Chapter Text
Bang.
Fifty feet away, the cigar in No-Nerve Ben's mouth is halved, the top bit smoldering as it falls against the hardwood floors of the saloon. The smoke rises in winding curls, and Peter tips his hat, grinning, as the audience hollers. It's a good turn-up compared to his typical shows, their faces illuminated by the yellow lights and the ale in their tankards so strong it perfumes the place in the stuff.
"Alright now, alright," Peter drawls, "Y'all look like you've been having a mighty fine time, so this might be the moment to remind y'all that I do accept tips." When they burst into laughter, Peter puts his hands on his hips and asks, a glint in his eye, "Who says I'm joking?"
He takes off his hat, passing it to the nearest audience member. "Don't be stingy, now, give your friendly neighborhood sharpshooter means for some food."
"Greedy bastard!" Calls a man, red-cheeked and shaking his head.
"Hungry bastard," Peter corrects, earning more laughter. He walks toward him, idly playing with his pistol. "What's your name?"
"Patrick O'Hara."
"Well, Patrick O'Hara," he says, stopping at the end of his table, making eye contact with the pretty redhead to his right. He makes sure to holler so that everyone in the saloon can hear him. "Let's make a wager, you and me. You got a coin?"
"Sure," he says, extracting a coin from his pocket, a single cent. "What's the wager?"
"Heads, I give you every buck I've earned from tonight's performance."
Patrick leans forward (as does everyone else in the saloon). "And tails?"
"I give you every buck I've earned from tonight's performance," he grins, winking at the redhead. "But if it's heads and tails, then you hand over that wallet of yours."
No-Nerve Ben, who knows this trick, sputters— Peter lifts a finger to his lips. Patrick, biting his cheek, tilts his head. "Heads and tails?"
Peter nods, outstretching his hand. "You in?"
"Uh-"
"Come on!" Yells somebody else, setting aside their fourth ale. "It's damn impossible."
"Darn right, it's impossible," Patrick says, taking his hand and giving it two, firm shakes. "I'm in."
"Alright," he says, slinking away from him, ten, thirty, seventy feet away. He cocks his hip as he stands, twirling his pistol as he shuts one eye. "Flip it."
The silver shines as it spins, and in one swift motion, he straightens his gun, pushes the trigger, and-
The bullet spears the coin in half, the jump of the recoil not enough to sway his steady aim. It falls onto the floor, and Patrick, leaning forward to see the results, blanches. Blowing smoke off the pistol, Peter grins, already knowing what it'll show; one-half heads, one-half tails.
"I think you owe me a wallet, Patrick."
-
After the performance, No-Nerve Ben shuffles over, Peter's hat in hand. Several people linger, and outside, the last traces of the sun truly fade, leaving them in the glow of yellow gas lamps. "Seven silver dollars, including tip."
"Fourteen," Peter grins, throwing and catching the now-empty wallet. "From Patrick's wallet. Between you and me, he keeps the rest tucked somewhere else. Here's five," he says, pushing it into No-Nerve Ben's grip. "For letting me use the saloon."
"Three's fine, boy," he says. "Use the rest to buy that aunt of yours something pretty."
"Four," Peter tells him, pocketing the ten. "And if you want my aunt in something pretty, you ought to buy it for her."
No-Nerve Ben mutters something about Peter's mouth as he shuffles away, and Peter grins, following him to the bar. "See? You both think I talk too much, y'all are perfect for each other-"
"I don't think you talk too much, Pete, I think you're a smart-ass."
"Same difference," he shrugs, gladly accepting the ale he's given. No-Nerve Ben starts It burns as it goes down, but he ignores it. "Hey, you see that smoking redhead?"
"I did," No-Nerve Ben nods, sliding a glass of port across the bar and into a regular's outstretched hand. "Saw how she's still sitting there, all by her lonesome, while you ignore her."
"I ain't- I'm not ignoring her," Peter says, wiping his mouth. "I'm just the silent type, is all."
"You? Silent?"
"Oh, shut it," he tells him. "I'll go over there right now-"
"Seems you don't have to," No-Nerve Ben says, slowly shuffling away. "'Cause she's coming over."
"What?" Peter looks over his shoulder, and there she is, a beaut in her black skirt and snow-white smile. "Ben, you get back here-!"
But No Nerve-Ben is already chatting to the other people in the bar, and Peter grits his teeth, stiffening as she sits on the stool right next to his. She seems uninterested for a few moments, so he breathes a sigh of relief, up until the moment she says, "You know, you could outshoot Oakley."
"Aw, I'm not all that." He manages, ducking his head.
Several moments pass.
"I'm Patrick's sister-in-law. The man you humiliated in front of the whole saloon?"
"I'm awful sorry-"
"Oh, no you're not, and don't pretend to be, either. It was silly for him to take the wager, but in his defense, it sounded absurd."
Peter shrugs, grinning. Then, several more moments pass, in which the woman, ankles crossed, bursts out laughing. Peter turns to her, eyes questioning, and she just laughs harder.
"Well, you're awful shy, aren't you? That tough guy stunt of yours is just that. A stunt."
Peter reddens. "Looks like you got me all figured out."
"Aw, don't be offended-- it's interesting. Winkin' like a highwayman only to blush like a bride less than ten minutes later."
He lowers the glass from his lips, grinning. "You think I'm interesting?"
She raises her eyebrows. "I think you'd be a lot more interesting if you told me some about yourself."
"What do you wanna know?"
"Your full name, for starters."
"Peter," he tells her. "Peter Parker. Yourself?"
"Mary-Jane Watson," she replies. "How about you and me grab a drink, Peter? Patrick went to the post office, and I sure as hell could use the company."
"Well, I'm awful honored you chose me to do it," he says, raising his hand and signalling to Ben that they need another glass of ale. "So, what brought you to San Antonio?"
-
One hour and three drinks later (Mary has three drinks; Peter just nurses his one), Mary asks him, green eyes piercing, "So what got you into shooting in the first place?"
"My ma died before I could remember her, and my pa after, leaving me and my Aunt May," he mumbles, head resting on his hand. It's easier to look at her when he's pissed, easier to recognize how beautiful she is. "So there wasn't a man of the house to protect it. Some old pistols were lying around, and I wasn't all that good at making friends— still not if I'm candid— so I spent all my time shootin' bottles. Eventually, I got good enough to make a couple of bucks out of it."
She reaches forward and squeezes his hand. "I'm sorry, Peter. That must be hard."
He squeezes back. The stool he sits on is hard and uncomfortable, and the sore muscles of his back creak in protest. Still, he's not about to get up and stretch, not when he's so nicely occupied. "Got me here with you, didn't it?"
"And I thought that tough-guy sharpshooter was an act," she grins. "You sure know how to sweep a girl off her feet."
He laughs, unsure what to say, so he asks, "How long are you in town for?"
"Not all that long," Mary hums, draining her ale. "We live in San Francisco, we're only visiting for a little bit, visiting friends."
"San Francisco!" Peter exclaims, unable to contain his excitement. "Ain- isn't that where Doctor Connors operates?"
Her nails rasp against his palm, and she seems to realize they're still holding hands, gently tugging away from him, and Peter grins. "I wouldn't know about that, but I'll ask Patrick when he's back— he's an investor, he's been around— oh, there he is now!" She sits up straight as Patrick strides into the bar. "Patty, do you know anything about, uh- what was his name?"
"Doctor Curtis Connors," Peter says, tense as he looks up at Patrick.
"Oh, sure— that science fellow. He's got a lab where we live. Met him once or twice. Nice guy, but I said no when he asked if I could invest in his research. Seemed a little off to me."
"Heard about him through the grapevine. My dream is to work with him," Peter breathes. "I sent an application his way, but I never got a reply-"
"Your last name wouldn't happen to be Parker, would it?"
He sits up straight, slightly woozy. "It would."
"This must be fate," he says, withdrawing a thick envelope from his belt. "They gave me this with my post— said to give it to the owner of the bar."
Patrick also sets another stack of envelopes on the bar, all addressed to different people (Ben receives most of the post, which is simply picked up by the residents of San Antonio who own houses clustered far from the town center). Peter takes the envelope from him, hands shaking. He reads, through blurred eyes, the first few sentences: Dear Peter, I've received the notes you've sent me regarding the movement of Araneus Oscorpeus and would like to meet with you to discuss your theories. Would you be able to come to San Francisco-?
He claps his hand over his mouth, exploding into a grin.
"What?" Mary asks, placing a hand on his arm. "What is it?"
"Hey," Peter gasps, holding Patrick's wallet out to him. "You can have this back."
Patrick takes it and blinks at him. "Pete, this is empty."
"Sure, but I thought you'd still like to keep the wallet-" He's barely listening, thinking about the eight-day journey and the clothes he'll bring.
He smiles at Peter, which catches him off-guard. He expected the guy to be an ass. "Congratulations. And thank you for looking after her— MJ's a wildcard."
"Oh, I can take care of myself."
Peter grins, attesting to this. Patrick holds Mary by the crook of the elbow, and the two of them begin to make their way out of the saloon. "She can."
"We'll see you around, won't we, Peter?"
He tips his hat to them. "If I don't see y'all, first."
As soon as they're gone, No-Nerve Ben is looking at him critically. "Now, what was that all about?"
Peter hands him the letter, but Ben can't read, so he snatches it back and dictates. When he's done, he's silent for a long moment.
"You gonna go?"
Peter's smile falls. "I want to. But I can't leave Aunt May-"
"If that's your only reason, then sure, you can. I'll look after the lady."
Peter rests his elbows on the counter, blinking up at him. "Really?"
"'Course," he says, gruffly. Beneath that big beard, he swears he sees a blush. "Can even set her up, right here."
"Oh, yeah? Will you lovebirds be sharing a bed, too-?"
He dodges the cloth Ben tries to whip him with. "You better learn to bite your tongue, boy."
He shrugs. "I can take care of myself."
"Only when you've got ammunition."
Peter reaches for another sip, to drain his mug, but it's yanked from his lax grip. No-Nerve Ben tuts at him, a fond smile tugging at his face. "You better up that tolerance of yours, boy-- how's a twenty-eight-year-old drunk off one ale?"
"How's a sixty-one-year-old sober off of ten?" Peter counters, and is promptly asked to leave the saloon.
As he does, No-Nerve Ben leans across the counter, looks him in the eye. "I'm serious, Peter. You only get one shot at something like this. You better darn take it."
Peter smiles, something new igniting in his chest. "I think… I think I just might."
"Good luck with the aunt," he says, gruffly. "Don't drink and ride!"
"Shoulda told me that an hour ago!" Peter hollers, bursting out of the saloon and into the arid darkness of the night. It's later than he thought it was.
The stars glitter above him; the envelope is firm in his hand; and Peter, tipsy and grateful, hugs it to his chest.
-
"Hey, Widow," Peter whispers, stroking the mare's neck and leaping onto the saddle. She huffs in reply, and they wind out of the stables, towards where Peter lives, all the way on the outskirts of San-An. "Think you can handle a ride to San Francisco?"
-
He slows when he reaches the house, a withering thing of white paint and dark wood, and gives Widow free roam after making sure she's got enough hay and water, knowing she'll be waiting patiently come morning. The door is locked, and he always forgets the keys, so he climbs in through the window, landing on his feet rather unsteadily.
"Aunt May?" He calls, blinking the exhaustion out his eyes. "You awake, Mayflower?"
He sees a faint light glow stronger as Aunt May climbs down the stairs, with long brown hair in a frizzy braid, and hazel eyes crusted with interrupted sleep. Her face is wan and wrinkled from a lifetime of hard work, and Peter sets nine dollars on the three-legged coffee table, leaving one for himself. Her lips purse, looking at the money, and her eyes soften slightly. "You're home late."
"I know, Aunt May, I'm real sorry, but I got some news for you," he hands her the envelope. "I might be able to wrangle my way into a job."
"Oh, Peter! That's amazing, it is-" Her breath cuts short. "San Francisco?"
Slowly, feeling the adrenaline leave his body, he nods.
Shuffling the letter, she sees another, hastily scribbled on a sticky countertop, something about I'll be there as soon as I can.
Peter feels like he's done something wrong. She moves to the other end of the room, Peter at her heels.
"It ain't that far, Mayflower, it really ain't-"
"It's an eight-day journey-"
He grabs her hand. "Five, with Widow. Less-!"
"Still, I won't see you all that often," she frowns. "You're the only family I got left."
"I'll visit you every other week, and I'll tell Ben to look after you, he said he'd gladly do it. You wouldn't be alone," he gestures to the money on the coffee table, swallowing. "I'll only go if I get your blessing."
"Petey…"
"I wanna do more for you, Mayflower. Wanna make sure you don't have to keep on day-to-day like we're doin' now. I can't do that as a one-trick sharpshooter. But as a scientist- a real, workin' man! You've always wanted me to make an honest living."
"Shoulda watched what I wished for," she sighs, sweeping her braid out of her face. She takes Peter's hands. "Is this what you want, Petey? Or is this what you think I want for you?"
"Both," he breathes. "It's both, Aunt May."
She looks to the side, and Peter sees, in the gas-lamp's dim glow, the sheen of a tear. "You always were too big for this house. The last thing I'm gonna do is shrink you down further."
He squeezes her hands, smiling, feeling some tears himself. "Is that- is that a…?"
"Yes," she breathes. "That's my blessing, Petey."
-
One trunk, full of his best clothes. One dollar, rattling in his wallet. One woman, lonely on the rotting porch, waving goodbye to her last living family member.
One decision he can never unmake.
There's nothing more to it; Peter leaves.
-
A week of camping, desert, and sun. His piss is as yellow as the dusty peaks that surround him, and his exhaustion is fleeting and colorless, like the ripples of humidity he rides through. He gives the majority of his water to Widow, sleeping little, eating less. On horseback, he rereads his journals and notes about Araneus Oscorpeus and cross-references with a heavy book about arthropods he stole from a church, daydreaming about Doctor Connors and The California Academy of Sciences.
Here and there, he does a couple of performances, careful to save his ammunition, and earns a pitiful amount from it. A dollar's a dollar, though, and he uses what little he has to get supplies. He ends up trading the flute he packed for a cigarette, a needle, and a thread; his shirt's got some holes in it. He plans on using the rest for board. He doubts that he'll meet anybody as kind as Ben, and hopes he's looking out for Aunt May, as he said he would.
-
On the third day, he shoots a coyote trying to take a bite out of Widow, and loops its corpse across his shoulder, wondering if he can eat it raw when he encounters three herders. Steven, McKenzie, and Bruce. They're friendly. He sits and eats with them, and they swap stories by the campfire, of old legends: headless women, haunted wells-
"What's Deadpool?" Peter asks, between frantic chews. Behind him, Widow, ferociously grinding hay between her teeth, expresses his same hunger.
"Not what, boy— who," Says McKenzie, eyes dark. The crackle of the fire is tentative, afraid of interrupting. "I was headin' on home one day, with my old buddy, Daniel, when the strangest man I've ever seen, red leather and more guns than a soldier, saunters up to us and, after introducing himself, says, all sweet-like, Danny boy, you're not gonna go home to that wife of yours. But Daniel was a fighter, and before he finished his sentence, he had shot him, twice. Head and heart."
McKenzie chuckles bitterly. Bruce and Steven exchange a glance, as though this is a story they've heard many, but Peter leans forward. "He didn't even flinch. He got Daniel. Shot him the same way he was shot, laughing all the while, the freak. He then looks me up and down and tells me-" He goes red. "Compliments me while the shells pop out his body and the wound closes over itself. After that, he saunters over to Daniel's house, like he hadn't just taken two bullets, and come morning, we found out that his wife had hired the sonofabitch."
"Hired?" Peter asks, wiping his mouth. When Bruce passes him ale, he takes a hearty swig.
"To kill him," he mutters, darkly. "Apparently, he'd been forcin' it on her."
"Ain't that what a wife has to put up with?" Laughs Bruce, making Peter shift, uncomfortable. It's a harmless joke in the scheme of things, but it makes him think of-
McKenzie glares into the campfire. "Not when she's eight months pregnant. She lives with me and my wife, now, keeping her company while I'm gone— they even sleep in the same bed, all sister-like— and when I talked to her about it, she said that Deadpool hadn't even tried to take compensation. When I asked around, there had been more of the same. Usually, for money. Hundred dollars for a head, maybe more."
"Shucks, I'd kill somebody for a hundred," says Steven, taking the flask from Peter.
Bruce grins. "You? You can't even put down a sheep without tearin' up."
-
Peter leaves as they all settle into sleep, but Bruce grabs his arm, giving him extra food, a flask, and whispering for him not to take anything McKenzie said too seriously: "He's half-legend, don't you go believing him. And be careful, would you, kid? It's not safe out in these parts for a young thing like yourself."
"I'm twenty-eight," he whispers back. "I can take care of myself."
He laughs. "Good one."
Shaking his head, Peter lifts the cooked coyote, grinning. "Thank you."
Bruce smiles kindly at him, and he feels his eyes burning into his back, long after he and Widow have left.
-
The mountains, jagged creatures of red in the daytime, soften in the sun's absence, non-threatening, curved slopes of navy and tawn. The closer he gets to California, the more gentle they seem. The closer he gets to San Francisco, the easier it is to earn a few bucks; his wallet's got some weight to it, now, enough for him to think about proper clothes or a new flute.
He tries not to get too hopeful, to steel himself for when he might have to turn right back around again, but it's difficult. He feels like he's made of hope.
Brace yourself, Parker, he thinks, and keeps on going.
-
When he's in front of The California Academy of Sciences, he's disgusting, exhausted, and so excited he might just faint. He gently eases an equally tired Widow to a cheap-looking place he can sleep, An Inn With No Name, which has sturdily-built walls and sparse residents. Behind the counter of the lobby-slash-common-room, a shelf sells tobacco, matches, and tins of salted beef, and there is the low hum of conversation that's deeply pleasant, to Peter, having spent the last stretch of the journey in complete silence.
He shuffles to the man working, who seems dead on his feet. "What can I do you for, son?"
"How much for board?"
"Per day, it'll be half a dollar," he tells him, adjusting his glasses. "That'll get you everything you need without pretense— meals, a room, and a place for that mare of yours."
"That's fine with me," he says. "You got anything with a view?"
The man raises his eyebrows, a faint smile on his face. "You think we got anything with a view?"
"It's a mighty fine establishment-"
"It's a shithole. Here, I'll put you down for one of our better rooms— what's your name?"
"Peter Parker."
"Nice to meet you, Peter Parker— I'm Robbie Robertson." He must see the look on his face and grins. "I know, I know. It was tough, as a kid."
"I don't doubt it, Robbie Robertson," he cracks, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He wants to sleep, but he figures a little small talk won't hurt. "How long you've been running this place?"
"Opened it about seven years ago, and now, I'm making too much money to close it anytime soon. Might shut it down to start my newspaper, sometime, but I won't bore you with the details," he hands a key to Peter. "Room's on the third floor, at the very end. Welcome to San Francisco."
-
That night, Peter dreams. Of a house Aunt May can be proud of, and real gold for her to wear. Of spending nights at a library he doesn't have to cheat his way into. Of handshakes and congratulations and purpose outside of how well he can shoot.
He rises with the sun and feels like this is the start of his life; his real life.
And he's itching to start living it.
-
"Who's Curtis Connors?"
"Lanky, obnoxious blond. He's a scientist who lives in California. Dedicated his life to studying spiders."
"You serious? Liking arachnids get him shot? Why not kill every fellow obsessed with gold, right now, too?" He cocks his head, grinning. "I gotta say, I'm disappointed. With the cases I've been getting recently, I thought it'd be something more exciting. Did he steal from you? Lie on you?" He puts his hands on his hips, sing-songing, "You two have an affair?
The man in the chair, silhouetted in darkness, only his angelic, brownish-hazel eyes visible, grumbles. "You talk too much."
"That I do," he agrees. "I have a very talented mouth. If you're hankering for it, give me a holler-"
"Enough!" He shoves a piece of paper across the table, and curious, he picks it up immediately. "You doing this or not?"
He raises his eyebrows, looking at the considerable figure.
"Don't you worry, darling," Wade vows, grinning. "He'll be six feet under by the end of the week."