Chapter 81: Deadpool Meets Spider-Man
Peter stepped out of his room to find a strange man in a red bodysuit standing at the top of the stairs, whistling cheerfully to himself, completely lost in his own little world.
Peter blinked. This was... not what he'd expected.
He offered the man an awkward wave.
The man turned around, flashing a grin that somehow radiated both genuine warmth and total chaos. Wade Wilson had that rare gift.
Before Peter could say anything else, Deadpool threw an arm around his shoulders like they'd been friends for years.
"Listen up, kid." He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "Your Uncle Ben? Still breathing? You can thank me for that. The Horse Talisman. You're welcome."
The smugness was immaculate.
"Name's Deadpool — but honestly, Gorgeous works too. I've been told I have incredible bone structure. Under the mask. Hypothetically."
Peter smiled back, a little stiffly, and gave a polite bow. "Thank you. For saving my uncle. I'm Peter Parker."
He didn't know this guy from Adam, but whatever connection he had to Ethan was probably the whole reason Uncle Ben was still alive. Peter wasn't naive enough to think a stranger in a red bodysuit had just happened to be in the right place at the right time out of the goodness of his heart.
Deadpool went very still.
Then his head slowly turned toward Peter with the energy of a man who had just received information that fundamentally reorganized his understanding of the universe.
"Peter... Parker," he repeated.
He held up two fingers and did a little web-slinging gesture.
"So you can do this, right?"
Peter hesitated — then, feeling slightly ridiculous, mirrored the motion. The familiar pull answered immediately, a thread of webbing shooting from his wrist and anchoring to the far wall.
Deadpool's entire face lit up.
Another one, he thought, somewhere between delighted and baffled. Every Peter Parker, every universe. Kid gets bitten, kid gets powers, kid becomes Spider-Man. He glanced over at Peter — young, earnest, still clearly figuring out what any of this meant. Wonder if my Peter's gonna end up the same way.
He filed that thought away for later.
Peter, meanwhile, was developing a mild existential crisis.
"How do you — why does everyone already know?" he asked, mostly to himself. The Kamen Rider had known. Ethan had known. And now this guy. "I only got these abilities recently. How is everyone walking around like they've already read my file?"
Deadpool caught the expression on his face and grinned.
"You want to know why I knew?"
Peter nodded, something a little desperate in it.
Deadpool held the dramatic pause for exactly as long as it needed to be insufferable.
"Not telling you." He tugged the corner of his mask down and stuck his tongue out. "Go ask Ethan. I've got places to be. People to meet. Specifically people. Of a certain demographic." He gave a little finger-wave. "Byeee."
And then he swan-dived out the window.
Peter stared at the empty window frame.
...Is everyone here like this?
He was still processing when the window rattled again and two red-gloved hands reappeared on the sill, followed by Deadpool hauling himself back up like a very enthusiastic golden retriever.
"One more thing." He leaned through the frame, elbows propped on the sill, wearing the expression of a man trying to sound casual about something he'd clearly been thinking about since the moment he heard Peter's name. "You wouldn't happen to also have an Aunt May, would you? Lovely woman. Early thirties. Very... well-preserved."
Internal monologue: different universe, same Peter Parker, therefore — theoretically — same Aunt May. The math was sound.
Peter thought about it.
"I do have an Aunt May," he said carefully. "But she's in her sixties. White hair, the whole thing. I think you've got her mixed up with someone else."
A pause.
Deadpool's shoulders dropped exactly one inch.
"...Of course she is." He sighed with the weight of a man whose very reasonable hypothetical had just collapsed. "Of course she is."
He released the windowsill.
And was gone again.
Peter watched the empty window for a long moment.
Then he went downstairs.
Ethan was in the living room with Doctor Octavius, mid-conversation about school enrollment projections and what an expanded Hell's Kitchen community program might look like in two years. He looked up when Peter reached the bottom of the stairs.
"Morning."
Peter walked over to him and bowed — properly, from the waist, the way he meant it.
"Thank you," he said. "For saving my uncle." A beat. "And — I'm sorry. For earlier."
He didn't elaborate, and he didn't need to. Ethan had seen the look on his face last night, after Ben had been shot and Peter was convinced that Ethan had chosen to let it happen. That look had said everything.
Ethan waved it off. "Don't worry about it."
「DING!」「Congratulations, Host! Peter Parker (Tobey) Friendship Level has increased to ★★!」「Congratulations, Host! Peter Parker (Tobey) Friendship Level has increased to ★★★!」「Congratulations, Host! Peter Parker (Tobey) Friendship Level has increased to ★★★★!」「Congratulations, Host! Peter Parker (Tobey) Friendship Level has increased to ★★★★★!」「Attribute Gained: Spider-Sense!」「Integrate immediately?」
Yes.
The answer came before he'd consciously formed the thought. That particular talent had its uses.
Across the room, Doctor Octavius had gone quiet, watching Peter with an expression that didn't quite fit casual observation. There was weight in it — the specific weight of someone looking at a face they'd thought they'd never see again.
"Hey, Peter." His voice had shifted, softer than it had been a moment ago. "Long time no see. You look... younger. More energy." A small smile. "Keep that. You were always a good kid."
Peter, who had clearly reached some kind of threshold regarding people he'd never met acting like old friends, absorbed this with only minor visible bewilderment.
"You know me too?" He paused. "Have we... met before?"
The question came out more plaintive than he'd intended.
Ethan watched him, recognizing the look. Peter was a smart kid. Smart enough to know that something large and structural was happening around him, and smart enough to know he didn't have nearly enough pieces to see the shape of it yet. That kind of not-knowing had a particular quality of pressure.
"Hold on," Ethan said. "You're not the only one who recognizes you. There's someone else who wants to see you."
"Who?"
But even as the word left Peter's mouth, the answer arrived on its own.
Sand.
A handful of grains at first — materializing from nowhere, drifting through the air of the living room like something had come loose from a beach three universes over. Then more. Coiling. Gathering. Taking on mass and shape and intention.
Grain by grain, the figure began to rise.
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