No idea where this idea came from, but it's stuck with me for awhile and I decided that I need to get it out of my system :)

Enjoy!

"So, how old are you, exactly?"

Peter chose not to answer him, showing the nurse and security guard his FBI-issued ID. They let him in without a fuss, the warden following him closely.

"You can't be over twenty," Dr. Harry Osborn continued, eying Agent Parker up and down in what was meant to be a discreet manner. It truly wasn't, and it was taking every ounce of Peter's self-control and professionalism not to call him out.

"I assure you, sir, I meet the age requirements of being in the FBI"-heavy emphasis, to remind Dr. Osborn that he wasn't hitting on some random young boy at a bar-"and I'm well enough qualified to interview Mr. Wilson. That's why Agent Fury picked me himself for the job."

Osborn raised a disbelieving eyebrow, but wisely didn't say anything, directing Agent Parker through the sterile corridors and to a lower level.

"The most dangerous ones are kept down here," Dr. Osborn explained, impatiently waiting for the nurse to buzz them through another door. "The mass murderers, serial rapists, terrorists, you name it, we got it." He halted Agent Parker from continuing with a hand on his shoulder, letting it linger. "Wade Wilson is an incredibly dangerous man, Agent Parker, I want to make this very clear. Just a few months ago he broke the back of an orderly and ripped the dick off another one." Agent Parker winced; he'd read the report, of course, but it seemed so much more real now that he was about to speak with the culprit. "I know, it's gross. Poor Sam's never gonna have a normal sex life again."

"Any guidelines I should follow?"

"Don't take anything from him, don't get too close to the glass, and don't provoke him in any manner," Dr. Osborn rattled off with practiced ease.

Agent Parker nodded, making sure to catalogue what Dr. Osborn was telling him. "Wilson violently dislikes it when people mock him," Dr. Osborn continued, starting to walk again. He tried to keep his hand on Agent Parker's lower back, but the other smoothly shifted away from him. "His moods can change wildly, so be prepared for him to go from playful to murderous in .4 seconds. And if he says anything that might even seem the smallest bit important, I want to be the first to hear about it. Are we clear?"

God, can the god complex on this guy get any bigger? "I'm sorry, sir, but everything that Mr. Wilson tells me is going straight to Agent Fury," Peter responded coldly, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen from his bag as they reached the last set of doors. "If you want the transcripts of our conversations, you'll have to take it up with him."

Dr. Osborn gave him a vaguely disgusted, leering look. "I like you, kid. Hopefully Wilson won't break you." He left without saying anything else, much to Agent Parker's relief.

Nurse Mary Jane, a pretty redhead around the same age as Peter, gave him a sympathetic smile. "Sorry about him. He can be a bit difficult to handle," she apologized.

Agent Parker gave her a small smile. "Can't imagine working for him," he muttered, straightening his suit jacket.

Now that the annoyance that was Dr. Osborn had left, the nervousness was starting to creep back in. And why wouldn't it be? This was his first solo mission, and instead of it being some easy homicide case, Fury had assigned him to interview a mass murderer to help with an ongoing, high profile case. With numerous women's lives hanging on the balance. God, he wished he had some of the confidence Fury seemed to have for him.

Nurse Mary Jane laughed at Parker's remark. "You don't even know. Anyways, I set out a chair for you outside of Mr. Wilson's cell. He's the one at the very end. I'd recommend not walking too close to the cells."

"Thanks," he said.

She winked at him. "I'll be right here in case anything happens, okay? You'll do great, tiger."

She opened the door and he entered the hallway, the gate closing heavily behind him. Holding his breath and gripping his paper tightly, Agent Parker walked purposefully down the hallway, keeping close to the right side and away from the cells. He ignored the crazed shouts and catcalls that attempted to gain his attention or draw him closer, keeping his eyes focused on the wall at the far end of the hallway.

In a square cell, a thick piece of glass separating him from Agent Parker, was Wade Wilson. The heavily scarred man was on the ground, doing push ups one after another in rapid succession. His walls were mostly plain, save for a few posters of scantily clad women, and the bed was messy, unmade. His white T-shirt was on the bed, leaving his back bare.

Agent Parker didn't try to get his attention at first. He pulled the chair closer to the glass, settling down with his bag leaning against his leg, tape recorder on in his pocket and away from view.

Agent Parker swallowed heavily as Wade stood up, his bare back still facing him.

"Who the fuck are you?" Wade asked bluntly, stretching his arms above his head.

"I'm Agent Peter Parker," he responded, mentally congratulating himself for keeping his voice steady and calm. "You agreed to letting me speak to you today?

Wade snorted derisively, pulling his discarded T-shirt back on. "Yeah, but I don't need some middle-aged, baby voiced prick to do it-" He stopped when he turned around, eyes widening. "Oh. Hel-lo. No wonder you sounded like a teenager going through puberty."

Peter gritted his teeth. "I'm twenty-five," he said tightly, squeezing his pen hard enough that it creaked.

Wade cackled, the sound sharp in the air as he threw his head back. "I bet that fart Osborn had a heyday with you," he commented. "Has he tried to get in your pants yet? Who am I kidding. Of course he has."

"I have some questions I'd like to discuss with you," Parker said, attempting to get them back on track.

"Oh, tsk, tsk!" Wilson pouted. "No witty banter? No getting flustered and slipping up to tell me why you're actually here? You're no fun, Petey baby."

"I'd prefer it if you didn't call me that," Parker responded. Wilson held up his hands in a defeated gesture, shrugging. "And I can tell you exactly why I'm here without 'slipping up.'" Pulling out the file, he opened the slot and slipped it in, pushing it back so Wade could get it. "Recently, a number of young women have gone missing and have been discovered missing various limbs and organs. The methodology is similar to one of your associates, around the time you were still at large."

Wade leisurely picked up the file and flipped through it, stopping at what Peter assumed to be the first of the crime scene photos. An eyebrow raised, and a slow, surprised grin spread over his features. "Yeah, I definitely see what you're talking about."

He didn't elaborate, choosing instead to admire the pictures more closely. "We need a name, Mr. Wilson," Peter reminded him, shifting in his seat.

"Hey, I'm not calling you Petey baby anymore, so don't call me Mr. Wilson. It makes me sound like that guy in the sweater on that old kid's show," Wade grumbled, scooting a chair closer so he was sitting in front of Parker as he searched through the file.

"Mr. Rogers?" Parker offered after a moment's deliberation.

Wade gave him a wide grin. "Yeah, yeah. That's who I meant. You're great. A plus."

Peter's lips quirked into a self-satisfied smile before he realized what he was doing. Composing himself, he asked, "Are you going to give me his name?"

"Nah."

Parker blinked. "Excuse me?"

Wade threw the folder onto his bed, a few of the gruesome photos peeking out. "Well, I can't just give you everything you need all at once. Where's the fun in that? And if I tell ya now, I'll never see you again." He winked broadly.

"If you tell me nothing, then I'll be removed from the case and you'll still never see me again," Peter responded without a moment's hesitation, staring straight into Wade's eyes.

The murderer's expression took on a manic quality, a dangerous sort of curiosity lighting up his face. "Oh, I like you," Wilson practically purred. "You're gonna be fun. But still, why should I help you if I don't get anything out of it? Why should I, huh?"

"Reasonable requests can be negotiated," Parker relented, already regretting the decision of speaking. Fury is going to kill me. "I can't offer you anything that's set in stone, because it's being discussed by the higher ups."

"And you're just a grunt," Wilson stated bluntly.

Peter couldn't bite back his pride. "If I was just a grunt, I wouldn't be working on such an important case and interviewing you." Wade arched an eyebrow and chuckled gleefully, warmly amused.

The amusement faded as he thoughtfully stared off to the side at the folder, running his tongue over his teeth. "Look up Harleen Quinzel," he said at last. "I think that's a good start for you."

A frown furrowed Peter's brow as he jotted down the name. It seemed like a fake-who honestly had a name so close to Harlequin?-but his gut was telling him that the name would actually lead him to something. Wade Wilson was known for giving roundabout hints that took careful patience to decipher intermixed with bogus information. Doubt wiggled into his head.

"You aren't just giving me something you came up with to watch me run around like a chicken with it's head cut off, are you?" he asked suspiciously.

Wade snickered. "You've done your homework," he praised.

"You're avoiding the question."

"No, no, it's actually useful, I promise," Wade said, drawing an 'x' over his chest with a finger. "You'll see. Hopefully. If you can't then sucks for you. Now go impress me, Petey." And with that, he threw himself onto his bed, arms pillowing his head, and he closed his eyes.

Peter stood up slowly, gathering his things. He gave Wilson a polite thank you, promising that he would return in a few days. His words weren't acknowledged, and he took his leave with a huff of annoyance.

As he passed one of the cells, there was a gasp of pain. Parker turned around, alarmed, automatically taking a step towards the cellmate to help him with his unknown affliction. Before he could realize his mistake, a long arm reached out and grabbed his wrist. The man wrenched him forward, Parker's head colliding painfully with the metal bars. He gasped in pain, and was vaguely aware of the sounds of yelling over the ringing in his ears.

Nurse Mary Jane pulled him back as the security guards dealt with the inmate, unlocking the cell door and dragging him out, another nurse pulling out a vial and a syringe. The redhaired lady hovered over the agent, checking the bruise on his forehead and making sure he didn't have a concussion while the other inmates screamed and yelled, adding to the commotion.

"Parker! Agent Parker!"

Recognizing Wilson's voice over the roar of noise, Parker pulled away from Nurse Mary Jane and raced back to the end of the hall, clutching his aching head. Wilson was up against the glass, face dark and angry.

"That guy's an idiot, he doesn't know when to keep it to himself," Wilson growled. "I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you."

"So you'll give me a name?" Parker demanded, clenching his hands into fists.

"Not yet. You gotta work for the information, Petey," Wade said, eyes dancing with a manic light. "Trace Harleen's steps."

"Mr. Wilson, there are lives depending on you-"

"Then you should work fast. I'm giving you a gift, Petey. A chance to get famous-"

"I don't want to be famous!" Peter interrupted him, voice rising shrilly with his nerves and distress.

"Then I'll give you more experience under your belt than you could ever hope for. More than what Fury could give you in a decade, do you get that? Now go away, before Osborn comes storming in and we have to deal with a huffy douche with a holier-than-thou attitude."

"Agent Parker, we should really check to make sure you don't have a concussion," Nurse Mary Jane said worriedly, grabbing his arm carefully and directing him out of the hallway.

"I'll see you soon, Agent Parker," Wade called after them, dark mood replaced instantaneously by a teasing smirk.

Later on, after Nurse Mary Jane had deemed him alright and had given him her private number in case of emergencies ("I swear, I'm totally not hitting on you. It's for emergencies only. And emergencies cover loneliness, if you ever wanna hang out. I'll shut up now."), Peter sat in his hotel room, a coffee next to him and his laptop in front of him. The shock of the viciously cold outside air had helped him focus, but a headache was still pounding at his skull.

His mind kept on replaying the day's scenario, examining in close detail every second of the interview. Next to him was the tape recorder, waiting for Peter to replay it for the fifth time.

His call with Fury had ended a few minutes earlier, and had been as dissatisfying as his talk with Wilson.

"But I didn't get anything useful," Peter argued after Fury congratulated him on a job well done. "This is probably just another roundabout that Wilson's using to entertain himself, and by the time we figure that out another girl is going to be dead."

"From his past interactions with our agents, I don't think that it's useless," Fury remarked. "Wilson tends to insult those who he gives bullshit information to, but it sounds like he was doing the exact opposite with you."

"He could just know how to play us-"

"Agent Parker. You're thinking too much into this. The faster you look into his clue, the faster we'll figure out if Wilson was lying."

A heavy sigh. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Now let me get back to work."

Peter drank his coffee and Googled Harleen Quinzel, sifting through the numerous results and resolutely ignoring the images of dead victims (lying in the cold, cold snow, skin frostbitten and blue with barely any blood left in them) that flashed continuously through his head.

It took hours of searching for Harleen and Harlequin, but eventually he found a series of news articles that seemed right on the money.

Harley Quinn. A con artist from four years ago-the same time that Wade Wilson was still on the loose-who's real name was Harleen Quinzel. She had collected millions of dollars in jewelry, gold bars, cars and clothes before she was discovered, and left with a literal bang: she blew up her latest victim's office building, killing three people, and spray painting 'FUCK YOU' in large red letters over the front sidewalk.

Her current location was unknown, but a friend of hers had bought the burned-down property and built a club with apartments over it. It was still in business, and was open until four in the morning. Peter checked the time in the corner of his laptop screen-it was only nine.

Peter scribbled down the address while calling Agent Fury, excitedly telling him that he had a lead and where he would be. Shutting down his laptop and flicking off the lights, Agent Parker dashed out of the hotel room.

Thanks for reading!

It's really similar to Silence of the Lambs right now, but I'm planning on changing it up a lot later on.

If you'd leave a review, it'd make me happy! And if you have anything you want me to write, send me an ask on tumblr: darkmoonmaiden