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It was a normal Tuesday at Sister Margaret’s. That meant about three chairs broken, eight wives and two husbands asking for hitmen to kill their husbands, eight husbands and two wives wanting to hire someone to kill their wives, eight of each without enough money and two pairs who were trying to off each other. Weasel send the first back, and offered to host a fight club for last two couples. He was turned down. But he got five serious jobs, three of which were especially for Deadpool, and the other two were up for grabs. Also, he was almost out of shot glasses, that Buck's sister was going to replace or else, and gin.

Weasel made a note on his phone to haunt the people responsible for the stools. He looked up again when the whole bar suddenly became silent. Wade had arrived in the meantime. That was good, considering Weasel had to talk to him, and it saved Wade a trip, but he was with… somebody. Somebody who was on the receiving end of some suspicious glares. Somebody who made people shut up. Somebody cute, with a sort of nerdish air about him. Somebody… normal.

Beat. One. Beat. Two.

Oh well, life went on, or didn’t. It was the same thing to Weasel. He had been shocked for almost two whole seconds. The last time he was so surprised had been in the first week of high school, and Mrs. Thomas had expected him to do his algebra homework. That had been a shock.

“What can I do for you?” Weasel asked, cheerfully. “I’ve got alcohol, and blowjobs, and just jobs.”

Adorable, because the guy was that and more, frowned. “That’s disturbing.” He smiled angelically.  “Mixing business with pleasure.”

“Motherfucker, you almost had me,” Weasel accused. “You, Wade's companion and my new friend, are scarily normal looking.” He watched Adorable suspiciously, trying to peer into his soul. Unfortunately, Adorable wore glasses. “What can I do for you?”

“Just a beer, please,” Adorable chirruped. “You know, this is the first time someone didn’t card me.”

“Oh, you look too young alright, I just don’t care,” Weasel freely admitted. “Besides, Wade's not into kids, so you are... twenty-five—twenty-six years old.”

“Twenty-seven,” Wade said in a mock-whisper. Then louder, “Don’t worry, honey, you still look twelve.”

“‘Worry’ is not the word I'd use,” Adorable said dryly. “Hi, I'm Peter.”

‘Adorable’ was better.

“Weasel.”

Peter grinned widely, “I know.” He nodded. “Wade’s friend.” He smiled, and butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “The one who never wins anything, and who basically ensured he won’t die by betting on him to do the exact opposite.” Appearances can be deceiving. “I know it was more symbolic than anything, but thank you.” And yet…

To his horror, Weasel blushed. Wade's eyes widened, but he bit his lip, and he was uncharacteristically silent about it. Weasel struggled to contain this new thing that his face was doing, and answered snappishly, “Yes, I did that. Wade’s continued survival was not what I was intending.”

Peter smiled, all zen like. “Thank you.”

Weasel turned to take out a bottle of imported beer, German, since he was feeling his blush grow rather than retreat, and he was feeling spiteful. He didn’t even like guys. He was into ladies all the way, but then again, his reaction had nothing to do with attraction, and more to do with how overwhelmingly good Peter seemed to be. It seeped out of his pores, like a perfume, and it was objectively just as disgusting.

“Where did you find him, Wade?” Weasel asked, as he put the beer on the bar.

“He killed me,” Wade said like it was the best thing that ever happened to him.

It was a fair assumption to make, especially for Wade who died more often than most people ate so he could afford it. Though knowing Wade and seeing his boyfriend for himself, Weasel was willing to bet that were the consequences more dire, Wade would still consider himself lucky. And that was a bet Weasel would win.

“I didn’t—I wasn’t…” Peter sighed. He looked sad and annoyed, like a wet kitten. “It was an accident. I am sorry!”

Weasel was starting to have a cuteness overload. In his defense, he didn’t meet all that many adorable things, so his threshold was pretty low. Not that anything would ever prepare him for Peter walking into his bar with Wade of all people.

Wade snorted, and said, “How would you say we met?” He lifted his eyebrows.

“Well…” Peter began. Then some idea must have occurred to him because he bit his lip before continuing, “I think we met with a splash.”

“I think we met with a kick.” Wade smirked.

“Or maybe we met with a scare,” Parker said dryly.

“We certainly met with a shout.”

“Wade took you by surprise, so you shouted and kicked him off a bridge?” Weasel asked, entertained.

“Good guess,” Peter said. “But—Wait, who's that next to Wade?”

Weasel turned around and saw the picture of Wade and Vanessa that Weasel had gone through a lot of trouble to get back. He had put it behind the bar, in its former place, to remind him of things, and how fucked up they could get. Also, to remember how Wade used to look when he was handsome.

“You found Waldo?!” Wade asked, with a dumb grin on his face. “Even after he turned fugly?”

“You’re not that different,” Peter defended.

“That’s a backhanded compliment if I ever heard one,” Weasel said.

“Shush you, I feel appreciated,” Wade dismissed. He smiled, mischievously, but changed the subject pretty fast. “That’s Vanessa.”

“Girlfriend?” Peter asked, a little unsure.

“Yeah, and friend.” Wade shrugged. “We ended it on good terms.”

A beaming smile lightened Peter's face. “I’m glad to hear that.” His eyes narrowed. “How come you never mentioned her?”

“I don’t know where she is,” Wade said. “We ended it and she wanted to travel. I wasn’t going to keep tabs. She would have puréed my nuts if she found out I kept tabs.” He titled his head. “Which frankly wouldn’t do much to deter me, the de-balling I mean, but there was no use. We were done.”

“What if you wanted to and she didn’t?” Peter asked, with the kind of warning tone that let everybody within hearing range know that they need to watch their mouths.

“Tequila, Weas.” Wade placed his order while he thought it through. He decided on, “Depends.”

“On what?” Peter asked bewildered.

“If it’s somehow worth it to me.”

“Right.” Peter had a contemplative look, and then repeated softer, “Right. No rape, no kids. Everything else…”

Wade lifted his hands, palms facing Peter, “Fair game.”

Weasel could not imagine Peter would react to that too well.

“But what if she really wants you to stop, and you don’t?” Peter was happy sitting there and making conversation. What the hell?! Did nothing faze kids these days?

Weasel gave Wade his tequila, in the last shot glass, and continued watching, absorbed in the drama unfolding.

Wade blew a raspberry. “If somebody knows they're being watched, you either are bad at it, or are bad at it. I'm never bad at it.”

“It’s a feeling you have,” Peter explained. “People don’t need to see you.”

Point.

“The last person I stalked that wasn’t a baddie…” Wade trailed off. “That wasn’t a worse baddie then me. So the last civilian-in-the-ways-of-evil was Vanessa, right after I humped a saw.” He drank and put the shot glass on the table, face down. “It’s not worth it. Life like that is a Will E Coyote hunt. It never is how you were expecting to be, and you end up cursing ACME to shit. Good weapons are a must.

“Didn’t you forget them in the car when you were going after Francis?” Weasel asked dryly.

“Maximum effort.” Wade stepped back from the bar, arms wide open. 

Kelly ducked at the last possible moment.

“Watch for beheadings.” Peter's voice was as dry as the desert, and he gestured to Kelly, unimpressed.

“Sorry, Kelly!” Wade offered.

Kelly waved Wade off with her middle finger.

“Anyway,” Peter said, smiling, “why doesn't Will E use another weapon provider?”

That is what doesn’t make sense to me,” Wade agreed, nodded vehemently.

Peter scrunched up his nose. “Or another bird.”

Wade stopped moving, thinking hard. “You lost me.”

Peter blew a raspberry.

They worked. Weasel couldn’t believe it. Peter was different than Wade, there was no doubt about it. And they managed. Peter didn’t need to think like Wade, was a professional angel and some other desk-related professional, and he didn’t need to renounce his own beliefs. Wade went after the truly despicable people, was a licensed Bail Enforcement Officer, and he dealt his usual brand of justice. But they reached a compromise or something because they were fucking worked.

Woah.

That was something.

Double woah. Randomly, a new comer went to put a gun to Peter's temple. Which he ducked under in a move that was too Matrix to be the reality. Triple woah. Unfortunately, three other guns were trained on him. Whoohoo. And also this was getting boring.  Not knowing what kind of people entered in his bar was officially getting out of hand.

Where did all these would-be killers come from? This was a known grey zone. Everybody was welcome. People didn’t  shoot each other here. They scuffled, sometimes, but only rarely did someone get seriously hurt.

Like now, every regular was fingering their gun.

Fuck it, Weasel trusted everybody in Sister Margaret’s not to kill him. That meant they were miles ahead of these asshats. And Weasel liked the mercenaries he organized, not other people's muscle.

“What do you want?” Weasel asked, tiredly.

“We are here for Deadpool, who killed my dear friend—” a man with a French accent started to say, only Weasel stopped listening.

“I’m sure he deserved it,” Weasel said, talking over the man.

“How can you say such a thing?” the man asked, incensed.

Two muscle-men redirected their guns on Weasel at a twitch from the man.

Now, Weasel had three times more guns out in his bar, but at least he could trust three fourths of them not to aim in his direction.

“Look, guy, you have very well trained men. That’s good. Congratulations. But it won’t do you any good here,” Weasel explained, the picture of rationality.

The man started to monologue.

Wade sighed as soon as the man paused. “I could do more useful things with my time.” He maneuvered himself in front of Peter. “Like blowing my brains out.” His left hand formed a gun and he mimed shooting himself in the head, and while people were paying attention to his left, his right hand was already holding his own gun.

Weasel was satisfied by this development, and was mournfully calculating the things that would be blown to smithereens, when he himself fell for a misdirection. He was paying attention to Wade, and his public destruction tendencies, when Weasel thought he heard Peter say something. It sounded like ‘sorry.’

“Duck,” Peter yelled, and Wade did, instantly.

Weasel immediately paid attention to Peter, but it was too late. Peter, Peter who looked like a skinny puppy, Peter ripped off the bar. Weasel blinked, but quickly he figured that since he was dating Wade, Peter had to be a little durable. Then Peter jumped on the piece of flying wood. Okay. After he landed on the bar, and the bar on the muscle, he kicked off and toward the ceiling. Where he stayed. Huh.

That was just fine.

Oh. Oh no. Oh no no.

“That was my last shot glass!” Weasel complained to a gravity defying Peter.

Peter used his hands to make placating moves, leaving him glued by his feet next to the shitty lighting. He was not helping. “I’m Stark Industries R&D Project Manager,” Peter claimed. “I’ll pay for the bar. And the shot glasses.” Wade must have stabbed someone because a wave of blood erupted from Weasel’s left where Wade was dealing with the straggles. “Wade can pay for the cleaning,” Peter said, wincing as only the last person left clean in the place could.

Weasel rolled his eyes, and shifted his attention to Wade, who had several men pinned by glass shards through their palms and into the wooden bar.

Most of the regulars were giving the men the stink eye, disappointed that they didn’t get in on the action. Peter kicked off the ceiling, and landed in a crouch. Hey, he kind of looked like Spider Man. Wait! Wade didn’t. He looked at noble, angelic Peter and realized that Wade did. Weasel hurriedly checked around, but luckily no one was looking.

Buck and Booth, who were weirdly friendly in a way that wasn’t any of Weasel’s business, got to Wade and Peter. Booth picked up a beer and a scotch on the way. Patting Wade on the back, he gave him the scotch.

“Welcome,” Booth said to Peter, handing him the beer. “Try not to destroy the bar next time.”

“But if you do, don’t aim in our direction,” Buck laughed.

And Peter, innocent and at the same time not, smiled shyly.

Weasel's life was never boring with these people.