Chapter Text
Wade Wilson stomped up the stairs of the thirty floor social media company, Marvelous Captions, that he worked for as the executive editor. He was in no mood to stand waiting for the elevator with his coworkers and employees and then stand cramped with them until he reached the twenty-fifth floor. Anyone taking the stairs only had a few flights to climb, leaving Wade alone by the sixth flight. It had been a restless night of reading several horrible manuscripts, going through a list of employees to fire and to give pay raises to, a video conference at 2:00am with a man from India, and then a morning of P90X. Despite his schedule, Wade was still fifteen minutes early to work, which meant that his always barely-on-time personal assistant wasn't going to be in the office yet. And there wasn't much Wade could do when his assistant was the one with the remaining manuscripts that needed to be read and trashed. Taking the stairs seemed like the only reasonable time waster and energy consumer that he needed right now.
When he reached the twenty-fifth floor, barely out of breath, he barreled through the glass doors into the room full of cubicles that he oversaw. He watched all the employees bolt to their chairs and hastily pick up books and begin typing on their computers like they'd been doing it since they walked in. Wade snorted to himself but didn't say anything. He only had a minute to spare and not enough time to scold them.
He stalked into his office, a large room with a full view of New York City's sky scrapers and the street a dizzying amount of feet below them, his dark wood desk and the newest model desktop computer the company supplied on one side of the room, and a few chairs, file cabinets, and his personal assistant on the other.
His personal assistant and arguably the company's best photographer was a lanky and wild-haired young man dressed in his usual work casual, a gray button-up, black tie and slacks, and large, full-framed glasses that Wade had barely noted as coming back into style.
"Good morning," he extended a to-go cup of Starbucks coffee to Wade.
Wade took the cup and slouched into his leather chair behind his desk, turning his attention towards his computer. "Just a morning, Peter. Do you have the other manuscripts?"
"Yes, I've already read them. Only four of them passed the quota on outside sources and word count, and I've already emailed them to you," Peter told him. "Did you get Max to agree to an interview?"
"Yes, Mr. Fargas will be coming in later today," he responded absentmindedly.
"Wow, that's great," Peter said, surprise widening his eyes. "He hasn't agreed to an interview in twenty years."
"If I wanted your praise, I'd ask for it," Wade sipped his coffee, paused and frowned, examining the cup. "Ummmmmm, who is Anna and, uh, why does she want me to call her?" He turned the cup around to give Peter a view of the name Anna Maria and a number written in sharpie and decorated with a smiley face.
Peter stared blankly at the cup, fiddling with a stack of manila folders in his hands. "Well, uh, that was originally my cup."
"And I'm drinking your coffee why?"
"...Because your coffee spilled."
Wade nodded and took another drink. He raised his eyebrows and looked directly at Peter. "So, you take your coffee black with a shot of espresso and a packet of sugar?"
"I do," he swallowed nervously. "I...don't like all the additional, uh, stuff Starbucks offers in their coffee. Black coffee tastes more like, um, coffee."
"Like coffee," Wade considered him as the phone began to ring. "Is this a coincidence?"
Peter nodded apprehensively. "Incredibly. I wouldn't order the same coffee in case yours, I don't know, fell or something, that would be, uh, pathetic." He snatched up the ringing phone and looked away, staring down at the table. "Morning. Mr. Wilson's office... Hey, Mr. Jameson..."
Wade looked back down at his computer and set the coffee aside, making a flicking motion of his wrist at Peter.
"Yeah, actually, we're headed to your office now," he heard Peter say into the phone, puzzled. "Yep...Bye." The phone clicked as it was set back down, and he felt Peter's eyes on him. "Why are we headed to Jameson's office?"
Wade made a clicking sound with his tongue.
Peter raised his eyebrows and parroted the clicking sound back at him.
Wade nodded in confirmation, watching Peter leave. "If your blazer is at your desk, put it on," he called after him.
Peter gave him a thumbs up before leaving, and Wade stood, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, and walked out of the office, coffee in hand. Peter joined him again as he walked briskly down the aisle, his blazer now on and the manila folders gone.
"What did you think of the Krampus manuscript I gave you yesterday?" Peter asked Wade as he struggled to keep up with Wade's longer strides.
"Garbage," Wade dismissed it.
" 'Garbage?' It's the only Christmas themed story we've gotten this month," Peter said in moderate crossness. "And Christmas is a week from now! We haven't received any other stories like this, and we need something for the season--"
"No, we don't. Remember, Christmas isn't for everyone--"
"It's holiday themed," Peter stressed to him. "It's not even religious--"
"It eats children and is referred to as 'half-goat, half-demon,' " Wade pointed out. "That will really spread the holiday cheer."
"It's cool."
"Uh, wrong," Wade caught the eye of a passing employee, glancing down at a large coffee stain on his white shirt. Wade looked at his own coffee. "Also," he whispered to Peter, "I do think you order the same coffee as me just in case you spill it, which is, actually, pathetic."
Peter frowned back. "Or impressive."
"I'd be impressed if you didn't spill it in the first place," they paused in front of a glass door marked with a plaque reading J. J. Jameson. "Remember, you're just a prop in here."
Peter sighed. "Won't say a word."
They entered the room without knocking, Wade putting on a tight smile, and Peter trailing behind. Sometimes, he hated his job.
"Ah, our audacious leader and his ever loyal companion," a middle age man with a stiff mustache and stiffer posture greeted them. "Please come in."
Wade looked around. He wasn't much of a man for small talk, but he was feeling particularly irritated today and had the mind to be a bit mean and drag this brief meeting out. His eye caught a tall, wooden cabinet. "Oh wow, this is a lovely breakfront," his 'wow' holding a hint of mockery. "Is it new?"
"it is English Regency built in the 1800s, but, yes, it is new to my office," Jameson gave a hostile smile.
Wade smirked and muttered to himself, "witty." He caught Peter's eyes flickering between him and Jameson. Wade stood straight up from where he'd been examining the breakfront and turned to Jameson. "James, I'm letting you go."
Peter's head whipped to look at Wade, and both of them gave Wade a shocked stare.
"I've asked you over a dozen times to get Max to do an interview, and you didn't do it," Peter nervously shut the door as if trying to keep the conversation private. "You're fired."
"I've told you, it's impossible!" Jameson snapped. "He won't do it! He hasn't done an interview in twenty years!"
"Really? That's interesting," he said. "Because I just got him to agree to one. You didn't even call him, did you?"
"Excuse me--!"
"I know," Wade said patronizingly. "Max can be a little scary. He's old and might be hard to talk to. For you. Now, I will give you two months to find another job, and then you can tell everyone you resigned. Okay? Okay."
Wade walked swiftly out of the older man's office, Peter on his heels. As the door clicked shut, he said to Peter, "What's his twenty?"
Peter looked quickly behind him, watching Jameson pace in his office. "Uh, he's moving, he's got crazy eyes. You know he's got high blood pressure, right? I think you just made it worse--"
Wade breathed out as Peter rambled. "Don't do it, Jameson, don't do it."
There was a loud sound behind them as Jameson burst out of his office and pointed a pen at Wade's back. "You poisonous bastard! You can't fire me! You don't think I see what you're doing here? Huh? Sandbagging me over this Max thing so you can look good to the board because you are threatened by me! And you are a monster!"
Wade turned around, switching his coffee into his other hand as Peter gave him another nervous look. "Jameson," there was a condescending warning in his voice. "Stop."
But Jameson continued, his fuse having already been lit and exploding. "Just because you have no semblance of a life outside of this office, you think you can treat all of us like your own personal slaves! You know what? I feel sorry for you. Because you know what you're going to have on your deathbed?"
Wade raised his eyebrows, nodding his head for Jameson to continue. Jameson's face couldn't have gotten any ruddier.
"Nothing! And no one!"
There was silence around the office as everyone watching from their cubicles, breath-taken; a phone rang somewhere across the room, and no one picked it up.
Wade rubbed his face and gave him a quizzical, are-you-done? look. "Listen, Jameson," he spoke quietly but just loud enough for everyone to hear him. "I didn't fire you because I feel threatened by you. Nope. I fired you because you're lazy, entitled, incompetent, and spend a lot more time cheating on your wife than you spend in your office. And if you say another word, Pete over here--" Peter looked up, startled. "--is gonna have you thrown out on your ass. Capisce*?" Jameson angrily opened his mouth. "Another word, and you are leaving with an armed escort. Peter will film it with his phone, and he will put it on YouTube. Is that what you want?" Jameson's mouth imitated a fish out of water and his eyes twitching. "Didn't think so."
Wade turned on his heel and stalked away, Peter hurrying after him. When his assistant caught up to him, Wade said, "Have security check on him periodically and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. I'm so fucking tired of stupid."
"Will do," he responded.
"And I need you this weekend to help review files in his manuscript--"
"This weekend?!"
Wade furrowed his eyebrows and looked at Peter. "You have a problem with that?"
"No, I just--I just, uh, this weekend is my flight to my Aunt's for Christmas," Peter sputtered. "We get the week off, remember?"
"So?" Wade pushed into his office. "Cancel that flight and move it to Monday or something."
"Yep, okay," Peter called from the doorway. "I guess I'll just...do that. Christmas is a pain in the ass, anyway. So, um--"
The door cut him off, and Wade watched Peter turn away and find his own cubicle.
***
"Yes, Aunt May," Wade paused, his hand on the knob of his office door, about out to leave when he overheard Peter on the phone at his own desk. "No, I'll catch another flight...What can I do? He wants me to work this weekend. I'll still be there for Christmas...I promise. I love you. Bye."
Wade stepped out into the hall and approached Peter's desk. "Family?"
Peter took a deep breath and began typing on his computer. "Yeah."
"They tell you to quit?"
"Every day."
Peter's work phone started its shrilling ring again, and he lifted it to his ear. "Wilson's office...Okay." He set the phone down and looked up to Wade. Wade raised an eyebrow. "Boothe and Hammer want to see you in their office."
Wade sighed and nodded, turning around and down the hall. What could his bosses want with him now? Weasel, or Jack Hammer, was his best friend, and probably his only friend, and he would have at least messaged him before anything serious happened. Perhaps it was over him firing Jameson; it was his right as Jameson's boss to be able to fire him, but maybe they wanted to discuss what happens with Jameson's manuscripts.
As he waited in the elevator, a buzzing came from his back pocket, and Wade pulled out his phone.
Weasel (10:37AM)
Dude youre fucked
Well, there it was. He was fucked. But what the hell was fucking him?
Wade stepped out of the elevator and made his way to the large, double doors on the top floor. He knocked and entered, smiling his why-the-hell-was-I-called-here smile. "Hey, Boothe. Weaz."
Boothe was a dark man with an imposing, business like manner who dressed smartly, and Weasel was pale with long hair, glasses, and regularly without a tie. The pair seemed to get along well.
"Congrats on getting the interview with Max, Wilson," Boothe replied as a greeting.
"Thank you," Wade stood to move in front of them. "But this isn't about the Max thing. Why'd you hotshots call me up here?"
Weasel leaned back uneasily against a cabinet. "Listen, Wade. Remember when you said you weren't going to go to the Frankford Book Fair because you weren't allowed out of the country while your visa was being processed? But you went anyway?"
Wade nodded. "We were sort of going to lose a contract and publicity, I had to go."
Weasel ignored him. "Well, that sort of made your immigration attorney contact us, and we've been talking. And, uh, your visa application has been denied."
Wade tilted his head forward, eyebrows shooting up, and he licked his lips. "Alright..." he drew the word out.
"I'm sorry, man. But you're being deported," Weasel and Boothe gave him apologetic looks and watched him solemnly.
"Deported?" Wade exclaimed.
Boothe shifted in his chair, taking the question. "There was also some paperwork you didn't fill out in time--"
"There's gotta be something we can do. I mean, I'm from Canada, that's--" Wade lost his words, searching the two with disbelief in his eyes.
"We can always reapply," Weasel told him. "But you have to go back to Canada for at least a year in order for us to do that."
"Okay...Okay, that's not ideal, but I can just work from Toronto. Video conferences and emails and--"
"This is an American company. You can't work as an executive editor if you get deported," Boothe put him down. "Until this is resolved, I'm going to have to turn this over to James Jonah Jameson."
"James Jonah Jameson? The guy I just fired?" he deadpanned.
Weasel scratched the back of his neck. "We're gonna need an executive editor, and he's the only guy in the building who knows what that even looks like."
"You can't be serious," Wade turned around to face the door, and then turned back to face his two bosses. "This can't be real. I can't go back."
"Wade, I know this is hard," Weasel tried to placate him. "And we're desperate to have you stay. If there was any way--any way at all--that we could make sure you stay, we'd be out trying to do it."
"I'll do whatever--"
There was a knock on the door.
"I'll figure this out--"
The knock came again, this time, with Peter's head popping in through the doorway.
"Excuse me--" Boothe started.
"What?" Wade snapped.
"Sorry," Petter replied, looking hesitant. "Max is on the line. He's getting impatient. Says he needs to speak to someone."
Wade took a deep breath. "I know--"
"He's on hold. He needs to speak right away--"
Wade nodded impatiently. "Okay."
"He says unless someone is getting engaged or dying, he wants to speak with you, so..."
He paused and stared hard at Peter.
Peter eyed him back. "What?"
Wade glanced at Boothe and Weasel before looking back at Peter. Peter looked at him in bewilderment, still holding the door open.
"Uh," Wade said to no one. He looked back at Peter and whispered, "come here." Peter hesitated. "Come here!"
Peter stood up straight and stiffly moved to stand beside his boss.
"Alright," Wade turned to Boothe and Weasel, clapping his hands together. "Uh, gentlemen, I understand the issue here, but, uh, well, I think there's something you guys should know. And, um, sorry I didn't tell you sooner, Weaz," Wade took a few steps back to stand directly beside Peter, his personal assistant looking back up at him curiously. "We're getting married."
Weasel's jaw dropped, and his hand stopped rubbing at his chin; Boothe blinked, face blank to Wade's words.
Wade felt Peter stop breathing beside him before he gave a sharp in take of breath and leaned into Wade's ear.
"Who's getting married?" Peter whispered, sounding breathless.
"Us," he hissed back.
"Who..." Peter trailed off and looked at Boothe and Weasel as if his body had been unoccupied for a few centuries.
"Isn't he..." Weasel regained his voice and pointed at Peter. "Isn't he your secretary?"
"Assistant," Wade said quickly. "Executive...assistant. Uh, titles."
"But he's your assistant."
"I..." he looked at Peter, who was still staring into space. "So, truth is, Pete and I, we're just two people who were, um, never supposed to fall in love," his voice raised a little bit. "All the late nights at the office, and, uh, book fairs..."
Peter was coming to and beginning to shake his head. He whispered, "no..."
Wade continued. "Something...Something happened."
Peter turned to Wade, still shaking his head and looking lost. A mumbled, "something happened," slipped past his lips.
"Yep," Wade turned towards his bosses, smiling perhaps one of his worst smiles. "We tried to fight it, and, well, we couldn't."
Peter subtly shook his head again.
"Can't fight a love like ours," he awkwardly slung an arm around Peter's shoulder and pulled him in close. "So, everything good? Is everything okay? Because, well, we," he pointed at Peter and himself. "Really want to be."
"Wade," Boothe clasped his hands.
"Yeah?"
"It's...It's great. Just, uh, make it official?" He pointed to his ring finger.
"Oh, yeah! Then, I guess we need to get ourselves to the immigration office, huh, Honey?" Wade said pointedly to Peter. "So we can work this out. Thank you very much, you guys."
Wade nodded to them and started towards the door, pulling Peter behind.
"Gentlemen," Peter said in parting, looking behind him in desolation.