Work Text:
“You saw Deadpool naked?” Ned gasped as he and Peter walked the laps in gym class. Peter rolled his eyes.
“Not naked,” he hissed. “In his underwear. The whole suit got, like, torn to shreds, so I took him back to where I stashed my backpack and he borrowed my clothes to go home in. Also, keep your voice down.”
Ned waved a hand. “Did they fit? I saw a post on reddit that theorised that he’s at least six foot—and you’re, well.” Ned pulled a face, tilting his head to the side, and Peter huffed.
“I’m average height—”
“If you say so.”
“And, no, they didn’t fit great, but it’s better walking around in too small Hello Kitty pajamas than it is in your underwear, anyway. I need to track him down, though—he hasn’t given them back, and it’s been like, three days.”
“Parker! Leeds! Have you tried, maybe, running the mile?!” Coach Wilson yelled from the centre of the sports hall. “Pick up the pace already!”
Peter grumbled under his breath and started up a light jog.
“Your life is so cool,” Ned gushed from beside him. “I wish I was buddies with Deadpool.”
“He talks to himself and murders people in super violent ways.”
“Still.”
“Parker!” Coach Wilson called again. “I know you can go faster than that! Gym class is not a robotics club social; save the chatter for lunch time and get a move on!”
Peter tipped his head back and huffed. In the early months of his spider powers, he’d made slip ups now and again, several times in gym class with sudden bursts of speed or stamina, or that one time he actually climbed to the top of the rope, because he was too preoccupied by a string of robberies he was trying to stop. Coach Wilson officially expected something from him, now, and had for a good year and a half. He actually had to try in gym, which was its own kind of cruel and unusual punishment.
“I’ll talk to you in a minute when I lap you,” Peter said, and Ned pulled a face at him before he went jogging off. One of these days, he’d make Coach Wilson regret making him put effort into gym.
When he came back around, Ned said, “Are you free tonight? I just got the Lego Millennium Falcon.”
“I wish I was,” Peter called as he jogged past. “But we’re meeting May’s boyfriend’s family tonight.”
He jogged back around the circuit. Coach Wilson had tried to make him join the track team, and for good reason, too; he lapped half his class, and when he drew close to a huffing Ned, said, “I told her I didn’t want to go, but she’s all excited about her new relationship—”
“Maybe tomorrow night then?”
“Yeah, yeah, that sounds good,” and he was off again, around the track.
*
Sam and May had started dating around the time that Peter got his wisdom teeth removed, five months before. So, in his memories, that time was filled with wavy images of Tony Stark laughing and Sam Wilson hefting him up the stairs to his apartment. He’d used that moment, of Peter totally high as a kite, to tell him that he and May had gone out on a few dates, and Peter had proceeded to sob about his aunt dating a bird for six hours. There was a video of it that reappeared on the Avengers group chat every month or so.
He’d gotten used to seeing Sam around the apartment now, but it was still a little odd. May hadn’t really dated since Ben died, a few years before, and Peter wasn’t at all sure he was comfortable in the new situation yet. But May was happy, and that’s what mattered.
Besides, Peter didn’t actually mind having another person looking out of him on missions. He’d been involved in a good few of them since the rogues were pardoned and the Avengers had started acting like a team again, and knowing that Mr Stark wasn’t the only one who’d keep an eye out and have his back on instinct was—encouraging, somehow. Sam wouldn’t let his girlfriend’s nephew get killed, and in return, Peter would complain only the minimal amount if he woke up and found Sam eating his cereal in the kitchen.
“Is that what you’re wearing to dinner?” May asked, standing in the doorway of his room. Sam was out in the living room on the phone, all comfortable and familiar in the Parkers home, and Peter looked down at his Iron Man hoodie.
“I need to make it clear what side I’m on.”
May rolled her eyes. “There are no sides. Couldn’t you at least put on that Captain America sweater—”
“Thought you said there were no sides,” Peter replied, grabbing his phone from the desk where it vibrated with incoming texts. “And besides, I burnt that thing.”
“You did what?”
“Yeah, it was in solidarity with Mr Stark last year—you know, when we hated Captain America and everything he stood for on principle?”
“You like Steve, though.”
“Well sure I do, now,” Peter replied, heading past her and out into the living room, where he found a pair of shoes he’d dumped by the couch. “But last year I would’ve fought him in a Wendy’s parking lot with zero hesitation.”
Sam glanced over at him, and then said into his phone, “Alright, alright, fine. As long as he’s on his best behaviour… No, better than that. The best behaviour he has ever exhibited in his life, or I’m kicking him out, Andre. I am.” He hung up the phone and shook his head. “Terrible news: my brother’s gonna be there.”
“I thought that’s who we were meeting,” Peter said. “Your brother. He wanted to check May’s not a super Avengers fan freak, or whatever.”
“I have two brothers,” Sam replied. “I’m the youngest of three.”
“Oh,” Peter said, knowingly. “You give me youngest child vibes.”
“Oh, yeah? You give me only child vibes.”
Peter stuck his tongue out at Sam as he hopped around, stuffing his feet into his shoes.
“Well, two brothers,” May said. “It’ll be fun. Peter, honey, can you please text Tony back already.” Peter’s phone had been vibrating throughout with incoming texts, and Peter rolled his eyes, grabbing it.
MR STARK: today is the day I catch whoever it is who spray-painted the avengers tower
MR STARK: I’m pretty sure it’s the same person who’s been emailing me for a month about joining the avengers
MR STARK: they never leave a name
MR STARK: but FRIDAY caught them on the security camera during their graffiti fun time
MR STARK: so I’m using facial tracking technology to hunt them down
MR STARK: peter
MR STARK: pete
MR STARK: I need you to validate my plight
MR STARK: pepper says I should leave it alone so I’m not getting any support there
MR STARK: and rhodey says, and I quote “I don’t care”
PETER: I support your journey to finding the new member of the avengers but also stop texting me I’ve got dinner with Sam’s brothers
MR STARK: isn’t that the PERFECT reason to text you??
MR STARK: so you can claim its an emergency and get out of a dinner with wilson’s bird brothers
MR STARK: is he taking you to his nest
MR STARK: what are you having for dinner? I hope its not eggs
MR STARK: bet it’ll be worms
PETER: hilarious, shut up
Peter clicked send and strapped himself into the back of Sam’s car. He was pretty sure it was bought on Mr Stark’s dime, as was everything else the Avengers owned, but the license plate said FALCON1, because FALCON had been taken already.
In the front, Sam sat in the driver’s seat, and pulled the car out onto the road.
“Alright,” he said. “A cursory warning.”
May scoffed. “You don’t have to warn us about your family,” she said.
“Wouldn’t it be nice if that were the case,” he mused. “But no. I have two older brothers, and it’s fine. We get along, I’m the only one who was ever officially branded as a criminal, they’ll probably even be nice. But, uh—the middle brother. He’s. He’s something.”
“Sam?”
“I’m just saying, it’s not polite to stare. He’s got a skin thing. Had cancer a while back, went through some strange experimental procedures that left him alive but—well, scarred, I guess. He’s a good guy, a little batshit, but good. I didn’t think he was coming, because he never picks up the phone, but Andre said he just showed up at his apartment asking why we weren’t there yet, so—”
“I’m sure he’s great,” May said, and Peter looked down at his phone as it lit up with a photo Mr Stark had sent of a handwritten letter on pink paper, reading Pretty pretty please let me join the Avengers, I’m homeless but fun!
*
Sam led them up the flight of stairs to his brother’s apartment. Andre, as Sam had called him, was the oldest of the three. He was the only one with a normal, steady job, and a normal, average apartment.
Sam knocked on the door, and Peter caught sight of May fixing her hair one last time. She was all about good impressions, and it made Peter’s stomach flip to see her wanting to make a good one here. Five months of dating wasn’t long, necessarily, but it wasn’t nothing.
The door opened, and Peter’s face twisted.
“Coach Wilson?” he blurted, seeing his goddamn gym teacher standing on the other side of the door.
“Parker?” Coach Wilson replied. He looked from Peter, to Sam, to May, and said, “You’re dating my student’s Aunt? Really, Sammy?”
Panic stretched across Sam’s face and he forced it down. “Pete, you didn’t mention you knew my brother—”
“You didn’t say your brother was a gym teacher at my school—”
“How didn’t you ever put two and two together, Sammy—”
“Do you not know my school?”
“I said his name was Andre Wilson—”
“Teachers don’t have first names!”
May clapped her hands twice, as Peter’s voice became high and strained. “How about we do this inside and not in the hall?” she asked.
Coach Wilson nodded, awkward, and stepped aside to let them in. Peter stared at the threshold like it might bite; was it even legal for a student to visit a teacher’s home? What would he tell Ned? That he had seen what books Coach Wilson read in his free time? That he knew if Coach Wilson was a toothbrushes-on-the-counter or toothbrushes-in-the-cabinet kind of person? Peter wasn’t qualified to know that information!
He stepped warily inside, feeling a shudder pass through him. The thought hit him at once: if May married Sam, he’d be related to Coach Wilson.
No, he corrected. He’d be related to Andre.
He had to stop this. He had to break them up—he couldn’t be related to a teacher! Especially not the gym coach!
“Alright,” Sam said evenly, placid. “It did not occur to me that the Midtown High you go to school at—” he pointed to Peter with his hands pressed together “—was the same Midtown High that you worked at—” he pointed to Coach Wilson in the same way. “This is my bad.”
“Your bad?!” Peter hissed. “I didn’t even know teachers had homes! I just assumed they slept in their classroom!”
May rolled her eyes and patted Peter on the shoulder. “Gym teachers don’t have classrooms, sweetie.”
“Betty Brant once saw a sleeping bag in the sports cupboard,” he replied, eyes a little deranged. “The only logical explanation was that Coach Wilson—”
“I didn’t sleep in the sports cupboard,” Coach Wilson interrupted. “I have a perfectly good apartment right here.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed at him, and May wrapped an arm around Peter’s shoulders, like a comfort. Sam attempted a change in conversation.
“Where is he?” he asked, glancing around from where they stood in the kitchen, to the living room that sat beside it. There were a few doors, no doubt leading to a bedroom, where Coach Wilson slept. Peter absently wondered if it was filled with footballs and basketball nets, maybe even a crash mat or two.
“I’ll get him. I think he was drinking out on the fire escape.”
“You let him drink?” Sam asked. “I don’t need him drunk right now. When he’s drunk, he gets—”
“It was just the one,” Coach Wilson replied with a wave of his hand. “It’ll be fine. Don’t get your boxers in a bunch, Sammy.”
“I hate this,” Peter said. “I hate this so much.”
May patted his shoulder placatingly.
As Coach Wilson peered out the window in the living room, May said, very quietly, “You didn’t realise your brother worked at Peter’s school?”
“We all make mistakes!” Sam hissed.
Then Coach Wilson was leaning back and a figure in a hoodie and jeans stepped through the window and into the living room, and Peter’s heart sank into his stomach like a rock. Sam’s brother was, true to story, scarred from head to toe. He could see the puckered skin on his hands, the burns across his bald head. But that wasn’t the shocking part—the shocking part was that he’d already seen it before: he’d seen it when a certain vigilante’s suit had been destroyed three nights before, and Peter had walked with him back to his backpack to loan him some clothes.
Sam Wilson had two brothers: one was Peter’s gym teacher, and the other was fucking Deadpool.
Peter stiffened, every inch of him suddenly tense. Did Sam know his brother was Deadpool? He did know he had a mass-murdering mutant hitman in the family? Did he know that Peter hung out with his brother sometimes as Spiderman and rounded up bad guys while DP went for the head honchos?
Considering the fact that Sam hadn’t realised that Coach Wilson taught Peter’s gym class, he doubted it.
“This is Wade,” Sam introduced. Wade Wilson is Deadpool. Oh my GOD. “Wade, this is May, and May’s nephew, Peter.”
“Hi,” May said, smiling.
“Nice to meet you,” Peter squeaked out. And, Oh. That did it.
Wade’s eyes narrowed on Peter very suddenly, but all he said was, “Nice to meet you, too. I’ve heard a lot about you both.”
“That so?” May replied. “I hope only good things.”
“Of course,” Wade said. It was Deadpool’s voice. It was the same person who had said I’m gonna shove your head up his ass like that guy in Hancock only a few nights before. Then, another thought: May is meeting Deadpool.
In fact, Peter’s head was swirling with a roller-coaster of thoughts. Including but not limited to: If Sam and May married, Peter would be related to Deadpool; Sam is somehow the most tolerable of his siblings; Peter absolutely needs to break Sam and May up so he doesn’t have to see a wedding where Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, and Wade Wilson are in the same room.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Coach Wilson said, forcibly friendly, with a clap of his hands. “Why don’t we get some drinks?”
“Oh, I’ll make them,” Wade said suddenly. “You guys can’t mix drinks for shit—”
“Wade,” Sam hissed. “Pete is a baby, we don’t swear in front of him.”
“Of course, of course,” Wade replied, as Peter grumbled, “I’m sixteen.”
Wade perked up. “You’re only one year off becoming a dancing queen!”
“Right,” May said. “But only two years away from never being a dancing queen again.”
“Oh, I don’t believe that,” Wade replied, stepping over to the counter. He met Peter’s eye in a Come and help me right now kind of way. “I tend to think that you start your reign of dancing queen at seventeen, and then every year after is just another year of your ruling. For example, Sammy’s been dancing queen for sixteen years now.”
Sammy, Peter mouthed. Sam shot him a look.
“Why don’t we go sit down; let Wade make us up something that tastes like paint thinner in peace.”
“Hey, my best friend’s a bartender,” Wade replied. “I’m pretty sure I’ve learnt how to make a mean martini through osmosis alone. Peter, come here, I’ll teach you how to make one.”
Everyone in the room looked uneasy about that, but Peter inched over as Sam, Coach Wilson and May all started towards the dinner table that sat at the side of the living room.
“So, martinis,” Peter started.
“Cut the shit, cupcake,” Wade hissed. “What the hell is Spiderman doing letting his aunt date Sam?”
“What the hell is Deadpool doing being related to Sam?”
The two glared at each other, and then Peter added: “How’d you know I’m Spiderman?”
“I know what your voice sounds like. You couldn’t sound more like a child if you tried—”
“Hey—”
“Does your Aunt know?”
“About you?”
“No, about you. Also about me, I guess.”
“Not about you,” Peter replied. “But yes about me. Does Sam know?”
“About me?”
“Yes, about you.”
“No about me,” he huffed. “What about you?”
“Does Sam know about me?”
“Yes, about you.”
“Yes, Sam knows about me. All the Avengers know about me.”
Wade pulled a face. “Alright, so we just don’t bring up me.”
“Why doesn’t Sam know, dude?” Peter asked, as Wade suddenly remember he was supposed to be making drinks. He pulled down the glasses from the cabinet. “You could be an Avenger!”
“I’d love to be an Avenger,” Wade replied, “if only because I hear Stark gives them a room in his fancy tower, and I’m a little bit homeless right—”
“You’re what—”
“But more importantly, Sammy’s an aggressively good person. If he found out what I do, he’d lose his mind. And then he’d tell Mom, so—”
“You’re afraid of your Mom finding out?”
“Hey. Mama Wilson is a scary woman who deserves respect, but also shouldn’t be told anything at all about how I traipse around in a knock-off Daredevil outfit, because then Mama Wilson will have a stroke and I am not being held responsible for that.” He grabbed the bottle of vodka, and Peter glanced past him, to where the others were setting the table. “Also I’m her favourite, it would just break her heart.”
Peter huffed. “I can’t believe out of all the Wilsons in the world, Sam had to have one brother be Deadpool and the other be my gym teacher.”
Wade let out a loud bark of laughter. “Andre is your gym teacher?”
“Why couldn’t one of his brothers be the Owen kind? I wanna meet Lightning McQueen. And hey, when are you gonna give me my clothes back?”
“Do you want them back? I bled all over them.”
“Wash them first,” Peter hissed. “I like those Hello Kitty pajamas.”
“So do I. That’s why I was planning on keeping them.”
“You can’t keep them. Mr Stark gave them to me when he took my suit back after I split a ferry in half.”
Wade blinked at him, then said, “I’m keeping them.”
“They don’t even fit you!”
The two glared at each other for a moment, and then Peter huffed. “Fine, you can keep them—”
“Yes!”
“—If—”
“No!”
“—you destroy this dinner and also Sam’s relationship with May.”
“What? Kid, you’re the nice one of the two of us, remember?”
He pouted. “I can’t be related to my gym teacher, DP! I just can’t!”
Wade rolled his eyes. “I’m keeping the Hello Kitty merch. You can have back your weird lettuce t-shirt though.”
“It’s not weird. It’s funny.” The t-shirt was one of his favourites, reading LETTUCE: THE TASTE OF SADNESS. May had gotten it for him for his last birthday.
Wade rolled his eyes. “You’re no help at martinis, small fry—go hang out with your gym teacher. And for the love of God, do you not hear your phone vibrating?”
Peter huffed and took his phone from his pocket, frowning at the messages Mr Stark had left behind.
MR STARK: facial identification programme worked perfectly
MR STARK: should I be worried about a surveillance state if I am the one with the technology to survey???????
MR STARK: its probably bad either way right
MR STARK: anyway I’ve got a lock AND I’ve been using a gait tracking programme to clock the way they walk and match it with other footage
MR STARK: that coupled with the handwriting analysis means I’m narrowing it down
MR STARK: do you wanna have lab time tomorrow?
PETER: can’t, gonna build the lego millennium falcon with ned
MR STARK: day after?
PETER: sure
PETER: are u gonna break into the avengers-wannabe’s house
MR STARK: probably
PETER: cool tell me how it goes
MR STARK: sure thing kid
The kitchen timer went off just as Wade delivered the glasses to the table, and Coach Wilson got up to fetch the casserole he’d made.
Peter eyed the martini placed in front of him and said, “I’m sixteen.”
“We’ve already covered this,” Wade said. “One year from being a dancing queen? Remember?”
Sam sighed and took the glass. “More like five years from legally being allowed to drink.”
“Oh, do we follow laws now?”
Sam made a face and started towards the kitchen. Wade called after him, “Because last I remember, we’re allowed to break laws and break out of prisons!”
May and Peter met each other’s gazes and he tried to convey to her through a look alone that they should run and change their names before she got too attached to Sam, and therefore, involved with this family. She conveyed back that he was overreacting.
“Am not,” he muttered.
“Are too,” she replied.
Sam returned with a can of orange soda for Peter and sat down just as Coach Wilson placed the casserole dish on the table. He fetched the sides, too, before announcing, “Dig in.”
Admittedly, Coach Wilson was not bad at cooking. Peter hated that he knew that information.
“Mm,” Sam said, “Pete, tell me, what’s Andre like as a teacher?”
Peter shovelled some casserole into his mouth. “He spends each class just yelling that I’m not trying.”
“You were walking the mile,” Coach Wilson interjected. “I know you’re capable of jogging.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I have seen you jog.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Peter,” May warned.
“He’s one of the most athletically adept kids in the class,” Coach Wilson said to her. “Though every class he actively tries to show that he’s not. Did he tell you he holds the record for fastest rope climb?”
Sam and May shot him a side eye, and Peter shrugged. Okay, so he’d been a little more than distracted when climbing that rope, and before he’d even realised it he was already ringing the bell at the top. His class had stared at him with wide eyes, because the last they’d checked, Peter Parker got winded jogging up stairs.
“So, May,” Coach Wilson said a minute later, “how’d you and Sam meet, anyway?”
“Oh, we actually met through Tony—”
“Tony Stark?” Coach Wilson asked. “You know Tony Stark?”
“Of course,” May replied. “Peter has an internship with him.”
Coach Wilson blinked. “Really? Well that’s—that’s—”
“You didn’t believe I had one, did you?” Peter asked.
“Well, you can’t blame me—”
“Andre,” Sam said.
“You can’t! A fifteen-year-old kid getting an internship with Tony Stark? Who’s ever heard of that happening?”
“Hm, yes, who?” Wade wondered aloud as he scooped casserole into his mouth.
“I’m not the only one who didn’t believe him, you know,” Coach Wilson said. “But it’s actually true?”
“Yes, it’s true,” Sam huffed. “Pete’s a smart kid. Super smart. Weirdly, excessively, annoyingly smart. Tony talks about him all the time, Look what Peter made this, and Isn’t Peter just the greatest that, and I can’t wait ‘til the kid owns Stark Industries and I can retire—”
“What?” Peter choked out, coughing on his casserole. Sam slapped him on the back a few times until he could breathe again and shrugged.
“He’ll tell you when you’re eighteen.”
“SAM!” he gasped, his voice high-pitched.
“Anyway, Tony threw a party when we all got pardoned. May and I met there. Peter, your phone.”
“Right, right, sorry.”
“What does he want?” May asked, as Peter fumbled for his phone.
“He’s tracking down whoever’s been sending him weird Please let me in the Avengers emails for weeks.” Across the table, Wade squeaked. “He’s giving me the play-by-play because no one else cares.”
MR STARK: AHA I’ve got him now!!!!
MR STARK: pepper told me to never say AHA out loud again
MR STARK: there’s no registered address so I’m gonna have to follow the security cameras!
MR STARK: I miss detective sleuthing we should start a business where we solve crimes for the rich and wealthy
MR STARK: the rich and wealthy always have crimes that need solving
“He’s on his way to bust them,” Peter said with a shrug.
“Are they the one that spray-painted the tower?” Sam asked.
Coach Wilson frowned. “Someone spray-painted the tower?”
“Yeah, I’ll show you.” Peter found the photo – it was of the ground floor windows of the Avengers Tower, the words LET ME IN!! XOXO painted in vivid orange. Peter showed it to Wade, too, who pressed his lips together and nodded.
“Cray cray,” Wade said. “Though, you know, the Avengers have a pretty sweet deal, right Sam? You guys get to live in that crazy tower and Stark pays your wages—”
“There’s no salary,” Sam said. “That’s why I still work at the VA; Stark just gives us a credit card to use. But it is a pretty sweet gig, nothing like the air force. Oh, May, you know Wade was a marine for a while?”
“Oh, really?”
“Oh, right, yes,” Wade said with a nod. “A marine. Haven’t been in like a decade, though.”
“What do you do now?”
“Oh… well… this and that.”
Coach Wilson scoffed. “Is this and that code for I don’t have a job?”
“Hey—I… work.”
“Sure you do, Wade. Whatever underground boxing ring you’re in doesn’t really count though—”
“Underground boxing ring?” Sam and Wade asked in tandem.
“Where the hell did you get that idea?”
Coach Wilson shrugged. “I don’t know! You’re always getting beaten up! You come home with black eyes and knife wounds and—”
“What?” Sam interrupted.
“—and there was that time that I could’ve sworn you only had one arm—”
“We’ve been over this!” Wade replied, a little erratically. “You were high!”
“No, I wasn’t!”
“Yes, you were! You were high and thought I only had one arm!”
“Oh, my God,” Peter muttered.
“What the hell are you into, Wade?” Sam asked.
“Whatever it is,” Coach Wilson said, “it involves a weird amount of guns and—”
“Hey! I told you that in confidence!”
“No, you didn’t!” Coach Wilson cried. “You just left guns all over the house! I sit down on the couch—there’s a gun under the cushion! I go to the bathroom—there’s a gun in the toilet tank! I make myself breakfast—the bread box is not a place for you to store your guns!”
“Where else am I supposed to put them all?” Wade yelled.
“How about in your own apartment!”
“When I get one, I will take them there!”
“You don’t have an apartment?”
“How am I supposed to afford rent when I have no job?!”
“Oh, my God,” Peter sighed.
“There is a reason I sleep in the sports cupboard at Midtown sometimes!”
“You do what?” Coach Wilson and Peter cried at once.
“While we’re on the subject,” Coach Wilson added, his voice incredibly loud, giving Peter war-like flashbacks to gym class, “how about we address the swords in the umbrella stand?”
“The what in the who now?” Sam asked.
“The swords!” Coach Wilson announced, standing and walking to the door. “In the umbrella stand!” He pulled up the handle of an umbrella and—oh yeah, right, okay, that’s a sword. And another. And another.
“You have too many pictures on the walls!” Wade defended. “I can’t display my cool swords on the walls if you already have pictures up!”
“And what’s with the grenade in my underwear drawer?”
“Where else am I supposed to keep it?”
“NOT IN MY UNDERWEAR DRAWER!”
“WHEN I GET MY OWN UNDERWEAR DRAWER, I WILL PUT IT THERE!”
“WHY DON’T YOU HAVE AN UNDERWEAR DRAWER! IT’S THE MOST BASIC OF CLOTHING DRAWERS!”
“BECAUSE I DON’T HAVE AN APARTMENT TO PUT MY CLOTHES IN!”
CRASH! The window shattered behind them, and Sam darted to cover May’s body as glass flew everywhere. Coach Wilson screamed, and Peter, who’d felt it coming a moment before it did, yelped and ducked under the table. Wade shouted from somewhere, and then a familiar, metallic-tinged voice said, “Why the fuck did you spray-paint my building, asshole?”
“Mr Stark?” Peter called from under the table.
There was a pause, then, “Peter?”
Peter popped up from under the table, and there, standing in Coach Wilson’s casserole, was Iron Man. The faceplate flipped back to reveal Tony’s confused expression.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.
“I could ask you the same thing!” Peter cried. “You’re standing in the casserole!”
“My casserole!” Coach Wilson whined.
“Tony?” May asked.
Tony turned a little, to see Sam glaring up at him beside May, who was staring with wide eyes. “What did I just interrupt?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Sam said, “except my family dinner!”
“Ah. Hm. Well.” He turned back around to Wade, who was carefully picking shards of glass out of his skin. “The point still stands—this asshole has been sending all the letters and emails and spray-painted my building.”
“Wade?” Sam asked. “What did you do?”
“Well, I was trying to find a rent-free apartment,” he said. “And maybe join a superhero team while I was at it. X Force was kind of a drag since Xavier told me he’d sue for copyright infringements if I kept using it.”
“I’m so confused,” May said.
X Force? Sam mouthed.
“Well, I’d pay for damages, Mr Iron Man sir, but as you can see, I’m out of money and you’re shit out of luck. I do hope you’ll pay for that window you just broke, though. Andre’s a teacher, so, you know, he’s broke.”
“It’s true,” Coach Wilson intoned. “I teach gym to nerds and losers. We don’t have a single competitive sports team in the school.”
“May,” Peter said, “can we go home now? I’m officially over meeting Sam’s family.”
Sam ignored him and told Mr Stark, “Tony, would you mind not pointing your weapons at my brother for a minute? And maybe stepping out of dinner?”
Tony huffed, and jumped to the floor. The casserole on his foot smudged against the wood. “Wilson,” he said, looking at Wade. “The Avengers aren’t a resort—you only get to live there if you’ve got freaky powers.”
“Sam’s got fuck all,” Coach Wilson said suddenly. “Just those weird wings.”
“Hey, let’s not throw shade on the wings,” Sam replied. “Just because you’re jealous you don’t have any.”
“Wings? I don’t want wings—”
“Everyone wants wings.”
“—Besides, you’re not Iron Man or Thor! You’re just Lil’ Sammy Wilson, the kid who got swirlied every day of fourth grade—”
“Hey, we had an agreement that we’d never talk of that—”
“Oh, I’m so scared,” Coach Wilson interrupted. “The big bad bird man will come after me for talking about Swirly Wilson—”
Sam started towards him. “Swirly Wilson’s gonna kick Asshole Wilson’s ass if he doesn’t—”
“Oh, my God,” Peter said, getting in Sam’s way. “What the hell is happening?”
“Sam, sweetie,” May said, carefully stepping around the glass and curling a hand around Sam’s bicep. “Why don’t we stand over there? And maybe get our jackets and leave?”
“Great idea!” Wade cried. “I’ll come with you!”
“Not so fast,” Tony said. “You’ve got some answering to do, Wilson—”
“Oh, my God, he’s Deadpool,” Peter shouted. “He’s Deadpool! He’s that vigilante in the knock off Spiderman get up—”
“Hey.”
“—with the swords and guns and cheesy one liners who you always tell me not to hang out with because he’s a bad influence, but he regularly buys me Mexican food so it’s cool.”
The room was silent for a moment, and then the shouting started.
“HE’S DEADPOOL?”
“KID, WHAT THE FUCK—”
“YOU’RE HANGING OUT WITH DEADPOOL—”
“AIN’T THAT GUY A MURDERER—”
“HIT MAN—”
“IT’S NOT A KNOCK-OFF SPIDERMAN OUTFIT—”
“WHO THE HELL IS DEADPOOL?” Everyone in the room stopped and turned to Coach Wilson, who was frowning.
“He’s a hitman who doesn’t know how to shut up, and can’t die,” Mr Stark said.
Coach Wilson blinked. “I’m telling Mom.”
“Don’t you dare, you asshole!” Wade shouted, starting forward, only for Mr Stark to catch him by the arm and hold him back.
“Wait, that’s why you have so many weapons?” Coach Wilson asked, exasperated. “Are you a superhero? Or a villain? A vigilante? What the hell, Wade? And—AND WHY AM I THE ONLY NON-SUPERHERO IN THIS FAMILY? HOW DOES MOM LIKE WADE THE BEST WHEN HE’S LITERALLY A HITMAN, I AM THE ONLY ONE HERE WITH A NORMAL STEADY JOB—AND NO, SAMUEL, DRESSING UP LIKE A BIRD DOES NOT COUNT—”
Peter looked at May. “Can we go home now?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, we can. Though we’re gonna have a serious talk about you hanging out with a hitman when we get there.”
Peter paused. “I’ve changed my mind, I’d like to stay here.”
*
That evening, Sam was lying across the couch in the Parkers’ apartment, a hand over his eyes as he talked on the phone. He’d already had to make up several lies about why Peter was at all hanging out with the likes of Deadpool—whom Coach Wilson genuinely had never heard of before, despite the fact that Deadpool himself had made a base of operations in the hall cupboard of his apartment—and also arranged for Tony to pay for the new window.
Now, Peter watched from the doorway of his bedroom as Sam spoke to his mother on the phone, who’d wanted them to all come for dinner next week, and now had to be cancelled on, because no one could face another dinner like that for at least another six months. Well, Peter thought, at least I don’t have to acknowledge being related to Coach Wilson one day for a long time. Though he was incredibly grounded for being friends with a hitman, even if said hitman was Sam’s big brother.
“No, Mom, I don’t think it’s a good idea… Yes, I’m allowed in the country!”
Peter raised his eyebrows and focused his hearing in on the tinny voice of Sam’s mother on the phone.
“I thought you were evading the law still—”
“Mom! The Accords have been in order for six months! I can be a legal superhero again!”
“That’s nice, hun, I’m so proud of you. Is Wade over there by any chance?”
“What—Mom, I’m a superhero again, you know that right?”
“Of course, of course. You’ll always be a hero to me, hun. Now you ask Wade if he’s still coming over at the weekend, even if you’re not, because I need to know how much food to buy.”
“Mom, he murdered an entire human trafficking cartel last week.”
“That’s nice, hun, ask him for me, okay? Tell him to call me, love you.”
She hung up, and Peter laughed. Sam jumped, hand flying away from his face, and narrowed his eyes at Peter. “We don’t speak of this,” he said.
Peter grinned, turning to go back into his room. “Sure thing, Swirly Wilson. It’s our little secret.”