Chapter Text
1
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Mutations aren’t common. They never were, and as of right now, it seems they never will be. That doesn’t mean, however, that mutants don’t exist. They may not make up the general populace, but there are enough of them that just about anyone on earth could say they’ve met one.
Whether it’s caused by a mutant gene in someone’s DNA (something that was going to be triggered no matter what), a person who is otherworldly (who can’t quite be considered a mutant, but can’t be considered normal either), or a forceful mutation (Deadpool, Spider-Man, The Winter Soldier—), the mutant community has found their own place in today’s society, coming together and becoming a recognized collective of minorities just as so many others have.
That being said, mutants haven’t been fully accepted just yet. It seems to be that way with plenty of marginalized groups, but mutants more so. Society has been given decades, if not centuries, to accept other communities, but mutants have only largely surfaced recently. Sure, Captain America has existed for a long while, but does he really count if he was stored away in an ice chamber for most of those years?
Due to this less-than-ideal fact, mutants tend to keep to themselves. If they can’t hide their mutation, they stick to specific neighborhoods, parts of cities they know will be accepting. Frequenting mutant-friendly stores and avoiding intermingling with average people.
That’s how Sister Margaret’s gained its popularity. Yes, they used to be a bar strictly for assassins, mercenaries, and the like, but places—and people—evolve! What was once a dingy, blood-stained hole-in-the-wall is now one of the most popular mutant bars in New York.
Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on who you ask), with popularity comes an increase in patrons, which leads to the need for more personnel than just the bar owner—Weasel—alone. He was reluctant to hire anyone else, as he’d been tending to the bar single-handedly for as long as the place had been running, but when the average sales nearly tripled alongside the clientele, he decided it was finally time.
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Peter recently started at a… peculiar job.
After working at—and being fired from—just about everywhere in New York, he was running just as low on options as he was on cash. His rent had increased recently, so selling photos to J. Jonah Jameson isn’t enough anymore, and not even Taco Bell will hire him back.
He had nearly given up, to be honest. He’d prepared himself to move out, find a smaller apartment (if that was even possible), and take a job as a janitor somewhere. He was miserable, living off of dollar store ramen and whatever food people gave him on Spider-Man patrols, budgeting like he was starring in an episode of Extreme Couponing.
However, before he could officially contact his landlord about ending his lease, an odd stroke of luck bestowed upon him a “We’re hiring!” ad.
The paper had hit him in the face as he swung through the city, causing him to stumble onto the nearest roof with a loud thud and an even louder yelp of pain. Once he’d found his bearings, pulling the paper off of his masked face to get a better look at it, he couldn’t even be all that mad about the nosedive it’d caused. “Mutants only,” it read in smaller print beneath the bold red lettering, “Sister Margaret’s Bar.”
As much as he hated admitting to his mutation outside of the spandex costume, Peter really needed the job. Alongside the name of the bar was an address, which Peter was embarrassingly quick to search up on his phone. He resolved to go for an interview the next day, ignoring the twinge of anxiety in his gut. Without money, there is no food, and without food, there is no Spider-Man.
When he showed up to the bar the next day, he was asked exactly two questions. One, “Are you a mutant?” And two, “When can you start?”
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As he scrubs what seems to be the residue from a fruity drink off of one of the many wooden tables in Sister Margaret's, his boss strikes up a conversation with him.
“So, why’d you choose to work here?” Weasel drawls, cleaning the dirty glasses with not nearly enough care for true sanitation.
“Uh,” Peter starts, glancing up from the table. “Broke college student?”
Weasel scoffs a laugh, tossing a dish behind him into the sink. It causes a loud clatter, but nothing sounds broken, so neither of them pay it much attention. “Fair enough. Why this place, though? Why not deliver pizzas? You seem to hide whatever mutation you have pretty well; you could blend in with the normies just fine.”
“Yeah, well, I did deliver pizzas for a while… but I got fired. I got fired from a lot of places actually, because I kept… odd hours.” Peter winces. Is it really a good idea to tell his boss about his history of subpar work ethic? Especially when the man hadn’t even asked for a resume, let alone any professional references?
“Odd hours is something we do here, so you’ll be fine. Really I just need you whenever you’re free, and I need you to be able to keep our customers in check. Plus, you’ve got to tolerate Wade.” Weasel responds, nodding.
“Wade?” Peter hums, focus directed back at the stubborn stain, but being polite enough to continue some light conversation as he works. They aren’t open yet, so it’s easy to let his attention wander to menial tasks.
“Yeah, Wade. Annoying as hell, and wrinkled like a shriveled avocado with a melanin deficiency, but he’s our best customer. Been coming here for years. You might know ‘im as Deadpool—most people recognize that name now that he clings to Spider-Man 24/7.”
Holy Motherfucking Shit.
Wade. Wade Wilson. Wade Wilson, a.k.a. Deadpool, a.k.a. The Merc with a Mouth, a.k.a. Princesskillersparkles69 on Nintendo (which Peter only knows because he’s played Mario Kart at a few of Wade’s safe houses) is a regular at this bar. Of course he is! Parker luck never fails to fuck Peter over, so why didn’t he see this coming?!
After realizing he’d been staring at the now-clean table in mute horror, he shakes himself and responds as calmly as he possibly can.
“Um, right, yeah, I know him. I mean—I don’t know him, but I know him. Deadpool. I know Deadpool. From the, uh, news. And stuff.” Real smooth, Parker.
“Yeah, most people have that reaction to him. You’re not gonna quit on me, are you?” Weasel raises a brow, amused by Peter’s panic, thinking he’s nervous to be in the same room as the infamous merc. To be fair, Peter is nervous, not about Wade himself, but about the fact that he could get recognized.
“I could spot that bubble butt from miles away, Spidey!”
“With how much you yell at me, I’d probably be able to tell who you are just from a snarky comment. Or if you say something like ‘that really ruffles my feathers!’ —What? I could totally hear you saying it!”
“Baby Boy, your nerdiness is next level. One of these days I’m gonna find you out of all the red and blue just because you’re such a smarty pants! You’ll be all ‘the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell,’ and that’ll be that!”
What if Wade was serious? What if he takes one look at Peter outside of the suit and figures him out? Does Peter want him to know? It’s dangerous for someone like Deadpool to know who he is, obviously, but he’s also been his unofficial partner for almost two years now! Maybe he deserves to know?
No, what is he thinking? He has a secret identity for a reason. No one knows who he is, not even Aunt May. He keeps Spider-Man separate from Peter Parker for good reason, and any overlap is absolutely unacceptable.
…He needs this job, though. He really needs the money, and the thought of quitting the one place that agreed to hire him seems like a horrible decision, whether his secret life is in jeopardy or not.
With a pained sigh, Peter surrenders to the fact that he’ll have to risk it. Cross his fingers and hope that all the comments Wade has made about him were just jabs at his personality or flirtatious remarks.
“No, I won’t quit. He doesn’t scare me.”
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“So, why Sister Margaret's? Kind of an odd name for a bar,” Peter idly comments, lazily sweeping behind the bar. It’s nearly 8pm, just a couple minutes before they open, so Peter is trying to keep himself busy to distract from his growing anxiety.
“It was Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children, but once we got a little more popular, I thought the change’d be good.” Weasel grunts, flicking a cigarette butt off the counter with a grimace. How there was still trash littered around after the amount of time they’d spent cleaning, Peter has no idea.
“Hm. Yeah, I could see how that’d be a bit confusing. Ward off new patrons,” Peter sighs, sweeping the cigarette into his growing pile.
“That was the point. People kept coming in anyway, so I eventually decided, ‘fuck it,’ and made this place a little more upstanding-citizen friendly.” Weasel shuffles over as Peter moves to sweep by his feet, grabbing a beer bottle for himself.
“Oh right, this place was a merc bar before,” Peter hums, recalling a conversation he’d had with Deadpool where the man had gone on and on about his favorite place to get jobs before he’d ‘turned into a good guy for Spider-Man.’
Weasel whistles: a low, surprised noise that has Peter jolting. “How’d you know that? Usually only people who frequent merc bars know which places are merc bars, if you know what I mean.”
Peter’s blood runs cold, and he panics to think of an answer. Before he can open his mouth to reply, though, someone skips through the door. Someone clad in red, with katanas strapped to their back and guns in holsters on both thighs.
The sight of Deadpool does nothing to calm Peter’s nerves.
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“Man, I was starting to think the author was going to wait until chapter two to introduce me!” Deadpool sing-songs, winking at seemingly nothing before turning to the place where Weasel and Peter stand.
With a delighted, drawn-out gasp, Deadpool slaps his hands on his face. The white eyes of his mask widen comically, and he squeals like a little girl. “Oh, em, gee! Who is this cutie patootie?!” He skips—literally skips—toward the bar, leaning over it to inspect Peter with a grin that is still somehow visible through the mask. In all their time working together, Peter never has been able to figure out the logistics of that.
Peter frowns slightly but blushes all the same, as he always does when Deadpool compliments him, and looks to Weasel to answer. He doesn’t trust his own voice right now—for a few different reasons.
“New hire, Wade. Don’t harass him or I’ll stop giving you free drinks.”
Ignoring Weasel’s threat, Wade reaches out to boop Peter on the nose. “How adorable! I didn’t know this place hired anyone other than sleazy dirtbags!”
“Peter is the only person I’ve ever hired,” Weasel quips, sounding utterly done with Wade’s shit already. Peter can empathize with the man, having spent many a sleepless night alongside Deadpool, who thinks it’s super fun to start belting Britney Spears at the top of his lungs at any given moment.
Wade shrugs, slumping into the nearest barstool and resting his elbows on the table with his chin in his palms. “True, but if there were other people working here, they would be sleazy and dirtbaggish,” he winks, tilting his head the same way he always does when he’s hoping to make Spider-Man laugh.
“Also, wait a minute, Peter? Holy shitballs, even your name is cute!” He slams his hands down on the bar, full-on beaming like he just won the lottery. How can Peter tell that he’s beaming right now? How is his mask so expressive???
“Uh, thanks?” Peter mumbles, knowing his silence thus far will be seen as odd if it continues much longer. He’d set the broom up against the wall when Wade first walked in, the pile of trash on the floor long forgotten.
“As Ariana Grande once said, ‘Oh, why’d you have to be so cute? It’s impossible to ignore you,’” Wade quotes, booping Peter on the nose yet again. “I’d rather you didn’t ‘say goodnight and go,’ though!”
“Jesus, Wade, boundaries,” Weasel sighs, moving Peter away from the man with a hand on his shoulder. Wade pouts, but a decent-sized group of people flood in and catch his attention a moment later.
Peter exhales a sigh of relief, ready to do his actual job instead of being cornered by his… partner? Colleague? The guy that stalks him? His crush? Ew, no, that’s a horrible word. Peter is a grown adult; he doesn’t get crushes on people anymore.
But… Deadpool is more than just “people.”
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