Chapter Text
Peter sits down at his desk—well, it’s supposed to be a desk. If you wanted to be super technical about it, it’s just a pile of textbooks covered by a tablecloth he’d scavenged from Aunt May’s the second time he moved out. But there aren’t any concrete rules about what does and doesn’t count as a desk. It’s an abstract thing, really.
He opens the notebook in front of him, ripping out the first few pages. He doesn’t need them, and he isn’t going to buy a whole new notebook for this. That’s the entire point.
On a clean page, Peter starts writing.
‘The Leech Diet™ - A Scientific Approach to Being Broke’
Peter pauses, pen hovering over paper. It’s not a scientific approach. Not really. Though, to be fair, it depends on how you go about it all, and Peter is a scientist at heart. He underlines the words.
‘The Leech Diet™ - A Scientific Approach to Being Broke’
Now, at this point, Peter would have leaned back in his chair, maybe cackled a bit in the moonlight, but his chair isn’t exactly a chair per se. It is actually more scientifically referred to as a pile of textbooks softened by a cushion he’d taken from Aunt May. But there aren’t any concrete rules as to what counts as a chair, either, so whatever.
He could cackle, though; cackling was free.
*
The key to this experiment is not telling anyone about the experiment. That is the only rule. He should also probably spend less time at his apartment. He’s not likely to find many Good Samaritans hanging around his ‘open plan’ kitchen-living-dining-bedroom. Or bathroom.
Speaking of Good Samaritans, “Hey Deadpool.”
Deadpool jumps, mid-bite of his burger, causing the lettuce to slip out and fall on the table in a soggy heap. Which kinda sucks because the only reason Peter sought out Deadpool was because he was craving Mexican.
Before the Merc can speak, Peter point at lettuce, “You going to eat that?”
Deadpool swallows, chokes, then swallows again, but somewhere in between it all, he manages to shake his head, which is good enough for Peter, who eats it.
Deadpool’s mask contorts. “You hungry, Spidey, or just trying to get your Five-A-Day? Because if you want, I can buy you a whole entire burger over there, el rapido,” he points a thumb towards the burger truck behind him, ‘Burger Truck NYC’, “or a salad, whatever you fancy.”
“Yes,” Peter nods, “Please.”
“Alrighty, my little Spidey. Never fear
Sir Deadpool is here.” He salutes and walks over to the truck. Peter following him eagerly. “So, did you say you wanted a salad or a burger? Salad, right?”
Peter internally pouts. When would he ever pick a salad over a burger?
Deadpool pauses, turning back to Peter, “Or a burger?”
“Whichever is fine. I don’t mind,” he says, nodding frantically.
*
That evening, Peter sits at his desk and scribbles down his findings. Deadpool was an adequate source of food, although after they ate, he insisted on dragging Peter around the entire city. He probably aided and abetted in at least seven felonies.
Was it worth it for four cheeseburgers? Results remain inconclusive.
*
The next day, Daredevil calls Peter over to ‘investigate’ an underground gambling ring. As civilians.
“You say investigate, but really you mean beat everyone up to an inch of their lives.”
“I only beat them up if they deserve it.” Matt corrects.
“They always end up deserving it.” Peter corrects his correction.
Matt turns to Peter, “I suppose you’ve got a point.”
They are in the lobby of a fancy hotel that’s connected to an even fancier restaurant, trailing the supposed ringleader. It’s approaching dinner time, and Peter has already skipped breakfast.
“I don’t know why you rang me, Matt. You seem to be doing fine on your own. He’s eating a crumpet. That doesn’t require a second opinion. We should go inside the restaurant. So you can hear him chewing in 4K.” Peter says.
“I can hear him chewing fine from here. What’s on the paper he’s holding?” Matt says.
“Oh. He’s trying to discreetly blackmail the woman he’s with. He’s got pictures of her with her lover.”
It went on like that for a geological amount of time. Peter thinks he might shrivel up and die.
“It’s been ten minutes, Peter. You’ll live.” Matt snaps.
Peter crosses his arms. Not because he’s sulking, but so he doesn’t fidget. “Fine.”
Things over in the restaurant are starting to get slightly heated. Peter’s hearing isn’t as good as Matt’s, but it seems like Crumpet guy wants to absorb his partner's side of the ‘business’. Blackmail only works if the woman you want to blackmail can’t blackmail you right back.
Matt suddenly speaks, making Peter jump. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Why? Are you hungry? Because if you’re hungry, I’m hungry. We could totally get a bite to eat right now. I’m sure these losers,” Peter waves towards the criminals, “will be here when we get back.”
Matt looks slightly taken aback, “No, I just ate. It’s just that I can barely hear what they’re saying over your stomach growling.”
“But you have crazy good hearing!”
“I know.”
Peter is saved from having to reply when he feels electricity shoot down his spine. He barely has time to duck to the ground and pull Matt down with him before shots are fired.
“Why are they shooting?” Peter yells over the din from behind the couch they’d decided to use as cover.
“I don’t know, I couldn’t hear!” Matt hisses back.
“Please tell me you brought your suit,” Peter says, ripping his own t-shirt off to reveal his suit underneath. Though even as he says it, he realises he has no idea where Matt would actually keep his suit. His Kevlar was a lot bulkier than Peter’s spandex. It wouldn’t exactly hide under Matt’s lawyer getup…
“Wait! Where do you—” Peter looks up to see he’s alone. He yanks on his mask, turning to the fight—just in time to see Daredevil already inside the restaurant, serving a lethal kick to some poor thug’s head. It’s fine. He doesn’t think he wants to know anyway.
Spider-Man shepherds the remaining civilians to safety, so Daredevil can knock the lights out. The problem with Matt’s favourite strategy is that it makes everyone blind, which isn’t a problem for him, as he likes to remind anyone who bothers to ask. Peter, on the other hand, is quite attached to his own eyesight, thank you very much.
“What’s the point of having super hearing and Spidey-Senses if you’re not going to use them!” Matt groans, his voice slightly strained. Peter is sixty-two percent sure someone has him in a headlock. Matt makes a throaty choked noise. Scratch that: seventy-two percent. Another downside of the lights-out thing.
“It’s Spider-Sense. And I can make do fine, it’s just inconvenient.” Peter grumbles. He wishes Deadpool were here; he’d probably bring snacks.
The fight is over in record time. Mostly because after the lights went out, everybody got a little trigger-happy. Emphasis on the friendly fire.
“Fuck!” Daredevil gives his opponent one last kick. The poor guy groans and curls in on himself pitifully.
“Jeez, DD, talk about kicking a guy while he’s down,” Peter says.
“They got away,” he growls.
Oh, yeah. Another downside to the whole lights-out thing. The most important guys and gals aren’t going to stick around for the main brawl, and it’s hard to keep track of who’s where. But Peter is smart enough not to say that aloud. “Hey, Y’know what’ll make you feel better? Food. I bet you’re feeling real hangry right now.” Peter says instead.
Daredevil pauses, cocking his head, “Fine.”
Food really is the solution to everything.
“Let me just find my clothes.” Peter says from under the couches in the parlour, “I’m sure they were here somewhere.” Coming up for air, he opens his fist to see that all he found was a dust bunny. That name is excessively cute for what is essentially just a domestic tumbleweed. Drat. He really liked that t-shirt.
Finally, they begin searching for the closest place that serves food, in near silence. Well, Daredevil walks in near silence.
“I saw this thing where this guy trained himself to jump, like, really high by digging himself into a hole and jumping out of it every day,” Peter says.
Matt furrows his brows—at least, Peter assumes. They’re both still wearing their masks. Matt’s hiding a gnarly black eye, and Peter Parker can’t be seen wandering around with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen on a Tuesday night. Not that he had a change of clothes anyway. “How would that make him jump higher?”
“Because every day, he would dig the hole a tiny bit deeper.”
Eventually, Daredevil’s nose leads them to a restaurant.
“An Alternative, Vegan Greek Place. Really?” Peter wrinkles his nose. Is it in violation of the Diet to complain about the food? Does Matt even know he’s paying?
“How do you know it’s an alternative, vegan Greek place?” Daredevil asks.
“Because that’s literally the name. It’s called ‘The Alternative, Vegan Greek Place’. It says so up there on the sign.”
Ordering takes a long time.
“If you just read the menu, instead of complaining about every item, it wouldn’t take long,” Matt says. They ended up at the corner table, Matt in a faded blue chair with orange flowers, and Peter in one with pink and yellow stripes. Peter appreciates this place’s appreciation of thrifted furniture. It was one thing rich and poor people had in common.
“Hey, don’t blame me because they don’t have a braille menu. I thought this place was supposed to be all hip and forward.” Peter complains because Matt obviously didn’t get it the first time. “Look! ‘Moussaka Minus the Moussaka’, that’s just a twenty-five-dollar plate you can’t even keep. And they have twelve types of dips—”
“Hi, guys! Ready to order?” A young waitress pops up out of nowhere, even managing to make Matt jump. She must be trained in some kind of Secret, Alternative, Greek stealth technique.
“Umm…”
“Just so you know, everything is ethically sourced, gluten-free, organic and, most importantly, plant-based…” Peter groans loudly and zones himself out of her rambling. She is offensively happy, “…the Greek concept of Eudaimonia.”
Eudaimonia? He didn’t see that on the menu. “What’s—” Peter starts, only to be cut off by Daredevil’s aggressive head shaking, “Never mind.”
She carries on talking. Something about dietary fibre, Peter thinks. When she eventually pauses to gasp for air, they take the chance to order. Peter looks at Matt expectantly. That’s how the Leech Diet works.
Crazy Vegan Girl taps her pen on her notepad.
Matt sighs, “I’ll take that.” He jabs a finger at the menu blindly. Then turns to Peter. Peter says nothing, “He’ll take that as well.” Crazy Vegan Girl’s short brown hair is practically bouncing with excitement, while she sings her praises over the air-fried tofu and activated almonds Matt apparently ordered.
“Drinks?” She says after she’s exhausted the topic.
“Two waters,” Matt says.
“Mineral or Alkaline?”
“Tap.”
The waitress finally walks away, “Thank Go-I mean, gosh, she’s gone.” Peter says, once she’s out of earshot.
“Will you stop talking so loudly!” Matt hisses.
“I’m not! Not everyone has bat ears, DD.”
“You don’t need bat ears when you start yelling in an empty room.”
Peter looks around, “It’s not empty, there’s—“ They’re the only customers. “Oh.”
It doesn’t matter. He’s Spider-Man.
When the food arrives, they’re presented with two steaming bowls of…
“Air‑Fried Tofu Slabs with Chickpea Brine Reduction.” The waitress says.
Yeah, that.
Daredevil nods and thanks her politely until she finally leaves.
Peter decides to wait for him to try the food first. Just in case.
Matt’s lips are pressed tightly together as he slowly lifts the fork up to his face. He sniffs it twice and eventually takes a small bite.
“How is it?” Peter asks.
“It’s… not bad,” Matt grimaces.
“You’re not filling me with a whole lotta confidence here, Double D.” Is it against the integrity of the Leech Diet to refuse food? Peter’s stomach decides for him.
He tries a piece. “You can definitely taste the chickpeas.” He offers. Then puts his fork down.
Matt takes another bite. Then another.
Peter stares. “Seriously?”
“The kitchen is clean; they don’t use harsh chemicals… and it cost money.” Matt looks slightly sheepish.
That’s not fair! Peter picks up his fork again; he cannot be outeaten by Matthew Michael Murdock. Deadpool would never let him live it down. He eats another mouthful. Immediately washing it down with the non-mineral, non-alkaline tap water. No meal should require a chaser.
Matt pauses, “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.”
With difficulty due to the minimal amount of chewing, Peter swallows his tofu, “You bought it for me.” And he’s hungry.
“I’ll order you a burger afterwards?”
Peter sits up, “Really?” But he doesn’t push the tofu away, he will not get outeaten.
“But only if you tell me why you thought it was a good idea not to eat all day. Then go out as Spider-Man on top of that. I can hear your stomach, it’s completely empty.”
There is one rule. “Um… Money’s been a little tight recently?” Peter says. More like non-existent, but semantics. His gig at the Bugle has dried up because, apparently, Spider-Man isn’t interesting enough for the papers anymore. Jameson’s been asking for pictures of increasingly obscure heroes. Seriously, who the hell willingly calls themselves Squirrel Girl?
“Eat your tofu.”
“Okay, Dad.”
*
The notebook, which Peter creatively dubbed ‘The Leech Handbook’, received many interesting entries that day.
Daredevil becames surprisingly philanthropic if a teammate’s borborygmi compromised the stakeout.
Sheer will and an empty stomach can't make Chickpea Brine edible.
The burger was good, though. Ten out of ten. Very greasy.
*
Peter is at that point in his life where patrol isn’t new or exciting anymore. He’s Spider-Man; this is New York City. He has seen it all. In the past, he patrolled when his Peter Parker Problems got too big. That hasn’t changed. But now it’s just one very specific problem. What to have for lunch.
Did he feel guilty accepting a free hot dog from that place in downtown Manhattan because he saved the vendor from the Scorpion that one time? Only for the first few weeks. Then he realised having a beloved superhero perched on top of your cart is free publicity anyway. It’s a symbiotic relationship, and he’s a better choice than Venom. Hence Leech Diet.
“Hey, lady! Are you seriously not going to get ketchup on your dog? Can you even call yourself a New Yorkian?”
The woman jumps, and her mustard smears itself expertly on her professionally pressed white shirt.
“You mustard heard me wrong. I didn’t say get rid of the mustard, I said add some ketchup.”
Mustard Lady is starting to look dangerously close to unnecessary physical violence, which Peter takes as a cue to swing off. One measly hot dog was not filling enough for all this hassle. That won’t stop him coming back tomorrow, though.
Patrol might not feel new and exciting after six years, but that doesn’t mean it’s not fun and rewarding. Especially when someone is pressing a steaming bowl of white rice and authentic Kung Pao Chicken into your hands after you fix her car. The chicken was really good. Peter hopes his double thumbs-up gets the point across, despite the language barrier. Though he did hear something about the thumbs-up being the equivalent of a middle finger in China. Is it China? Is Peter flipping off this sweet, old woman right now?
He spent the next hour helping Mrs Lang apply for car insurance, “because I might not be in the neighbourhood next time your car breaks down. And let me tell you, Mrs Lang, those emergency breakdown services will extort you.”
There’s the squeak of an unoiled door opening, immediately followed by a crash, smash and a string of curses. Mrs Lang, for some reason, doesn’t seem fazed. Although there is a certain tightness in her expression that wasn’t there before.
“You stay here, Mrs Lang. I’ll go check it out.” Peter gets up and slowly approaches the front door. His Spider-Sense isn’t tingling, at least.
There, on the ground, beside a broken glass vase, is a thirty-something man. His clothes have that look. As if he’s spent several days living and sleeping in them straight. The man is still muttering to himself. A grating hum of tangled Mandarin and English.
He crouches down, “Hey, dude, you need a hand?” Peter asks.
The man looks up. His eyes blinking, unfocused, pupils blown wide. He says something in Mandarin then, at Peter’s blank look, tries again in English, “What’re you… here?” he slurred.
Peter assumes he means ‘Why are you here?’ although it could just as easily be ‘What are you?’ seeing as he is a random guy in a red spandex suit.
“I’m Spider-Man. I was just helping Mrs Lang over—” Peter turns and jumps slightly when he sees the woman right behind him, looking down at the man… Angrily? “—here, with her car. Do you know this guy, Mrs Lang?”
“He told me he wouldn’t ever come back in this state.” She snaps, then looks down at the man, and starts screeching, “Get out! Get out and don’t come back until you buy me a new vase!” It must’ve been an expensive vase.
The man stares blankly. Probably still processing. Peter helps him up. “Do you have a place to stay?” e asks as gently as he can over the woman’s yelling. The man continues to stare ahead blankly, leaning on Peter heavily. “Alright,” he sighs, “Mrs Lang, could we please use your sofa while I call this guy a cab?”
The cab couldn’t arrive soon enough. Mrs Lang looks two seconds away from summoning a lightning storm to smite them all. Peter wouldn’t be surprised if she could. He should ask Thor.
Luckily, Peter has enough cash in his boot to pay for the cab and a night at a passable motel. (It helps, not paying for groceries all the time.) He buckles the guy in the car. And gives the cabbie extra to make sure the guy makes it inside the motel.
Throughout the entire process, Mrs Lang stood by the door, looking like she’d been forced to swallow a very sour lime. As soon as he leaves, she turns away, muttering in a low, bitter hum of Mandarin. Peter couldn’t know for sure, but he suspects they were the type of words Aunt May would make him wash his ears out just for hearing.
“Thank you for helping my son, Spider-Man.” She says.
“Oh, it was no—Wait, your son?”
“Yes, my deadbeat, good-for-nothing, low-life scum of a son!” She snaps, “I told him he would never step into my house using that stuff again.”
Peter bends down and starts to clean up the broken vase. He hadn’t realised how much English Mrs Lang actually knew. Apparently, you just had to get her angry.
“—And then those bad men started coming here…”
Peter whips around, “What bad men?”
“They spoke about the money. Loans. I don’t know,” she shakes her head, as if to dislodge the bad memories.
“When did they last come here?”
“Five, six months ago? Jun said he would take care of it. Then he started using…”
“Don’t worry, Mrs Lang, I’ll keep an eye out for those guys and see if I can do anything for Jun.” Peter drops the glass in the bin; his mind running marathons, “Take care!” he calls when he’s already halfway out the window.
*
Peter’s mind kept replaying the day's events over and over like one of Ben’s old records.
He starts scribbling in The Leech Handbook.
Hot dog was good, obviously. Reliability of source may be in jeopardy due to mustard-related mishaps.
It’s a pity Peter’s such a good mechanic. That Kung Pao Chicken was good, but there was no way that old car would be breaking down any time soon. Mrs Lang could probably pass it on to her kids as an heirloom. And then Peter remembers Jun, and his brain starts sprinting again.
*
Peter is annoyed.
It’s unreasonably cold for March, Jameson was shouty, exams are soon, it’s laundry day, and he’s hungry. And now, when the only thing he wanted to do was curl up in bed and conserve heat without actually turning his heating on, Matt decides to drag him over to the Kitchen to do his dirty work. At least it’s not snowing, but that means all the old snow has melted into brown, radioactive-looking sludge, which is arguably worse.
“Hey, webs, what’s with the frown?
I betcha I could turn it upside down.”
And Deadpool is here.
Daredevil drops in from somewhere, all sweaty and scuffed up, from beating and then interrogating the bad guys. “Thanks for having my back there, Spider-Man,” he says, crossing his arms.
Peter can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. He never can with Matt…Or most people. He probably Is, though, since Peter hasn’t actually helped much. He did set someone’s dislocated arm. “
Yeah.” Peter says, shooting a web half-heartedly at some already-tied-up thug’s mouth. The guy’s voice was whiny.
“No fair! I helped way more than Spider-Man,” Deadpool interjects. “He’s just been sulking over here the entire time.”
If Peter felt like talking, he’d say something about how he isn’t ‘sulking’. Peter looks past Deadpool, at the two guys the Merc ‘helped’ with. One has a dislocated shoulder, and the other is out cold and missing half his hair.
They’re emptying out a money laundering front, CleanCoin Laundry. That reminds him, it’s laundry day. Ugh.
“I didn’t even invite you.” Daredevil snaps at Deadpool, “Spider-Man, why did you bring him here?”
“I didn’t, he… followed me,” Peter grumbles, nudging a pebble with his foot. It shoots into the air and disappears. Whoops.
Shielding his eyes with a hand, Deadpool tracks the pebble as it flies through the sky into the stratosphere, “Seriously, Spidey, what burrowed itself up your glorious ass this morning?”
Peter bristles, “Nothing I—"
“Let’s go eat!” Daredevil announces, “Deadpool, what was that Greek place you were talking about?”
Greek? It had better not be that Alternative Vegan Greek Place again.
“Not the Vegan one,” Daredevil assures. Apparently, he can hear thoughts now, too.
Daredevil turns back to Deadpool. The two seemed to be doing that weird telepathic thing some people did, where they could talk without talking. It didn’t help Peter’s bad mood.
*
“Hola. Ready to order?”
The guy at the Greek food truck (‘No. Uno Gryros’) looks infinitely more bored and unenthusiastic compared to the waitress at The Alternative, Vegan Greek Place place. Peter has hope that they might actually be served real food this time. Despite the name, No. Uno Gryros doesn’t just serve Gyros but a whole range of Greek and Mexican cuisine, which makes sense when you realise the owners are Mexican and have zero connections to Greece.
Both Deadpool and Daredevil turn towards Peter expectantly.
Peter shrugs.
For a moment, everyone stands at a stalemate. Finally, Daredevil breaks the silence.
“Seriously?” his voice is incredulous, “You’re not going to order for yourself? Are you a child under that mask?”
One rule. Peter shrugs again.
Daredevil’s shoulders sag. He turns to the vendor in defeat, “Two Chicken Gyros,” he looks back at Peter, “actually make that seven—”
Deadpool all but shoves him away to rattle off his unnecessarily long order.
“Chicken souvlaki, fried halloumi, fries… make that four fries, hummus, chimichangas, those spana-whatsit quesadilla thingies. Oh! And guacamole. Loads of guac muchas por favor.”
Daredevil looks repulsed by Deadpool’s gluttony, “I’m not paying for that.” He says as they head towards their wobbly table.
Deadpool waves a hand flippantly, “Don’t get your rosary in a twist, Red. Sir Deadpool will pay for himself and little ol’ Spidey over here.” He puffs his chest out and roughly claps Peter on the back.
Peter’s starting to regret the experiment.
Matt’s head snaps towards Deadpool, “No, you won’t!” he says quickly, “I’ll pay for him. You can take care of yourself. No one even invited you here!”
Peter was really starting to regret the experiment.
“I ordered more food for Websy. Therefore, folk law ordains that I, Deadpool, am the rightful obligor.”
Before Matt can reply, Peter breaks his unofficial vow of silence, “Websy?”
“Spider-Man is such a mouthful, Baby Boy.”
“Baby Boy has the same number of syllables. You have no problem with that!”
Deadpool scratches his chin thoughtfully, “You’re right, Baby Boy.”
Peter groans. He blames it on the laundry.
The food arrives quickly. Quicker than The Alternative, Vegan Greek Place. Their order came spread over two trays, thanks to Deadpool’s disgusting overconsumption.
Matt immediately pushes six of his gyros towards Peter, and Deadpool dumps fistfuls of fries and chimichangas on his plate. Wade also pours him horchata from a jug Peter hadn’t even realised they ordered, accidentally-on-purpose spilling a bit on Matt’s gyro. That earns him a hard kick in the shin. The force of it sent half the horchata splashing into his own meal.
Wade lets loose a string of curses that Aunt May would have punished Peter for hearing by subjecting him to hours of Shakespeare. ‘Until all the old English has scrubbed that rotten language out.’
“What’re those boots made of!” Wade whines, self-soothing with a big bite of one of his driest quesadillas. He immediately chokes and spits it out, wordlessly pushing the rest towards Peter.
Matt makes a disgusted noise and pulls his food away from the glob of half-chewed quesadilla that sits soggily in the middle of their table now.
Peter picks up a quesadilla. One corner is slightly soggy and smells of cinnamon, but Peter’s not sure that’s intentional. “What’s wrong with it?” he asks.
Wade splutters, “What’s not wrong with it? Who desecrates a perfectly good quesadilla with spinach?” he points accusingly at Matt, “You said this place was good!”
“Everyone knows not to order the fusion stuff.” Matt shrugs and goes back to his gyro. Not even trying to hide his smugness.
“He’s right,” Peter says, “It’s like, the first rule of New York.”
Peter takes a bite of the quesadilla—avoiding the soggy, cinnamony bit—instantly regretting it. Only with extreme self-control does he avoid adding to the mound of half-chewed food on the table; instead, he spits it out on the ground and kicks it away. It rolls under another table.
Matt doesn’t appreciate his restraint and gives him the same disgusted look he gave Deadpool, wrinkling his nose.
“So, what was so important about those guys that you dragged me and Deadpool out to help you beat them up?” Peter asks, deciding to change the subject away from soggy Spana-whatsit-dillas.
“I did not drag Deadpool anywhere. Those men had intel on the Lighthouse Gambling Ring.” Matt sighs dramatically, as if this wasn’t a hobby he did, completely of his own free will. “Apparently, the gambling ring isn’t just a gambling ring—”
Wade burps loudly.
Matt, who had been lifting his gyro for a bite, regretfully sets it back down.
“Debt bondage. Those money launderers are loan sharks on the side. When someone can’t keep up with the payments, they push them toward the gambling tables. For a chance to ‘win it back.’ When that doesn’t work, they can be recruited without pay to work off the loan and the money they lost gambling.”
So, slavery. Peter can’t tell if Matt’s disgust is directed towards Deadpool or the systemic criminal exploitation of the poor.
Suddenly, Wade leaps up from his seat, sending his chair flying. He snatches the last bite of Matt’s gyro and sprints towards the food truck. Matt doesn’t waste a second before chasing after him.
The effort is futile, though. That gyro is definitely deep into Deadpool’s digestive track by now. Peter follows them anyway. For entertainment.
Peter stands behind Deadpool. So when Deadpool steps back on Peter’s toes, pinning him in place and leaving him wide open for a fatal elbow to the gut, Peter can’t blame anyone but himself.
Deadpool turns to see Peter doubled over, clutching his stomach, “Oops. Didn’t see you down there, Spidey-Widey.”
Peter wheezes weakly in response and seeks refuge out of the line of fire on top of the truck.
Taking advantage of Deadpool’s momentary distraction, Daredevil launches himself at the pale-faced vendor, threateningly waving a wad of cash in his face. The entire display is far more intimidating than it has any business being.
Deadpool tracks Peter’s gaze down to Daredevil and starts using his entire body to try push Matt out of the way.
What did the poor vendor have to do with Daredevil’s gyro?
“Please stop waving cash at me.” The kid is way too young to be caught up in a vigilante turf war. He’s leaning as far back as possible in the cramped truck, which only gives Daredevil and Deadpool more room to lean forward. The entire thing shakes with their combined effort, pots and pans clanging against each other.
“Just take the money, kid,” Daredevil growls.
“I would, sir, but your friend has a knife.”
Daredevil rounds on Deadpool, “Don’t threaten him!” he focuses on the vendor again, who shrinks under his glare, “If you take my money, you will be under Daredevil’s protection for the rest of my life. I give you my word.”
Deadpool calls out from behind (having been shoved away), “He can protect you for the rest of his life, but—in case you don’t know—I am immortal.”
“You didn’t even order him any food! I was the one who got him his gyros.” Matt argues.
Deadpool starts balling up ten-dollar notes and launches them towards the vendor, who ducks under the counter with a yelp.
With a cry of outrage, Matt starts catching the money missiles and firing them back towards Deadpool, simultaneously flinging his own notes into the truck.
Peter was starting to think this wasn’t just about the gyro.
*
In the flickering half-gloom of a single tealight (for atmosphere, totally not because he is rationing his electricity), Peter writes.
Note to self: DO NOT mix laundry day and Leeching.
Unexpected anomaly occurred during transaction due to incompatibility of sources. May lead to excessive and pugnacious payment. Spinach does not belong in quesadillas.
Peter wondered if the gyros could be considered as an extraneous variable.
Finally, at the bottom of the page, he wrote:
Leeching (verb) To follow and adhere to the Leech Diet™
*
Spider-Man, Daredevil and Deadpool break into someone’s basement. Spider-Man and Daredevil are becoming increasingly concerned about Deadpool’s presence becoming a regular thing.
“Hey, hey, Deadpool. Tell me another,” Peter demands. He’s grasping onto a wooden chair for support, forcing his words out in short gasps because he’s laughing so hard.
The man webbed to the chair has to plant his feet on the floor to save both himself and Spider-Man from toppling over. The mole on his right cheek is shaped like a heart.
Matt runs a tired hand down his face. He’s sitting politely on a stool at the bar. As if he isn’t also an intruder who’d just knocked out the owner and helped tie him to the chair. “Don’t tell him another story. He’s about to pass out.”
Deadpool rolls his eyes, which is impressive to convey in a leather mask. He’s spread out, lounging on Heartface’s couch in the conversation pit, his muddy boots staining the cushions. “He won’t pass out.” He says, raising his voice over Peter’s hysterics, “I haven’t even told Web-Head about that time with the cannibal tribe in Honolulu. So here I am, all paprika’d up and shish-kebabbed over a fire. When—”
The room swims, and a sharp yelp cuts Deadpool off when Heartface is thrown off balance by Peter and tumbles to the floor. They both land in a clumsy heap.
“I didn’t even get to the punchline yet,” Deadpool pouts.
The last thing Peter hears is Daredevil’s sharp voice bouncing around the walls.
“I told you he would pass out!”
Peter comes to when he feels something stab his thigh.
“Get. Off. Me.” Heartface orders, which is funny since he’s the hostage here.
They should probably be more intimidating.
Daredevil and Deadpool are still too busy bickering to notice Peter and Heartface’s predicament.
“It’s not my fault, I’m funny, Red. Spider-Man’s just got a weak constitution!”
Prompted by another unnecessarily violent jab in the leg, Peter groans and pushes himself up. The man pokes him again.
“Stop that!” Peter snatches the stabby thing away, “Hold on, why do you have a knife? Hostages don’t get pocketknives.” He confiscates the weapon and tucks it safely into his belt.
Daredevil notices him first, “Spider-Man, are you okay?” he asked, cutting off his argument with Deadpool. He helps Peter up, then rights Heartface’s chair.
Peter opens his mouth to reply, but before he can answer, his stomach growls. Loudly.
Matt cocks his head slightly; his lips pressed into a thin line. “Wh—”
Peter’s stomach rumbles again, vibrating across the room.
Matt pauses, then tries once more, “When was—"
He spins around to glare at Deadpool, “Will you stop counting!”
Deadpool, who’d been muttering numbers under his breath the entire time, props himself up to meet Daredevil’s gaze. “Flash-to-Bang.”
Peter doesn’t understand. He doubts Deadpool does either.
“Hold on a moment,” Peter turns towards Heartface, “If you had that little knife this entire time, why didn’t you try to get out of the webs?”
He gives Peter a bleak look. “And then? Daredevil would just put me back. With a black eye.”
“And me! Spider-Man will also give you a black eye.”
Heartface raises a brow. “Son, you just passed out from laughing too hard.”
Peter snaps his mouth shut.
Daredevil leans forward. “Was it because you laughed too hard, or because you’ve decided to shirk food altogether?”
“I—” Peter winced. Daredevil always plays dirty. Neither option is good, so he chooses neither. “I didn’t faint.”
Silence. No one has anything to say to that which Peter considers a win.
Well, besides Deadpool, who is still muttering numbers. He’s missed twelve so far.
Daredevil finally finds his tongue, “That wasn’t you fainting right now?”
“Nope.” Peter straightens, hoping he’s projecting confidence, “I’ve been trying this new thing out. They’re called micronaps.”
Deadpool gives up counting, “Storm’s getting closer, Spidey,” he says solemnly.
“What?” Peter blinks. Something must be wrong—wronger with the Merc.
“That’s not how that works.” Daredevil snaps.
Deadpool points at Peter’s stomach, “Those weren’t normal stomach growls. They were thunderous.”
Peter wraps his arms around himself, offended, “My stomach isn’t thunderous.”
“What I’m trying to say is you need some carbs stat, Webhead. Or you might have another micronap,” Deadpool says.
Heartface flashes Peter a frightened look. “Take whatever you want,” he nods towards the kitchen, “Just please do not faint on me again.”
Despite the Diet, Peter isn’t sure he wants to leech off a criminal. Daredevil’s glare unfairly makes his decision for him. He shoves his chair back, letting it screech loudly on the floor. Matt’s jaw clenches.
The kitchen is one of those fancy ones where everything is hidden in a cabinet. The fridge, the microwave, the toaster. There’s also an entire floor-to-ceiling cabinet labelled ‘Protein Solutions’. Whatever that means.
Peter opens a cupboard at random. “These aren’t snacks! This is gerbil food!” he says, outraged.
Without turning to look (not that he could anyway), Heartface sighs. “Not that one. The fridge is in the other one.”
Peter thinks he could be politer about it. He reaches towards the next cabinet anyway.
“Not that one either. It’s the one to the left.”
Peter reaches towards the cabinet and pauses. Heartface doesn’t say anything, so he opens it. It’s the fridge. “This is all just beer!—Argh! Is that a rat?” Peter screams, slamming the fridge shut.
“That’s for Gerald,” Heartface says wearily.
“Who’s Gerald?” Wade asks, skipping over and opening the fridge to get a look for himself. Peter takes several steps back.
“My Ball Python. The food’s behind the beer,” Heartface explains as if it were obvious.
Wade reaches into the fridge.
“No, on the second shelf.”
Wade finally finds the food and tosses it towards Peter. Then he grabs three beers. Two for himself and one for Matt.
Turns out Heartface’s ‘food’ consists of a dozen banana-flavoured protein milkshakes. Peter looks at the bottle in disgust, turning it over in his hands. “What is this place anyway?” He gestures around the basement.
Alongside the conversation pit and kitchen, there’s a massive TV, multiple gaming consoles, a punching bag and even a pool table. The air is thick with the scent of pine and musk.
“Webs, this is obviously a man cave. A mojo dojo casa basement,” Deadpool gulps his beer and points confidently towards the horse painting, as if it’s definitive proof.
Peter rolls his eyes. Deadpool says everything with confidence.
“You said your guys were on the way,” Daredevil accuses Heartface, popping open his own beer.
“They’re coming, they’re coming, Christ,” Heartface grumbles.
They’ve been waiting for almost an hour to ambush a few guys involved with the Lighthouse Gambling ring. Peter is starting to doubt Heartface, but if he’s trying to buy time, he isn’t making good use of it. He’d been strangely docile after the initial struggle.
Under Daredevil’s stare, Peter reluctantly opens the milkshake and takes a sip, then a gulp. It’s not bad, but he makes a face anyway. To maintain appearances.
Wade is crouching in front of some sort of cabinet. He taps the glass.
“Stop that! You’ll stress him out.” Heartface snaps.
Peter crouches down next to Wade. It’s a gerbil that’s kinda just lying there. Peter pauses, glancing around the room if the gerbil is here...
“Where’s the snake?” Daredevil asks, clearly thinking the same thing as Peter.
Heartface shrugs as much as he can in the webs, “Gerald likes to free roam.” He says it in a ‘you know how it is’ kinda tone. Peter does not know how it is.
“Well, he’s not in the basement.” Matt sounds slightly sick. He abruptly turns to the door, almost expectantly.
Peter hears it a few seconds later. Footsteps are thundering down the stairs.
A man with dark hair that curls around his ears bursts into the man cave, “Red lights! At every fucking turn!” he stops in front of a tied-up Heartface and stops short. He glances up to see Deadpool, Daredevil and Spider-Man, his eyes widening.
Before he can warn the others, Peter webs his mouth, sticks him in a chair and drags him next to Heartface. This guy is definitely less docile.
Four more guys walk in, not even noticing the situation until one of them trips over Deadpool, who is still crouching in front of the gerbil.
Before any of them can get their bearings, Peter and Daredevil take them down. Deadpool is under strict orders not to engage. He is physically incapable of participating in a fight where someone doesn’t come out mortally wounded or partially bald.
He’s great at interrogation, though. Peter suspects it’s a part of his military training.
“One of you is going to tell me about your boss,
Or someone’s leaving this mancave with tragic hair loss.” Deadpool stands in front of the terrified men, his dagger twinkling menacingly in his hand. Its hilt is lined with pink, heart-shaped rhinestones.
Immediately, all five of them begin to babble incomprehensibly over each other.
Peter rips the webbing off their mouths. He probably should’ve done that before the interrogation started.
The last guy looks slightly familiar. Peter peers closer, and the man’s eyes widen in fear. Peter quickly leans back again. His clothes have that look they only get when you spend at least a couple weeks living and sleeping in them.
“Wait a minute, you’re Jun!” Peter exclaims, “You owe your mother a vase.”
“No, I don’t,” he says quickly, “I’m not Jun, I’m John.”
At least he’s capable of sentences now.
“Alright, Pinocchio, what’re you doing working for Heartface over here?” Peter asks.
Deadpool pushes Peter out of the way, “I’m the interrogator here, go away, Captain Cobwebs.” He leans in too close to Jun, “What’re you doing working for Heartface over here, Pinocchio?” he pauses, holds a hand up to Jun and turns towards Heartface. “Heartface? Is that seriously your name?” he asks him.
“No,” Heartface says.
“Then why’s Spiderlepsy over there calling you Heartface?”
“Deadpool! You’re interrogating the wrong guy.” Daredevil reminds him.
“Rightio,” he turns back to Jun/John, “What’s your name really?”
“Wrong question!” Daredevil growls.
“Look. I can’t do my thing with you breathing down my neck. Go away!” Deadpool swats at Daredevil, then asks Jun/John, “Why are you here?”
“My name isn’t Pinocchio. It’s John.” Jun/John/Pinocchio says.
Deadpool stares at Jun for a long moment, completely still.
“Okay!” he leaps up, blade twirling in his hand, “You,” Deadpool points the dagger towards a quivering man with purple highlights. The same shade as Barney the Dinosaur. “Do you wear wigs?”
Barney shakes his head violently. Purple locks whipping around his face.
Peter thinks Barney’s fear of Deadpool is slightly excessive. The ‘Merc with a Mouth’ isn’t a name that instils Peter with much fear. Although he’s never had his hair cut by Deadpool, so what does he know?
Deadpool grabs a magenta strand and cuts it off. He waves the lock of hair triumphantly in Barney’s face. A bead of sweat slides down the man’s forehead. “Well, I have worn wigs, I can send you to my wig guy after this—”
Barney cracks. “Fine! Fine! I’ll tell you anything. Just please don’t send me to your wig guy,” he begs.
Does he think wigs are a euphemism for something? Or maybe getting your hair dyed is just that expensive. Peter should ask MJ.
Barney jabbers frantic explanations about the gambling ring, his boss, his debt, his pet cat, what he had for breakfast…
“…And I had to pour her milk from my own cereal because I can’t even afford her favourite brand of cat food anymore,” he wails.
Daredevil walks over to the conversation pit and collapses on the couch, head in hands.
“Okay, okay. That’s enough,” Deadpool says.
Barney apparently doesn’t hear him over his own voice and keeps talking.
“Stop! Shut up! You win, Grapehead. I won’t buy you a wig. Just stop talking, please stop!” Deadpool shouts, waving his hands frantically.
Deadpool is still holding the dagger. Barney snaps his mouth shut with an audible click when he flinches away, barely escaping an amateur rhinoplasty.
Peter’s brain catches up to his ears, “What did you say about debt?”
Barney’s eyes shoot up to Peter, searching his mask, then towards Heartface, who looks slightly pained. Or constipated. Eventually, his gaze drifts back towards Deadpool. “I took a loan out.” He says curtly.
Daredevil lifts his head out of his palms, “You didn’t think to try a legitimate lender first? You go straight to loan sharks?”
Barney frowns, “How do you know where I got my loan?” he asks slowly.
“Because every single one of these guys with you took loans out as well,” Peter answers for Matt. He is seventy-seven percent sure he is correct. “Except for Heartface. He has a fancy man cave with a horse painting.”
One of the other men’s faces screw up. He has sticky-out ears. “Who’s Heartface?”
Peter rolls his eyes, “Well, Dumbo. Obviously, the dude with the heart on his face.”
Dumbo examines his boss as closely as he can in his restraints, “That’s not a heart. It’s a blob.
They sort through the rest of Barney’s jargon. At least enough to get a good grasp on what they’re working with.
“It all keeps coming back to you,” Peter frowns at Heartface. He’d drunk this guy’s protein shake and lounged in his man cave for the better half of two hours. Worst of all, it was a nice protein shake as far as protein shakes go.
Heartface shrugs, “A guy’s gotta make a living, son. I’m sure you understand.”
“But you’re not the head of the operation, are you?” Daredevil says. “You’re not even the brains. You’re just another grunt.”
Heartface laughs, “I know that. I’m not even a twig in a forest. You still think the Lighthouse is the main operation? You’re way in over your head, son.”
And that… okay.
Peter sits criss-cross applesauce on the ceiling, sorting through his own thoughts. It’s weirdly silent for a room that contains Deadpool and Barney.
Speaking of, Deadpool has been crouched in the corner by the TV for eight minutes now, which is six minutes longer than Peter thought he could focus on one thing for. He is facing the wall, back hunched.
Peter drops behind him, out of elbowing range, “Whatcha doing?”
Deadpool turns around, holding his arms up as if he’s cradling a newborn. “I found Gerald.”
Gerald pops his head up. He has a thick, muscular body and beady eyes. His scales are bright yellow with dark freckles scattered along his back.
Gerald hissed, his forked tongue flickering.
Peter jumps back onto the ceiling just as Daredevil turns towards them.
“What was that?” he asks slowly.
“Gerald,” Deadpool says happily, holding the snake out for Daredevil to feel. It curls around his arm, red tongue darting out in front of him.
Daredevil dodges the snake and plants himself on the other side of the room, putting as much distance between himself and Gerald as possible.
“Snake?” Dumbo shrieks, trying to twist in his chair. And then everyone starts panicking except for Deadpool, Heartface and Daredevil.
“Who in their right mind lets a big snake loose in their house?” Daredevil demands, leaning angrily over Heartface.
Scratch that. Daredevil is definitely panicking.
“Psh,” Heartface dismisses, “Gerald wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“He eats rats. He hurts rats.” Daredevil argues.
Peter watches Wade in morbid fascination. Gerald is curling around his shoulders while the Merc cooes and pets his head. “Isn’t he cute? Aww, yes, you are,” Deadpool nuzzles his mask in the snake's nose.
“She.” Heartface corrects, raising his voice over his panicking lackeys.
“What?” Daredevil asks.
“Gerald’s is a she, not a he. She was gendered wrong when I got her.” Heartface says.
“Isn’t she cute? Aww, yes, you definitely are.” Gerald starts to inch towards Deadpool’s neck.
On the ceiling, Peter crawls towards Matt, “Hey DD, I think we should bounce. Like now.”
Daredevil nods quickly, “I’ve got work, anyway.”
As soon as they start to make their way towards the door, the men start to make even more of a racket.
“Hey, c’mon man, are you going to leave us tied up in here? With a snake!” One screeches.
“The webs will dissolve in an hour or two,” Peter calls back before slamming the door shut behind him. He’s getting as far away from that insanity as he can.
Peter and Matt are perched on the rooftop of an unusually short building two blocks away before Deadpool catches up to them.
Peter leans over the edge of the roof. “What’s that yellow thing in his arms?”
Matt pauses, head tilted. He turns to Peter, “He’s got the snake.” He says in horror.
And now Deadpool is here. A hissing Python in his arms.
Peter jumps away, right off the edge of the roof. He barely catches himself on a window ledge.
Deadpool watches him climb up, eyes crinkled into smiley half-moons.
“You stole Gerald?” Peter feels slightly faint again.
“I didn’t steal her. She wasn’t being looked after by her ‘owner’, who decided to just sit in a chair all day.” Deadpool says serenely, dragging a finger across Gerald’s spine. Fatherhood looks terrifying on him
Peter turns to ask Matt about the laws around petnapping, only to see a red figure leaping across rooftops, retreating into the distance.
*
He’s hunched over The Leech Handbook on the floor because he’d had to take apart his textbook desk and chair to revise for midterms.
But who said a floor couldn’t count as a desk anyway? It’s an abstract concept.
Revising usually means being stuck in the apartment pulling all-nighters. Being stuck in the apartment meant shivering in the cold or sweating in the heat because Peter couldn’t afford the AC or the heating. But now he has no food, so he doesn’t have to keep the fridge on all the time. So now, Peter can savour warm showers and space heaters.
He should probably avoid any more impromptu micronaps, though.
The protein shake might have tasted good at the time, but starving Peter’s opinion should not be trusted. Four out of ten do not recommend.
*
