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Natasha POV
There’s something off about Spider-Man.
The fight has been a long hard slog, dragging on into its third hour. Everyone is tired, and the hits are getting harder to take. Most of the team is starting to show signs that the fight is taking its toll. That includes Spider-Man. But there’s something…different about him.
While the rest of the team look exhausted, and are maybe starting to loose a bit of speed, they’re still very much in the fight. Spider-Man seems to have lost his usual grace, which is weird enough already. His movements aren’t just slow, though. They’re stiff. His joints are locked. He’s lost the flexibility that’s so intrinsic to his usual fighting style. Natasha doesn’t think she’s ever seen him look clumsy before. She wonders briefly if the electric shock he’d been hit with earlier somehow locked his suit in place, locking his joints, but the suit doesn’t have anything to lock. As sure as she is Stark has filled it full of tech, it’s still mostly spandex.
It's not just his psychical reactions that are slowing, either. Anyone he’s fought beside knows about his sixth sense- that weird feeling he gets that warns him of danger and lets him dodge a bullet without ever seeing it be shot. Natasha has no idea how it works, but she’s seen him fight often enough to know that it does. Consistently. He’s always out of harms way seconds before a threat even registers to the rest of them. Always the first to react.
He still seems to have this sense. He’s still dodging flying debris without once looking up, but his margin of error is getting scarily narrow. Where he’d started off a few seconds and few feet away from hits coming his way, now he’s half a second and a few centimetres at most. And the gaps still closing. An electrified fist skims him, and Natasha grits her teeth as she watches him shake with the shock. He won’t last much longer.
“Stark.” She bites out, dragging her eyes away from Spider-Man for a second to deal with her own problems, mind still on the kid. If there is anything wrong with the suit, Stark will know it. He’s probably got JARVIS monitoring a whole host of information, including vitals. Natasha’s never been so glad of his overprotective streak.
“Can you-”
The rest of her sentence is drowned out by a huge BANG. She ducks out of instinct, and turns to watch the building just behind Spider-Man explode into flames. The windows blow out, bits of brick flying. Spider-Man’s slow to react, but by some miracle nothing seems to have hit him. There’s a string of curse words through the coms from Falcon, who sweeps in closer to the scene. He looks like he’s searching for the source, same as Spider-Man. Which is apparently not the shocking electrical bot in front of them.
“Where the hell did that come from?”
The answer presents itself a second later in the form of manic cackling.
Falcon swings around in the air, tense. Natasha goes rigid the second she spots the red and black leather, twin katanas peeking over each shoulder. There, on the roof across from Spider-Man, is Deadpool.
Natasha turns fully to face him, trying to calculate her chances of a head shot from this distance, unsure if he’s friend or foe. She’s never actually met the man.
She knows he’s a mercenary. A damn good one. She’s skimmed through his file, and at this point in his career his confirmed kill count more than rivals her own (she blames her hero-ing career. If she’d stuck to being an assassin, they’d probably be closer to even).
She considers for a moment if he’s here on a contract. Would he take a job on one of the avengers? History suggests he’ll take most jobs if the price is right, but the man does seem to have some sense of a moral compass. There’s a distinct lack of children in his records, for one thing, and she knows that most of his targets are on SHIELD’s hitlist as well. As much as SHIELD publicly disapproves of him, there’s a reason they haven’t put any real effort into stopping the guy. As long as he’s focused on mutual enemies, he’s not worth the trouble. Natasha makes a point of staying looped in to the underbelly of the city she’s made her home, and she’s kept a wary eye on Deadpool as he’d settled in for the last 6 months. As ruthless as the guy is, there are rumours he’s taken some jobs just to help people. There aren’t a lot of people you can call for help if your ex-boyfriend, the very dangerous gang leader, won’t leave you alone. Deadpool has firmly established himself as one of them.
She knows Stark doesn’t trust him, but he doesn’t trust most people. She also knows that’s mostly due to his history, and Natasha can’t exactly judge someone for killing people for dubious reasons. She has no illusions about how dangerous Deadpool is, but she doesn’t think the man would turn against the avengers without provocation.
Having said that, there’s also rumours’ that Deadpool is batshit insane.
In the end, it’s tactical thinking that holds her from taking the shot. Sane or not, the man is good at what he does. That explosion was awfully close to Spider-Man, but it didn’t hit. With his skill level, there’s no way that’s an accident.
The scrape of metal that accompanies Deadpool drawing his katana’s pulls her from her thoughts, immediately followed by a very enthusiastic “YIPPE KAY-AH, MOTHERFUCKER” as he launches himself off the roof of the building and onto the back of one of the electrical monsters that was doing it’s best to sneak up on Spider-Man.
Natasha takes that as a sign that Deadpool is, for now at least, on their side, and she tries to put it out of her mind. Still, she can’t help but throw glances their way every so often.
Spider-Man has jumped back into the fight and the two of them quickly settle into a pattern, protecting the others back with a familiarity that suggests many hours of practice.
She’d heard the two had been seen patrolling together a few times, but she never would have guessed they were that close.
She dismisses Stark’s grumble of disapproval as he spots Deadpool, the subdued reaction a sign of how badly they need the help. Everyone else gives him a wary glance and continues without comment, steering clear of that corner of the fight. The two of them seem content to stick to their own corner, apparently not minding the proximity to the now still burning building Deadpool blew up for absolutely no reason anyone can see.
Spider-Man at least seems to be moving better than he was, that natural fluidity returning to his limbs, and Natasha dismisses any thoughts of dragging Tony into this.
Eventually, they’ve ploughed through most of the villain of the days robot henchmen (with no small amount of help from Deadpool), and the fighting winds down. The group trudge off towards the quin jet to rest and call medical. Natasha lets her attention return to the strange duo, re-assessing if Deadpool will remain friendly now there’s no other enemies to distract him. She’s still watching when he diverts from his path behind Spider-Man, seemingly distracted by something in one of the few windows still in tact in the street. Which he promptly smashes, making everyone flinch and turn as he breaks his way into the store front.
Everyone except Spider-Man, who doesn’t so much as slow down or turn his head as he drags himself towards the rest of them, apparently used to Deadpool’s antics.
Natasha is not sure what sight she expected to be greeted with when he emerges back onto the street a minute later, but it certainly wasn’t this. Deadpool’s arms are piled high with…clothing.
Natasha can make out a bright pink jacket, something thick and soft looking, a pair of equally soft looking sweat pants, a beanie, and something that looks suspiciously like fluffy bunny slippers.
“Are you actually robbing a store right now?” Tony barks, his tone a strange mix of angry and incredulous.
Spider-Man edges past them into the jet, beelining for the row of seats just out of view of the exit. His movements have slowed again, starting to stiffen up. Natasha frowns, torn between the urge to look him over thoroughly and the urge to keep an eye on Deadpool.
“I like to think it of it as non-voluntary payment for services.” Deadpool quips, voice bright, whistling to himself as he approaching the jet with his arm full of stolen clothing.
“I know you’re not usually one for the hero gig, Deadpool, but let me give you a hint; we don’t steal.” Tony growls, stepping in front of the mercenary to stop him walking into the jet.
“If you’re so concerned, why don’t you go pay for them, Mr. billionaire.”
Tony glares.
“And we don’t blow up buildings for no reason.” He grits out, ignoring the comment entirely and trying his best to glare a hole through the leather mask of Deadpool’s head.
Deadpool lowers the pile in his arms enough to see his face and tilts his head at Tony, somehow giving the impression of a shit eating grin through the leather. “But blowing shit up is so much fun.”
It’s a typical reaction from him by all accounts, but the mercenary seems tense. Natasha can’t help but think it’s an act.
Deadpool shoulders past Tony, ignoring his sputtering disbelief to strut straight into the jet and up to Spider-Man, who’s collapsed into a seat. He drops the pile of clothing at his feet and flips Tony off, but his eyes don’t leave Spider-Man.
Cap seems to have noticed something is wrong too, a hand coming to rest of Tony’s shoulder to stop whatever sarcastic reply is on his tongue as he takes the odd pair in. Natasha lets her focus move entirely to Spider-Man.
He’s slumped almost all the way over in his seat, curled in on himself, leaning against the wall for support. His head has dropped to his chest, arms crossed over his chest and hands buried in his armpits. As she watches, his entire body wracks with a violent shiver.
Deadpool drops to a knee in front of him, immediately pulling both of Spider-Man’s gloved hands in front of his body and rubbing them between his own.
“Jesus fuck, Webs. I thought you’re suit had a heater.” He swears, peeling off Spider-Man’s gloves to get to his hands. The skin revealed underneath is bone white, fingers stiff.
Tony starts, ripping his eyes away from Deadpool to stare at Spider-Man. “It does.” He answers for him, shock clear in his tone. “I built one in.”
Deadpool’s moved on from the gloves and reaches for the top of Spider-Man’s neck, fingers searching for the seem at the back of his head. Tony, Cap, Falcon and Natasha all tense and move to edge forward, but Deadpool finds his grip and pulls down, not making any move towards the mask.
Spider-Man shivers and lets him strip off the suit shirt, immediately reaching for the hoodie. Deadpool helps him put it on, pulling it over the smaller man’s neck. The skin there is as bone white as his hands, and Natasha’s suddenly worried that if he pulled up the mask the kids lips would be tinged blue.
“It br-broke.” Spider-Man stutters through chattering teeth. “I got z-zapped. I-it f-fried everything.”
Deadpool swears again, hands rubbing and down Spider-Man’s side to warm him up over the clothing. “You’re fucking freezing, Webs. How long were you out here without one?”
Deadpool manages to drag the suit pants off without moving his boxes, promptly replacing them with the soft looking sweat pants, before JARVIS breaks the tension. “Would you like me to turn on the jet heaters to full, Sir?” He pipes up.
Deadpool and Tony let out simultaneous yes’s, and the cabin is suddenly blasted with warm arm. The sudden change in temperature only makes Spider-Man shiver more, and Deadpool picks the kid up and promptly deposits him on his lap, pulling him to his chest and rubbing his hands up and down his back to warm him up.
It’s a strange sight. Spider-Man looks tiny in the oversized clothing and just his mask, and the affect is only added to by the insane juxtaposition of Deadpool’s looming frame. He fits curled up against his chest, head buried in the mercenary’s neck. He looks strangely comfortable in the bigger man’s arms, and Natasha wonders how often he’s been in that spot before.
Deadpool bends both knees and plants his feet on the floor so Spider-Man’s sitting between them, doing his best to surround him with body warmth on all sides.
“You fucking idiot. No one likes frozen Spiders, baby boy.” Deadpool grouches, absolutely no heat in the words. He lifts his head only long enough to lock eyes with Tony, still frozen in the doorway.
“You got a blanket somewhere in this thing?” He asks, gesturing to the rest of the jet with his head, apparently unwilling to let go of Spider-Man. Tony nods and steps away to find it, shaking off the shock to focus on helping.
“Fire.” Natasha mumbles, not quite realising she’s said it out loud until all eyes snap to her. Deadpool tenses just a little bit, apparently cluing in to Natasha’s train of thought before the others. “That’s what the grenade was for. The warmth.”
He seems only slightly surprised she’s figured it out, ignoring Falcon and Cap’s matching looks of shock as Tony comes back with a blanket.
Deadpool gives her a short, critical look, assessing, and raises one shoulder in a half hearted shrug.
“Why didn’t you just say?” Cap asks, bewildered.
Deadpool’s jaw clenches under the mask, but his tone remains even.
“Yeah, sure.” He grumbles, pulling Spider-Man closer to his chest as he shivers again. “And while I’m at it, I’ll just deliver a list of all of Spidey’s weaknesses to the bad guys.”
Natasha gives him a nod and takes a seat, having nothing else to add to the conversation. Slowly, the rest of the group join them, apparently happy to let Deadpool catch a lift back with them. No one’s moving him now.
Tony grits his teeth as he lays the blanket over Spider-Man’s back, effectively covering him from his neck down.
“I’ll fix it.” He mumbles, glancing at Deadpool. “The heater. It won’t short out again.”
Deadpool gives him a short nod. Spider-Man shivers, and Deadpool takes that as his cue to launch into some insanely inappropriate tale about a lady boy assassin who Deadpool once met in the Philippines who he tried (and succeeded- not a detail any of them needed to know) to sleep with, in between the attempts on his life.
It makes Cap cringe, but it successfully distracts most of the crew for the flight back to Avenger tower. Including Spider-Man.
Usually Natasha would tune something like this out. Instead she spends the entire trip analysing it, trying to figure out how much of Deadpool’s manic craziness is an act.
It’s a good front. No one even questioned why he blew up an empty building in the middle of a fire fight with multiple clear enemy targets (because hey, that’s just Deadpool, right?). It was a smooth and immediate solution to a problem no one else in the team even recognised. Natasha has no idea how he spotted the stiff movements faster than her, and immediately attributed it the cold. The fact that Spider-Man didn’t react at the time suggest he knew what was happening. Given how comfortable he looks in Deadpool’s lap right now, she can only assume they know each other better than anyone at SHIELD ever guessed.
She wonders how many times Deadpool has managed to slip tactically brilliant moves past an enemy by passing it off as crazy.
She may have underestimated the man.
Clint POV
A woman in a headscarf and blood dripping down her face launches out of her hiding spot and at Clint, latching onto his arm with surprising strength. She’s hysterical, eyes wide and rambling non stop in a language Clint’s never heard, shaking him as she speaks like she thinks rattling his brain around in his head is going to make him understand.
He tries to step back, to detach himself and usher her towards the other direction and away from the fighting. She latches on tighter, nails digging into his forearm, and keeps rambling.
“Al’anfaq! Al’anfaq!”
Clint shakes his head. “I don’t understand. You need to evacuate. It’s not safe here.” She pauses just long enough to listen to his words, and goes right back to rambling, clearly having not understood a thing he said.
“We’re losing ground here. I want civilians off that bridge, Barton.” The coms in his ear crackles, the clear crisp and insanely level voice of Captain America loud and clear, even over the explosions in the background. Clint knows if he turns around Cap will be waist deep in a brawl with the weird zombie alien things that are currently destroying the city. If they’re losing ground then he’s got to be facing a small army of them, but you’d never be able to tell from the coms. The bastard doesn’t even sound out of breath.
“Working on it.” He snaps back, trying to sound as calm as Cap does. He’s off the mark, unable to hide the bite of irritation in his tone. He shakes his arm again, trying to disentangle himself from the woman. Her grips tighter. He could force the issue, but he’ll hurt her, and he’s loathe to do anything that will impact her ability to run away. He supresses a groan. She’s harder to deal with than the stupid alien things. He debates the merits of asking for back up for a fucking civilian, giving his arm one last tug. It’s useless. He sighs. “Could use a hand.”
“I’m on it!” someone replies instantly. Too eager to be anyone but Spider-Man. The kid never seems to run out of energy.
“What’s the hold up?” Cap asks, as Clint well and truly gives up on the woman and starts using his free hand to usher the rest of the civilians into an underground carpark leading away from the fighting.
“Uncooperative civilians.” Clint tires. She’s still screaming in his face. Clint wonders if the other can hear it over the coms. “Bit of a language barrier.”
“That happens when you’re not in the US, you know.” Natasha chimes in, dripping with sarcasm. He can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “It’s not the same as the rest of them.” Clint grits out. He’s memorised a couple of words in Turkish for ‘get out’, ‘run’ and ‘medical attention’ on the way here, and he hadn’t had any trouble with the rest of them. He’d tried that first off, but the woman hadn’t shown any understanding. This language, whatever it is, is different.
“Oh!” Pipes up Spider-Man. Clint’s caught sight of the red and blue spandex off to his right, but the hero stalls and changes directions. “DEADPOOL!” Everyone flinches at the sudden scream into the comms. Clint watches Spider-Man punch an alien thing and web a few more as he heads towards the distant notes of loud, off key singing that denotes Deadpool’s presence. The man just won’t shut up.
Clint tries not to scowl at the mention of the mercenary. He, like the rest of the team, was not a fan of the man. He had a reputation for being reckless, short tempered, easily changeable, and bat shit insane. No one was really comfortable working with a guy who murdered people for money. No one but Spider-Man, anyway.
This was only the third time he’d worked with the Avengers, all in circumstances that were too desperate to turn the help down. And only then at the suggestion (read-insistence) of Spider-Man. What the hell the kid saw in that lunatic Clint would never know.
Deadpool doesn’t answer the com, obviously not having heard Spider-Man. He’d probably lost it again. The man had a nasty habit of losing body parts, including ears and the coms that go with them.
“What the hell is he going to do to help?” Clint grumbles, still trying to shake the woman off him.
“He’ll speak it.” Spider-Man answers, like it’s obvious. Clint hadn’t known he spoke any other languages. Being bilingual is aways something Clint has associated with intelligence, and Deadpool…did not give that impression. Maybe he was fucking with Spidey? As smart as the kid was, he was still somewhat fresh faced. Still gullible.
“What language is it?” Nat asks, apparently also curious and free enough to monitor the conversation. Did Spider-Man recognise it? Could he hear it on the coms?
Clint remains silent, waiting for Spider-Man to answer. Only, he doesn’t.
“Spider-Man?” Clint tries.
“What?” He answers, sounded distracted. A stray alien thing breaks past the line. Clint tries to reach for an arrow to load his bow, but the stupid lady still won’t let go of his arm. He growls at her, pulling a throwing knife from his waist instead and throwing it one handed over her shoulder. It sinks into the things skull, spraying blue-black blood on the concrete. Clint shakes his arm again, gesturing wildly to the alien in the universal sign of ‘I need my arm back to fight these stupid things’ and tries to get the lady to let go. She doesn’t.
“What language?” Clint asks, confused by his lack of answer.
“I don’t’ know.” Spider-Man answers. You can practically hear the shrug in his voice. Clint freezes. There’s a moment of silence on the coms as the whole team seems to process.
“If you don’t know the language,” Clint asks, speaking slowly, “how do you know Deadpool speaks it?”
“Oh.” Spider-Man honestly sounds shocked. Like this very important bit of information didn’t occur to him. Another alien breaks the line. Clint throws another knife.
“Then Deadpool probably speaks it.” Spider-Man provides.
“What?” Clint and Nat ask in union, but Spider-Man’s not listening, already yelling at Deadpool again. Clint flinches at the full volume scream into the coms.
“My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, and their like, it’s better than - WHAT?!” Deadpool screams back, interrupting his chorus. There’s a ringing of metal and a sickening squelch in the background, and Clint tries not to picture the idiot mercenary decapitating anything with his stupid katanas. God, Clint hates the guy.
“Need you.” Spider-Man quips, and the sounds suddenly muffled by wind as Spider-Man no doubt swings the merc back towards Clint.
Spider-Man offers no other explanation and Deadpool doesn’t ask for one, choosing instead to immediately launch into an incredibly off key rendition of wrecking ball.
Clint kind of hope the kid drops him.
“Where are these things coming from?” Nat huffs, and Clint spares a glance in her direction to see her shoot two of them in the head simultaneously. She’s set up at the opening of an alleyway, forcing the enemy into a bottleneck so she doesn’t get overwhelmed. She’s cutting through them at a steady rate, but the crowd behind those two doesn’t look like it’s shrunk at all. In fact, it may have gotten bigger.
“We need to find the entry point.” Falcon chips in, flying low and cutting through a crowd of them trying to sneak up on Cap.
Clint needs back in this fight. Now. How the hell did he end up with crazy civilian lady?
The obnoxious singing gets louder, and suddenly there’s a red and black clad problem standing in front of Clint. He’s got one Katana out, the other one holstered, and he’s covered head to toes in splatters of that blue-black blood. Clint tries not to gag.
Spider-Man immediately turns back to the main fight, leaving Clint alone with Deadpool. Wonderful.
“What’s up, birdbrain?” Deadpool greets. He glances over Clint and the hysterical woman still latched to his arm quickly, twirling his katana around and stepping towards them. “Are we slicing up civilians now? Need a big strong man to come do the dirty work for you?”
“No!” Clint blanches, pulling his arm, and the lady attached to it, to his other side so he’s between her and Deadpool. She grips on tighter and launches into another tirade in the mysterious language. Deadpool, to Clint’s utter surprise, replies.
The woman seems to realise there’s finally someone here who understands her, and she swings around to face Deadpool, pulling Clint around with her. They shout at each other for a few minutes, the lady still hysterical, Deadpool making wild hand gestures accompanied by the sword he still has out, which Clint ducks a few times. She’s rambling so fast Clint thinks he would have trouble keeping up in English, but it doesn’t seem to bother the mercenary. Deadpool gets closer and closer, finally dipping the sword until he’s basically face to face with her, both of them screaming at full volume. The woman drops Clint arm so she can throw both in the air, gesturing frantically and pointing to a spot above Deadpool’s head. Clint wastes no time scrambling away from her, unwilling to get caught in her killer grip again. They spin to face the spot she’s pointing to at the time, and Clint can make out a manhole cover among the wreckage of the street. It’s been pushed off the manhole, leaving room to what is hopefully a storm water drain and not sewage below.
“She saw the weird green things climb out of the tunnels.” Deadpool provides. “Near the bank about a block that way.” He waves a katana vaguely to Clint’s left.
Wow, Clint thinks. Maybe he’s got the wrong impression of Deadpool. Maybe he’s not so much an idiot as he seems.
“And she thinks you’re very rude.” He adds, spinning the katana to point directly at Clint’s chest.
“They’re coming from under the streets.” Clint repeats into the com, already jogging off in that direction.
Deadpool takes off after him, falling into step. The lady, thankfully, stays where she is.
“Are we going to explore some holes together, birdbrain?” Deadpool quips, sounding way too eager to be jumping into random manholes in search of weird alien zombie things.
Or not.
“How many languages do you speak?” Clint asks, unable to stop himself. Deadpool draws his sidearm to shoot another alien in their way without breaking his step, splattering them both with the weird coloured blood.
“Fluently, or just the dirty words?” Deadpool waggles his eyebrows at him, somehow visible through the suit. Clint shoots him a look, drawing an arrow and taking out another alien, which do seem to be appearing from the manhole cover.
Deadpool shrugs, taking the hint. “Like six.”
That is…wow. Maybe the man’s not as stupid as Clint thought he was.
Sam POV
“It’s Cap man. I’m telling you. Hand’s down.” Sam slurs, falling into his seat on the couch a little more heavily then strictly necessary.
“No way.” Brody argues, eyes flicking between Steve and Bucky on the couch opposite. “They’ve got to be pretty evenly matched. I mean, look at them.” He gestures with one hand, whisky sloshing over the side of the glass he’s holding.
“Nah. It’s Bucky.” Scott interrupts, looking about as drunk as Sam feels. “You’ve got to think the metal arm wins. Right?”
“Well, there’s only way to settle this.” Brody provides, nodding solemnly. “Arm wrestle!” He shouts, spilling more drink. Sam cheers.
“Guys, we’re not arm wrestling.” Steve denies, ever the reasonable one. Scott narrows his eyes at him.
Bucky catches the look and turns to Steve, eyebrow raised. “Scared you’ll lose, old man?”
There’s a chorus of ‘ohhs’ around the table, and Scott’s very helpful “Burrrrn.”
“Don’t break the table!” Banner shouts from across the room, having caught the tail end of the conversation.
“Are we breaking things? Can I join?”
A hushed silence falls over the group and all eyes turn to the newcomer. A red and black mask stares back at them.
If they were at all sober, the presence of Deadpool in their little group in Stark tower probably would have brought things to an end. At the very least, there should be questions about how he got into the building. As it happens, the group is not sober, and so Scott leans forward and shakes his head. “Nope. You can’t. You’re not the third strongest Avenger.” He supplies helpfully.
Everyone flinches when Deadpool lets out a high pitched squeal.
“Does this mean I’m an Avenger? Man, I’ve been waiting on my membership card. Does it, like, automatically restore you to virgin status? Like those born again whores who find Jesus?” He rambles, not stopping for a breath. Brody shakes his head. “No. Nope. Not thinking about that. Man, what is wrong with you?”
Deadpool shrugs and throws himself onto the arm of the couch next to Clint, who only flinches a little bit. “Pretty much everything, my dude. I’d go through the list, but we’d be here for years. I can’t dedicate that sort of sort of time to you. I’d miss tacos too much.”
Nobody knows quiet how to respond to that. Brody feels himself start to nod in agreement before realising who it is he would be calling insane, and raises his glass again to hide the movement.
“You’re not an Avenger, Deadpool.” Sam barks, apparently still a step behind the conversation and determined to clear that up. Deadpool pouts.
“You guys just don’t want me crashing your book club. I promise I’ll only bring the really good porn.”
“Third strongest Avenger!” Scott shouts, a little desperately. No one wants to know where that conversation would have gone. Thankfully Deadpool is not known for his attention span, and he latches onto the new topic easily. “Third?” He asks, and Brody nods, shooting Scott a grateful look. “Yeah. Thors the strongest, and then Hulk. But we don’t know who’s third. Cap or Barnes.” Brody explains, gesturing at the men in question. Cap looks suddenly caught, like he was hoping to avoid Deadpool’s attention but trying not to show it. Bucky has no such qualms and straight up glares at Brody, like it’s his fault crazy guy is looking at him now.
“OH!” Deadpool exclaims, draping himself further across the arm of the sofa and snuggling into Clint’s side, leaning his head back like he wants to rest his head on his shoulder. Clint leans as far back as he possibly can. “Cause Spider-babe ain’t an Avenger either, right? All the cool kids are doing it.”
Clint, Brody, Sam, and Scott all frown in union. “What? No, he is.” Clint starts, but stops again. “Or, well, technically he isn’t.” Spider-man worked with the Avengers pretty regularly now, and had helped them out on a number of large scale fights. They had a team up sort of deal going. But the kid had never actually joined. Technically he was still independent.
“But he counts.” Sam adds, nodding to himself. “Right?” A chorus of affirmatives left the table.
“Well clearly he doesn’t.” Deadpool argues, “Because then he’d be third strongest.” Another moment of silence as everyone pictures the scrawny twig of the kid that is Spider-man. Him? No. No way.
Deadpool continues on, oblivious to the confusion he’s caused. “He counts but I don’t count? You know, I’m beginning to think you guys just don’t like me. What did I do? Was it the murder?” He whines. “I haven’t done the un-aliving thing in agggess! Promise I’ll be good! I’ll wear pink on Wednesdays and everything. Just let me into your club!”
“Hold on.” Sam breaks the silence of everyone other than Deadpool, who everyone knows talks non stop 98% of the time and who’s ramblings are now generally regarded as background noise.
“Spider-man isn’t stronger than Captain America.”
“Or the Winter Solider.” Scott adds. “Metal arm, dude.”
Deadpool snorts. “Are you kidding me? Webs could take the old man popsicle and Mr. Felicio fingers one handed. Of course he’s stronger than them.”
Bucky blinks at the nickname, but chooses not to comment.
“That kid? No way.”
“That’s Captain America you’re talking about.”
“You really are insane.”
Brody wonders through the blur of alcohol if maybe calling the crazy person with guns a crazy person is wise, but Deadpool just lets out a booming laugh.
“Oh my god! I thought you guys worked with him all the time! How do you not know this? The kids a little tank. He’s stupid strong. Throw you through a building and punch through a mountain kind of strong. You know.” He purrs, voice dropping an octave. “The sexy kind.”
Steve, who has been abstaining from the conversation so far, blinks at Deadpool. “You think being thrown through a building is sexy?”
Deadpool rolls his eyes (which you can somehow see through the mask? What the hell?) and answers in a long, drawn out, condescending tone. “Well, yeahhh. Obviously. I mean, don’t you guys ever just want someone to squeeze your brain out of your head with their thighs? Like a pimple?” Steve leans back in his seat, as far away from Deadpool as he can get. “Webs could crush my skull anytime. Prime A circle jerk material right there. Straight in the spank bank, baby.” Deadpool sighs, wistful.
Clint, who is now half under Deadpool, abruptly stands and pushes him off him, storming off. “Nope. I’m out.”
“Don’t be like that, Birdbrain. I promise I’ll be gentle!” Deadpool calls out after him. Clint flips him off as he walks off, heading toward the kitchen and surely to another drink.
Sam takes a chance to distract Deadpool and get him back on track. “Spider-Man’s a twig. There’s no way.”
“Yes way.”
“You want to bet?” At this, Deadpool perks up, his full attention swinging back to Sam.
“Yeah? Bet what?”
Scott groans. “Nope, no. this is a bad idea. No betting on team mates. Won’t end well.” The ‘not with Deadpool’ goes unsaid.
“What do you want?” Sam presses, completely ignoring Scott.
“The suit! I want to try the wings!” Deadpool yips excitedly, bouncing up and down in his seat like an overly excited toddler.
Sam scoffs. “No way in hell. You’ll break them. I’m not letting you near those things.”
“Spoilsport.” Deadpool’s whole body droops and he pouts, the impression of his lower lip sticking out visible under the suit.
“Cash?” Sam suggests.
“Bor-ing. How about a dare?” Deadpool counters.
Everyone present (except Deadpool) flinches.
“No way in hell.”
“Come on, give me the wings! 10 minutes. And if you win, I’ll let you push me off the roof.”
Steve, ever the voice of reason, abruptly stands “ok, that’s enough. No ones pushing anyone off any roofs.”
Sam just scoffs. “I don’t need a bet for that, Pool. I could push you off a roof any day.”
There’s a rare moment of silence from the mercenary. Sam tenses, like he’s just noticed he’s gone too far. Bucky jumps to his feet, ready to back up Steve if Deadpool gets violent. Everyone seems to hold their breathe for a second. And then Deadpool throws his head back and lets out a booming laugh.
“Touche, birdbrain 2.0. Touche. Loser buys lunch?”
Sam blinks his shock, assessing the suddenly reasonable offer. “You’re on.” He leans forward and they shake.
“How are you even meant to prove this?” Scott grumbles. “Spider-Man’s not even here. Would he even agree to this?”
Deadpool cocks his head the side and leans back in his seat. “If he’s not here already, he will be soon. And he doesn’t have to agree. He’s way too polite to put Cap on his ass in front of his team.”
“Hey!” Bucky and Steve say together. No one acknowledges them.
“Then how are we meant to settle this?” Brody asks, suddenly interested.
“He’ll do it to help, the goody two shoes.” Deadpool says, pushing his legs out in front of him so they’re almost reaching the other couch. Urg, Sam hates these stupid meta humans. Why is everyone here taller than him?
“Easy peasy.”
“How would he help?” Brody asks, but Deadpool’s attention is gone again, suddenly on the elevators. “Spider babe!” Deadpool calls, waving enthusiastically at the new comer in red and blue spandex.
“Wade!” Spider-Man calls, approaching them cautiously. “You better not be drunk. I already told Thor you’re not allowed anymore Asgardian alcohol. I am not carrying you home again, you asshole.”
“Thor’s not even here.” Deadpool pouts. “And JARVIS wouldn’t let me in the wine cellar.”
Ah. That explains Deadpool’s presence in the Avengers tower.
“Then what are you still doing here?” Excellent question. All eyes turn back to Deadpool.
“Just offering my help to Cap here. Actually, perfect timing Webs, we totally need you.”
“What do you need help with?” Spider-Man turns to Cap. Steve opens his mouth to protest, but Sam cuts him a look. He shuts up.
“He’s got a splinter.” Deadpool provides.
“A…splinter?” Spider-Man asks, suddenly suspicious. He sets both hands on his hips, eyeing up Deadpool.
“Yep!” Deadpool provides, popping the ‘p’.
“Right on his bulking biceps. But he keeps flinching when we try to pull the fucker out. It’s like he doesn’t wants me caressing those strong muscles or something.” Deadpool turns to Cap in mock shock.
“You are not touching me.” Steve supplies, staring down Deadpool.
Deadpool throws both hands over his heart in mock hurt, gasping. “After everything we’ve been through, Cap. I feel like I deserve at least some light groping.”
Bucky face darkens, and he rocks forward on his feet, but Deadpool’s already moved on. The rest of the team don’t react, shockingly used to this kind of commentary.
“Anyway,” Deadpool continues, attention back on Spider-Man. “We just need your hot little ass to hold his hot little ass still, so another hot little ass-” Cap splutters. “Not me, popsicle, you can pick another ass- can pull it out. As long as Cap doesn’t mind?” Every word is dripping with false innocence. Spider-Man still looks suspicious, but he turns to Steve. Sam nods at him.
Steve grits his teeth. “Fine.” He says.
Spider-Man shrugs and steps forward. “Alright. So I just hold your arm still?”
Deadpool nods, humming in affirmative.
“And the cyborg can get the splinter. Just don’t let his arm move, baby boy, and we’re all good.”
Huh. Well, suppose that will work.
Cap nods and puts his arm down on the table. Spider-Man steps up next to him, grabbing his bicep and holding firmly. Bucky steps up behind him, angled to reach both Cap and Spider-Man.
“So just hold him still?” Spider-Man clarifies, glancing at Deadpool and then Bucky.
“Yeah, sweet cheeks.” Deadpool says, still grinning. “I reckon 3 seconds would do it. What do you think, Sam?” Three seconds? What did Sam think. He was suddenly less confident, faced with Deadpool’s complete (for Deadpool) calm. “Um, it might take a bit longer. Maybe 5?”
Spider-Man shoots them both suspicious looks, but he doesn’t step back.
“Ok. You all good Cap?” Spider-Man says, settling his grip. He nods.
“Just hold him still. Buck might have to really heave to get that nasty little prick out of him.” Deadpool snickers.
Bucky and Cap both shoot a look at Sam. He shrugs. “Um…ok then.” Bucky tries, and he grabs onto Steve’s bicep.
“On three?” Deadpool asks.
Bucky ignores him and pulls back, looking like he’s bracing himself to fall backwards. Steve does not budge. Bucky frowns, and puts a bit more effort in. Steve still doesn’t budge. Bucky leans back, pulling his whole weight behind it. He grunts under the effort. No movement. Not even a twitch.
Three sets of jaws drop in unison.
“Wow, Steve, it’s really stuck in there. Maybe you should help.” Deadpool offers, snickering.
“What?” Spider-Man turns his head to stare at Deadpool at the same moment Steve and Bucky pull back together. Spider-Man doesn’t even seem to notice, his grip still firmly in place. Deadpool grins at him.
“How would he help?”
Steve and Bucky both grunt, now clearly putting in effort.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, spider babe.” Deadpool provides, grinning at him. “You know, I think that’s about 5. Did you guys get it out?”
Spider-Man turns back to Steve and Bucky to see them both panting with effort and staring at him with open jaws.
“What?”
Steve is the first to recover, jaw snapping shut. “Um, I think he got it. You can…let go now.”
Spider-Man does, releasing his grip and taking a step back. He spins back to Deadpool, who’s now cackling.
“Alright, what the hell did you do?” He asks, hands on his hips as he stares the other man down. It’s not quiet as intimidating as it should be. Even sprawled out on the couch as he is, Deadpool’s almost as tall as Spider-Man standing, and he’s laughing too hard to really register Spider-Man’s disapproval. Brody supposes there’s not a lot of ways to be intimidating to a guy who’s functionally immortal.
Deadpool wipes imaginary tears from his eyes and stands. “Nothing much, Spider-babe. Taco’s tomorrow? Sam’s buying.”
Spider-Man shoots Sam a look he’s sure is confused under the mask. Sam can only nod, jaw hanging open.
Deadpool claps his hands, loudly breaking everyone out of their state of frozen shock. “Let’s bounce. There’s no good alcohol here anyway.”
Deadpool steps towards the elevator, Spider-Man close behind. They watch the two leave, bickering the entire way. No one says a word until the elevator doors close behind them.
Tony POV
"Urg, why do you have the good stuff? Where's your shitty off brand maple syrup?" Peter grumbles, head buried in Tonys kitchen cabinets. It’s weird seeing Spider-Man without the mask.
Tony blinks.
"I'm sorry. Are you complaining that I own decent food?"
"Yeah." Peter agrees immediately, not raising his eyes from the cabinets.
"Why do rich people always have the fancy stuff? Slum it likes the rest of us once it in a while."
Tony had no idea what to do with that.
"Why do you want off brand maple syrup?" He finally asked, confused.
"I want pancakes." Peter grumbles, like that makes perfect sense.
"So use the good stuff."
There's a breath of exhale, like Tony is being the unreasonable one here.
"I can't be bothered cooking." Peter shrugs.
"Should I order food to be delivered to this floor, sir?" JARVIS chimes in above them.
"Nah, thanks though." Peter continues, jumping up onto the counter to reach the back of the cabinets.
"Hey guys." Sam wanders in, eyes sweeping over the two of them. "What's going on?"
Tony blinks at him.
"I'm not sure, actually."
Sam raises an eyebrow.
"Ah ha!" Peter exclaims, finally removing himself from the cupboard and raising a half empty bottle of shitty looking maple syrup. The plastic bottle is chipped, the label faded, and there's a circle of gunk around the bottom like no one’s cleaned it before.
Barnes chooses that moment to walk into the kitchen.
"You know Tony has the fancy shit, right?" He tries, eyeing the bottle suspiciously.
Finally, some sense.
"He knows." Tony tries. "Apparently he needs the cheap stuff."
Sam swings around to stare at him. "You don't actually have to pay for the stuff in Tony's cupboards. You can just eat it all."
Tony rolls his eyes.
"Yeah, I know." Peter huffs, dropping the cheap plastic bottle onto the counter and turning around to bury the good stuff at the very back of the cabinet, moving boxes in front of it.
"Then why...?" Barnes starts, but is cut off with another huff.
"I can't be bothered cooking." Peter repeats. Finally satisfied with his impromptu game of hide and seek, he shuts the door and jumps off the counter.
"Want me to order in, then?" Sam tries.
Peter shakes his head, arranging the cheap plastic bottle on the counter.
"Nah, that's ok."
Sam looks at Tony, who can only offer a shrug. They both turn to Barnes, who has stopped in the middle of the room and is looking equally confused.
"Then how-"
The poor man seems doomed to never get a sentence out, because he is interrupted again by a loud crash, followed by a second of a silence and some inconspicuous whistling.
JARVIS sighs. "It appears Mr Wilson has broken an air vent, sir." He supplies.
Of course he has. God, Tony hates that guy.
"Why did I let him stay here again?" He mumbles, mostly to himself.
"Because you're an idiot." Barnes supplies.
"Because we're all on call the second we can confirm a location for the next hydra base," Sam answers. "and he's too much of a pain in the ass to keep track of for any length of time." He adds.
Right. On call. Waiting on a mission location. Deadpool helping them out again.
"Why did I decide we needed him again?" Tony gripes, glaring at Peter.
Peter grins at him, dimples popping. "For the snacks." He answers, and then promptly vaults the couch.
"Not a word." He warns them all, jabbing a finger at each of them turn. He’s turned around to face the TV and relaxed back on the couch, looking like he's been there all day, when the door opens and the menace himself walks in.
Tony wants to ask what the fuck he's doing, but Deadpool is already distracting him with his mere infuriating presence.
"How's in hanging, Dollface?" He tries to take a swing at Bucky’s arse, but the man swats him away, growling at him.
“Come to break something else?” Tony quips. Deadpool flips him off.
Sam rolls his eyes and jumps up, preparing to leave, when Deadpool’s eyes land on the counter. He freezes mid step and the whites of his mask seem to widen.
"What. The fuck. Is that?"
Sam, Tony, and Bucky spin around almost in sync, trying to find whatever has offended Deadpool so badly.
All eyes land on the maple syrup bottle, sitting harmlessly on the corner of the counter.
"Hmm?" Peter tilts his head to see them.
"Oh." He says, feigning surprise. "I wanted pancakes, but it's the only thing I could find."
Deadpool spends another couple of second gaping at the bottle, and then he spins to face Tony so fast it's a struggle not to stumble backwards.
"What the hell, Tin Man? I thought the only good thing about being a rich asshole was spending all your money on good food! Aren't you supposed to have taste?"
Tony opens his mouth to defend himself, affronted. It's not his fault Peter hid all the good stuff, after all. In the corner of his eye, he vaguely registers Peter shaking his head at him, trying to cut him off.
But Deadpool doesn't wait for an answer, only throws his hand up to stop whatever reply Tony would have made and turns back to the kitchen.
"I'll just have to educate you heathens on the proper use of maple syrup." He grumbles. And then he unzips one of the many pouches on his person and pulls out-a bottle of maple syrup. The good kind. There's a red maple leaf stamped on the side, proudly proclaiming the bottles contents to be 100% Canadian.
Bucky chokes.
"Do you - do you just carry that with you?" He stutters out.
Deadpool nods absentmindedly, pulling an on apron over his suit and already pulling bowls and flour from the cabinets. Tony didn’t know he owned an apron.
"Of course. Like all good Canadians."
Sam’s mouth drops open.
Tonys snaps shut. Deadpool is making pancakes. Deadpool is in his kitchen. Making pancakes.
He turns to raise an eyebrow at Peter, who is staring intently at the TV.
Tony drops onto the couch next to him. "So you meant- I mean. Does he always-?" Tony has no idea how to finish that sentence. Peter seems to understand though, and he nods without turning his head.
"Yep." He says, popping the 'p'. "Don't give me up."
Tony can only nod. He turns to see Sam and Bucky still in the kitchen, both having taken seats at the breakfast bar and staring at Deadpool in wide eyed confusion as he putters around the space, mixing batter and pulling out pans. He’s currently lecturing his audience about all the uses of maple syrup (including, by the sound of it, some strange sexual position and a very creative form of murder involving wasp and bears). Sam and Bucky don’t look they’ve taken in a word.
"Huh."
When Deadpool marches over with plates for them 10 minutes later, piled high with a stack of perfectly golden pancakes drenched in maple syrup, he only hesitates for a second before picking up a fork, unable to resist the smell. The fact that Peter is halfway through his second mouthful helps too.
"I would usually let you pour your own toppings, but clearly you can't be trusted." Deadpool gripes, glaring at the bin he had immediately thrown the offending cheap bottle of syrup into.
Tony's ashamed to say he moans at the first bite, but is reassured a moment later when matching noises seem to echo from Sam and Bucky behind him.
Deadpool positively beams.
"This is the good shit, Tin Man. None of that crap." He gestures vaguely to the bin.
These may be the best pancakes Tony has ever had, and he spends a lot of time in 5 star hotels and having dinner with politicians who have personal chefs.
Tony adds 'fantastic cook' to his mental rolodex of Deadpool facts, having no idea what else to do with the information.
He thinks it's even worth the dent in his dining table when Deadpool finds the stash of the 'good stuff' (which he locates while putting away dishes. Which he cleaned) and promptly tackles Peter, who he had immediately identified as the party guilty of conning him.
It might even be worth having the Mercenary in his home for a night.
Peter giggles at him, apparently reading the confusion in Tonys face now he's been released by the fuming pile of leather that is Deadpool.
"Just wait until you try the waffles."
Weasel POV
The kid that walked into his bar was just that. A kid. He couldn't have been more than 20. Definitely not old enough to drink. Wide eyed, fresh faced, and all polite and shit, apologising as he bumped past people on his way up to the bar. He couldn't have looked more like jail bait if he tried. Weasel gave it maybe 5 minutes before a brawl broke out for the right to take him home, whether the kid wanted to go or not.
What the hell was he doing in Sister Margaret's?
The kid, oblivious of how out of place he was, wandered straight up to the bar. And then straight into it, bumping his hip and knocking over a stool as he swayed on his feet.
"Sorry! Sorry!" The kid waved his arms around him, trying to find his balance, and Weasel supressed a groan at how obviously wasted he was. Jesus Christ on a cracker, who the hell had served this kid?
Around the room, at least 4 sets of eyes raised at the commotion. Weasel shot them a glare and resisted the urge to shush the kid, but no one looked away. God, he was going to get slaughtered.
"Did you steal your dad’s vodka or something?"
The kid, finding his balance even as he continued to sway precariously, blinked up at him, and Weasel got his first good look at rosy cheeks and wide brown eyes, pupils blown so wide you could use them as target practice. Not alcohol, then. The kid was stoned.
"Is- is Wade here?"
Now it was Weasel’s turn to blink. He gave the kid another once over, sure he was missing something. Worn jeans, even more worn sneakers. Faded t shirt with what looked like a zombie cat in a box with the caption 'the cat is UNdead', and a mess of brown hair that was sticking up in every direction.
The kid flinched suddenly, spinning on the spot to face an imaginary threat. The movement sent him tipping sideways, losing his balance, and he ended up half sprawled over the bar top.
Bad trip, then.
"What the hell do you want with Wade?"
Behind him, Sunny had gotten up from his seat in the corner, eyes fixed on the kid. Not good.
"I think." The kid blinked again before diverting his attention to the bar, frowning at the chipped wood like it was a mystery he couldn't solve. "I think I've been drugged."
This time Weasel didn't hold back his snort. "No shit, Sherlock."
Did he want the person responsible killed? He didn't seem like the kind, but what the hell else could he want with Deadpool? The man wasn't exactly the responsible type. Definitely not the patient type. Last on most peoples list of 'friends who would take care of me on a bad trip.' Not on many friends lists at all, actually.
Sunny had made his way to the bar, crowding up from behind him, taking in the kids form with interest.
"What’s a sweet little thing like you doing in a place like this?" He snarled, grin stretching over his yellowing teeth.
Weasel’s fingers itched towards the shot gun he kept under the counter, but he didn't pick it up just yet.
The kid tilted his head back until he spotted Sunny’s face towering above him, unwilling to let go of the bar top to turn around.
"You're not Wade."
So the kid had met Wade before. Or at the very least new what he looked like. And still choose to come here. Hmm.
Sunny’s grin slipped for half a second, thrown, before returning in full force.
"What's he paying you? I'll beat it. I'm a much better lay than that idiot. Spare you the trauma of looking at his ugly mug, too."
The kid just frowned, shaking his head side to side in slow motion, like it took a while for his brain to connect with his body.
"Nah ah." He slurred, tipping his head even further back to meet Sunnys eyes. Another couple of people had gotten up and moved closer, eyes on the pair. Whether they were eager to take a shot at the kid themselves or just wanted to see the kid squirm was anyone’s bet.
"Wades not ugly. He's pretty. And he's soooooo strong." The kid slurred.
If there was anyone left in the bar not already staring, that did it.
"That ugly ass avocado? You reckon he's prettier than me?"
Pissed off Sunny. Not good.
Sunny leant all the way in, pressing against the kids back to pin him to the counter.
Weasel reached for the shotgun. Before he could pick it up, Sunny made contact with the kids back, and the kid freaked the fuck out.
Weasel heard a sharp intake of breath and watched the kid flinch. Then he was moving, dropping low and throwing an elbow back into Sunny's kidney. Weasel fully expected that to have no affect. He was a twig of a thing, and he'd seen Sunny take some pretty good hits without so much as slowing down. Apparently he packed a hell of a punch, because Sunny dropped. The kid had already ducked under his arm and was out of the way by the time he fell, head hitting the bar with a resounding crack. And then he was out cold.
There was a long, drawn out moment of silence. And then the kid seemed to realise what he'd done and, for some strange reason, was apologising. Again.
"Oh my god! I'm so sorry Mister! Are you ok?"
Sunny doesn't answer.
"Is he dead?" Someone shouted from the back. “Who had Sunny?”.
Weasel shook himself out of his wide eyed staring and walked down the bar, trusty mirror already out of his pocket. It fogged up.
"Still breathing."
There's a series of groans from around the bar at that. The kid, oblivious, sighs in relief.
"Why don't you run along home, kid. Can I call someone for you?"
He shakes his head so vigorously he almost falls over again.
"Wade. I need Wade."
Ok then. Weasel calls him.
The phone rings twice. "If this is a work call, I'm busy. If this is a personal call, you should know by now that I don't actually like you."
Weasel rolls his eyes, wishing Wade could see him do it. "Hardy hah hah, asshole. It's neither. This is a 'there's a twink at the bar asking for you' call.
"A twink, you say? Asking for moi?" He can hear the interest in Wade's voice. Nice to know twinks rate above best friends. "What's he want?"
Weasel shrugs out of habit. "No clue. Just came in asking for Wade. Nearly caused a fucking riot with the innocent look. Still might."
"Wait." Wade's voice drops an octave, suddenly serious. Or as serious as he gets, anyway. "Brown hair, Disney princess eyes, the most squeezable ass you ever did see?"
Weasel glances over at the kid, who by now is swaying on his feet and has gone back to flinching at nothing. "I'm not checking out the kids ass, you pedo. But yeah. The rest is him. He's tripping pretty hard, man, and he decked Sunny. Who the hell is he?"
There's an impressive sting of curse words from the other end of the line, and then he seems to catch up with what Weasel has told him.
"Wait, I'm sorry, did you just say he was tripping? My bambi eyed princess is tripping? Who the hell drugged him?!"
No surprise at decking Sunny, then. Huh. As much as Weasel would love to dwell on that, the disbelief in Wades voice was starting to give way to anger, and Weasel had enough to deal with already. He did not need an angry Deadpool storming his bar.
"Don't look at me, man. He came in like that. Now what the fuck do you want me to do with him?"
There's a second string of curses, more creative than the last, and the sound of rustling clothing.
"Keep him there. Don't let anyone fucking touch him. Tell Sunny if he tries I will cut his fucking balls off with a bread knife. Be there soon."
"Wade-"
There's the sound of a door slamming, and the line goes dead. "Asshole." He can't help but mutter into the phone.
Weasel turns back to the kid. Ok then.
For the next 15 minutes, Weasel watches the kid get progressively more twitchy. He's flinching at almost everything now, backed into a corner at the end of the bar where Weasel can keep an eye on him. Both hands are gripping the countertop hard enough Weasel’s worried he might snap the wood, and he alternates between squeezing his eyes shut and scanning the bar constantly.
Sunny had woken up eventually, and Weasel had shoed him away, relaying Wade's threats a little louder than was strictly necessary. The rest of the bar had heard Wade's name and wisely decided to keep their distance.
When Wade finally does arrive, the entire place goes on high alert. His shoulders are hunched, eyes forward, and he doesn't say a word which, for Wade, is about as terrifying as he gets. He's in jeans and a worn hoodie, face only half hidden beneath the hood, and Weasel can feel his narrowed eyes on him from across the room. Weasel doesn't think he's ever seen the man more pissed off. He's practically radiating anger. He slams his way in, almost ripping the front door off it's hinges, and stalks straight to the bar. Weasel sees at least 3 people (dangerous people. Trained mercenaries) jump out of his way, and he vaguely registers Sunny backing away from the bar.
"Where is he?"
The words are growled, and Weasel finds himself unable to answer, the words sticking in his throat. Instead, he raises one hand in the kids general direction. The kid in question chooses that moment to let out a tiny whimper, hands digging into the bar top, and Wade somehow looks even more murderous. Weasel is suddenly convinced he's going to snap, take out everyone in the bar and burn the place down for good measure. Jesus fuck, he didn't know Wade could look that terrifying.
He rounds the last corner and sets his eyes on the kid, giving him a thorough once over. He's still sitting there, shaking, but even Weasel can tell he has no serious injuries. There's some cuts and bruises over his hands and face that Weasel could have sworn looked worse when he walked in, but the kid is conscious and breathing and has all his limbs. Some of the tension eases from Wade's shoulders and he crouches in front of the kid, planting himself next to the bar and angling himself so he’s between the kid and the rest of Weasels patrons, so Weasel’s the only one with a view of what happens next.
He takes a breath, clearly making an effort to push down his rage.
"Hey, baby boy."
So far only a handful of people have tried to come close to the kid, and he's flinched and whimpered every time. Sunnys the only one who's tried to touch him, and they all saw how well that ended.
Wade hasn't reached out, hasn't tried to touch, but he's still much closer than anyone else has dared. Weasel’s fully expecting the kid to lash out, especially seeing as he only seems vaguely aware of his surroundings. That, and Wade's face is visible. The kids clearly seeing things. He's not reacting great to normal faces. The burn victim essence that is Wade is not likely to end well.
The kids shoulder tense, either at the words or Wades general presence Weasel’s not sure, and he looks up, eyes landing on the scared face in front of him. It seems to take a second for him to make out what's in front of him. Weasel see’s the moment it clicks, and then the kid promptly launches himself at him.
"Wade!"
Oh, so there's going to be a fight in his bar after all, Weasel thinks.
But Wade doesn't even try to get out of the way, only making a soft 'oomph' as the kid makes contact, his weight knocking Wade back a fee inches, and the kid...well, he's not attacking anyone.
The kid lands almost in Wades lap, wrapping his arms around his neck and both legs around his waist until he's completely wrapped around him and hanging off the man like a baby koala. It makes the size difference even more pronounced, the kids slight frame dwarfed by Wade's bulk. He buries his face in his neck, clinging to him.
Absolutely all of the murder energy Wade was giving off fades, and he wraps both arms around the kid. One comes around his back, and the other travels behind him and puts his hand over the kids head, stroking his hair and cradling his head softly in his shoulder.
"I got you, baby boy. You're fine."
Wade takes a moment to stand fully, the kid still hanging off him. Weasel tries very hard not to stare. He fails.
"You loose a fight with a fishbowl, munchkin?" Weasel has no idea what the hell kind of code that is, but evidently it makes sense to his target audience. The kid nods into his neck.
“Next time you call me first, huh?” Wade mumbles, hands rubbing circles in the kids back.
" 'm srry." Comes a muffled reply for the kid, face still buried in Wade's shoulder. The kids voice breaks, wobbling, and Weasel can practically see Wade's heart break with it.
"It's fine, ok? You're fine. I've got you." The kid buries himself further into Wade, fists bunching in the fabric of his hoodie.
Wade pulls him closer.
"Let's get you home, huh?"
The kid nods, not lifting his face, and Wade turns towards the door.
He spares Weasel a nod and then he's gone, carrying the kid out the door.
No one stops them.
What. The fuck.