Chapter Text
The alley smelled like wet concrete, cigarette smoke, and something metallic Peter didn’t want to identify too closely.
Rainwater dripped from rusted fire escapes overhead, tapping rhythmically against overflowing trash bags while Peter clutched his camera bag tighter against his chest.
“This,” he muttered breathlessly, “is officially the worst shortcut in Manhattan.”
His phone flashlight flickered weakly.
Of course it did.
Naturally.
Because apparently the universe saw Uncle Ben die, watched Peter’s bank account collapse in real time, and still decided things weren’t difficult enough.
Ahead of him, the alley narrowed into darkness.
Peter adjusted the strap digging into his shoulder and tried not to think about the fact it was almost midnight.
The Bugle had wanted photographs of some armored vigilante chasing criminals through Hell’s Kitchen. Peter had gotten the shots — blurry, slightly tilted, and probably not worth the fifty bucks they’d pay him — but he’d gotten them.
Which meant tomorrow he could maybe afford groceries.
Assuming his landlord didn’t finally kill him first.
A sharp clang echoed behind him.
Peter stopped walking.
Slowly, he turned.
Three men stood near the alley entrance.
Oh.
Cool.
Great.
Fantastic.
The tallest one flipped a knife lazily between his fingers.
“Well,” Peter said immediately, because nervous talking was genetically embedded into his soul at this point, “statistically speaking, this is probably unnecessary.”
The men kept approaching.
Peter laughed weakly.
“Okay, wow. No response. Tough crowd.”
“Wallet,” the knife guy said.
Peter swallowed.
He wasn’t strong.
He wasn’t fast.
He definitely wasn’t a superhero.
He was just a twenty-year-old college student with overdue rent and a camera worth more than everything in his apartment combined.
“Right,” Peter said shakily. “Yep. Totally. You can have the wallet. Honestly there’s like twelve dollars in it, so emotionally this is already embarrassing for everybody involved.”
One of the men grabbed his jacket and shoved him against the brick wall.
Pain burst through Peter’s shoulder.
His camera bag hit the ground hard.
“No no no— careful, careful, that’s borrowed—”
The knife flashed upward.
Then—
A red blur dropped from the fire escape above them.
Gunshots exploded through the alley.
Peter screamed and ducked instinctively.
One man collapsed instantly.
The second barely turned before something silver sliced through the air.
Blood sprayed across the dumpster.
The third robber tried to run.
The masked stranger caught him by the throat and slammed him face-first into the brick hard enough to crack it.
Silence crashed over the alley.
Peter stared.
Rain dripped steadily from the stranger’s red-and-black suit.
Two katanas crossed over his back.
Pistols hung loosely from gloved hands.
The man tilted his head toward Peter.
“Hi,” he said casually. “You look mugged.”
Peter blinked.
“…what?”
The stranger holstered one gun.
“That was a joke, Peanut. You’re supposed to laugh.”
Peter looked at the unconscious bodies.
“There’s a guy bleeding.”
“Yeah, usually happens after the stabby part.”
“Oh my God.”
“Aw, don’t sound disappointed. I worked hard on that rescue.”
The stranger crouched near Peter’s fallen camera bag, picking it up carefully.
Carefully.
That felt strange somehow.
“You dropped this,” he said.
Peter reached for it automatically.
Their fingers brushed briefly.
Warm leather gloves.
Steady hands.
The masked man froze.
So did Peter.
Something strange passed through the moment.
Not dramatic.
Not cinematic.
Just… stillness.
The stranger handed over the bag slowly.
“You okay?” he asked.
And suddenly he sounded different.
Softer.
Peter nodded too fast. “Yeah. I mean— probably? I think? Unless this is shock. Is my face doing anything weird?”
The masked man stared at him for a second too long.
Then:
“Nah. Still cute.”
Peter’s brain stopped functioning immediately.
“…sorry?”
“Nothing.”
The stranger looked away first.
Weirdly.
Almost awkwardly.
Which made absolutely no sense considering he’d just murdered three people without blinking.
Peter tightened his grip on the camera bag.
“You saved me.”
The masked man looked back at him.
Rain streaked slowly down the black patches of his mask.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
“Guess I did.”
For some reason, Peter smiled.
Small.
Nervous.
Real.
And the stranger went completely still.
Somewhere overhead, thunder rolled across the city.
The masked man cleared his throat.
“So, uh. You got somewhere safe to be?”
Peter nodded. “Apartment’s a few blocks from here.”
“Cool cool cool. Love that for you. Huge fan of not dying.”
Peter huffed out an unwilling laugh.
The stranger visibly perked up at the sound.
“You laugh like you apologize to furniture after bumping into it.”
“…I do do that.”
“Knew it.”
Peter should leave.
Seriously.
Everything about this situation screamed danger.
This man was armed, unstable, covered in blood, and wearing enough weapons to qualify as a small military conflict.
But Peter found himself lingering anyway.
“Do you,” Peter started carefully, “do this a lot?”
“Murder criminals?”
“That’s… not exactly how I was gonna phrase it.”
“Coward.”
Peter snorted.
The stranger made a small noise like he’d just won something important.
“Do you have a name?” Peter asked.
A pause.
Then the masked man spread his arms dramatically.
“Deadpool.”
Peter stared.
“…that’s awful.”
“I know, right? Branding is hard.”
Peter laughed again before he could stop himself.
Deadpool stared at him openly this time.
Unmoving.
Almost fascinated.
Peter shifted awkwardly under the attention.
“Uh. I’m Peter.”
“I know.”
The words came too quickly.
Deadpool froze.
Peter blinked.
“…what?”
A beat passed.
Then Deadpool pointed vaguely at the camera around Peter’s neck.
“Bugle photographer, right? Seen your stuff.”
Peter relaxed slightly.
“Oh. Right.”
Close one.
Inside the mask, Wade Wilson’s heartbeat thundered violently.
[Yellow] Smooth. Very smooth.
[White] We know his name now.
[Yellow] We already knew his name.
[White] Yeah but now he told us.
[Yellow] Oh my God.
Peter adjusted the strap on his bag.
“Well,” he said awkwardly, “thanks. For saving me.”
Deadpool rocked back on his heels.
“Anytime.”
And he meant it.
Every single time.
For the rest of Peter Parker’s life if necessary.
Peter offered one last shy smile before heading toward the alley exit.
Halfway out, he glanced back.
Deadpool was still standing there watching him.
Not moving.
Not speaking.
Just watching.
Peter lifted a small wave.
Deadpool lifted one back immediately.
Then Peter disappeared around the corner.
Silence settled over the alley.
Wade stood motionless for several seconds.
Rain soaked through his gloves.
Blood pooled near his boots.
But all he could think about was Peter’s smile.
[Yellow] Oh no.
[White] We’re keeping him.
[Yellow] That’s not how people work.
[White] Watch us.