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Look, it wasn't as though Peter had decided to go out that day looking for Deadpool. He doubted anyone actually sought the man out on purpose. It was like purposefully trying to get a canker sore. He hadn't even known the mercenary was in the city. Last Peter had heard, Deadpool was somewhere in Cuba doing... god knows what, really. At least, that's what the twelve taped together post cards said when they arrived for him at Avengers Tower.
Peter hadn't even known Spider-Man could receive mail at the Tower—especially considering that he wasn't an Avenger. Not for lack of trying. Apparently, saving New York from human attacks on a weekly basis wasn't the same audition as saving it from aliens twice a year. Which was so rude. But they did let him get mail there (apparently) and that was kind of nice (he guessed). He didn't know who would mail a vigilante—apart from Deadpool, obviously—but it was nice to have the option.
So, really, Peter was just minding his own busness that day.
He had started freelancing for more than just the Bugle and was trying to finish an urban photography collection for a magazine that wanted as filler pieces. Boring, normal, not-Spider-Man-related work. That's the thing about the Parker Luck, though, wasn't it. The Occam's Razor of Peter's life. You leave the house to make a few bucks and you stumble into a kidnapping.
He didn't even have his suit with him, just his camera. Just the shot of a man in a hood taking a little girl away from a park and not enough time to do anything about it. He hated days like that. The days where he had to be Peter because he didn't have time to be Spiderman. He made those day's work, though. Most of the time.
Peter knew that some people were crazy enough to kidnap in broad daylight. At a busy park, on a busy day, who was going to look up from their phones long enough to catch any suspicious activity? It was the kind of world they lived in these days. It was the kind of world that needed people like Spider-Man. Unfortunately, right now, there was only Peter Parker. He supposed that would have to be enough.
The girl was young—maybe ten or eleven at the oldest—and followed in step with the man. As they walked, the two of them seemed to have a very animated conversation, using their hands to gesture and emphasize. It struck Peter as overly familiar for some odd reason he couldn't quite put his finger on. He followed several yards behind them, taking more photos and trying not to get close enough to be spotted.
One of MJ's true crime podcasts had explained that most kidnappers use some kind of ruse: a lost dog, claiming to be a family friend, the promise of a treat. The goal was to get the chold to a secluded location. He wondered what this one had been told to pull her away from the park so easily.
The answer came as the two stopped at a Mexican fruit vendor a few blocks away from the park. Peter ducked into a close alcove to watch. The girl waited in line, holding on to the money she had been handed. It took Peter a moment to realize the man in the hood had completely disappeared. Was now when he was supposed to approach the girl and get her to safety? That part of the job was always easier behind the mask.
There was a sound behind him that stood out from the city noises, but before Peter could turn to identify it, he was thrown against the brick wall of the alley, the air unexpectedly knocked from his lungs. He felt the rough textured clay scraping against his skin as a quick jolt of fear rushed through him. Why hadn't his Spider Sense gone off? Peter tried to escape, but whoever had snuck up on him pressed him further into the wall.
Today, it seemed, was the day Peter's body chose to be unreasonable. With the rough wall in front of him and the warm body behind him, a new feeling was quickly replacing the fear. One that caused his core to ache and his legs to press together. The hot breath on the back of his neck was not helping. A soft moan escaped. He gritted his teeth against it and prayed it was muffled by the wall.
"Hi there, cutie," a voice spoke in his ear and Peter was breathless again. He recognized that voice. His stomach dropped and coiled as he stilled completely, body still sandwiched between a rock and a...oh, yeah, that was hard all right. At least he wasn't the only one being affected by their posision.
Peter was spun around by strong hands and pressed up against the wall again. His head hit the brick harder than he would have liked, distracting him from the vague sence of disappointment coursing though him. Something sharp pressed against his throat. Oh. Oh, shit. That was a knife. Sharp enough that he felt like breathing too hard would draw blood. "Out for a little stroll?"
Peter had finally been able to put his finger on the "something" that had been itching his brain. The way the man had moved, walked, gestured, talked had all been so familiar. Too familiar. Peter was an idiot. "Deadpool." Of fucking course it was Deadpool. Of course it was. Of all the stupid, idiotic—kidnapping? Peter wanted to punch him out right there. Deadpool had promised him—well, promised Spiderman—that he was doing better, trying harder, only taking the jobs that really deserved it. In what world was kidnapping—child trafficking?—better than murder? The thought made him want ot vomit, but the knife was pressed close enough to remind him not to move.
"Oooh~!" The squeel brought Peter's attention back to the man in front of him. He couldn't see Deadpool's face. Under the hood he had dawned a medical mask keeping it covered. Peter could imagine the expression, though. Deadpool had always had an expressive voice. "I have a fan! How sweet. Is that why you've been following me—" All of a sudden, he was holding Peter's wallet with his free hand. When had he gotten that? "—Peter Benjamin Parker of 20 Ingram St, Forest Hills, New York 11375?"
Shit. Shitshitshit. This was... bad didn't begin to cover it. It was catastrophic. Deadpool now knew where he lived. The thought sent a chill through him. The idea of Deadpool showing up with Aunt May still in her nightgown trying to make breakfast. It would give her another heart attack.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Peter claimed, mostly so he wasn't just standing there like an idiot with a knife to his throat. He tried to move away from the threat, but only managed to press closer into the brick. Still, his Spidey Sence hadn't gone off. But then, Deadpool had a weird, neutralizing effect on it. He didn't believe for a second that he wasn't in actual danger, not when the knife shifted along with him.
On an intellectual level, Peter knew he was stronger and faster than Deadpool, dispite the man being almost a foot taller than him and twice as wide. Peter was certain he could overpower him, in a fair fight. But this was Deadpool and that meant he was already at a loss. Fighting a crazy man was never fair.
"Who hired you?"
Peter blinked, trying to catch up with the question. "What?"
"What are you? Some kind of D-list Jessica Jones?"
"I don't know who—"
"Private eye." He grabbed Peter's camera. "Let me see that."
"Hey! Stop!" Peter reached forward, but couldn't move without pressing the knife into his skin. "That's private property!"
"Nothing is private these days, kid. Just ask the internet." There was a long pause as Deadpool pulled the photos up, flipping through and deleting them. After a minute his eyebrows—or the space where his eyebrows would be if he had any—shot up. "Why do you have photos of Spider-Man on here?"
Peter tried to snatch the camera back again—before Deadpool deleted any further, but all the other man had to do was hold it at arms length. "None of your business. Give it back." He sounded like a child—he felt like a child—but there were weeks worth of pay on that camera and he couldn't afford to lose it this close to bills being due. "I'm just a photographer!"
"Wait a second. Parker... photography... Spider-Man... Spider-Man and Parker... Oh! Hey! I do know you!" The dawning in Deadpool's voice made Peter flinch back, accidentally hitting his head against the brick again. Deadpool couldn't have figured it out... could he? "You work for the Daily Bugle! You're the guy who gets all the spank bank shots of Spidey!"
Peter almost choked. He did not need that image in his brain. But here it was now, and Peter couldn't stop seeing it. "The what?"
Deadpool ignored him, but at least he'd taken the knife away and his stance had become more casual and less murder-y. "Is that why you were following me? To get some wicked action shots?"
Peter gaped, trying to wrap his brain around the sudden change. It was an easy enough way out, though. "If I say yes... can I have my camera back?"
Deadpool contenued to act as if Peter were mute and not currently still pressed against the wall, trapped there by his huge body. "Well, unlucky for you, today's my day off. No slicing or dicing today!"
"The knife in your hand says otherwise." Peter pointed out dryly, but his brain was going a mile a minute. If Deadpool was taking the day off, then was the kidnapping for his own personal gain? It honestly wouldn't have surprised Peter, if Deadpool woke up this morning and decided he wanted to have a kid and just... went out to get one. Like grocery shopping, he could almost hear the man say.
"Oh, this little old thing? It's nothing." He flicked his wrist back and the knife disappeared in a flash. "All right. Let's go." The now knifeless hand grabbed Peter's jacket and pulled him away from the wall. He felt like a kitten being scuffed. The man shoved him forward onto the sidewalk, helping one had on Peter while the other hand still held his camera.
"I'm not going anywhere with you. Especially not until I get my property back."
"Aww, noo~," Deadpool pouted. "If I don't take you with me, you'll keep following me—badly—and I won't be able to enjoy my day off. It will be so much easier if you just stalk me from right next to me."
"I'm not stalking you," Peter lied, "I'm just—"
Deadpool gave him a look that was only partly obscured by the mask. "Taking pictures of me and my daughter from a distance? That's kinda creepy, bro."
It was Peter's turn to ignore him. "You can't just pick a kid and make them yours, you know. That's not how the world works."
"I'm pretty sure that's exactly adoption works, you know," Deadpool countered fairly.
Peter could feel the indignation rise up in him. "I, well—taking a kid's not adoption! That's—"
"Daddy! Did you get the weirdo freak that was following us?" The young girl ran up with a plastic container full of mixed melons covered in tajín.
"Ellie, this is Peter Parker, a photographer for a newspaper. Peter, this is my biological, made-my-self, completely legitimate daughter, who I officially adopted last year, Ellie."
"Oh. Um. Hi." Deadpool had a kid? He couldn't have a kid. He would have told Peter about that! Or, have told Spiderman, that is. Deadpool over-shared everything. Peter knew he used to have a mole on his left ass cheek that he missed. There was no way he wouldn't have told Spiderman about a whole child. Right?
"Ellie," Deadpool prompted, "what do we say to people we just met?"
The girl grinned and Peter was floored at how similar their smiles were. "Hi! My name is Ellie and I use she/her pronouns! What do you use?"
Peter glanced between the two of them before dropping down to Ellie's level and holding out his hand. "Hi Ellie. I'm Peter and I use he/him pronouns. It's really nice to meet you." They shook hands. Then Peter glanced up at Deadpool, who was unfairly tall at this angle.
Deadpool looked down at him and Peter had to remind himself that there was a literal child present. And that he was not attracted to Deadpool. Obviously. He didn't even need to remind himself of that one. Nope! No attraction to the strong, tall... mercenary. He was a mercenary. Who took his daughter to the park on his day off.
Peter wiped his hands on his jeans and stood up. His legs totally didn't quake. Even standing, Peter was just eye level with Deadpool's broad chest. It was completely unfair. "Well. Uh. I really should be going. If I could just get my camera—" Peter cut himself off as he watched Deadpool put his entire camera into his hoodie pocket. It disappeared like magic into the same pocket dimension his suit pouches were connected to. Peter felt a sudden sense of loss as his entire livelihood vanished before his eyes.
"Ooops~! Looks like you have to stay a little longer," Deadpool shrugged. "Or, you could always leave without it."
Peter glared at Deadpool, who didn't seem intimidated at all. "Give me my camera back. Please," he added with a quick glance at Ellie.
"Sure." Deadpool pushed Peter forward between his sholder blades. "After lunch. I'm starved. And you can tell us all~ about your job."
It didn't sound like a request. Peter glanced at Ellie for help, but she was too busy munching away at her fruit. He resigned himself to not getting any work done until Deadpool was satisfied. This was his life now, apparently. "Fine," he finally agreed. Not that he really had a choice. "Yeah, okay." He should have been used to it by now, the Parker Luck. But like some people—apparently—it was always full of surprises.