neil’s way. “It’s not your turn.”
Fair enough. Neil nods and instead focuses on the acrid smell of his cigarette. When they both reach their respective butts, Neil stubs out his flame, rises to his feet, and flicks Deadpool a two fingered salute. Just like last time, he rolls off the roof and swings his way home, refusing to look back.
The cycle repeats itself not even three days later. Then again two days later. Then four days later, and then, it becomes routine.
The roof — which is above Sweetie’s Ice Cream parlor, Neil eventually learns — quickly becomes Neil and Deadpool’s post-routine spot. Occasionally, Deadpool will start patrol with ice cream smeared along his upper lip. On one memorable night when they finished before midnight, he’d dragged Neil into the store and forced a child’s scoop of sherbert into his gloved hands. (“Because you are a child,” he’d said. But he didn’t have a problem with Neil turning around to keep his unmasked lower face from Deadpool as he ate his dessert.)
Sharing cigarettes also becomes routine, and the more packs Neil and Deadpool work their way through, the more Neil finds himself thinking beyond the memory of his mother in shabby motel rooms and stolen cars. The image of her remains in his mind, floating through his thoughts like smoke on the air, but it is intertwined and sometimes replaced with new moments and thoughtful questions.
Broken ribs in Montreal are overwritten by the story of his worst injury as Spider-Man (a broken arm and stab wound to the side; enhanced healing had found Neil barely conscious but on the mend within 12 hours).
German lessons along the autobahn are mixed with the fact that Deadpool speaks German, mainly due to his cousin and his husband (“He’s annoying as hell, but he made getting a foreign language credit in high school easy.”)
Mary’s scoldings turn into honesty and companionship and understanding; into history and dreams and fears.
(“Heights? Deadpool, you can’t be scared of heights. We’re on the roof.”
Deadpool taps his pulsepoint in answer; the beat is a racing staccato. “It’s about feeling.”
Neil thinks of the grey nothingness that defined his days after first moving to New York, before Spider-Man introduced color back into his life, and he understands.)
Neil feels his walls falling around Deadpool, but the smell of cigarette is strong in his nose and the taste of sherbert is heavy on his tongue, and Neil finds he doesn’t mind the comfort that Deadpool’s presence brings. The man is solid and steady, both on and off the battlefield; it is a balm to the harried existence that Neil has had until now.
Sometime when cigarettes stop smelling like loss and start feeling like honesty, Neil starts leaving his mask pulled up to his nose. It makes smelling the smoke easier, and it allows Deadpool to bully Neil into tasting a spoonful every now and then, much to Neil’s chagrin. Feeling the wind and hazel eyes on his lower face is a vulnerable experience, and Neil knows that Deadpool must have noticed the edge of his knife scars on his right cheek. He cannot find it in himself to care, though.
As Neil and Deadpool run across rooftops and trade truths, time carries on, and soon, four months have passed since Neil first saw Deadpool across a rainy parking lot in the Bronx. The two have become partners of sorts, teaming up two or three times a week.
The companionship, even when they are silent, helps patrol pass faster, and Neil finds himself looking forward to their shared cigarettes atop Sweetie’s roof. His understanding of Deadpool grows, and he memorizes the way his mouth shapes “I hate you” and marvels at his unfaltering memory. In return, Deadpool never flinches from Neil’s truths and takes to calling him ‘rabbit-man’ once he discovers Neil’s incessant need to always keep running. It’s intense and overwhelming, and Neil is intoxicated by his first true friend.
He doesn’t realize, however, that Spider-Man and Deadpool’s unofficial partnership has become common knowledge until he drops into a destitute warehouse being used to host a drug deal in progress.
As Neil webs up the various firearms pointed his way, he hears one of the goons shout, “Oh fuck, it’s Spider-Man!”
He brings down two men before another yells, “Do you think Deadpool is with him?!”
Deadpool is not with him, Neil muses and shoots a web over the man's mouth. But it is interesting that they would be worried about that. He is efficient in taking down the rest of the goons, and he calls in an anonymous tip to the cops from the nearest rooftop. Then, he swings away and ponders what this means for crimefighting as Spider-Man.
Despite Spider-Man and Deadpool both being more subtle heroes, the press had eventually caught wind of the reports that the two had been seen teaming up. Neil generally does his best to avoid whatever the press might be saying about him, but after ignoring nearly a dozen frantic calls from Kevin, he caved and turned to various media outlets.
For some reason, the general consensus is that Deadpool is a bad influence, and he is corrupting the city’s hero. New York does not like the mercenary being so close to ‘Spidey’, as some have dubbed him; Neil thinks those protective intentions are ridiculous, considering how many times he’s been slandered by the press and shot at by the NYPD. And that’s not even brushing on the secrets he’s asked the bones of the city to keep.
Despite what the people of New York, various newspapers, and even Kevin may think, Deadpool has been the most consistent park of Neil’s life since he escaped his father for the final time. The two work well together on patrol, and they’ve reached a true understanding in the quiet moments after. Neil will not give up these snatched moments of peace for others’ good opinions.
Let people talk and heckle and complain, Neil huffs as he flips towards the east side of Manhattan. It won’t stop him from meeting up with Deadpool. And maybe if he’s lucky, it’ll even stir up some additional fear in his usual criminals.
Deadpool is out of costume when Neil lands on their roof with a carton of brownie batter ice cream. It’s the first time Neil has seen him without his dark leather suit, and his frame looks far more soft and approachable in his jeans and dark blue windbreaker. Neil isn’t sure how he feels about it.
It takes Deadpool several seconds longer than it should to realize that Neil is on the roof with him. He spins without the grace Neil is so used to seeing in the mercenary, and his eyes betray a level of shock that Neil has never seen in Deadpool before.
“You need to leave Andrew the fuck alone,” the man says. Despite his face and build being an exact match to Deadpool’s, Neil is discomfited by his open expressions. The anger in his eyes and the cadence of his voice is…off, somehow.
“Who the fuck is Andrew?” Neil asks, angling for time to figure out how to handle this Deadpool look alike. Cloning is a thing that happens in their line of work, right?
Not Deadpool’s anger only grows from the question. “Don’t play dumb with me. You’re a sick fuck who’s trying to mess with him, but I won’t let you. You can’t—”
Neil’s enhanced hearing picks up the soft shuffle of boots landing on the roof behind him. Then —
“Aaron,” Deadpool says, and even before Neil turns, he can tell that the cadence and the tone and the person is right .
Deadpool is wearing his full suit, the nuances of his face hidden behind his mask. His shoulders betray him, though, and the tense line of them make Neil even more on edge around this 'Aaron'.
"Andrew." Aaron's surprise is evident on his face. "Nicky said you were—"
"Nicky is an idiot," Andrew cuts him off. "And you shouldn't be here."
"You ran off on Saturday and you wouldn't answer any of my calls! So I—"
"Climbed onto a random roof and heckled New York's favorite vigilante."
"I'm worried about you! You don't know anything about this guy. You don't know his name, his face, anything! After Drake, shouldn't you—"
"Don't." Deadpool's voice is ice cold. Neil hasn't moved from his spot on the roof, but now, he doesn't even dare to breathe. "What makes you think I haven't seen Spider-Man's face? That I don't know his name? This isn’t your business."
"It's...you're my brother, Andrew," Aaron begins, visibly taken aback at the misleading words that Deadpool has just told him. "I ju—"
"You are sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. Now leave us and run back home to your cheerleader." The sneer in Deadpool's voice is clear behind the mask.
"No! You owe me this much. You need to at least talk to me—"
"He doesn't owe you anything," Neil cuts in. He is sick of Aaron ignoring Deadpool's every word; besides, the ice cream is surely half melted by now. This conversation has gone on long enough. "Deadpool told you to leave, so it's time for you to go."
"Stay out of this, spider freak ," Aaron spits. "You don't know the first thing about Andrew. He doesn't need you. He doesn't need the help of some creepy mutant, and he—"
"And what? He needs yours? Clearly the word no isn't something you're familiar with, so let me spell it out in a way your tiny, shriveled brain can actually grasp. Your brother is annoyed by your presence. He's sick of you bothering us. He told you to leave so he doesn't have to listen to your inconsequential, whiny complaints any longer. And in case you didn't notice, Deadpool is a mutant, too. Last I checked, twins share genes. Ever consider you might be a mutant freak yourself? Maybe your powers have just been lying dormant, waiting for an event big enough to shock them into working. Believe me, I am more than happy to put your idiotic ass in a life-threatening situation dangerous enough to jumpstart it. So for the love of god, shut the fuck up and leave us alone before I web your mouth closed and toss you off the side of this roof."
Silence at last graces the rooftop.
"Andrew?!" Aaron's delicate sensibilities appear scandalized, and he looks to his brother to protect him from Neil's cutting words. "You're just going to let him talk to me like that?"
"Oh yeah. Deadpool, I brought brownie batter ice cream," Neil offers. The flick of Deadpool's head in his direction makes it clear that he sees Neil's weak bribe for what it is. He also sees the plastic bag Neil is holding aloft.
"You heard the man," Deadpool deadpans. "He’s got ice cream, and I am done with this conversation."
"8 Spruce has a great view of Brooklyn Bridge," Neil adds. Deadpools nods his confirmation, and the two turn towards the edge of the roof.
"Andrew, wait—" Aaron calls, right before Neil shoots out a web and Deadpool leaps for the neighboring building's roof. The rest of his words are lost to the wind and the bustle of New York City.
The trip to 8 Spruce is a relatively short one, and Neil secures a perch on one of the lower edges several minutes before Deadpool arrives. By the time the mercenary climbs up and settles at Neil's side, the ice cream is sitting out with a spoon embedded in the middle. Deadpool shucks off his mask and gets to work.
Neil lets the man make his way through half of the pint before breaking the silence between them. "Andrew?"
Deadpool — Andrew — hums an affirmative in acknowledgement of both the question and his spoken name.
Neil nods slowly. "I thought you didn't lie."
Andrew slurps down his current spoonful before answering. "I don't, and I didn't during that conversation."
"You told Aaron that you know my name. That you've seen my face."
"I didn't. I just implied it. Aaron made his own assumptions."
"I don't think that's how it works."
Andrew shrugs. He seems unbothered by the altercation with his twin, just as he is unbothered by spending so much time with a vigilante he knows so little about. Neil wishes he could mirror Andrew's calmness, but instead, he feels as if his heart is going to beat past his ribs, out of his chest, and right through the spider emblem on his chest.
"Do...you want to stop this?" Neil begins. His hand traces the raised webbing along his opposite hand in a soothing rhythm. "I mean, we don't have to keep patrolling together. If it'll make things easier with your family—"
"Stop." Neil obediently falls silent. "Aaron is an idiot, and there is no this . Patrolling is something to do at night, so I will keep doing it. Okay?"
"Okay," Neil breathes. His heart settles and his hand stills. A warmth starts in his chest and spreads down to his toes and up to his masked head. Neil remembers the last time he trusted someone, how it ended in death and flames, and he decides that this feels like hope.
"I want to show you something," Neil says as Andrew finishes the rest of his ice cream. "But it's in Queens, so it's kind of far."
Andrew hums noncommittally and throws the empty carton and plastic spoon over the edge of the building. Neil watches the trash fall towards the street and hopes it doesn't land on anyone's head.
"Lead the way," Andrew eventually intones. He rises to his feet and dons his mask again, the anonymity of Deadpool settling on his shoulders like a second skin. "I'll keep up."
Neil nods and shoots a web to a nearby billboard. His path across Manhattan and through Queens is as straightforward as possible, and he takes care to provide easy leaps to Deadpool when possible. A couple times, Deadpool has to make his way to ground level and navigate through alleyways, but they still make decent time.
It is several hours past midnight when Neil lands on a rickety fire escape. He climbs down one level and stops outside a window, waiting. Deadpool is not far behind him and hovers silently at Neil's back as he gives the window a solid, super strength tug upwards. It slides open silently.
"I didn't realize the Friendly Neighborhood Rabbit-Man was so adept at breaking and entering," Deadpool says wryly as Neil wriggles in through the open window. He follows into the apartment once Neil is clear, his heavy boots landing on the hardwood with a thunk .
"I didn't realize it counts as breaking and entering when it's your own apartment," Neil counters. Deadpool freezes a foot from the window and pulls his mask off. The hazel of Andrew's eyes are piercing and calm.
Neil doesn't allow himself to hesitate, nor his hands to shake. In one decisive tug, he grasps the top of his mask and pulls it free; his fiery hair curls along his ears and forehead.
"My name's Neil Josten." He doesn't flinch when Andrew's eyes flit over the burns under his eye and the scars tracing his cheekbone. "Maybe now you can finally stop calling me rabbit-man."
Andrew gaze bores straight into Neil's eyes, the bright blue that used to define everything he hated about himself. Then, the furthest corner of Andrew's mouth starts to curl and the smallest of smirks flashes on his face.
"I hate you," Andrew drawls. "And not likely...rabbit-man."
"So for the love of god, shut the fuck up and leave us alone before I web your mouth closed and toss you off the side of this roof."
Andrew should not be enjoying this. He should not enjoy the systematic evisceration of his twin brother, just like he should not enjoy the stretch of spandex along Spider-Man's ass as he swings or the purse of his lips as he lights a cigarette. This entire situation is a shitshow, and he should not find any feeling at all in it.
And yet...
"Oh yeah. Deadpool, I brought brownie batter ice cream," Spider-Man adds on, a simple afterthought. Andrew flicks his head in his direction and spies the plastic bag dangling from the vigilante's nimble fingers.
Oh.
Oh.
Well, this is a problem.