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Warnings for this chapter: Some language, violence. Very mild sexual references/interactions


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CHAPTER NINE - Pieces Fall Apart

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Roosevelt Rendezvous - Wade Wilson


We arrive at the ferry terminal right on time, but Peter is already there, leaning against the short wall separating the sidewalk from an icy plunge to the East river. The shadow of the Queensboro bridge keeps his body language difficult to read as we approach. He's resting his crossed arms over the railing, looking down into the water.

"Let me have a go at him first," I say.

Le Capitan turns to me swiftly. "You are not to step out of line, Wilson."

"I would make Johnny Cash a proud, proud papa."

"From what I understand of him, you'd make him roll over in his grave."

"Don't distract me with your hobbies, Rogers," I say indignantly. "Let me gauge just how badly lil' Pete is hurting for a bail-out. Especially with the news of Parsons…"

"I know," Rogers says, and it hurts him to say so. He gives me a sharp look. "Be gentle, will you?"

"Not the scenario I imagined having those words said to me," I put a hand over my heart with enchantment. "Which I imagine all the time. Especially from you. Though there's usually a lot more candles involved. Maybe a bearskin rug. You're into that lumbersexual look, right?"

I trot ahead before he can answer and join Peter at the wall. He registers my presence but makes no move to act as if we know each other.

Gotta give him credit, he's not too bad at this whole sad-Affleck meme.

"Got a light?" I ask.

"Smoking's bad for you," he responds. He sounds like he has a major case of laryngitis.

"Look, I already have cancer," I reply. "It can't do too much else."

His eyes flit over to me. "You have cancer?"

"Long story, different day," I say. "We need to talk about what happened last night."

"Yeah."

Rogers hangs back, crossing his arms over his chest. The man dressed in a brown jacket and a baseball cap, trying to look under-the-radar. He looks like he's about to go on a cross-country espionage trip with a hot redhead girl and a token black guy to save the world.

He crosses over and stands beside me, pulling out a small digital camera circa 2008.

"An off-duty Agent of Shield named Bryan Parsons was murdered last night in his own home," he says quietly.

"...with a gun that looked like it could freeze Gotham," I say. "The grieving widow reported two men breaking into their home - one older with a beard, the other, looked like a young teenager." I plant my chin in my hand, rest my elbow on the wall, and look at him excitedly like Michael Scott sarcastically anticipating a good story. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about THAT, would you?"

Peter bends over the water and curls two fists into his own hair. "I didn't kill him. I didn't know who he was. Never met him before. Never saw him before."

"Go back to the part where you didn't kill him?" I ask.

"You were there," Rogers infers. He pretends to take pictures of the waterfront before returning the camera to his pocket.

He's really taking this tourism disguise seriously.

"I was there," Peter says.

Silence falls for a moment.

"Hello darkness, my old friend," I sing lightly.

"Tell us what happened," Rogers urges.

"The car pulled up to the house. They told us to go in and see the guy. We broke in, ran to the back," his voice catches, "Jackson Brice shot him, and we ran back out. It was over in a second. I didn't… I didn't know… otherwise… otherwise I would've..."

"You would have stopped it and blown your cover," Rogers answers.

"Yeah. I would have." Peter nods thickly.

"We can arrest you right now if you want," I add gleefully. "Drag you back to the tower."

Peter shrugs. "I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this. I won't lie to you. I don't think I'm - cut out for it? I can't just stand by when someone is murdered."

"It wasn't your fault," Rogers says.

"Well, if you wanna get technical…" I begin.

Rogers gives me a warning look. "Don't even go there."

"What happens if, if," Peter asks stiltedly, "What if it comes down to keeping my cover or pulling the trigger myself? That's the next test… And if it comes to that, I will blow the whole thing. Because I won't be able to pull that trigger. I promise you that."

"Ya know," I suggest, "I wouldn't make promises before you know the target. It could be someone really annoying. And hey, if you're officially a criminal, you can kill whomever you want. Can I make a suggestion, though? You know that Putin guy? Could you start with him? His haircut makes him look like a ballsack."

"I'm not a criminal," Peter says, turning to me fully. "Not… not for real."

"You could be if you wanted to. It would just be as simple as erasing your record with us! We're the only people who know who you really are."

His bloodshot, sleepless eyes widen. "That's not… that's not even funny."

"Wade," Steve Rogers says in a voice not to be fucked with. But what am I here for if not to fuck with a voice that sounds like righteous butter? Patriotic AND lubricating!

"You're just one of Vulture's minions," I continue, baiting him. "Easy peasy. Erase record, bye bye Peter Parker!"

Peter Parker lunges towards me as if he plans on having an old fashioned, manly, forehead-to-forehead disagreement. "What did you say? You… you CAN'T do that!"

I'm utterly delighted I was able to push him to this point. Faith restored! Glory hallelujah! Tiny tiger has claws!

Rogers thrusts his arms through Peter's elbows, jerking him backwards a few steps. "Easy!" he exclaims. "Now is not the time nor the place to make Wade Wilson even uglier than he is now."

I hold up my hands defensively.

"As usual, he was joking, and very badly," Rogers glares over Peter's shoulder at me.

"It's - not - funny," Peter repeats. He tries to wrench himself out of Roger's grasp, but can't unless he wants to go full Rambo.

"But what if I wasn't joking?" I say.

"You done?" Rogers asks.

Both Peter and I answer simultaneously. "Yes."

Rogers lets him go. "Walk it off, kid," he says in that battle-hardened, trench warfare tone we rarely see. Extinct animals are always the sexiest. "If someone saw you lay him out right now, what would they do, huh? Call the police?"

"I'm a little offended he assumes he'd lay me out," I say to the river, my best listener.

Peter paces back and forth, unable to look at either of us, looking one step short of a full blown breakdown. "I wasn't… I wasn't going to hit him."

Cap watches him pace for a moment. "I'll start the process for getting you out. It will take a little more time, though. You're in deeper."

Peter looks at him hopefully. "What's stopping us from arresting the Vulture today? On all the horrible things he's done?"

"Red tape, my friend, red tape. We need the microprocessors to make an appearance before we send in Donut and Lopez to capture the flag in the gulch," I explain. "We need that and we need his guys in Hydra."

"I'm telling you," Peter says, "He's got his contacts for Hydra locked up." He taps at his temple. "I don't think he'd ever tell me. I'm just the new guy he doesn't trust."

"We didn't tell you this before," Rogers says, "But we have reason to believe that there's something going on in Shield… This is more than just getting a name from Vulture. This could mean the fate of the world."

Peter stops moving. "What do you mean?"

"One of our most trusted men in Shield has heard… chatter."

"Who?" Peter demands.

"Nick Fury runs ground operations for Shield. If there's ever a good spy in this world on the side of good, Nick Fury is the one running him." Rogers leans back on the wall. "There's been rumor of a computer code going missing. It has a simple purpose, academically speaking. It evaluates every online activity of a person to determine dangerous patterns."

"Bank records, angry Facebook posts, hashtags, liking tweets, account logins, Netflix binges," I narrate, counting off the possibilities off my fingers. "If it happened online, this code finds it. Catalogues it. Finds patterns of behaviors with their online footprints."

"But what is the purpose?" Peter asks.

"Determining a threat before they're a threat," Rogers responds.

"So declaring someone guilty before they've even done anything," Peter exclaims. "That's... not so good."

"It's just in the beta-testing stage by Shield low-level technicians with a lot of untapped coding smarts," I say. "But the files of the code itself mysteriously and totally not shockingly went missing. Because who doesn't like to up the stakes for the second act just went the protagonist is about to get cold feet and go home?" I sigh. "Don't you find your capability for heroism refreshed and renewed?"

Peter looks scared. "This is beyond me. I don't know what I can do to help."

"Good!" I exclaim quickly. "For reasons entirely my own, I really don't want you spending any extra time looking or thinking about these. It's not like there's a thumb drive up someone's ass for you to extract."

"Leave the missing codes to us," Rogers says.

"Not even us," I correct. "Leave it to me. I got this code thing. You just worry about you."

"I wanted to tell you," Rogers explains, "because Stark and Banner have their own concerns about the codes and the microprocessors disappearing around the same window."

"Imagine the unholy matrimony between a code that looks for threats before they happen, and a computer chip that sends uncannily precise missiles," I make my hands into a yin-yang shape. "We want to make sure these two things never get set up on a blind date, fall in love, and make little terrorism babies. I'll be making sure of that."

Peter nods. "Okay. Okay."

"We're only telling you this so that you're aware of what Stark's worried about, on his preference," I add. "We don't want you to go searching for this, it's not your directive, and you've got your own shit to worry about. I'm being perfectly, deadly, in your-face-serious."

Peter narrows his eyes. "Why did you joke about erasing all records of me?"

"You are a smart one. I wasn't saying it just to get your Calvin Klein's in a bunch."

"Then why say it?"

"Wanted to make sure you still wanted your identity." I grin. "Ever want to figure out really quickly if an undercover has gone to the dark side? Suggest the light side goes away."

Peter hugs his arms and scuffs his toe on the pavement. "Still wasn't funny."

"There's something else I want you to listen for," Rogers looks ashamed of himself for suggesting it. "If… if Hydra has someone in Avengers Tower."

Peter looks at us both, dumbfounded. "Holy shit? You're joking right? This is a joke."

"I'm not saying there is," Rogers says, "But if there was…"

"I'd hear about it before you do," Peter sighs. "This keeps getting worse!"

"Have you heard anything like that?" Rogers asks.

"No… no," Peter shakes his head.

I give the Captain a pointed look. "You thought Vanchat looked like a set up too."

He won't give me the time of day. "I keep my own counsel, thank you. There has been something at the pulse of Avengers Tower that I have been unable to put my finger on. It makes me uneasy. I want all eyes and ears on this, if possible."

Peter nods. "Uh… yeah. All eyes, all ears. Both of them. Yeah."

"If you can do this for me just a little bit longer," Rogers promises. "I'll start making the arrangements for pulling you out. Get me as much information as you can in the meantime."

Peter nods and looks at the water.

"Hang tight for me kid," Rogers says. "Just a little longer."

Poor kid looks like he's considering throwing himself into the water which - to be fair - is not far down enough for suicide. But if he skips the swimming part…

"Penny for your thoughts, dime for a rousing performance of Aretha Franklin," I say. I cross myself.

"Ferry's coming," Peter says shortly. "Got to go back. In case they call."

Rogers takes his shoulder and gives it an encouraging shake. "You're nearly done, just a little longer. You can do this. I have absolute faith in you."

Peter gives him a tired smile. "Okay." He gives me a glance. "I'm really sorry about your cancer, Mr. Wils - Deadpool, sir. Really sorry."

He gives us one last nod each, tucks his hands in his pockets, and trots down the sidewalk for the opening to the ramp. His figure disappears down the platform.

"That's sweet," I say, rather moved. "But did he, uh, forget the part where I can't die?"

"I think he did." Rogers looks at me and sighs. "That's the last time I'm bringing you along. You were causing unnecessary panic."

"Come on. Aren't you completely and totally satisfied now that he's still on our side and that he wasn't the one who popped Bryan Parsons?"

"I was not the one who doubted him," Rogers answers. "I never doubted him."

...


Mind Games - Bucky Barnes


...

The sun is hot on my head and I can hear the screaming tires around the corner.

"I got Falcon coming in from southwest," Stark voices says urgently, scratchy and cutting in and out of the radio feed.

"You got an ETA on that?" I shout into my wrist communicator. My feet pound the concrete, my back and neck drenched in sweat.

"He's five minutes out."

"Damn. You get that bridge up?"

"NYPD can't get it up in time. You'll have to get this without the roadblock."

Sure, I'll get this.

I'll get this easily.

It's only an SUV roaring down the pike at high speeds, skirting around each car, darting in and out of traffic like a laser pointer unable to settle on a target. Only a car that I'm expected to catch up with.

On foot.

I pull on every code of programming, muscle memory, and last-ditch training sessions with Natasha to fuel my pounding veins, pulsing lungs, disintegrating strength. My feet hit the street so hard I could swear I hear tiny rivulets in the asphalt erupt behind me.

I throw both arms up over my head, grasp the edge of a balcony railing, lifting myself up and over and over again, still I've shimmied up the fire escape to the roof of the building.

Nearly there.

I struggle not to think about this morning.

Nearly there...

...

Natasha and I had trained this morning together.

"You're pulling your punches," she had said, angrily.

"Trust me," I had replied, "You want me to."

She had raised one sultry eyebrow. "Don't insult me," she said.

So we sparred again, and this time, I did not pull my punches.

When I saw an opening, I hit her in the mouth. It spun her around in a half circle and she fell so hard on the mat that she bounced off and hit it again.

"Jesus, Nat, shit, I'm sorry…"

I had rushed for her, afraid I had truly hurt her, and when my hands grew close -

Those vixen eyes popped back open, and she wrenched my wrists apart, threw her legs into the air and over my shoulders, wrapping her thighs around my neck and using my own weight to spin me off balance, twisting her body up and over until the apex of her legs caught my airway off at the throat, and I slammed to the ground, each wrist pinned to the mat by her hands.

"Don't ever underestimate me," she said in a voice like a shudder. A breeze before thunder rumbles in the distance. Her lip was bleeding and beginning to swell.

I let out a hacking cough, and she relented her weight, moving her legs slightly back so that her knees pressed into each shoulder.

"Do you give up?" she had asked, tantalizingly.

I stared up at her, unable to answer.

"What do you want, Barnes?" she asks impatiently. "Another round?"

"I…" I hesitated to answer. "I'm afraid to say what I want right now. You've got me in a compromising position."

"The best position," she chuckled, glancing around the gym. There was no one in there but us. She looked down at me again. "I don't want you to pull your punches," she says calmly. "I don't want you to hold back with me - ever."

I nearly shifted then, but thought better of it. "You don't just mean with sparring, do you?"

She reached forward, carefully, and drifted one finger down my temple to my chin. "You're a mystery, Barnes," she said.

"Glad to hear it."

"I don't like puzzles," she said.

"I'm not difficult to figure out."

"You are, actually," her eyes narrowed. "Stop being difficult. Just… stop."

"Want me to tell you all my secrets?"

"I want a little less bullshit," she responded honestly. "Think you can give that a try?"

"With you asking?" I had replied. "How could I not?"

"So tell me something true," she said. "Not something you think I want to hear."

"I'm a little scared," I confessed, after too long of a pause, "That if I don't kiss you now, it will never happen. Ever. And I'll live the rest of my life wondering."

She looked heavenward, shut her eyes, and breathed a soft sigh of resignation. As if she were apologizing to a higher power. I wouldn't have pegged her as religious. The only thing immediately above us were the labs where Stark and Banner slave away, after all.

Well, whatever she prayed too, she clearly felt their forgiveness. Suddenly looking more emboldened than before - somehow, less Natasha, and more Black Widow - she leaned down and kissed me soundly on the mouth.

I felt like an electric shock poured through my esophagus and down to my knees. I tasted a salty glimpse of her blood in my mouth from the split lip.

I kissed her back, as hard as I could, one hand finding her hip, the other grazing the back of her neck. Each nerve ending inside me on fire.

I thought she would've pulled back.

She should've pulled back.

But she didn't.

Her kisses became slower, more deliberate. Her tongue at work like a master's paintbrush, and I was somehow her canvas. Her hand curled into my hair, the other hand pressed against my chest, lifting rhythmically with each questioning breath.

Finally, I stopped her. I took one hand and pressed it to her face, following the cords of skin down her chin, neck. "Nat," I said softly. "I'm not… not…"

"Not what?"

"I don't deserve this," I said, hardly able to believe my own words. "Not the real you. If this is a play, you'll break my heart. If it's real… I'll only disappoint you."

She sat back, looking truly confused. "Am I so difficult to read?"

"Honestly?" I responded. "Maybe. But I like puzzles."

She lifted one knee and gracefully rolled off, holding out a hand to me. I accepted her warm grasp and let her help me to my feet.

For a moment, we only stared at each other.

"I need to know why," she said. "I need to know why you don't think you're good enough to do something that makes you happy."

I shook my head. "It's not a conversation to have today."

"But we will have it," she added. "This conversation. You and I."

"Maybe… I don't know..."

She stepped for me again, looking up into my eyes. They were so warm, and searching, and I felt for a moment she could read my mind - even the parts that weren't mine to control.

"Trust me enough to try," she urged. "Someday."

"Yeah. Someday."

She threaded her arms around my neck, and leaned in close.

How many times did I feel lips so close to my cheek only for the words Hail Hydra to flutter against my skin in a poisonous, compliant whisper?

And how many times I had to say it back?

No more, no more, no more… two more, two more, two more shall take it's pla -

She pressed her lips to the neck, just under my ear. A kiss so gentle I could fold into nothing. But instead, I kissed her hair. It smelled like the gym mat.

"This isn't a, uh, see you later soldier, nice knowing you - right?" I asked nervously.

She pulled back. "I'm not giving up on you, Barnes. Not yet."

I can't shake the feeling she is talking about something else entirely.

But I'm becoming too infatuated to challenge her with my self preservation. I'd rather touch her in blissful ignorance than know the truth and shatter the illusion.

As much as I suspect her, I'm manipulating myself more.

...

Focus, Barnes. Focus.

Focus on the mission.

SUV spotted from the night an agent of Shield was murdered in his own home.

I get to the edge of the roof, look down, take aim, edging my body towards the precipice.

The SUV whips around the corner.

I drop, full weight, from the roof.

My body lands with a horrible, metallic groan of the SUV roof caving in. The driver inside feels the impact of the hit with a scream of terror and a quick consideration of accelerating even faster, or slamming on the brakes to dislodge whomever - or whatever - landed.

He opts for the brakes.

The tires squeal to stop, my body thrown from the roof to the hood down below. I punch one hand forward to stop myself, my hand going right through the windshield and turning it into a sparkling kaleidoscope of shattered glass. I grasp the edges of it firmly, the Stark-ungraded gloves keeping me from any real damage.

The car bumps to a halt, burnt rubber scents filling the air and smoke unleashing itself from beneath the hood. I peel back the glass like a bubble patterned shower curtain.

"Randy Vale," I greet.

He responds by taking a shot at me with a handgun.

The bullet spits past me, the boom ringing in my ears. I reach into the front of the car the rest of the way, grabbing the gun out of his hands so fast that one moment he shoots, and the next, he blinks and finds himself weaponless.

I toss his gun into the backseat where he can't reach.

And I turn off my radio.

"Barnes?" says Stark. "Barnes! Come in! Damnit - Sam! He's not responding. One shot. I repeat, one shot."

"I'm getting there as soon as I can," I hear Sam respond. "Three minutes out."

"Vale!" I shout. "Listen to me. Put the car in park. NOW!"

He gasps behind his scraggly, unkept beard, his blue baseball cap mushed by the crash. Nearly weeping with surprise and fear at getting caught, he does as I asked.

"You got two minutes before Falcon gets here and we arrest you, take you in, and grill you about Hydra's contacts with the Vulture," I explain. "So here's what I need you to tell me. Vulture's crew cleaned out Vanchat's lair, didn't he?"

"Y-Yes?" Vale responds haltingly. "Who are you again?"

"You still using the space?"

"Partially, but…"

"Call them now. Tell them to clear out. Warn them that we're coming. When we go," I say, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. "When we go there today, it needs to be empty. You understand me?"

"Barnes, come in!" Stark says.

"Do it NOW!" I scream.

Vale shakily opens his cell phone and puts it to his ear. "Listen, Boss, I've been had," he says. "They're going to go to Vanchat's old space today, so if you're there, be sure to clear out now!" He looks up at me, scared.

"Tell him Pierce's guy did him one favor. ONE."

"One minute out!" Falcon shouts.

"Pierce's guy did you one favor," Vale answers shakily. "He says thanks, pal?"

"Hang up," I command. "If anyone asks, you know nothing, and I said nothing. Got it?"

"I got it?" Vale responds, hanging up the phone. He looks scared out of his mind.

Serves him damn right for being the getaway vehicle for the guys who took out Agent Bryan Parsons last night. Serves him damn right. Bryan was a good man.

"Bucky, come in!"

"How'd you know about Vanchat's stash, anyway?" Vale asks.

I hear the repulsors of Falcon's wings ignite overhead.

"Lucky guess," I answer.

I wind my fist up and jerk him forward. He gives a scream of shock and pain as I tear him out of the driver's seat, right through the broken windshield, and throw him down on the hood.

With a squeal, he slides off and lands in a crumpled heap on the cement in front of the car, twinkling glass shards falling from his jacket and hair.

I turn my radio back on.

"Stark, sorry, I must have hit it on impact," I apologize, getting off the hood and straightening my jacket. "I'm okay. I'm not hit."

I hear Stark blow a breath of relief. "Good to hear."

"Chocolate missile, coming in," Falcon says, and I hear the sudden rush of hydraulic wind as the metal wings unfold just overhead. He shoots towards the ground and lands in a crouch, straightening to a standing position as the wings begin to tuck in and return to the folds on his back. "Woo!" he exclaims, looking at the shattered windshield, and the man on the pavement. "That looks like it hurt big time!"

Vale lies on his back, hands and elbows shaking as he tries to raise his hands defensively.

"Not hurt enough to hold out," I say.

"What can he give us, exactly? He's the damn chauffeur."

I look at Falcon. "Stark had a theory," I say. "Vanchat had a lair of goodies."

"Damn straight I had a theory," Stark replies.

I bend down and rest on my heels, giving Vale a cold look. "And you're going to tell us exactly where to find it when we get back to the Tower."

"Uh, so bad news on that, bro," Falcon replies. "CIA gets to have him. They're sending a car for him now."

"Why does the CIA get to take him away?"

"Easy answer?" Stark responds. "They have jurisdiction, the blessing of the US goverment, everything. We have a Hulk-sized holding cell as a precaution and no privileges for keeping anyone in them."

"We're just the guys that they want in case the world's about to end," Falcon says. "Hate to break it to you, but there's no alien invasion right now. So. We're just Santa Claus in July."

"This is our mission," I point at Falcon. "You, and me. We should get to see it through."

"Maybe that's how it worked for the Howling Commandos, but it don't work like that here," Falcon's expression softens. "Look, man, I get you're trying to help. I really do. You annoy the shit outta me but I respect that. We turn him over."

"How long before they get here?"

"Uh - three minutes?"

"Hmph," I say, turning and leaning down to Vale, resting on my heels and looking into his eyes. "Gimme the address," I say.

"You're wasting your time, man, he won't give us shit," Falcon sighs.

"Give me the address," I say again. "Now."

"It's… it's… there's no address really… it's Jersey," Vale stutters. "New Jersey. He's got a boxcar stashed in Greenville yard. Just industrial waste-land."

Falcon blinks. "Did you just…?"

"Falcon, you and Rhodie could get there…" Stark exclaims. "You could get there in a few minutes, couldn't you? Before the CIA asks him the same question?"

"Hell yeah we could get there," Falcon jolts his elbows out, and the wings erupt. "Hey Brodes, you wana see the Jersey shore?"

"You people always forget I'm here until you need to volunteer me for something I don't feel like doing," Rhodes's voice sighs over the airway. "I've been playing Tetris in my mask. Tetris."

...


Sobriety Garden -Peter Parker


...

I wait until I spot Captain America and Deadpool leaving the waterfront, strutting down the sidewalk to head back to the street where they parked.

The ferry starts to chug away from the platform, the dark green expanse of the river, glassy and thick with waste, grows wider and wider between me and the semblance of safety. I launch myself over the thin, white railing, landing back on the cement ramp.

No one notices me throw myself over the gap.

I run up the ramp, extracting my phone from my pocket. I turn left under the shadow of the Queensboro bridge, and call the number I memorized.

"Hello?"

"Michelle?"

"Who is this?"

"It's Peter. Peter Parker?"

I hear her mouth fall over with surprise. "Hey," she says, overcompensating the casual. "What's up?"

"Is it a bad time?"

"I didn't think you'd call me."

"It's a bad time, isn't it? I'm sorry." I watch the ferry recede into the distance towards the Astoria terminal. Shoulda stayed on it.

"It's a bad time for phones," Michelle replies. "Listen, I don't get a lot of service here, but… where are you right now?"

"Roosevelt island."

"I got… I got a little while before my shift. I was going to study, but…"

"I can help you study," I say brashly.

"You want to help me study?"

"Why not?"

"I don't want to study with you."

"Oh. Okay." I smile into the phone. "Something else then?"

"I'd rather… hang out."

"I can hang," I grin, thinking about hanging upside down with my webs. I wonder if one could hang upside down and kiss someone like that? "I'm… good at hanging."

"Good!" she exclaims. "So… so… come over."

"Where are you?"

She hesitates. "The Sobriety Garden by my work."

"Yeah. Sure. I'll head over."

"Okay," she says slowly. "Uh. Great. See you soon."

I hang up the phone and I glance around. No one is nearby.

No one is watching.

I leap at the base of the bridge, hands grasping the granite foundation and pulling myself up, and up, hand over hand. I crawl up into the beams that criss-cross beneath the deck of the bridge on which traffic blares by unawares, slightly breathless when I reach the top.

I haven't climbed, haven't swung, in so long. I miss by web shooters. I miss feeling free. I miss being a friendly neighborhood good guy and not hurting other people, or pretending to hurt other people. Or standing by while others get hurt.

That's not me and will never be me.

Swinging from beam to beam like a kid at a playground on the monkey bars, I make my way over the sparkling green river on the other side of Roosevelt island till I can safely scuttle down the base to the top of the cement wall running alongside FDR drive.

My phone buzzes. Not the phone for my connection to the Avengers - the other one.

I answer, my voice sounding like a perfect grin. "Hello!" I say, cheerfully, "Peter speaking!"

"Hi Peter," Mason replies, just as cheerfully. "Boss wants to know if you'll be ready in 10 for pick up."

I feel my stomach bottom out in quivering dread. "I - I can't."

Silence.

"Are you at your usual pick up spot, though?" Mason asks confusedly.

"I'm not. I'm across the river."

I hear a voice mutter near Mason.

And then the Vulture's voice.

"Give me that," he says. "Hello? Pedro?"

"Yes sir."

"You're not ready?"

"No, sir, I'm across the river."

"What the hell are you doing across the river?"

"It's my last appointment," I say.

"Your what?"

"Last appointment," I repeat. "For my arm. Y'know. Bellevue?"

Another pause, heady and trickling with suspicion.

"You got that cast off already."

"But really early," I remind him. "Shoulda been on for three or four weeks. Got them to take it off early. As long as I promised to come back for one last appointment. Just to make sure."

I can hear him weighing my lie, searching for truth, and for hints of deception.

"I'm really sorry, I thought I'd be done by now," I say. "I haven't even seen the doctor yet."

"The follow up appointment you should have been worried about was meeting your crew after a risky elimination," Toomes says evenly. "Bryan's unfortunate demise was necessary, but risky. Disappearing the very next day was not advisable. Not by a long shot."

"I'm so sorry, I didn't know. That was my first time."

"How cute," I hear Toomes lean away from the phone and call out. "Don't bother going to the garage, Jackson! He ain't there."

"I'll call Mason as soon as I'm back? I promise."

"You'd better, kid. Get that fucking arm of yours taken care of. Shouldn't have been this much of a bother anyway. Next time we just cut it off, huh?"

I choke out a laugh.

He laughs as if I endear him with my terror and ends the call.

I stand for a moment on the wall, the warmth of sunshine pushing through my jacket and distilling the feverish, icy chills of fear threatening to shake my bones.

It's fine. He took the news well. The fact that I was across the river was nothing but a hiccup in my working relationship.

It's fine.

It's fine.

It's fine.

Yup, just fine.

I walk down the wall till it ends, drop down to the street, and walk on the thin sidewalk until I find an opening where a cab can pull over when I wave it down.

It's only a few miles to the hospital but…

Puppet master at work. I make myself hail a cab, get in the cab, go down the street, get out of the cab, pay the driver. It was only a few extra miles but, I want to spend as much time with MJ as I can before she goes to work.

I want to see her. I want to do something normal. See a pretty girl, talk to a pretty girl. Something so normal in the middle of all this craziness!

The panic attack hits as I walk along the exit from the street to the garden. I'm only a hundred feet away, maybe a hundred and fifty. This close to something so normal -

It starts with the heat, the feeling of pressure closing in on my scalp, running in streams past my ears, hooking its way through my heart and trying to yank it back out through my chest.

The panic is a barbed harpoon and my lungs are the latest catch.

I puke up my breakfast, which splashes into the gutter with a steamy smell of bile and peanut butter.

I bend over, hands on knees, and breathe through it. The nausea lingers, but the heat finally dissipates. I feel gray and thin when it passes, my throat burning.

I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. Definitely won't be kissing anyone anytime soon! Or I do the safe thing and kiss her hand.

Wait, in what universe would I be kissing her hand?

Would this be before or after she grants me her favor with the wave of a white hanky at my latest jousting tournament?

"Fuck this chemistry shit," I hear her mutter before I see her.

I step through the walled entrance to the open-aired garden. Stacks of parked cars frame one side, the other looks over the wall back into FDR street braced with tall, red skyscrapers. Beyond is a glint of the waterfront, which admittedly, might be a more… romantic place.

Not that the garden isn't cool. There's sculptures and plaques. A path winding between the sparse, spindly trees. A really big sculpture in the middle that is shaped like heaving ribbons of black, molten metal folding in on itself to create a sort of mouth shape.

Not… not that I need a romantic venue. Now is not the time to start something.

"Hi," I say. She's sitting on one of the benches, a textbook open on her lap.

She glances up as if we didn't plan to meet here. "Hey," she says, slamming the book shut. "I think I was about to stab myself with a pencil, so, good timing."

"What are you working on?"

"It's the human diet chapter."

"So… eating lots of kale?" I suggest, grinning.

Her hair still has those loose curls that cannot be tied back, her baggy jeans and brown hoodie looking like she raided a brother's closet for today's outfit. But she still looks stunning to me - those eyes. That smirk that she's giving me.

"More like, the human body needs this integral component of the coenzymes…" she starts to read a flash card, but shows it to me instead.

It's a full paragraph and covers the entire index card. Ugh.

"I miss school," I sigh. "I was sorta good at it."

"Shoulda joined the team," she says shortly, flipping the card over, and reading the other side. She sighs in defeat. "I will never understand why…"

"Why what?"

"Why our generation does not get enough riboflavin."

"Riboflavin?"

"Riboflavin," she responds, that dry, unaffected tone making her sound like a bored chemistry teacher just hoping for the day the school burns down on accident. "Um… Vitamin B."

"Oh that's easy," I grin, not even looking at her card. "C-17-H-20-N-4-O-6."

She gives me a glare. "The hell is that?"

"It's the scientific formula," I respond.

She reopens the textbook with a challenging look, skimming her finger down the spine to find the page. "You're right." She looks back up at me. "So chemistry was your thing."

"I was good at it once."

"Science and math."

"Yeah."

"Chemistry was not my thing," she sighs and shuts the book again. "Never got bad grades in it because I'm effing smart, but I preferred reading and drawing. I was good at it."

"Was? I'm sure you're still good at it."

"Maybe, I only do it for fun now."

"Why's that?"

"Because I'm a nursing student now?"

"You can still do the things you love," I answer.

"Oh, yeah," she challenges, "I'll follow your advice when you do, Parker."

I give her a guilty smile. "So… why choose nursing?"

"I'm out of highschool now, I need to go to college to earn a degree for a job that makes money," she shrugs. "Can't draw myself into affording groceries."

"I remember liking your drawings at school."

"I can't remember ever showing my sketchbook to you."

"Yeah - but - you left your art around. Caricatures on the bulletin board... That cartoon on the fourth stall from the left on the second floor bathroom…"

She snorts, proud of the day she managed to sneak in and out of the boy's bathroom, uncaught, and leave some impressively sarcastic sharpie-art on the stall door about STD statistics.

"Does talking to patients help you feel good about becoming a nurse?" I ask.

"What, like you?"

"No, I mean, like, while you're working."

"Sometimes. If I'm giving good news."

"How often do you give bad news?"

"I'm not allowed to give bad news. I can tell someone their BP looks great. If it doesn't, I just recite the numbers. If it means anything the doctor goes in and gives them the speech about high blood pressure and preventative measures." She shrugs "That will change when I'm no longer a student."

"What if they ask, though? Do you have to lie to them?"

"Sort of. I can't… diagnose them. I can say the numbers 'seem a little high'."

"That must be frustrating for you," I say. "As observant and factual as you are."

She gives me an appreciative look. "It is frustrating, thanks for noticing." She gives another index card a casual glance. "How often do you lie for your job?"

I cough, and try to give her a shaky grin. "Oh, uh, you don't wana know."

"What do you do?" she asks pointedly. "You didn't tell me before."

I should have come up with an answer for this ages ago. I open my mouth, and shut it.

"Oh, uh, I do a… well… it's sort of a collection and delivery goods service… drive around a lot… talk to angry customers…"

She looks like she's patiently waiting for my lie to fizzle out. "I saw an article online about your arrest," she says simply.

"...Oh."

"It's okay to admit if you've had a hard time finding a real job after that."

I shake my head. "I got a job."

"I know. But maybe not a good one."

I look away. "Sure."

"I've been told I'm good at reading people."

"Really?" I joke. "You've been told that?"

"I'm picking up maybe this adjustment hasn't gone well for you," she says. "Have you talked to anybody about prison?"

"About prison?" I repeat. "What, like, the other inmates? The food? The showers?"

She hesitates on her next question. "Did something happen to you… in…"

"No, no!" I squeak quickly. "Nothing like that. I mean, I got a little roughed up here and there, just a few big guys feeling punchy. I avoided them easily enough. But nothing like… like…"

"Yeah, okay, just, checking…" She gives me a raised eyebrow. "You're probably wondering why I wanted to meet with you even though you were arrested for assault."

"Um…"

"I don't think you did everything they said you did."

"Why not?"

"I met you first," she says simply. "There's no effing way you would throw a pissy fit because an interview went badly."

I shrug and give her a smile. "But it was for a really good job."

"With the AVENGERS?" she says with disbelief.

"More like an internship with Mr. Stark."

"They had you arrested," she repeats. "It couldn't have been that great. There's more to the story and I know there is. It's fine if you don't tell me."

"I wish I could, it's just…"

"You 'can't'?"

"Yeah."

"Otherwise you'd have to lie."

"Is it weird if I've found out I'm really good at lying?" I ask.

"But you're terrible at lying."

"That's what makes me so good at it," I confess. "Everyone knows that. So I lie through something and either they accept it as a lie or they know I can't lie so they assume it's the truth."

"That makes NO sense."

"I'm sorry, I'm really…"

"When was the last time you slept?"

"Wait, what?"

"Sleeping," MJ draws out each syllable. "Are you sleeping?"

"Not really."

"When was the last time you had a solid night of sleep?"

"Like… three weeks ago?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes…?"

"Jesus, Peter," she looks up at the hospital building leering over us. Then her expression changes, and she gives me a sharp look. It travels down my face, to my chest, legs, and back again to my face. Suddenly she presses the back of her hand to my forehead.

"Again with the temperature thing?" I ask nervously.

"You look like you have the flu."

"I… I don't," I say. "I just, I was having - uh, uh… sort of uh… MOMENT… earlier…"

"A moment."

"I have anxiety," I try to shrug it off. "Lots of people have anxiety."

"Treated. Treated anxiety," MJ says. "Lots of people have it. And get it treated. Have you told anyone?"

"Other than you? No…?" I say. "Should I? I mean, I don't know anything about… it. I just. Can't sleep. Sometimes throw up."

"Did you throw up when you were having this moment?"

"Yes," I admit. "It's gross. I know. I'm sorry."

"So you had a panic attack and then you called me?" MJ looks actually hurt. "Cuz I'm just the nurse you met and you didn't know what else to do…?"

"No, no, MJ," I say quickly. I reach for her arm, but think better of it.

She shifts away. "I agreed to let you come here to my special place, against every instinct I have - meeting me here to see, to see if - if we could be friends, and, you're just, what, thinking I'm an easy way to get into our stock cupboards? Is that it?"

"That's not true."

"Think I can just open a drawer and pull out a few pills for you? Sneak it out in my bag for you? Become your dealer?"

"MJ, stop," I say. "I already called you. The panic attack was on my way here. I promise. I wasn't seeking you out like… like… like I was..."

"Exhibiting drug seeking behavior?"

"Right! I would never do that!" I try to reassure her. "I wanted to see you. Like, like a friend."

"If I offered you drugs, though, to help you sleep," she says stiffly, "Would you take them?"

I tilt my head. "Uh… isn't that illegal?"

She doesn't answer.

"If that put your job in jeopardy, I would never, never accept that. Ever. Especially if it's illegal. Is it illegal? If it is - no, I don't think so. It'd be a bad idea. Really bad."

"So you're not basketball-diaries-ing this thing."

"NO," I say firmly.

"But you admit you would want them, if you could have them."

"I'm trying to be honest with you," I say with a little frustration. "Can I admit that I'm trying to feel normal? I just wouldn't go about it the wrong way. I'm not that kind of criminal."

"I don't know that people who have been released from prison are still called 'criminals'," she says. "I think there's a word for someone post-bail. Ex-con." She puts her textbook into her book bag. "Unless you just admitted what sort of job you have. Something criminal."

I blink. "No."

Also, yes.

"Maybe sometime when you feel like being honest with me," she says, "We can give this friendship thing a try."

I feel crushed. "But not now?"

"It's up to you." She puts her book bag over her shoulder.

"Why is making friends so hard?" I ask.

"It's easier to observe and study than it is to invest emotionally. It's not supernatural."

"I'm sorry you thought I was trying to use you."

She pauses, and sighs. "I'm sorry I suspected you. If I assume the worst in people it keeps me from being disappointed. Fatal flaw of mine."

We stare at each other for a moment.

"Will you call me again?" MJ asks. "If you… if you are… having another moment?"

"I thought it was upsetting if I had?" I say, confused. "Because it would be, like, using you. I don't want to use you. I want to be… friends."

"Here's the thing I've observed about friends, not that I know from personal experience," she says, "Is that they can call anytime. Now that we've cleared the air and I know you don't have some sort of weird expectations of me being your super secret drug dealer, you can call if you need me."

"As a friend and a nurse?"

"Nursing STUDENT," she corrects again. "And yes. If you ever need someone to talk you down in a moment. I will help you."

"I'm not like, depressed or anything," I say.

She gives me a doubtful look. "Okay. Sure. But, if you still need someone, to talk you out of a bad place…"

"I'm not gonna, like, drink and hold a gun to my head and call you like that," I say quickly.

"The fact you'd even say that makes me wonder."

"Don't… don't assume the worst about me? Please."

"Okay, I won't," she says softly.

"You've changed a lot since school," I observe. "You're more empathetic."

"It's called growing up," she rolls her eyes. "It's not the most fun I've ever had." She looks over at the hospital building again, the tired asphalt driveway between FDR and the parking lot littered with papers, an idling ambulance. "I have to go," she says quietly. She hugs her book bag and stands up.

"Can I buy you a cup of coffee sometime?" I ask.

Left field.

Completely left field.

It just, fell out of me.

"Like a date?" she asks, baffled.

What the hell, Peter? You are literally a double agent for a living and you're asking her out? What if this puts her in danger?

I nod. "Yeah."

I'm selfish and a liar and a horrible person and she's so beautiful and smart and good and funny I can't think of anything except giving myself more chances to see her smile -

She looks back at the building, then back at me. "Okay."

"Really?"

"Yeah." She smiles. A real, genuine smile. "Against my better judgment."

"I'm not as crazy as I sound, look, or act," I say. "I promise."

"Oh, that's reassuring," she laughs. "Call me sometime, Peter Parker. No," she corrects, "Call me anytime. I mean it."

"Thanks."

"Okay," she takes a step back. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, course," I reply, giving her a smile. "Have a good shift."

She smiles and walks backwards for a moment, eyes lingering, and then finally turning and trotting with a tired, shuffling walk in no particular hurry towards the back entrance.

As soon as she's inside -

I burst off the park bench like a grenade, running as fast as I can back down the sidewalk. I'm pulling my phone out of my pocket as I run, panting, lungs pumping with the sudden speed and lack of energy.

"Mason here," he answers.

"Mason," I heave, "How badly did I screw this up? Is it too late?"

"Uh, uh, well, no," Mason responds, sounding concerned. "I mean, you didn't screw up. Not really. Boss was irritated because he likes your skills but it's okay. It's too late to join them on this job, but there's another thing tonight."

"What sort of thing?"

"Oh, no, no, I can't…"

"Can't what?"

"I mean, I can tell you about the job tonight, but that doesn't mean you get to go. If the boss wants you, he'll have me call you."

"That's okay. I might as well know anyway so I can be ready if he does."

"We have a big buy going down tonight. A really, really big one. One of the most feared illegal exports dealers in the world is coming here, to New York, tonight, to buy the microprocessors."

"Whatever the hell those are..." I say quickly. "If it goes well, maybe we get a bonus."

"That would be nice," Mason sighs. "I have a niece that could really use some help with her dental bills."

Oh, good, endangering the lives of millions so that a kid can get braces. Great.

"Listen," I say, "I'll be ready in case the boss wants me in on this. Tell him I'm heading back to the garage now, it might take a while. But I am available tonight for anything."

"I'll tell him right away!" Mason promises.

"Thanks, Mason. You're the best."

Mason makes a smiley, coughing sound. "Hey, you know, I know we're never met or anything, but you seem like a stand up guy. Thanks. It really means a lot, you know? I work really hard and rarely get… like, recognized for it. So thanks. I'll sing your praises to Bossman."

"Really. Thank you."

I end the call.

When I get to the bottom of the bridge, I look across the river.

Or I disappear. Run away from it all. Pretend to attack Avengers tower again while I'm on this side of Manhattan so that they have to take me in. Then I'm safe in a holding cell at the tower and no one can get to me, not even Vulture.

It's tempting.

This time, I follow the onramp for pedestrians and walk the bridge like a normal person. It was risky climbing up underneath it today. If local police had spotted me from the island, or from shore, and I had gotten busted… it could have been really, really bad.

It was dumb and I won't do it again.

Tonight is the big night.

I dial my attorney's number again.

"Hello," answers Captain America.

"Cap," I say, "Tonight's the night. They're selling the microprocessors tonight. They said they got the most feared illegal export dealer in the world. I don't know who that is, but it's supposed to go down tonight."

I can hear how pleased he is. "We have an idea of who that might be."

"If they buy it tonight and you guys get them, I'll be done soon, right?"

"That's right."

"I'll call you when I know more. I only have the basics now. But they said tonight. I don't even know if Vulture will let me go, but I'll try and get there."

"Peter, we're going to have you out of that hell-hole sooner than expected. I know we will. Thank you for telling me." Captain America shouts something off mic to Deadpool. "Tonight's the big night. We need to get ready."

...


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Hello Readers!

If there is a Thanksgiving holiday where you live, I hope to post another chapter on that day (for me that's Thursday, November 22nd). Do you guys have any thanksgiving traditions? Anything cool planned for this next weekend if not? Looking forward to "seeing" you guys again when I have a long weekend! Lots of writing will get done I hope.

Love,

Pip


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Reader Personal Replies

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LooneyLovegood1981: Thank you so much! did you enjoy the meeting between the three of them? I had a blast writing it. Felt like Deadpool really started to come into his own here, I treaded carefully when I first started writing him a few chapters ago, but then I really got comfortable and decided to let him loose with his jokes!

Tightpants182: Thank you SO much, wow, what a compliment, I'm dying. Thank you. If you feel like you're right there with Peter, I apologize in advance for future intense crime-fighting content where maybe you're not going to want to be there lol

parisindy: Welcome, thank you so much for joining our little group! Please enjoy! Do send a review if you like what you've read so far and what you think of it!

curry-llama: Ahhh Australia! I love it! Yeah other countries definitely have different drinking laws, the USA is just crazy. like we can buy a gun at age 18 but not a beer?! what the crap? lol. Thank you so much for all the thoughtfulness you put into your reviews, it means a lot! really! It's easy to keep up that slow build of intrigue and intensity (higher heart rates!) because the film this is based on is excellently paced and truly a master of intensity. I definitely recommend watching it when you're done reading my story - if you watch it now you'll get too many spoilers ;)

BeccaRave: Bless you, thank you for your review!


NEXT TIME: It's the night of the big sale for the microprocessors - and supposedly, the end of Peter's undercover career. The Vulture wants to sell to the world's most renowned, murderous collector of international weapons, and the Avengers will be there to stop it from happening...


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