Epilogue: Prince Peter and Dragon Deadpool

x

Peter showers, pulls on a pair of S.I. sweatpants and Wade's Hello Kitty t-shirt, and goes up to the penthouse.

Wade is left dozing on the bed, as exhausted as he ever really gets, and in an oddly tranquil mood. He snores quietly. He looks happy.

It's enough to make Peter feel like he's walking on clouds, so when you consider the post-coital cocktail of hormones in his body and the joy he feels at Bruce's return, it's a wonder he doesn't spontaneously begin floating.

Not even Fury's ugly face on the screen opposite the couch can ruin the night for him.

Bruce is sitting on that couch, glancing from Fury to his phone, to Fury again, and trying to look inconspicuous (like a freshman attempting to cheat) when he types out an answer – presumably to Tony.

"He says you're keeping him on the Helicarrier until tomorrow," Bruce points out to Fury.

The Director harrumphs. "If I let him go, I'll never see a word of report on yesterday. He waved his precious charter into Hill's face and claimed that he doesn't work for us – like that's ever going to fly."

Bruce snorts softly. "Well, we both know what does and does not fly around here, don't we?"

"I'd keep Stark under lock and key if I thought that would keep him from going all 'Br'er Fox' on me."

Oooh, not the briar patch, oooh please no! goes Wade's voice in Peter's head, to illustrate the image of Iron-Man begging not to be thrown over the side of the Helicarrier.

Peter chuckles.

Bruce is smiling. "We both also know how it goes for people who try to keep Tony under lock and key."

Fury nods in agreement. "Agreed. I like to think I'm a little smarter than that. In any case, Banner, good to have you back. I like knowing there's at least one voice of reason in that pack of asylum escapees you call a team. Yes, looking at you there, Parker."

Without waiting for a response, Fury signs off.

Peter unpeels himself from the doorframe where he has been – he thought – inconspicuously lounging, and comes sit next to Bruce. He wants to hug him, but Bruce is not a hugging sort of person, so he offers his fist for a bump.

Bruce obliges him with nary an eye-roll at the juvenileness of the gesture.

"Why do people always talk like sanity's something to aspire to?" Wade asks from the same doorway where Peter has been lurking just moments ago. He bounds over and goes for a high-five, which Bruce also gamely obliges. "Sanity is drab! Sanity is bleak! Sanity is… sad." He throws himself onto the floor at Peter's feet and leans back against Peter's shins. He tilts his head back, face unmasked, scars bared for the whole (mostly deserted) penthouse to see.

Peter puts his hand on Wade's forehead and strokes back as far as he can before he gets blocked by his own knee. He leans down and kisses the ridged skin he has just stroked.

He knows Bruce is watching. He hopes Bruce is beginning to understand. But even if he's not, Peter has the security of knowing that Bruce accepts them as they are.

"Take my word for it," Wade babbles on, "crazy is the new black. It makes you feel cool, and look slimmer. Also, it's fun."

"Insanity is another country," Bruce mutters philosophically. His lengthy efforts to communicate with his greener half explain why he's always had a lot more tolerance for Wade and Peter's weirdness than other people. Aside from the fact that he has trained himself to not react to much of anything.

"They're happy 'bout giving dual citizenships, though. Unlike the Americas. You're lucky your better half was born in the country, or else you'd be here half-illegally. They don't give green cards for green guys, which is honestly just so racist they should lynch someone for it just on principle."

Bruce chokes, like he wants and doesn't want to laugh at the same time.

"Political reference to real-life events. Obligatory fourth-wall-break! Baby boy, can I lampshade the fact that I've just lampshaded this?"

"I don't know…" Peter muses, amused. "Can you?"

Wade springs to his feet and whirls around, jabbing an accusing finger in Peter's direction. "You're too young for dad jokes!"

"It's more of a teacher joke," Peter replies.

"Hmm. Could dig you as the strict teacher. I'll be the very naughty schoolboy in the after-class detention." Wade bends over and wiggles his bottom. "Spank me?"

"Get a room!" Bruce exclaims, hiding his face in his hands – and the laugh finally breaks free.

x

"My debt has mysteriously disappeared," Aunt May says out of blue.

Peter is momentarily stunned. Aunt May's debt is in fact his debt – the cost of his higher education put the Parker household deep in the red – but it is in Aunt May's name. Or was, apparently.

He honestly can't think of anything smarter to say than: "Oh. Did it?"

"Well," Aunt May replies dryly, "it is good to know that it wasn't you going behind my back, Peter, dear, but it does open the question…" She trails off, realization dawning.

Peter doesn't say anything. Still wouldn't know what to say. He has had no clue, but it isn't actually all that difficult to figure out who is the Parkers' benefactor. It could, in theory, be Tony Stark, if things like debts even registered for the man. Peter's pretty sure that Tony isn't aware of the vagaries of being in the red (other than karmic-ly).

Aunt May huffs. "Oh dear me. Wade really does go out of his way for us, doesn't he?"

Peter's teeth ache with the need to know if Aunt May understands that all the money has come out of murder and bounty hunting and… all sorts of violent crime, really. He can't word it in any way that wouldn't immediately reveal the truth, though, so he bites his tongue and stares at his Aunt as hard as he can in the vain hope of reading her mind. Does she know? She must. But she can't? She wouldn't accept it so blithely, would she?

The truth is, Peter simply has no idea.

Blind Al appears in the doorway, shuffling from the guest room to the kitchen with a saucer in her hand… and the shards of a coffee cup piled on top of it.

Aunt May sighs at the sight and goes to take the porcelain from her – to dispose of the shards and wash the saucer and try not to remember that it was Uncle Ben who bought the set for her.

Al shuffles up to Peter and leans into his personal space, saturating it with the stink of cigarettes. "You're banging a mercenary, boy," she mutters with both antagonism and confidentiality that makes her the perfect friend for emotionally crippled people, "the least you can do is keep your Aunt in style."

"Yes, Al," Peter replies obediently.

She smacks him on the butt and walks off with unexpected confidence. Obviously she spends a lot more time at Aunt May's house than Peter expected.

On the other hand, this means that when Peter camps at Wade's, she's not listening to them through the paper-thin walls. Of this, Peter is very glad.

x

It's not Peter's first convention, but it's the first one he attends in costume. Of course, he's just one of many Spider-Men in the joint tonight, so he's enjoying his fifteen minutes of anonymity-

There's someone he knows. It takes a while for him to place the girl; he's only met her the once, and she looks so very different, but he stumbles over nothing and she notices him staring (despite the reflective lenses, dang it).

"Oh, wow. Hi," he says – like a complete idiot – and only afterwards realizes that he's a cosplayer at the moment and there's no real reason for him to know this girl. It looks like he's hitting on her, and that's just no.

"Hello…?" she says uncertainly. And then, since she's quick on the uptake, her eyes widen. "Oh. Uh. Hi."

She's hugely pregnant. With the make-up Peter can't be sure, but he doesn't think she's eighteen yet. Also, the person she's clearly romantically attached to is a woman, so signs are pointing in ugly directions.

But. She's alive, and doesn't seem entirely unhappy.

"Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to bother you. Just – wanted to say hi. So, hi." Crud, he's such a dork.

She grins. "Hi back. And, you know. I kinda hated you for a while, but thanks."

Peter runs away before he's forced to make conversation. He wanders all along the artist alley, buys a couple of prints – Spider-Man and Deadpool have not been exactly discreet about their relationship, and there are some pretty cute pictures. There are also many pornographic pictures, and Peter hopes he won't get any of those as a birthday present from any of the Avengers.

He wouldn't mind owning a few of the more… uh… artistic ones, but if he knows Wade, they have already been bought, so he instead stops by another stall to get a kinda melancholy but genuinely nice original painting of the Hulk. It's watercolor, and it's based off a photo of an Avengers' post-op. There's a dog, and the Hulk's petting it.

Peter's not sure how Bruce will react to it, but there's a chance he may like it. So he spends a couple of the fifties Wade slipped him on it.

And then he's in the main hall. There are Iron Men, illustrating the variance of costume design from colored cardboard to actual stylized Middle Age suits of armor. There are Black Widows and Hawkeyes, and Hulks (mostly kids in fluffy costumes, and Peter snaps a few photos – the team will love them), and Thors and Lokis. There's a lone male Pepper leaning into one of the Iron Women, whom Peter also photographs because the couple looks fantastic.

And there are Deadpools. So many Deadpools. Peter slinks past one that has to weigh at least four hundred pounds. That is a lot of spandex. Good thing Wade magically transforms tacos and chimichangas and pancakes into abs.

There are Deadpools eating and Deadpools talking and Deadpools shyly sidling up to artists, asking to have their comic books signed. There are Deadpools conversing with Punishers, which Peter knows isn't realistic (mostly because Punisher doesn't much talk, and generally expresses his feelings for Wade with deadly assault).

In any case, it takes about thirty seconds for Peter to find his own Deadpool among these cosplayers of wildly differing credibility. He identifies Wade by the way Wade moves; although, granted, Peter has never before seen him roller skate.

He walks on a course to intercept.

Wade doesn't crash into him. He brakes with some fancy figure-skating maneuver that inspires applause from a few Deadpools and a Domino standing around a button stand.

"Hi, babe," Peter says, putting his arm around Wade's waist.

"Hello," Wade replies, and leans down from his roller-skate height to give Peter a mask-smooch on his forehead. "How did you know it was me?"

"Recognized your butt," Peter lies, and pats one of the glutei in question.

"So, big boy. How's it feel to be able to get legally smashed?"

"Like I still don't want to," Peter replies truthfully. "I get smashed – into things – all the time, and it's never much fun."

Deadpool pouts. Peter can tell even through the mask.

"Never ever ever?"

Peter has to concede that one. "Sometimes it is. But only gentle smashing."

"Smashing is smashing!" Wade agrees. "Smushing and smooshing. Smooching. Let's smooch, baby-boy-friend, smack and smash together, smother smoothly and-"

"Smile," Peter fills in. "And smile and smile and smile…"

x

One night, in the middle of a routine patrol, after he's webbed up a couple of carjackers but before he helps get down a toddler that climbed to the outer side of a balcony railing on a lark and then couldn't get back, Peter has an epiphany.

He's being a hypocrite.

This shocks him, and he feels quite desolate for a while afterwards – despite successful baby-rescue – because if he hates any character trait in people, it's hypocrisy.

Sure, the Avengers weren't exactly ecstatic about Deadpool's inclusion in their extended team, and Steve did threaten Peter that one time, but on the whole they came around and by now Peter can mostly rely on them, too.

On the other hand, Peter's treating Barnes to a complete rejection.

He decides there and then – sitting on top of the Chrysler building, in his favorite spot – that he's going to stop. He's better than that. He's going to act in a way Uncle Ben could be proud of, and he's going to start tomorrow.

x

Tomorrow in the early evening he comes by the Tower with a plastic bag full of Wade's homemade tacos.

x

The strangest thing about the Winter Soldier is still the quiet.

He sits silently, motionless; he watches and listens and doesn't speak without being spoken to. Not even in his own defence, and that is something that Peter recognizes from years of schoolyard bullying. It's the hope that, even though they are talking about you, as long as you remain the subject and don't try to personally make yourself a part of the situation, they will not include you.

You may yearn to be included, but by now you know that inclusion equals pain, and most days it's not worth it.

"Tacos?" Peter asks, standing a step closer than what he judges to be safe distance.

Barnes looks up at him, startled by being addressed.

Peter lifts the bag in his hand. "Wade doesn't know the meaning of moderation. He makes them until he runs out of ingredients and they're heavenly, but there's only so much I can eat without puking my guts out and-"

Barnes nods and says, quietly: "Thanks."

Peter seizes onto this excuse to cut off his rambling. He hands over the whole bag into Barnes' keeping and starts backing away. Barnes is staring at him with that stare that is trying to judge Peter's sanity, which is both futile and insulting coming from the guy that gets frequent flier miles on brainwashing, so Peter points over his shoulder and explains: "Kitchen. Plates. Napkins? Napkins."

And goes get them.

x

Peter lies with his face buried in Wade's abs for as long as he can until the need to breathe is stronger than the desire to remain buried in his lover's skin, and he turns his head to the side. The abdominal aorta under his ear goes thrumm, trhumm, thrumm…

It feels like every single muscle and sinew and organ shift in Wade's body, even though he just stretches and then puts his arms under his head. He probably wants a cigarette now, but he's really good about not smoking in the bedroom since Peter told him how much he dislikes the smell.

Peter's stomach gurgles.

"…says the guy who digested our baby," mutters Wade.

The really, truly messed up thing about Peter's life if that he's not sure if Wade's joking or genuinely upset. It was funny to take the idea of a food baby and run with it, but in Wade's head things get mixed up, and sometimes details – like it all being a joke in the first place – get misplaced.

Wade suddenly sits up – Peter only feels the beginning of the flex of those muscles before he is dislodged – and leans in until their noses are touching. "Show me those eyes. Oh, crud. Not that you're not pretty when you cry, Petey-pie – see, I'm trying out poetry for you, this is siriuz bizniz – you're totes pretty, but don't. Don't cry. Yeah? This is nothing. Last time I met Domino, she started out giving me a sex realignment operation with a switchblade. I'd make a swell gal, but it didn't take. Still no babies for us."

Peter cranes his neck, kisses Wade's nose (because what else can he do at this point?) and shrugs. "I don't think the world's ready for our progeny. I've seen Arachnophobia – I don't want our baby growing up hated."

"Yeah, hate sucks," Wade agrees contemplatively. Then he grabs Peter and pulls him up as he lets himself fall back into the bedding. "Let's make love instead!"

Peter kisses his breastbone. "A plus for that segue, Wade-"