Chapter Text
Under his mask, Deadpool fakes a deep, dramatic inhale. "I love the smell of burning bodies in the evening," he starts, crossing his one-and-a-half arms in front of him as he stares at the controlled inferno. Spiderman is audibly scowling at him from across the crematorium they'd "borrowed" in order to clean up the mess from the most recent battle for New York. The guy they'd been fighting had a body comprised mostly of swords - pity he was using them to impale police officers and whatnot - and Deadpool had gone out on a limb once or twice to try to save civilians. Rather literally.
Losing his primary jack-off arm had been entirely worth it to fling the severed appendage in Spiderman's direction when he'd asked for a hand. Said appendage, along with half of his foot, is blazing merrily away before him as the last step in their clean-up for the night. The rest of the casualties, and thankfully there's not more than a dozen or so, are in the hospital.
“Can I trust you not to leave bloodstains all over the place when you leave?” the younger of the two red-suited supers asks.
Deadpool tilts his head, emoting a shit-eating grin. “Only if this means I can play with the cadavers.”
Spiderman snorts and storms down the hall; Deadpool limps after him, smearing crimson half-footprints behind him as he goes. “I was kidding, I was kidding. Jesus, kid.”
“Don't call me kid.”
"What, want me to call you baby?”
A withering glance is kind of hard to pull off through a mask, but Spiderman manages.
“Comrade?” Deadpool presses, affecting a fake Russian accent - not that he couldn’t do a real one, but a cringe-worthy imitation is just funnier.
His companion ignores him entirely, tugging on a locked door.“Get over here and help me unlock this.”
“Senpai?” he lilts sweetly, even as he limps over and smears even more blood across the floor.
“Wade.”
It takes a bit of jimmying, during which Spiderman stares holes in the back of his head and offers absolutely no help, but he gets the closet open. Inside are your typical cleaning supplies - mop, bucket, twenty different unlabeled bottles of fluid that are all at least half empty (an optimist, Deadpool is not) and a bucket of rags. Deadpool picks the cleanest of the bunch and ties them as best as he can around his foot and arm - mostly just to stop the blood from soiling even more of the tiled floor.
“Need a h--” his companion cuts himself off with a satisfyingly disgusted noise. Deadpool smiles broadly with his entire body. “Help?” Spiderman concludes through his teeth.
“Do I need a help? Yes,I wouldn’t mind a help. Probably be easiest just to mop all this shit up, so.” And he tosses a bucket over his shoulder. The gentle thump of plastic against flesh tells him the object was caught, and Deadpool starts flipping through the bottles, looking for any possible labels.
Spiderman groans again. “Why do you always make me regret working with you?”
It’s an offhand remark, thrown out as his companion leaves to find the nearest sink, but it still kind of stings. Not much in the grand scheme of things, maybe a four on the standard pain scale or a point zero nine on his, but still. He preoccupies himself with smelling as many chemicals as he can, picking the one that smells the most like it was made to get blood out of things, and pours half the contents in Spiderman’s bucket when he returns.
The water bucket gets poured into the mop bucket-cart-thing, and Deadpool wheels it out into the hallway. He kind of haphazardly slops water all over the place until Spiderman shooes him away and starts cleaning up the floor himself with a muttered “stay still and try not to drip too badly everywhere, okay?”
“What would it take for you to trust me,” Deadpool starts, then tacks on a playful “honey?” at the end because it sounded a little too earnest. Not that he isn’t serious, but Spiderman tends to get a little cranky at the end of the day. And it feels a little early in the week to be bringing out The Feelings™.
“Community service,” his companion quips as he wrings out the mop with a crank of the webbed press on the mop-cart, and resumes his cleaning.
“Seriously?”
“There’s more to helping people than killing bad guys,” Spiderman insists as he rounds the corner. Deadpool considers this, wiggling his nearly-reformed toes. He’s done worse.
“So, what. We talking soup kitchen? Donate my old purple paisley shirt? Help a cat out of a tree?”
“You sound like the world’s worst boy scout trying to earn the last of their badges.” Spiderman’s voice is muffled from being in the other room, but at least he doesn’t seem angry. By the time he finishes and comes back, jolting Deadpool out of a long train of thought, he’s only got a few extra inches left to grow on his arm. “You ready?”
“Yeah. Thanks for mopping.”
Spiderman just shoves the cart his way. “You have to go dump the water in the toilet, though.”
“Anything for you, Spidey.” And he probably means it just a little too much as he pads away, but he’s got other shit on his mind.
“You’re kidding me,” Peter Parker pleads over the intercom at his desk. Any feeling of irony or deja-vu is overshadowed by the deep, nauseating feeling of dread currently settling into the pit of his stomach like a drowsy cat made entirely of anxiety.
“You know I’m not.” Of course, Anna Maria doesn’t kid. Not about big stuff like this. “Our reputation’s really taken a blow after the most recent scandal. Plus, you could use the change of pace to de-stress.”
“I really don’t think working at a food pantry is going to feel like much of a vacation.” He looks out the window of his office, ever concerned for the latest disaster. Yeah, he’s tense all over at any point in the day, but… “Especially not if it’s swarmed by cameras and security all the time.”
“It's just for a couple hours, twice a week.” Anna Maria assures him. “And the outreach center said they'd love the press.”
Peter drags his hand down his face. “You already have this all set up, don't you.”
“I like to cross all my Ts,” comes her chipper reply.
“Fine.” There's no point in arguing further, then. And nothing she's said is wrong, per say; they do need the PR, and the center always needs extra help. “When would they want me to start?”
“You have plans tonight?”
“You know I don't,” he says, a falsely cheerful note in his tone. “Aside from the usual stuff, which I'm sure I can just--”
“The kid can handle being by himself. Plus, don't you have a babysitter now?” Anna Maria continues coyly, speaking in code. Better for an eavesdropper to assume Peter has some lovechild tucked away somewhere than the alternative.
“Which one of them is the babysitter, though," he mumbles under his breath. "What time do I start?"
“I told them seven pm. Gives you time to get home, get changed.”
Peter sighs heavily and gives up. "I'll be there.”
And four hours later he keeps his word, pulling up to the front entrance of the Second Helpings Food Pantry & Soup Kitchen as news vans circle like flies on a carcass. He forces a smile and waves as he wades through the sea of questions, gives a couple statements to reports that he forgets immediately afterwards but were probably about “worthy cause” and “civic duty” and “outreach.” He forgets these phrases not because he wasn't paying attention - he was - and not because he wasn't hyper-aware of the cameras - again, he was - but because upon entering the kitchen he comes face to face with a tall, muscular man in a skin-tight black and red suit and apron.
“Wa--” he catches himself just in time, spluttering over the mutant's real name, “Deadpool? What are you doing here?”
“Community service,” comes the cheerful, if slightly muffled reply. The man is standing at the massive, slightly worn pair of steel sinks, working his way through a mountain of dishes. Bright yellow gloves cling to his biceps, rolled slightly down at the cuff, and there is a hairnet on top of his hood that only adds to the absurdity. No swords, however.
“I didn't think New York was your hometown,” Peter says absently, suddenly aware of the cameras just outside. They'd not been given permission to enter, but he gives them another minute before somebody inevitably finds a loophole or a window. He turns to a tall woman with a no-nonsense look and a tight bun of silvery hair. “Is he--”
“Just showed up. I hope this doesn't bother you too much, Mr. Parker,” she says in calm tones that imply she doesn't care one way or the other if he's put out. “I'm Gladys. I spoke with Anna Maria. though Mr. Pool was not initially part of her plans.”
“No, no, it's--” he accepts the bundle of things handed to him, finding a carbon copy of all the accessories Deadpool is currently sporting. “I'll be fine.”
“Then please,” and she ushers him to the bathroom, "wash up before entering the kitchen."
Peter lets himself get bullied out of the room, scrubs his hands (including under his fingernails) and dons the whole ridiculous set of apron, hairnet, and gloves. He elbows the door open, careful not to touch anything, and steps back into the kitchen just in time for Gladys to start passing out orders.
The kitchen is nearly three times the size of Aunt May's, with multiple sink stations, a full wall of burners and at least four ovens. A myriad of mismatched, well-worn pots and pans dangle above the white-puffed heads of the other volunteers in hairnets around the center island, with cabinets on the other two walls. The last wall is dominated by a single heavy metal door Peter assumes leads to the fridge.
"Do you know how to brown meat, Mr. Pool?" Gladys asks.
"Probably not in the way you're meaning,” he quips back, and Peter has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from replying to that. Peter Parker is not supposed to know the man behind the Deadpool mask, and he’s certainly not supposed to have a reason to argue with him.
She picks up a small crate of cans and drops it on the nearest counter. “Then open six cans of kidney beans, six cans of black beans, and ten cans of tomato juice.”
“Can do!” Deadpool answers cheerfully, drying his gloves on his apron. Before he can stop himself this time, Peter blurts out a warning.
“Using a can opener. Not your swords.”
The masked man turns and leers at him. Or maybe glares. There's more hostility in the set of his shoulders than he's used to seeing directed at him. “Well, now I really don't want to use the can openers,” is all he says, in a tone that’s a little too cool to be playful.
“Use the can openers,” Gladys orders with a distinct sense of finality, and then turns to Peter. "Mr. Parker, please assist Michelle with the cornbread.”
With some trepidation, Peter turns his back on Deadpool and retreats to the other side of the kitchen. At least he doesn’t have to worry about Deadpool being too friendly with him.