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Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a chill night.

Just a casual patrol. Maybe stop a robbery, make a joke about capitalism, swing home. But now Spider-Man was standing on a rooftop in Brooklyn, very much not in his jurisdiction, being flashlighted by some mystery cop.

“Freeze! NYPD!”

Spidey sighed. “Listen, Officer Friendly, I’m not here to cause trouble. Just passing through, trying to keep the streets—”

“Just one question,” the cop interrupted, stepping closer.

Spider-Man raised an eyebrow behind the mask. “Lemme guess. You’re gonna ask me what gives me the right to operate outside the law.”

“Wrong. My question is: if you had to fight Hans Gruber, but with only your webs, no spider-sense, and no shoes, how would you do it?”

“…I’m sorry, what?”

“Y’know, Die Hard scenario. Classic ventilation-shaft action. You’re John McClane, but spidery.”

Spidey tilted his head. “That is… weirdly specific.”

“I have strong feelings about Die Hard-based tactical hypotheticals,” the cop said, nodding seriously. “Also, side note—have you ever accidentally called Iron Man ‘dad’? Because I feel like that definitely happened.”

Spider-Man tensed. “That was one time. And he was being very mentor-y that week. There were heart-to-hearts. It got confusing.”

The cop's eyes lit up like Christmas. “I KNEW IT. That’s so emotionally devastating and hilarious. Noice.”

Spidey groaned. “Okay, I don’t know who you are, but you’re starting to freak me out more than the guy made of bees I fought last month.”

The cop leaned forward conspiratorially. “Is Bee Guy real? Because if so, I have so many follow-ups about bee consciousness and how pants would even work.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Wait wait wait!” the cop stepped into the light, arms out like he was revealing a prize on a game show. “Detective Jake Peralta, 99th Precinct. Big fan. Huge nerd. I once reenacted the Nakatomi Plaza sequence in full tactical gear for Halloween. It was tight.”

Spider-Man blinked. “You're a DETECTIVE?”

“Yup.”

“A Die Hard quoting, emotionally invested in my trauma detective?”

“Correct. So. Team-up? You swing, I quip, we solve crimes?”

There was a long beat of silence.

Finally, Spidey shrugged. “Fine. You get one swing around the block with me.”

Jake pumped a fist. “YES! Brooklyn’s Web is a go!”

“I didn’t agree to that name—”

“Too late! It’s already on a t-shirt!”

Next Time, on Brooklyn's Web:

Spider-Man hung upside-down in the break room, one leg caught in a misfired web, spinning slowly like a sad holiday ornament. Jake, wearing a $12 Spidey costume and dual-wielding bedazzled Nerf guns, yelled, “WELCOME TO TEAM WEB JUSTICE, BROSKI!” Amy walked in, clocked the phrase SPIDER-COP HQ smeared on the fridge in jam, and immediately opened a new Google Doc titled Justifiable Homicide: A Beginner’s Guide. Somewhere behind the vending machine, Boyle screamed, “IT’S COZY IN HERE BUT I’M STUCK TO A SNICKERS!”

Spidey groaned. “I just wanted to pee.”

Chapter Text

The moon glinted off the wet concrete as a figure crouched on the edge of a rooftop in Brooklyn, still as stone. He listened. The hum of traffic. The scuff of boots four buildings away. A dog barking at something unseen. He was locked in. Focused. Brooding.

Until—

“Hey.”

The voice was sharp. Direct. Dry as dust and twice as judgmental.

Matt Murdock—aka Daredevil—turned his head slightly. “You’ve been standing there for six minutes.”

Rosa Diaz stepped out of the shadows, arms crossed, leather jacket practically absorbing moonlight. “Yeah. I wanted to see how long you’d hold that pose. You blinked twice. Weak.”

Daredevil raised a brow. “Didn’t realize rooftop squatting was a competitive sport.”

“It is now,” Rosa said flatly, then strode over to the opposite corner of the roof and assumed the exact same crouch. Silent. Stone-faced.

They sat in total silence for a full minute.

Then two.

Then five.

“I accidentally crossed the river chasing a smuggler,” Matt said, finally.

“Cool,” Rosa replied, not moving. “I came up here to avoid my coworkers.”

“Same,” Matt said, then after a beat: “Mine are annoying.”

“Mine are children.”

Another long silence.

Matt finally broke it. “You know you’re not intimidating me, right?”

“You sure? Because your pulse jumped when you said that.”

Matt smirked. “I’m blind. Not deaf.”

Rosa matched his smirk, somehow without smiling. “And I can make grown men cry just by cleaning my knife too loudly. We all have our gifts.”

They brooded side by side, motionless gargoyles of justice. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. Neither of them moved.

Finally, Matt sighed. “Want to… team up for five minutes?”

Rosa shrugged. “Only if we say almost nothing and scowl at the same time.”

Matt nodded. “Deal.”

They stood, walked toward the fire escape in perfect unison, and leapt into the night.

Behind them, a door creaked open.

Jake poked his head out, holding two coffees and a ridiculous grin. “Aww, *look* at them. Little murdery twins! I ship it.”

He turned back inside.

“BOYLE! YOU OWE ME TEN BUCKS! ROSA MADE A FRIEND!”

Next Time, on Brood Patrol:

Rosa and Daredevil sit in a silent interrogation room, staring down a suspect who refuses to talk. The suspect breaks into nervous sweat. Daredevil says nothing. Rosa just twirls a throwing knife. The tension is unbearable—until Jake bursts in dressed head-to-toe in black leather and sunglasses. “I’m here for Brood Squad: Midnight Justice Edition.” Rosa: “No one invited you.” Jake: “I brought dry ice for atmosphere.” Smoke pours in. Alarms go off. The suspect starts crying. Matt just whispers, “I hate everything,” and Rosa nods.

Chapter Text

Spider-Man crouched on a Brooklyn rooftop ledge, late at night, sipping a half-melted Slurpee through his mask using a complicated straw setup. It was a quiet patrol—just a few break-ins, a guy on a unicycle selling knockoff NFTs, and a pigeon that had somehow acquired a tiny knife.

Then came the footsteps. Quick. Determined. Dramatic.

Spidey turned just as a man in tactical yoga gear leapt onto the rooftop, grunting with effort and pride.

“Spider-Man!” the man bellowed. “We meet at last.”

Spidey blinked. “Uh… hi?”

The man struck a pose that was trying to be heroic but mostly looked like he’d pulled a hamstring. “I’ve tracked you across six rooftops, through three bodegas, and under one terrifying animatronic Elmo. I come with questions. And feelings.”

Spider-Man tilted his head. “Sorry, do I… know you?”

The man looked slightly wounded. “You don’t recognize me?”

Spidey shrugged. “Should I?”

“I’m Detective Charles Boyle,” he said, puffing up with importance. “NYPD, 99th Precinct. I’m Jake Peralta’s partner. Best partner. Like, canonically.”

“Ohhh,” Spidey said slowly. “Wait. Are you the one who cried during that hostage rescue because the criminal reminded you of a sad cartoon dog?”

Boyle blinked. “He had the eyes of Clifford after a breakup.”

Spidey gave a slow nod. “Yeah, Jake mentioned you. A lot. Said you once tried to make the precinct do a group hug during a car chase.”

“It *could* have worked,” Boyle muttered.

Spider-Man crossed his arms. “Okay. So why exactly are you rooftop-stalking me?”

Boyle stepped forward, pointing dramatically. “Because ever since you swung into our lives, Jake hasn’t shut up about you. ‘Spidey did this!’ ‘Spidey did that!’ ‘Spidey saved me from a runaway ice cream truck!’ I was there too! I yelled ‘look out!’ very helpfully!”

“Cool,” Spidey said, slowly backing up. “And… this is about jealousy?”

“No! Yes! Maybe!” Boyle took a deep breath. “Look, I just need to prove I can be just as cool. I’ve got the heart of a lion. The reflexes of a small, well-trained otter. And this.” He held up a wrinkled piece of paper. “My own sidekick application form.”

“You made a sidekick form?”

“Pre-filled for convenience,” Boyle said proudly.

Spidey stared. “Okay. That’s… something.”

“Does this mean I’m in?”

A pause.

“So you… want to do a team-up?” Spidey offered gently.

Boyle gasped. “YES. YES I DO. I already made team jackets. Yours says ‘Web King’ and mine says ‘Gravy Falcon.’”

“…what is it with you detectives and your matching teamwear?”

From the shadows, Jake poked his head out, quietly filming with his phone.

“BOYLE! I KNEW YOU WERE SPYING ON HIM!”

“HE’S MY FRIEND TOO, JAKE!” Boyle cried, already sobbing and trying to hand Spider-Man a friendship bracelet that said “Team Lad Justice.”

Next Time, on Charles in Charge (of Nothing):

Boyle bursts into the evidence locker wearing a spandex suit stitched together from oven mitts and yoga pants. “I call myself... The Ladle!” Spider-Man, mid-swing-kick of a criminal, nearly chokes. “Why the ladle?” “Because I'm a lad who stirs justice! And... soup!” Meanwhile, Gina films from a safe distance, adding a sparkle filter to every awkward fall. Jake bursts in, points at Boyle’s glitter cape. “I knew you’d try to out-hero me! That cape was supposed to be my brunch cape!” Cheddar bites someone off-screen. No one knows why.

Chapter Text

Amy Santiago was having a perfectly organized day. She had color-coded the bullpen’s task board, alphabetized the coffee pods by roast level and regional origin, and submitted her weekly reports two days early. Everything was as it should be.

Then the ceiling detonated in a confetti explosion of drywall, glitter, and the faint scent of burnt chimichanga.

A human-shaped blur of red, noise, and poorly-managed psychosis crashed through the tiles, landing directly on the briefing table with the sound of a musical number nobody rehearsed.

“WILDCARD ENTRANCE!” Deadpool yelled, in what could only be described as a volume lawsuit. “Name’s Deadpool! Professional liability! Voted ‘Most Likely to Break a Fourth Wall and Your Last Nerve’ three years running. And I just interrupted something incredibly boring, didn’t I?”

The man in red spandex sprang to his feet. Two katanas. A Hello Kitty backpack. Zero shame. Pure chaos wearing gloves. 

Amy shrieked, yanked her taser from her belt, and aimed it with terrifying precision. “WHO ARE YOU AND HOW DID YOU COME THROUGH THE CEILING?”

“I didn’t come through the ceiling. I was born of it. Like Athena springing fully formed from drywall. Except instead of wisdom, I bring improv combat and dental-level sarcasm.” 

"I have no idea what you are saying!"

Deadpool gave her a finger-gun salute. “You must be Amy. Type-A personality, notebook fetish, probably did debate team and karate as a kid—but only for the trophies, am I right?”

Amy’s eye twitched. “How do you know my name?”

“Eh,” Deadpool said, hopping down from the table. “I read the script. Also, I may have stolen a Nine-Nine personnel file from Jake while he was distracted by a Spider-Man Funko Pop and an argument about cereal law. You’re listed as the ‘most likely to legally detain someone for smudging a clipboard.’ Your file was laminated. That’s how I knew we’d get along.”

Amy blinked. “You broke in here for... what? A background check?”

“No, no,” Deadpool said, waving a hand. “Ohhh, Amy. Can I call you Aimele? No? Great. Look, I would leave, but I’m on a mission. I’m tracking a weapons dealer with a pigeon army and a suspicious Etsy shop operating out of Brooklyn, and someone—cough Spider-Man cough—said you were the precinct's biggest stickler for protocol. I figured, who better to help me fake a warrant with legally convincing stickers?”

Amy gasped like he’d insulted her filing system. “I would never fake a warrant!”

Deadpool gasped. “Oh no, of course not! You’re the lawful-good spreadsheet paladin of this sitcom! I get it! But let’s just theoretically say I had already drafted a warrant using Lisa Frank stationery and your signature cut out from a magazine. Would that be admissible in pretend court? Asking for a friend. He’s me. I’m the friend.” 

Amy's eye twitched.

Deadpool tilted his head. “Ok, not that. But what if they’re color-coded, laminated, and written in Helvetica?”

Amy froze.

Deadpool smirked. “Thought so. Also, quick question: what if — hypothetically — I baked a chimichanga in someone else’s lunchbox and accidentally stored a smoke bomb in the fridge? Is that a crime or just... brunch?”

She pointed to the door. “OUT. Now. Before I arrest you for seventeen violations of common sense and at least two of decency.”

Deadpool paused at the door, then slowly turned back.

“You’ll come around, Santiago. One day, you’ll look at my methods and say, ‘Wow. That’s disturbingly effective.’ Also, I added myself to your group calendar. See you Thursday for Book Club!”

“YOU’RE NOT INVITED TO BOOK CLUB!”

“Too late!” he called, sprinting down the hallway. “I already borrowed your copy of *Crime and Punishment!* Highlighted all the crime. Annotated all the punishment. Don’t worry — I return things with footnotes in blood!”

He was gone before she could respond — the way a dream vanishes, or a raccoon caught holding fireworks. 

Amy stood in stunned silence as Captain Holt walked past the door, sipping his coffee.

“Detective Santiago,” he said without stopping, “is there a reason a man in a red bodysuit just rode past me on Terry’s office chair yelling, ‘I AM THE LAW’?” 

Amy rubbed her temples. “Yes, sir. And I deeply regret understanding why he and Peralta would get along.”

And somewhere in the distance, Deadpool screamed, “THIS IS PROCEDURAL JUSTICE, BABYYYYYY!” 

The sound of crashing echoed down the hallway.

Next Time on Deadpool and Santiago (A Report-Writing Nightmare):

Deadpool sat at Amy’s desk, proudly wearing her blazer like a cape and using her favorite clipboard as a cheese board. “AMY!” he yelled. “I accidentally married your filing cabinet! I need you to file for divorce. I think the stapler was our witness?”

Chapter Text

Terry stood in the middle of the bullpen in the 99th Precinct, arms crossed, jaw clenched, eyes twitching as the chaos around him swirled like a tornado made of bad decisions and questionable friendships.

Jake sprinted past, yelling, “Spidey says my swing-form’s improving! He called it ‘adequate bordering on impressive!’ THAT’S HIGH PRAISE FROM A SUPERHERO!”

Boyle followed close behind, holding two cups of coffee and an awkwardly folded Spider-Man cape. “WE’RE GETTING MATCHING MASKS. He’s gonna call me ‘Web Snack’ because I bring the post-patrol snacks!”

Across the room, Amy slapped down a file on her desk and muttered, “Deadpool put googly eyes on my crime scene reports. Again.”

Rosa glared at her computer. “He replaced my browser homepage with a gif of him flossing in front of a burning car. With airhorns. I don’t even *know* how he got into my browser.”

Jake popped back in. “Also he made a Rosa/Daredevil fan video and set it to ‘Hello Darkness My Old Friend’ but like, in autotune.”

Terry took a deep breath. “Terry needs calm. Terry needs quiet. Terry needs… yogurt.”

He turned, walked into the break room, opened the fridge—only to find it was entirely stocked with **chimichangas**. A post-it note on the door read:

> “FROM TEAM RED! You’re welcome, Buff Daddy! –Wade”

Terry closed the fridge. Then his eyes. Then his soul.

*Cut to: Later that evening. A quiet bar in Brooklyn.*

Terry sat at a corner table, nursing a glass of whiskey. Across from him sat Wade Wilson, aka Deadpool, sipping a pink drink with an umbrella and wearing an “I Heart Brooklyn” tank top.

“So…” Terry began, massaging his temple. “I’m begging you. Please. Stop infiltrating my precinct. For the love of yogurt.”

Wade blinked innocently. “What? We’re not infiltrating. We’re… bonding. Encouraging inter-departmental cooperation. Plus, Boyle keeps texting me eggplant emojis I *think* are code for friendship.”

“You’ve got Jake doing parkour off filing cabinets, Amy threatening to tase anyone who says ‘maximum effort,’ and Rosa hasn’t blinked since she found the Deadpool bobblehead in her locker.”

“Okay, yeah,” Wade admitted, twirling his straw. “That one was risky.”

Terry leaned in. “You. Spider-Man. Daredevil. You’re like a support group for overconfident ninja gymnasts with tragic backstories. *Please.* Leave my squad alone.”

Wade sipped thoughtfully. “Okay, listen. I hear you. But counter-offer: we host a team-building retreat. Paintball. Team Red versus Team Nine-Nine. The only rule is no fatalities.”

“Wade.”

“Okay, *fine.* I’ll back off,” Wade sighed. “But only because I respect you. And because I’m scared you’ll flex so hard my organs will liquefy.”

Terry nodded. “Fair.”

Wade raised his glass. “To boundaries.”

Terry clinked his reluctantly. “To peace.”

Beat

Wade leaned over to Terry and whispered “But if you ever need help interrogating a suspect while making waffles, you know where to find me.”

Terry groaned. “Terry regrets everything.”

Next Time on Terry Needs a Break (For the Love of Yogurt):

Terry kicked open the break room door to find Deadpool wearing Holt’s tie like a headband, salsa-dancing with a mop, and shouting, “I DECLARE THIS PRECINCT A SOVEREIGN NATION OF CRIME-FIGHTING TAPAS!” Boyle stood nearby playing the tambourine with a stapler. Rosa, covered in glitter, stared into space whispering, “There was a goat. It had opinions.” Jake popped out of a file cabinet yelling, “IT’S HAPPENING AGAIN!” Terry closed his eyes, clenched his yogurt tighter, and muttered, “Terry’s gonna need a new precinct.”