Peter's face instantly flushed crimson. "No! That's not—I don't—"
"Oh my god, your face!" Deadpool exclaimed, pointing dramatically. "You're redder than my suit! This is adorable! It's like watching a live-action anime romance! Quick, is your nose bleeding? That's how you know it's true love in those shows."
Deadpool draped an arm around Peter's shoulders, his mask crinkling in what could only be a knowing grin. "Come on, spill it! What's her name? I'm practically a romantic savant." He tapped his temple with his free hand. "Three proven tricks to win her heart. You'll be naming your firstborn after me in gratitude. Though I should warn you—'Deadpool Parker' is gonna get him bullied on the playground."
Peter forcefully extracted himself from Deadpool's grip, turning away to hide his burning cheeks. "Let go! I don't know what you're talking about!"
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," Deadpool declared in a terrible British accent. "Shakespeare, folks! See? I'm cultured AND romantic."
Undeterred, Deadpool lunged forward, grabbing Peter by the waist. "Tell me! Tell me! Tell meeee!" he chanted, bouncing slightly with each repetition. "I promise I won't tell anyone except Cap, and my weapons dealer, and maybe that barista at Starbucks who always gives me extra whipped cream, and possibly my 3 million social media followers if it's a really good story..."
"Get OFF me!" Peter protested, trying to pry Deadpool's fingers loose. "This is harassment! Captain, aren't you going to do something?"
Peter glanced desperately toward Steve, silently pleading for intervention. To his dismay, he found Captain America observing the exchange with undisguised curiosity.
"Don't look at me," Steve said with a slight shrug. "I've only been in love once in my life. Wade has considerably more... experience in these matters than I do."
"Et tu, Captain?" Peter gasped. "I thought you were supposed to be the responsible adult here!"
"That's where you made your first mistake," Deadpool stage-whispered. "There are no responsible adults in superhero teams. Just emotionally stunted individuals with cool outfits and varying degrees of PTSD. We're basically a therapy group with weapons."
Peter rolled his eyes skyward, as if seeking divine intervention. Finding none, he finally slumped in resignation.
"Fine! Her name is Liz, okay?" he confessed. "She's a beautiful girl at my school. That's all there is to it."
"THAT'S ALL THERE IS TO IT?" Deadpool repeated at maximum volume, releasing Peter to clutch his chest dramatically. "You don't just casually drop 'beautiful' before a girl's name if THAT'S ALL THERE IS TO IT! This is serious! This is epic! This is..." he turned to an invisible audience, "...the B-plot that's going to become the A-plot by the third act!"
He spun back to Peter. "Details, Spider-Boy! I need details! What's her star sign? Is she team Edward or team Jacob? Does she know you're Spider-Man? Has she seen you without the mask? Because if not, maybe keep it that way until you've locked it down. Trust me on this one."
"I'm not discussing this anymore," Peter insisted, crossing his arms.
Deadpool released him, clapping his hands together gleefully. "Our little arachnid is pioneering romance! I'm so proud." He wiped an imaginary tear from his mask. "They grow up so fast! One day they're swinging from buildings, fighting crime, and the next they're fumbling through awkward teen romance! It's the circle of life!"
He began humming what sounded suspiciously like the opening to "The Lion King" before continuing. "Now tell me everything about her. Height, favorite color, security vulnerabilities in her parents' home alarm system..."
"What was that last one?" Steve asked sharply.
"Favorite color," Deadpool replied innocently. "Very important information for gift-giving purposes."
"After that," Steve pressed.
"Oh, the alarm system thing? Just thinking ahead!" Deadpool explained cheerfully. "What if there's an emergency and Spider-Boy needs to rescue her? Or what if they have a fight and he needs to leave apology chocolates on her pillow in the middle of the night? It's not creepy if it's romantic!"
"It's definitely still creepy," Peter muttered.
"Look who's suddenly an expert on romance!" Deadpool exclaimed. "If you're such a love guru, why are you asking for my help with after-school activities? Let me guess—you want to join whatever club she's in, right? Classic move. Very 80s teen movie. I approve!"
"I never asked for your help!" Peter protested.
"Your eyes asked," Deadpool insisted, pointing at Peter's mask. "They were literally screaming 'Help me, Deadpool-Wan Kenobi, you're my only hope!'"
"You can't even see my eyes through the mask," Peter pointed out.
"I can see into your soul, young Padawan," Deadpool replied solemnly. "And your soul is wearing a t-shirt that says 'I ♥ Liz' with little hearts drawn all around it."
Steve cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should get back to the mission briefing."
"Boring!" Deadpool declared. "This is way more interesting! Our little Spider-Boy is experiencing his first crush! This is a critical character development moment!"
"It's NOT my first crush," Peter insisted.
"Ooooooh!" Deadpool's voice rose several octaves. "So there have been others? The plot thickens! I'm sensing a complicated backstory. Was there heartbreak? Betrayal? Secret identities revealed at prom? Give us the CW drama version!"
"I'm leaving," Peter announced, heading for the door again.
"Wait!" Deadpool called after him. "At least let me give you my three proven tips! Number one: compliment her web-shooting technique! Number two: take her somewhere expensive, like Olive Garden! Number three: always carry emergency chimich—"
The door slammed shut before he could finish.
"Kids these days," Deadpool sighed, turning back to Steve. "No appreciation for free relationship advice from seasoned professionals. So..." his voice dropped conspiratorially, "...do YOU want to know my number three tip? It involves chimichangas in very specific scenarios."
Steve's face was a study in conflicted emotions—primarily resignation mixed with regret. "Let's just focus on the mission, Wade."
"Fine, fine. LA, secret meeting, robot Stark, blah blah blah," Deadpool conceded, slouching back into his chair. "But just so you know, I'm definitely following up on this whole Liz situation. Spider-Boy needs a wingman, and I've been practicing my 'embarrassing uncle' routine for years!"
"God help us all," Steve muttered under his breath as he turned back to the map.
Los Angeles - Midnight
Perched atop a skyscraper overlooking the glittering Los Angeles skyline, Spider-Man studied the holographic display projected from his suit. A simple map dominated the screen, featuring a single red dot in motion among the grid of streets. Three green dots marked their team's positions, one of which overlapped with his current location.
Tracking the red dot's trajectory, he activated his comm link. "Captain, target has entered a nightclub," he reported. "Let me check... it's called 'LoliPop.' Owner is listed as someone named Exstein."
Deadpool's voice crackled through the earpiece almost immediately. "Captain! Requesting permission for close surveillance! High-end establishments like this have multiple exits and private areas. Target could easily meet his contact and disappear. We need to get inside!"
After a brief pause, he added, "Also, I packed three different club outfits for this exact scenario! One has sequins! Do you know how long I've been waiting to use the sequin one? It's like the universe WANTS us to go clubbing!"
After a moment of weighted silence, Steve's measured response came through. "Spider-Man, Deadpool—change into civilian attire. We're going in."
"Oh Captain, my Captain!" Deadpool cheered. "This is why you're America's favorite! Well, that and the way you fill out those pants. I mean, seriously folks, that's America's a—"
"Wade," Steve interrupted sharply.
"—attitude toward justice and freedom," Deadpool finished smoothly. "What did you think I was going to say? Get your mind out of the gutter, Cap!"
Minutes later, three immaculately dressed men approached the nightclub entrance. Their faces had been subtly altered through specialized disguise technology, rendering them unrecognizable to facial recognition systems and casual observers alike.
"Do I look like Brad Pitt?" Deadpool asked, admiring his reflection in a nearby window. "I specifically requested the 'Fight Club Brad, but with better skin' preset. Though honestly, I would've preferred Ryan Reynolds. That man is aging like fine wine. It's almost suspicious, like he made some deal with a CGI department."
Peter fidgeted nervously with his tie, practically glued to Deadpool's side. "This is a terrible idea," he whispered frantically. "I'm underage! I can't even legally drink! If Aunt May ever found out I was in a place like this, she'd ground me until retirement!"
"Relax, Spider-Boy," Deadpool murmured, straightening Peter's collar with surprising tenderness. "Tonight's a valuable learning experience. After this, dealing with your crush will seem easy by comparison. Plus, think of all the suave nightclub moves you can use to impress Liz! Nothing says 'high school heartthrob' like knowing how to order a dirty martini with conviction."
He gestured expansively. "When I was your age, nobody bothered expanding my cultural horizons like this. The Captain's practically providing community service here. This is the equivalent of a very expensive field trip. We should get educational tax credits."
Steve, walking several paces ahead, rolled his eyes with enough force to risk muscle strain. If not for mission parameters, he would never have allowed a teenager anywhere near such an establishment. Lord forgive me, he prayed silently. This is for the greater good.
"Stop rolling your eyes, Cap," Deadpool called out without even looking at him. "They'll get stuck that way, and then how will you convey disapproval at my future antics? You'll have to develop a whole new expression. Maybe a disappointed nose scrunch?"
At the entrance, two imposing security guards stepped forward, muscled arms crossed in universal bouncer body language.
"Ah, the classic 'we bench press small cars for breakfast' stance," Deadpool observed. "Very intimidating. I give it an 8 out of 10 for execution, though they could use more synchronization. Maybe some choreography?"
Without hesitation, Steve produced a substantial fold of cash. The guards exchanged meaningful glances, performed a perfunctory scan of the immediate vicinity, then discreetly pocketed the money.
"Money really does make the world go round," Deadpool whispered to Peter. "Remember that, kid. That and blackmail material. Always collect blackmail material. It's like a savings account but with better returns."
Just as they prepared to step aside, one guard's gaze settled on Peter's youthful features and nervous demeanor. Both security personnel paused, reassessing.
Without changing expression, Steve withdrew another equally impressive stack of bills.
"Look at old Stevie bribing bouncers!" Deadpool gasped in mock horror. "I'm witnessing the corruption of a national icon in real-time! Should I be filming this for posterity? Future generations won't believe me without evidence."
The guards accepted the additional payment without further hesitation, stepping aside with newfound respect. "Enjoy your evening, gentlemen."
"We sure will, my musclebound friends!" Deadpool replied cheerfully. "If anyone asks, the kid is a Make-A-Wish recipient and this is his final request. Too dark? Too dark. Forget I said anything."
As the door swung open, Peter experienced an immediate sensory assault. Pulsating music with bass so deep it reverberated through bone. Strobing lights in hypnotic patterns. The mingled scents of expensive perfume, alcohol, and sweat. The air itself seemed to throb with primal energy.
"Welcome to sensory overload central!" Deadpool shouted over the music. "It's like someone turned your spidey senses up to eleven and aimed them at a rave! Fun, right?"
On the elevated central stage, dancers in strategically minimal attire performed with practiced sensuality. For the average patron, the dim lighting and constantly shifting illumination created a teasing, dreamlike quality to the performances.
For Peter, however, enhanced vision transformed the experience into something far more overwhelming. What others perceived as suggestive shadows and glimpses, he saw with uncomfortable clarity—every movement, every curve, every moment of calculated seduction laid bare to his superhuman perception.
The inexperienced teenager froze in place, mouth slightly agape, as his brain struggled to process the adult tableau before him.
Deadpool, noticing Peter's stunned reaction, nudged Steve with his elbow. "Care to place a wager, Captain? How many seconds before the kid starts bleeding from the nose? That's what happens in anime when teenagers see attractive people. Not that I watch anime. Okay, I watch SOME anime. Fine, I have a body pillow. Are you happy now?"
Steve continued scanning the club for their target while responding under his breath. "His enhanced physiology is too resilient. This environment isn't sufficient to trigger that particular response."
"Listen to you, Dr. Science!" Deadpool exclaimed. "Always ruining perfectly good jokes with your 'facts' and 'logic.' Next you'll tell me his eyes won't actually pop out on springs like in the cartoons."
"Hmmm," Deadpool hummed skeptically, his gaze drifting lower on Peter's frame. "I'll bet something else might be standing at attention, even if his nose stays dry. Super strength, super metabolism, super... everything? Poor kid never stood a chance. Puberty hits different when you've got radioactive DNA."
Steve's jaw clenched as he suppressed the urge to physically remove Deadpool from the premises. Patience, he reminded himself. The mission comes first.
"Your jaw is doing that twitchy thing again," Deadpool observed. "You know, they make night guards for that. I had one, but I kept eating it in my sleep. True story."
Peter finally regained enough self-awareness to clap both hands over his eyes. "This was a mistake," he mumbled through his fingers.
Deadpool snickered. "Young man, I believe you're covering the wrong anatomical region. Though I appreciate your commitment to the 'see no evil' principle. Very biblical. Cap would approve if he wasn't busy pretending not to notice anything himself."
"Uncle Wade, please," Peter pleaded, gripping Deadpool's sleeve with his free hand. "Let's just go!"
"Leave?" Deadpool exclaimed with theatrical shock. He pried Peter's hands from his eyes, forcing the teenager to confront the environment. "Spider-Boy, if you can't handle a simple nightclub, how do you expect to battle supervillains? Face your discomfort. Overcome it. Only then will you truly grow into the man you're destined to become!"
He struck a sage-like pose. "Or as Master Yoda would say: 'The path to ass-kicking, through awkward boners lies.' I'm paraphrasing, of course. The original Jedi text was more eloquent."
Before Peter could formulate a response, Deadpool flagged down a passing server and pressed a folded bill into his palm. "We're interested in a private room. Something with good lighting and minimal stains, if possible."
The server pocketed the money with practiced smoothness. "Of course, sir. Right this way."
As he turned to lead them, Steve stepped forward. "We require your most exclusive accommodations. How many presidential suites do you have available?"
"Ooh, look who's being all fancy!" Deadpool stage-whispered. "Stevie's gone full bougie! Next thing you know, he'll be asking for bottle service and demanding the green M&Ms be removed from the candy dish."
The server paused, recalibrating his assessment of their financial status. "Six presidential suites total, sir. Each comes with private facilities—shower, resting area, and additional... personalized services. Will one be sufficient?"
"'Personalized services'?" Deadpool repeated with exaggerated air quotes. "Is that what we're calling it these days? Back in my day, we just called it—"
Steve withdrew a platinum card with deliberate showmanship, cutting Deadpool off. "We'll take three rooms. Separate accommodations for each of us."
"Three rooms?!" Deadpool gasped. "Look at Mr. Moneybags over here! Did you rob a bank when I wasn't looking? Or is this coming from the secret your merchandise revenue stream? I know those shield-shaped waffle makers are big sellers."
The server's eyebrows rose incrementally. "Sir, for three guests, a single presidential suite would provide ample—"
"Three separate rooms," Deadpool interrupted firmly. "I require privacy for my... particular preferences. Nothing illegal! Just... creative. And possibly loud. Also, I need to know if there's a no-damages deposit, because historically speaking, that's been an issue."
"Of course," the server recovered quickly. "One moment while I consult with management."
As he departed, Deadpool elbowed Steve playfully. "Well, well! Who knew Captain Righteous had such extravagant tastes? Separate rooms, huh? Worried we might overhear something scandalous? Like you singing show tunes in the shower or practicing your 'I'm disappointed in the modern world' speeches in the mirror?"
Steve maintained his dignified facade while gripping the back of Deadpool's neck with precisely calculated pressure. He leaned close, whispering through gritted teeth: "Stark entered one of the presidential suites. I'm not certain which one. By booking three rooms, we guarantee proximity to his location. Understand?"
"Ow, ow, ow! Uncle! I tap out!" Deadpool whispered back. "No need for the Vulcan death grip! I get it now. Tactical genius. Very clever. Sun Tzu would be proud. Could you maybe loosen the grip before you separate my head from my shoulders? The healing factor can only do so much."
"Oh," Deadpool's enthusiasm visibly deflated once Steve released him. "So this isn't an elaborate scheme to spend Jason's money on exotic entertainment?" He sighed dramatically. "Such a missed opportunity! Our benefactor is ridiculously wealthy. Aren't you even slightly tempted? We could order everything on the room service menu and build a fort out of lobster tails and champagne bottles!"
He turned to Peter, who was still trying to look anywhere but at the dancers. "Don't worry, Spider-Boy, I'll make sure your room has the Disney Channel and a nice glass of warm milk. Maybe a bedtime story if you're good. 'Once upon a time, there was a spider who got friendzoned by a girl named Liz...'"
Peter's glare could have melted steel.
"Too soon?" Deadpool asked innocently. "My bad. We'll workshop your approach to Liz later. After you've had some cultural enrichment." He gestured broadly at the club. "Consider this Advanced Placement Human Biology. Very educational."
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