Chapter Text
Four months ago
There’s a smell on Peter’s patrol.
It’s something organic, but roadkill is also organic and besides, Peter’s spidey-sense roils against the back of his neck so there’s more to this weird stink than meets the eye. Or the nose. Whatever.
Peeling himself from the brick wall he’d been crouched against, he readjusts his mask and launches a web. Wind whistles and his stomach performs a familiar drop out from under him as he flies through the air. This area of the city reeks of pre-gentrification. Warehouse buildings, laundromats that are 100% fronts for criminal activity, and dive bars make up most of the landscape.
The cream of that disreputable crop? Bright Lights Club.
Bright Lights Club makes the rounds in superhero business every so often. One of the lesser mutants accidentally knocks up an employee with a roided-out baby; an ex-Hydra government official is found hiding in its rented-by-the-hour rooms; on one very memorable occasion, the entire team discovered that Tony Stark had been permanently banned from the establishment thanks to an incident that took place in 1993 involving someone named Crystal Candies. So, suffice to say, the place is an institution of sleaze.
On the rare occasions Peter meets with Stark, he enjoys bringing up that story.
Zipping through the city-scape is second nature so Peter lets his eyes close as he falls backward, tucks-and-somersaults in mid-air, before aiming his next web, letting his nose guide him toward the rotting smell. In the back of his head, he already knows what it is. He prays to every god that he’s wrong.
There’s one last corner to turn and he grips office windows for a split-second before flinging himself into an alleyway. The stench hits him like a wall.
It’s a body. Another one.
The ninth body Peter’s found in this area over the last year. He lands on the ground in a silent crouch, straightening with an apprehensive arm over his masked nose and mouth. Not that it does much good. Stealing forward on soft feet, he approaches.
The body is male and wearing a loose-fitting pair of sweatpants. Nothing else. That’s his first and only clue as to its identity, because the face is so concave that Peter finds it difficult to believe it ever held teeth. Or eyes. Or anything other than horror. He stops his stilted walk when he’s close enough to touch it. Him.
Reaching out a hand, Peter wraps his fingers around the body’s left arm and turns it upward. Just like he thought. It’s almost too subtle—he needs his super senses to see the fine line of grafted skin over the pads of the guy’s fingers, but it’s there. The fingerprints this body currently wears are not its own.
Pushing vomit back down his throat, Peter drops the hand. All the others were like this too. There’s only one last thing to do. Steeling himself, he digs into the body’s pockets, first the left then the right.
“Sorry,” Peter says under his breath. “I’m really sorry.”
Empty, just like the others. Biting his cheek he switches to the other pocket half-heartedly, certain that his reward will be what it always is: fucking nothing.
But a thin matchbook waits for him. Scratchy and cardboard, the acrid taste of phosphor hits him as he pulls his prize from the dead man’s pocket and tilts it so that it catches the streetlight just so. As soon as he reads the label, his heart shoots down his stomach to land somewhere at his feet. Sweat flashes across his body. It’s what he’s suspected, this whole time. That that place was involved. He reads it again, just to be sure.
Written across the matchbook in fine, glittery lettering are the words: Bright Lights Club.
Despite the corpse he’s currently sharing space with, Peter smiles grimly. No one cared about the bodies he’d found in this area before. But now? Now he has something to go on. Tony Stark will have to give him the time of day.
Tony Stark absolutely does not want to give Peter the time of day.
“I appreciate your small-town neighborhood vibe, Spidey, but please.” He’s not facing Peter. Back to him, Stark fiddles with a hologram depicting a complicated piece of machinery. The mechanic on his wrist-suit? Looks like the rotator would catch. Peter leans closer to inspect when he realizes Stark is still speaking. “I get that it’s tough, but leave the bodies for the cops. No offense, but you don’t exactly have a degree in forensics. Besides, who would want to get one? Waste of time. Can’t do anything good with it. Look at dead stuff all day. Eugh.”
That’s basically what Peter thought he’d say. Good thing he has ammo this time.
Brandishing the matchbook, he says: “I found this in the body’s pocket.”
He definitely doesn’t enjoy the way Stark turns, stares, and then drops his shoulders in defeat. “Don’t tell me—”
“Bright Lights Club has something to do with this, Stark. It does.”
With a wave of his hand, the hologram vanishes. “Kid. Why are you so deadset on proving that place is the bane of all of New York? It’s got some, uh, unsavory business practices, I guess you could say, but this is New York. You kinda need those to break even. If anything, I should be the one holding a grudge against that place. Not you. You’re barely old enough to set foot in a strip club. Why do you care what happens?”
Because someone has to. Because I know what it’s like when no one sees what’s wrong.
“Because,” says Peter uncertainly, “I’m Spider-Man?”
“And is Spider-Man suddenly a police detective? A private investigator?”
Peter’s mouth clicks shut.
Stark nods. “I thought so. Stick to the old ladies and the muggers, alright?”
For a split-second, Peter has a thousand reproaches on his tongue. I’ve seen more than old ladies and muggers. I’ve seen the before-during-and-after of rape. The red ground meat of a shotgun wound. Children, dead. You’re right, Stark. This is New York.
But Stark’s already turned back to his hologram. Peter walks away, hitting the elevator button several times. The hologram shifts at the speed of light, manipulated by Stark like an extension of himself. If Tony Stark won’t take Bright Lights Club seriously, then Peter’s going to have to.
As the elevator door slides open, Peter says, “Take into account the horizontal thrust when you shoot with that thing. Add a counterbalance. Otherwise you’ll break your wrist.”
The last thing Peter sees before the doors close is Stark’s head swivel to him, shock written clear on his face.
Now
As a kid, Peter had not thought he’d end up a stripper in his twenties. Grad school? Yeah, he’d planned on that one. Marrying Gwen? Another yes please in the books. Going to Aunt May’s and Uncle Ben’s fiftieth wedding anniversary? It had been as good as definite.
And then, of course, Uncle Ben died, Peter got spider-powers, and Gwen moved to California the year they graduated high school. Aunt May died a few years later, and Peter’s grown into a friendly, neighborhood superhero.
And, yeah, he’s a stripper.
It’s not ideal. But it’s been paying the bills the past few months and besides, it’s not just a paycheck. He’s found nearly a dozen corpses within two miles of Bright Lights Club on patrols throughout the last year. Something’s not right, and when something’s not right Spider-Man swoops in. Or in this case, seductively-strips-in. Whichever. It only took two months for Peter to begin to unwrap the seedy underbelly, but illegal prostitution still doesn’t explain the bodies or the absolute teeming wealth found in the place, so he’s stuck.
Tonight, the club is absolutely bustling. Peter’s strong, he knows that, but he’s still too small to see over most of the crowd that’s breathing loud, practically screaming in each other’s ears, dressed to the nines. The girls are glittering and the men—god, so many men—are decked out in fine button-downs and slicked-back hair, their hands dotted with wedding rings that the older ones don’t bother to remove. They ooze money.
Pushing through the throng of people, he adjusts his skimpy outfit. Boss insisted on something a bit more revealing after last month’s performance—he’s been here too long to keep getting away with acting shy, so he was forced to relent.
That’s why he’s stuck in skin-tight black shorts—emphasis on the short —and nothing else, save for his winning smile. There are a few people on the stage right now he recognizes, but no one he knows well. The club switches around shifts easily and employs dozens of dancers. It’s a common tactic for places like this. Rope enough people into your prostitution scheme and it gets a lot harder to dismantle. It’s made impossible by the fact that they don’t encourage comradery between their employees.
“Peter!” A finger taps his bare shoulder and he swivels, heart jumping as he curses his spidey-sense. What good are superpowers if they’re unreliable?
“Yeah?” He hollers over the music, leaning up to hear Wren’s words. Wren runs this shindig—no one gets scheduled without her approval and she rules over her dancers with an iron fist. Peter’s gotten on her bad side more than once and it’s not an experience he’s excited to repeat.
“You’re wanted upstairs! New client, wanted a new body. None of the regular guys. You up for it?”
Peter’s stomach sank down to his knees. He figured this was coming, it’s been months. But he’s still not sure he’s ready for this.
Prostitution.
Jesus Christ. Being a stripper for the good of the community is one thing, but this? Proffering himself to a stranger who wants “a new body?” But . . . he hasn’t made any progress on the shady shit Bright Lights Club has been getting up to yet. He needs to move up the ranks if this is going to be worth it, and this is the first in he’s been given. Fuck.
“Yeah,” he agrees loudly, ignoring the screaming protesting voice in the back of his head. “I’m down, for sure. Hell yeah. Which room?”
At least with the music pounding deep in his ribcage, she can’t hear his terrified heartbeat.
“213,” she yells back, and then sends him on his way with a slap to his ass. He tries not to be offended. After all, that’s the least of his worries, isn’t it? Anyway, he’s already got a few bruises from a few guys who got altogether too handsy after he came off the stage an hour or two ago. They’ll heal up quick, but he knows his healing factor works much better when there’s food on his table. Food means money. And money means working here, for the time being. There’s nothing else for it.
The second he leaves the first floor, the noise becomes blessedly more manageable. His powers might help him on the stage, but everywhere else in the club is a nightmare for his over-sensitive everything. The flashing lights, the cacophony, the overwhelming smell of a hundred colognes mixing with each other. Fighting the urge to take a deep breath, Peter hooks his fingers in the booty shorts to hike them up and then he makes his way down the hallway, slowing to a terrified stop in front of door 213.
Bright Lights Club isn’t an old fashioned joint. The floor beneath his strappy shoes shines dark, gleaming with a fresh coat of wax for the summer season. The walls are another heavy red shade, overbearing and haughty. Lifting a fist he pretends isn’t shaking, Peter raps his knuckles against the sleek black door.
Breath in, out. In, out. In— shit.
The door swings open and instead of a face, Peter is met with a chest. No—not just a chest. It’s a motherfucking masterpiece, all muscle and strength wrapped tight beneath tight red spandex. Wait. No. No.
He traces the chest up, finding the absolute last mask he wanted waiting for him. In an instant, his fear quadruples and sweat gathers on his palms.
“What the fuck?”
Deadpool’s voice floats down as the eyes on the mask widen comically, staring at Peter. He has never sympathized more with deers in headlights.
“You’re, like, twelve,” Deadpool says next and suddenly Peter’s a lot less stressed and a lot more annoyed.
“I’m, like, twenty-four,” he snaps back, stepping into the room. Deadpool takes two steps back, letting him in, but scoffs.
“Want to run that by me again?”
“It’s true,” Peter lies. It’s not. He’s twenty-one, but Deadpool— Deadpool! —doesn’t need to know that. The door closes behind them and a bit of that acrid nervousness creeps back into Peter’s limbs, stifling the anger as his gaze slowly swallows up Deadpool’s massive body.
“How . . . how do you want me?” Peter tries after an awkward beat. It’s strange, honestly. He’s not sure he’s ever heard this much silence from Deadpool.
“Kid, I’m not going to fuck you,” Deadpool snorts. Peter flushes.
“Look, it’s not that I don’t think you’re hot,” Deadpool says placatingly. “Babe, look at yourself. You’re the fucking definition of beautiful. You’re shitting resplendent in those teeny-tiny itty-bitty shorts. They leave nothing to the imagination, by the way. And your eyes—ha! Like a really hot deer in headlights. But no. I’m not here to fuck anyone, even if they do look at me the way you are.”
Peter doesn’t know how it’s possible, but his blush gets worse.
“I mean,” Deadpool continues, and now that he’s rambling, he’s more like the guy Peter knows. “It’s not that I don’t support sex workers, obviously. You don’t wanna see what’s beneath this mask, sweetheart. How else do you think I get my dick wet?”
Easily, comes the answer unbidden to Peter’s mind. The way Deadpool’s ass looks in spandex is not low on the list of reasons he likes doing patrols with him.
“But I’m here on a case. It’s not your fault, gorgeous.”
Peter is astounded at how easily the pet names fall out of his mouth, but more furious with himself for enjoying the way they sound. Without the familiarity of his own suit to cut the tension between the two of them, Deadpool’s constant flirting is more immediate. A threat. A promise?
“Unless,” Deadpool’s voice cuts through the noise in his head, “you’re not doing this voluntarily. I mean, I can tell you’re new, but have you ever done this before? Do you want to be doing this?”
As he speaks, his voice gets darker and darker, leaving the realm of fun and raunchy one-offs to something that sends shivers down Peter’s spine and reminds him once again that he’s so fucking glad Deadpool is on his side. Either way, he flinches at the question.
Does he want to be here? He’s not sure.
The non-answer is enough for Deadpool. His white eyes narrow in his mask. “You don’t, do you.” It’s not a question. “Fucking hell. That’s what I get for trying to investigate this place. Now I’ve got to take care of him—this is just—fuck. Fucking hell,” he says again, staring at Peter, raking his gaze from the bottom of his feet up past his thin black shorts and all the way over his naked torso.
“Are those bruises?”
“No,” Peter lies for the second time that night but this time, he knows it’s not enough.
“What did I say about the fucking lying?” Deadpool growls, at once stalking through the room, katanas strapped to his back.
“Where are you going?” He hates the way his voice squeaks out the question.
“Your boss’s office, of course” he answers, voice like ice.
“We are not going to his office,” Peter insists. “No, no way. Deadpool—no—we are not.”
“Oh, you know my name? Big fan, are you?”
“I mean—it’s not that it’s just—no—stop distracting me! We aren’t going. You can’t. Please, don’t, don’t ruin this.”
“You can’t stop me,” Deadpool insists. He’s right. They’re halfway down the hallway and two of the six doors they’ve passed have do not disturb placards hanging from the doorknob. Each one makes Deadpool’s face flash in anger, obvious even through the mask.
This is a nightmare. The first time Peter’s gained a bit more trust, been invited to go upstairs, and now a mercenary is going to barge into the Boss’s office and it’s all his fault. Talk about fucking undercover investigations. This is part of what drives him crazy about Deadpool. The guy is all muscle, all show. He’s a hotshot where Peter is slow and deliberate.
Their march down the hallway is anything but.
He doesn’t knock when they reach the office at the end of the corridor. Peter is tripping over himself, trying and failing to stop him from barging in, but it’s all for shit. The door bangs open with a slam that sends a small gust of air through the large office and Peter cringes.
Boss is someone every single person in the club knows better than to fuck with. Even Wren watches what she says around him. The guy has the single-handed power to end your career—and, if the rumors are to be believed—your life. Peter has had maybe two conversations with him the whole time he’s been here and every time, his presence made Peter’s skin crawl. His spidey-sense might be unpredictable but it’s never wrong. And it hates the Boss.
The scene that greets them is an ugly one.
Boss is, as Deadpool so gently put it, currently getting his dick wet. At the intrusion, he straightens up, face red with what Peter dearly hopes is anger.
“Who the fuck is interuppting— you, ” his voice drops from a roar to something furious and sinister as his gaze jumps from Deadpool to Peter, who’s standing behind him.
“I’m sorry—sir, I’m sorry, this is all a misunder—”
“Look at him,” Deadpool snarls, gesturing at Peter’s naked torso. “Those are bruises. I’m all for a bit of fun, but this is unacceptable. Don’t get it twisted, motherfucker. Not only can I burn this place to the ground, I will look good doing it.”
With a smooth motion that reminds Peter just how graceful Deadpool can be when he puts his mind to it, he unfurls one of his swords and dances through the office, blade outstretched. The woman who had been in between Boss’s legs yelps and hops away, her eyes flicking between Peter and Deadpool.
Boss is not a man to be trifled with. Let’s be real—Peter’s been here for months and he still doesn’t know his name. His dark hair is slicked back, flat against his skull with the sheen of expensive gel. His suit is barely rumpled despite the activity he’s been partaking in. Clearing his throat, he taps the side of Deadpool’s blade with his ringed finger, raising an eyebrow at the mercenary.
“No weapons are allowed in my place of business. I expect you take care of that accordingly, or I’ll have to ask you to leave,” his voice is like oil over white ceramic; all smooth and sticky at once.
“I’m sorry, Boss, Sir,” Peter’s words stumble but he does his best to keep his voice even. Now is not the time to lose control. “This has all been a big misunderstanding.”
“Did you explain to our . . . guest, here, that our clients pay for the privilege of not holding back?” The Boss continues, studying something on his phone.
“Yes, sir,” Peter told him. “It’s being taken care of. Deadpool.”
He hissed the last word, jerking his head back toward the door, eyes flashing. If he could just get the fucker to understand. More is at stake here than a few bruises that heal up by morning. A soft cough from the Boss reminds him that Deadpool’s not the only one watching him right now and he sighs heavily, collecting his thoughts. He can do this. He can.
Arching his back, he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up delicately. He’s got to string them along. Both of them.
“I can explain everything,” Peter assures him, his eyes slipping from Deadpool to the Boss like honey into tea. Don’t lose. No room for losing now. “If you’d like to talk . . . privately,” he finishes demurely, all but fluttering his eyelashes at Deadpool. The giant man freezes, his languid strength stuttering across the muscles of his shoulders.
“I can make that very enjoyable for you,” Peter promises. Maybe this can all work out better than he could have dreamed. Here’s a chance to prove to the Boss just how capable he is—and how committed to the cause.
“Kid. . .” Deadpool trails off. Yes, Peter begs silently. Yes, fuck please, just this once, back off. Just this once.
“Does he look out of his element?” Boss cuts in, and for once, his voice gives Peter relief rather than a bubbling hatred. “I promise you, those bruises are nothing. And he can make it up to you.”
Peter nods instantly. “Yes,” he says in a low voice, trying to emulate the vibe he sees in videos sometimes. “I would love to make it up to you.”
Finally, finally, finally, Deadpool lowers the sword and faces Peter.
“Then let’s go,” he agrees. There’s a strange quality to his voice but Peter’s too overwhelmed with release to care. He puts one massive hand on Peter’s bare shoulder and together, the two of them exit the office.
The second they’re back in the hallway, Deadpool pushes him away, tucking the two of them against a corner, hidden from view.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at, kid, but I’m not buying that little act. I’m not leaving you to that fucker’s clutches. God, listen to me. Clutches. Who says that? But you know what I mean. I won’t let you stay in his tiny-bastard-evil-fuckery hands. I know—I get that you’re, you’re scared, or whatever the fuck, but you can trust me, okay? I can protect you.”
The second Deadpool stops to take a breath, Peter decides he’s heard enough.
“You idiot,” Peter seethes, cutting him off instantly. “I don’t need protection. And I certainly don’t need someone looking out for me. Do you know what you could have cost me? What you could have ruined?”
He’s breathing heavier than he wants and he knows it’s obvious, knows Deadpool can see every heaving rib and spot of sweat on Peter’s body, but he can’t care about that right now. He slaps a hand against Deadpool’s chest, pushing him back against the wall. He’s not sure where this anger, this confidence, is brewing from but it comes pouring out. Aunt May’s dead. Tony Stark doesn’t care about the bodies and neither do the cops. He’s been a stripper for the last four months. He had to drop out of school almost a full year ago.
He has no more fucks to give, least of all to Deadpool.
“You need to mind your own business,” Peter says, locking his gaze with Deadpool’s mask. “I am not helpless. And I am not here for the money.”
It’s only half a lie.
“I’m investigating this shit too,” he reveals before he can think better of it. “I have my own methods and they work a lot better when someone doesn’t break into the Boss’ office.”
Before he can second-guess what he’s done, Peter leans into the confidence a bit harder, brushing off invisible dust from Deadpool’s dumbstruck form. He leans up on his toes, mouth against where Deadpool’s ear is hiding beneath the mask.
“So, stay out of my fucking way,” he breathes.
He’s back downstairs before his enhanced hearing catches Deadpool peeling himself off the wall but by then, the music is pounding and Peter’s settled back into his persona, booty shorts and all.
Mercenaries or not, he’s going to get to the bottom—no pun intended—of Brights Light Club.