Chapter Text
“Got a job for you,” Weasel says as soon as Wade picks up the phone, no preamble.
“Yay!” Wade squeals, way too much falsetto for this early in the morning. “What’s it pay? Is it fun? Who’s the client?”
“Nada, nope, and me.”
“Whaaaat? I’ll give you the bestie discount. Comrade Coupon? Main Man Markdown ? Nah, now I’m trying too hard. Anyway, what do you need me to do? Did someone cheat you outta somethin’? Do they need to die or just a booty beatin’?”
“No, it - wait, booty beatin’?” Weasel is sickened and amused, as he often is while talking to Wade. “Fuck, man, just say ass kicking, what is wrong with you?”
“You know how much is wrong with me, it’s just rude to ask me to make a list when you know how I feel about lists. I was just trying something new.”
It’s kind of funny, but Weasel is obligated to give Wade a hard time about everything.
“Sounds like a beanie baby is going around committing adorable yet disturbing violence, and no one wants that, Wade. Not a single person.”
“Really? You can’t think of anyone that might be into that?”
Weasel leans against the stainless steel prep table, thoughtful.
“Maybe someone with some kind of yandere-agalmato-guro fetish, but you’re distracting me from my original point, damn you.”
“Right! Your job! Who do I gotta take care of?”
“The dishes,” Weasel glances at the pile of them, then clarifies. “At Hellhouse.”
Wade is quiet for several seconds, then sounds way too chipper to be taking this seriously.
“I haveta say, I wasn’t expecting that, so A plus for taking my breath away! But I’m also going to have to hard pass. I barely even do my own.”
“Come on ,” Weasel whines at him, hoping he can annoy him into submission. It’s worked once or twice, but dishes were a Big Ask. “Matteo straight up died on the floor last night in the middle of washing them. I just found him this morning.”
“Aw, man, Matteo? Not Matteo! ” Wade cries loudly enough that Weasel has to hold the phone away from his ear. “He was one of the...okay, kinda shitty ones. Great dishwasher though.”
“Eh, so so.”
“He still there?”
“Oh, yeah,” Weasel confirms, still not happy about having to deal with rude-ass, nosy cops first thing in the morning. His Irish Coffee hadn’t even kicked in yet. “They’re putting him in a bodybag soon but he’s still there. Just...just looking at me.”
“God, they didn’t even close his eyes? Brutal . Ooh, put him on the phone. I wanna say goodbye.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“Fair. I’ll just yell then. Hold the receiver out for me.”
“Receiver? The fuck? This is a smart phone, you animal. And I’m still not doing that.”
“You’re no fun,” Wade pouts. “Since when were you no fun?”
“Pretty sure yelling at corpses isn’t my idea of fun. At least not sober.”
“You’re standing next to a dead body while calling me in to replace him. Not sure yelling at him is much of a stretch,” Wade tells him lightly, not sounding at all insulted. He never quite does, even when Weasel tries. “And let’s not pretend you don’t have whiskey in your hand.”
“Touché.”
“Okay, weeeell , good luck with your dishes and toodle -”
“ Wade ,” Weasel groans, not above vying for pity. “My hands are way too dainty for this job. Yours are disgusting, and you’ll heal up like you never had to touch old, wet, leftover food.”
“Oh, flattery!” Wade chirps, and he doesn’t even sound sarcastic even though he must be, the bastard. “Just hire someone else.”
“Before tonight? We open in five hours!”
“I better let you get to it then,” Wade says, flat and low to show how much he means it. Fuck, that really means he’s not going to do it. Weasel shouldn’t have gotten out of bed today.
“Seriously?” He complains, “You’re just going to leave me to deal with this but you’d have murdered someone for me at the drop of a ballsack?”
Sometimes making Wade laugh helps his situation. The guy is crazy and acts on sudden whims more often than not, so Weasel can only hope.
“Good one!” Wade encourages him, the vocal equivalent of finger guns. “Yeah, my good dude, I’m not doing your dead guy dishes. Gross.”
“You,” Weasel says miserably. “are a terrible friend.”
“Aw, I love you too.”
Wade hangs up.
For the next several minutes, Weasel is left to figure out how Craigslist works. As a criminal, he thinks he should be better at traversing sites like this, but he hadn’t been able to sell that lamp six years ago either, so. He should have just done it on his computer, because on his phone he’s too lazy to correct his spelling or capitalize properly. It’s pretty creepy and scammy by the time he submits it, but he figures that he needs someone desperate enough to apply for the position.
He adds ‘ not a scam. Immediate hire .’ to the end of it before hitting submit, then tries to get the rest of his opening tasks done, just in case he really does have to do them all himself.
While considering the pros and cons of just letting his customers drink out of dirty glasses - he’s pretty sure the vast majority won’t give a shit - he hears someone call out from the bar. He reaches for his gun just in case, but it becomes clear as soon as he peers through the window in the kitchen door that there’s no need for it.
“Hello?”
The voice sounds exactly as young as the kid looks. Weasel steps out and lets the door swing shut after him, looking him over, incredulously. He looks so out of place in this bar, even when it’s empty, it’s ridiculous, from his windswept brown hair to his slight build and big doe eyes.
The fuck.
“Who - how did you get in here?” Weasel demands, looking toward the door, half blaming it.
“Uh, the front door,” the stranger says, which makes Weasel blame it the other half of the way, even though he knows it must be Bob’s doing.
“What,” He huffs out, “No way, Patch would never let someone like you in here.”
“I feel like I should be insulted.”
Weasel ignores him and starts for the door, shouting, “Hey, Patch! Patch, what the -”
“He didn’t let me in!”
The loud protest cuts him off mid stride. Weasel hates today. He doesn’t want to do this. He didn’t ask for his dishwasher to die or for his best friend to suck balls or for this literal child to sneak in here. He didn’t even really ask to move to New York, but here he is.
He rolls his eyes then turns around, more than a little exasperated.
“You just said -”
“No,” repeats the kid, “I said I came in through the front door.”
“You’re being deliberately evasive. I mean, bravo, you don’t look like you have it in you, but seriously, what are you doing here?”
“I’m here for the job,” kid says simply.
“Why is someone like you answering a weird-ass ad like that? It should have been hair-raising to most people, kid. Have you no survival instinct? I barely even tried! That was such a murder-y scam ad, I’m ashamed I wrote it, but I was kind of trying to attract murder-y people.”
“It said ‘ not a scam’,” kid shrugs, “Seemed too obvious. Don’t most scams try to be tricky about it? Besides, I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, no, I’m going to give Patch a piece of my mind for letting you in here, and then I’m going to kick you out. Or, I guess I should kick you out first,” Weasel decides, “C’mon then.”
“He didn’t! Really! I tried to get in through him, but he said this place wasn’t for me,” kid has the decency to look a little sheepish, but it just makes him look younger. “so I snuck passed him when he wasn’t looking.”
“Patch doesn’t usually leave his post,” Weasel tells him, suspicious but also ready to tear Patch a new one. This isn’t the day to slack on security. Fuch, can today just go away?
“He didn’t. I’m just,” kid shrugs. “I have a high stealth score, I guess.”
“Nice Dungeons and Dragons reference, but don’t think that means I’ll consider hiring you. Weirdly sneaky, okay. We’ll circle back around to that,” Weasel says, narrowing his eyes and reassessing. “How did you even get here so fast? I put the ad up like, twenty minutes ago.”
“I have an alert on my phone for new jobs, and I live nearby.”
“You? Looking like that, around here ?” Weasel scoffs. “Right.”
“Uh, yeah,” kid looks down at himself, tugging on the bottom of his button-down shirt. Did he really wear a dress shirt to a dishwasher interview? For fuck’s sake. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Literally nothing,” Weasel grouses. “Which means you can’t work here, kid.”
“What? Why?” kid demands, looking hurt, of all things. Seriously, what. “You haven’t even asked me any questions yet!”
“Pretty sure I interrogated you, actually,” Weasel disagrees, already starting back behind the bar, hoping this whole thing will be over with soon.
He has so much shit to do. He doesn’t need this, talking to innocent people takes so much work.
They have feelings, that they express .
Ugh.
“I meant like, job interview questions! You know, ‘what are your strengths and weaknesses?’ or ‘where do you see yourself in five years?’,” kid waves his hands around to demonstrate that he feels like something that should be here is missing. “You’re an employer, you know what I mean.”
“As much as I need to fill this position, I really don’t think you want this job.”
Emphatically, kid states more firmly, standing straighter.
“I promise you, I do .”
“I guarantee you, you don’t, ” Weasel says, raising his voice and making shooing motions with his hands. He kind of enjoys the kid’s humor, but he’ll never survive. It’s really a kindness that Weasel is getting rid of him now. Like one of those dog movies. “So go on. Scram. Come on, get! ”
“I’m not sure I get what’s happening, but I still want the job,” He takes a deep breath, which makes it seem like he’s just gearing up for a whole thing. “My name is Peter Parker, and I’m -”
“Nope!” Weasel is a breath away from plugging his ears and saying ‘la la la’ as loudly as he possibly can. “C’mon, no names! Do you even know what kind of place this is ?”
Kid - Peter, shit - looks around, taking everything in.
“The kind of place that hires felons?”
“ Exactly , which is why I can’t possibly, in good conscience, hire some nubile slave boy to hang around all the riff raff. You gotta get that,” Weasel straightens his glasses and shakes his head. “This place is for sewer rats, not chipmunks .”
“I’m not a -” Peter seems to think better for the petulant rebuttal that was turning out to be. “Listen. I’m stronger than I look and I’m a hard worker.”
“Okay, Simon, off you get.” Weasel sighs, this time holding his arm out, palm up, and holding it out like that in the direction of the door. It looks like a lopsided Heil Hitler, which makes him feel slightly guilty, but he’s already feeling that way so why the fuck not.
Peter raises his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t Alvin be more relevant?”
“I’m not a basic bitch,” Weasel lets his arm fall, then he gestures at Peter instead. “Plus, you’re clearly the nerdy one.”
“I’m not even wearing my glasses!” Peter bristles, but only slightly, like it’s in good humor. Aw shit, that’s not good. Weasel should have dragged him out by his ear way sooner.
“Ha!” He finds himself saying, a little too triumphantly. “So you do wear glasses.”
“ You’re wearing glasses!”
“I don’t see your point.”
“Because of you’re nearsightedness?” Peter asks pointedly, a little smirk forming on his lips as he leans forward. He even guessed right. “So maybe you can ‘not see the problem’ with hiring me?”
“I like your sass, kid,” Weasel admits grudgingly, crossing his arms.“but I’m still not hiring you.”
Peter stares at him hard for a moment, looking for something in Weasel’s face that might indicate he’s changeable. Weasel’s too good for that; his expression stays hard and unmoving.
“Fine!” He spreads his arms in a sharp, wide motion. “At least sign this then.”
He digs in his back pocket and beings to approach the bar.
“I don’t sign things,” Weasel tells him, holding both hands up as Peter hops onto a barstool and spreads out a previously folded document.
Peter purses his lips briefly. “The least you can do if you’re not giving me a job is sign my paperwork so I can tell my parole officer that I’ve been trying, alright?”
The fuck. Weasel’s brain does the equivalent of tires shrieking to a halt.
“Your -” He chokes a bit, sure his eyes are bulging. “Your what? ”
Peter looks confused, then embarrassed, flushing a little. “Did you not get it when I said that thing about hiring felons? You seem quicker than that.”
Weasel rears back, doing a double take.
“You, went to prison. You, looking like that. ”
Weasel feels like he might have a heart attack. He is suddenly, aggressively, retroactively worried for this poor guy. The damage is done now, of course, but he’s pretty sure prison would fuck him up pretty bad, and he’s twice this kid’s size and all...hairy and weird.
“I can’t change the way I look, so yeah,” Peter looks uncomfortable, shifty-eyed. “I wasn’t there for long, just six months, so it wasn’t too -”
“Motherfuck, are you like, okay ?” Weasel can’t get over it. “ Look at you.”
“Will you stop gesturing at me like I’m - God.” Peter huffs out a frustrated breath, steadily growing pinker. “I’m obviously fine, alright? I just need a job, and if you’re not going to give me one -”
Right, of course. Weasel needs to sign is little chaperone paper slip or whatever. Because of parol stuff. Because this slip of a thing with big brown eyes went did fuckin’ time, holy hell, the world really is going to shit. Weasel kind of knew it, but now he’s pretty sure he knows it knows it.
“Seriously, how are you standing here right now?”
He really doesn’t mean to make that big of a deal of it. He feels like his whole ‘make it a joke until it feels less tragic’ thing is glitching in his head. Maybe he needs to eat something. The dead body first thing in the morning had meant he’d delayed breakfast and then gotten busy and then...this.
Peter’s face is impressively deadpan even though his ears are still rosy.
“With my feet.”
“Hardy har har har,” Weasel says, trying to snap out of it. Jesus. He might as well get comfortable, if he’s seriously going to consider this. Not that he is. Damn it. “I guess I should introduce myself if we’re getting fucking deep with this shit. Name’s Weasel.”
“Suits you,” Peter tells him, mouth twitching.
“I know, right?” Weasel says. “What were you in for?”
“Drugs.”
The answer is quick and full of bravado.
“Felony charge?” Weasel whistles, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Nice white boy like you? Must be poor as fuck. And of had enough to sell. That part could be useful -”
“ No ,” Peter cuts him off firmly, glowering down at the table, “I wasn’t. It wasn’t like that. I’ve never done drugs in my life. Well, except some for my ADHD when I was younger, but that’s been a while. I’ve definitely never sold them.”
Weasel feels a little sick to his stomach at the wave of deja vu that hits him. It feels like another life, years ago when almost the same exact thing happened at him at Oscorp. The reason life led him down the road to Hellhouse in the first place. He was lucky that he’d changed his name and gone underground before he’d been arrested, because prison would have been shit for him.
Though, maybe not as bad as it had most likely been for Peter. God, he needs a nap.
“So you’re saying you were innocent,” he clarifies, voice a lot jauntier than he feels. That’s something both he and Wade are good at.
“Yeah,” Peter glances up and then back to the surface of the bar. “That’s what I’m saying.”
Weasel regards him for another moment, before blowing air out through his mouth, letting his lips flap audibly as he does so.
“...Shit, kid, that sucks.”
“You,” Peter looks up, eyes even wider. “you believe me?”
“Of course I believe you!” Weasel gestures again. “Have you seen you?”
This time Peter looks vaguely amused. “You keep saying that.”
“You look like Harry Potter and Hermione Granger had a bastard child who knocked up a Disney Princess and your the beloved yet tragically cursed golden child that the whole ass animated kingdom adores. Do you have an adorable familiar? Can you turn into a dove, by any chance?”
Peter snorts. “No, that would be pretty cool, but...no, I can’t do any of that. Wow, you really have a way with words. I’m pretty sure I don’t look like all that, but thanks?”
“Not really a compliment,” Weasel shrugs.
“Thanks anyway,” Peter tells him, sliding the paper Weasel’s supposed to sign toward him a bit.
It’s so earnest that it gives Weasel gas. Yeah, that’s why his stomach aches so bad.
“Same thing happened to me,” Weasel tells him, stalling and hating himself for it. Fuck, is he really about to do this? Why is he sharing? “Believe it or not. One day I was on my way to get somewhere and the next day I was in No Man’s Land. I get why they thought I did it. I know I look like a chubby squirrel that’s trying real hard to fit in but also might Peter Pettigrew the fuck out of you when your back is turned. But you? Did they learn nothing from Order of the Phoenix?”
Peter blinks a few times, and even though he hesitates, appraising Weasel carefully, it’s stupid how he obviously believes him. Why wouldn’t he? When Weasel extended him the same courtesy. That’s what his guileless expression seems to say. Disgusting. He’ll never make it. Weasel knows he should just put the poor kid out of his misery, sign the paper and let him go.
What is wrong with him? Maybe he just really doesn’t want to do those dishes.
Yeah, that seems the most likely.
“I’m not sure my judge read Harry Potter,” Peter answers after a moment. “or if he did, the lessons went over his head.”
Weasel taps his fingers anxiously on the countertop, near the pen, eyeing the paper briefly.
He ignores it, against his better judgement, and groans.
“So you really know the kind of place this is?”
“I read a little about it, “Peter says, leaning forward, eyes brighter now. He’s acknowledged the second chance and jumped on it. “Weren’t you in San Francisco before? What happened?”
“The earthquake happened.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
Kid looks like he fucking means it too, the absolute shit.
“You the sucker behind climate change? Thought you’d be taller. Meaner, at least.”
“Well, no,” Peter laughs. “I was studying bioengineering, before prison, so the political sabotage of environmental science wasn’t really on my itinerary.”
“Computer science, myself. I’m sure I could have predicted storms eventually, but you know, someone planted drugs on me, so I had different things to use my big brain for.”
Weasel pours himself another glass of whiskey as he talks.
“So I guess it’s both our faults.”
“ Ha . Yeah, well. New York seemed like a good place to remake ourselves. Plenty of work here, even more now thanks to our dickwit supreme leader. Barely a squabble over territory, in fact.”
One guy had died, but he’d been an asshole anyway. Weasel considers it a win. At least for now - but that’s all there ever was in this business. All wins were temporary wins.
“...Lucky you, I guess.”
“More like unlucky you,” Weasel answers,
He asks for Peter’s drink.
Kid doesn’t even try to get a beer, seeming pleased enough about a Ginger Ale. Of course he doesn’t. They sit in quiet for a moment, drinking their respective beverages.
After a few sips, Weasel asks, “...You sure this is where you want to work?”
“No,” Peter sighs. “but I’ve been looking for weeks. The only other places that will hire me pay next to nothing, and I have someone to protect.”
“Ooooh, boy, Jesus. I’m going to forget you ever said that,” Weasel closes his eyes briefly. “That’s not something you want to tell people if you’re going to work in a place like this, holy shit.”
“...If I’m going to work here,” Peter repeats, brightening. “Does that mean I’m hired?”
“Get that adorable expression off your face,” Weasel brandishes a pointed finger at him sternly. “we’re not done negotiating.”
“But we are negotiating,” Peter grins. “so that means you are considering me for the position.”
“Don't look so smug, kid. You look like a fucking mouse who just got a chunk of cheese out of the trap without getting maimed, and I’m not here to be charmed.”
“Sorry I’m so charming then,” Peter says, mockingly sage. “What are we negotiating, hours, pay?”
“Nah, neither of those are negotiable. You work while we’re open, every day but Monday, and for as long as there are dishes to clean. You get paid twenty an hour.”
“That’s -” Peter’s eyes flicker wide but he catches himself. “Um, better than I was expecting.”
“Perks of working with criminals. Which you will be, you have to understand that. You’re not signing a confidentiality agreement, you just don’t say shit if you want to live. That’s not me threatening you, that’s just what I know will happen. Nasty folk come in here all the time and say nasty things,” Weasel pauses to sip, “I’m one of them.”
Peter tilts his head slightly. “You don’t seem so bad.”
Aw, shucks. Weasel finishes his glass of whiskey and pours himself enough as the other settles warmly in the pit of his stomach.
“Now I want to talk about how you got in here.”
“Uhhh.”
Weasel raises a hand before he can respond anymore. “I don’t want to know how you did it. If you’re a mutant or some shit, I cannot impress upon you how much I do not want to know. ”
Peter looks baffled. “Okaaay.”
“ All I want to know is if you can do it again,” Weasel says, the drink in his hand dipping and swaying as he talks. “Was it a fluke, or are you always good at getting around without being seen?”
Peter hesitates, as he should.
“...Why?”
“Because I’m putting on a musical and thought you might want to move the props around in the dark, thought it might be a real hoot,” Weasel intones. “Why the hell do you think? I’m shady ass dude. That kind of skill is useful to me.”
Peter frowns. “I don’t want to do anything illegal.”
“Somehow I gathered that. I won’t ask you to do anything that could land you back in prison, because as I mentioned, I don’t know how you made it out of there. ”
Peter glares, mouth tight.
Weasel goes on, offering, “We could pay by the job, depending on the difficulty. Twenty to fifty bucks, couple times a week maybe.”
“I don’t know about -”
“ Or , you can make yourself available to pass messages along during all of our working hours, whenever I need, and I’ll double your hourly pay.”
Peter looks positively stricken. Weasel takes another long sip, waiting.
“That’s...yeah, that’s really hard to turn down,” Peter confesses, fingers fidgeting.
“Oh, I know,” Weasel nods, “This is why you don’t people that someone you love needs you. I know that giving you a dependable raise so you know what you’re taking home every week will entice you more than an occasional bonus.”
“You said you were forgetting about that,” Peter mumbles.
“First lesson?” Weasel does the ‘cheers’ motion with his glass. “We lie. We don’t forget anything, but it does often benefit us to pretend to.”
“Yeah, I got that,” Peter says, looking a bit too dejected as he considers his options. It’s kind of unbearable, and Weasel hates his life.
“Hey, listen,” Weasel exhales heavily. “I’m not unmoved by your plight, kid. I’m giving you an opportunity, but you don’t have to take it. You can just wash dishes.”
He has the audacity to chew his lip, clearly uncertain.
“...That’s a lot of money for something that isn’t illegal.”
Weasel barks a laugh. “Oh, no. No, no, no, nononono, nope, no. Kid. Buddy. Pal. You would fall out of your chair if I told you what you’d make if it I wanted you to do something illegal. But you aren’t interested in that kind of job. Right?”
“Right.”
“Right,” Weasel agrees, reminding himself as he does so. “It’s decent pay because it might be dangerous for you, but that depends on how good you think you’ll be at it. Again, I don’t want to know how you do it. It’s like... passing notes in class. I’m not going to lie to you. The information might be sensitive, and you might not like what it says if you peek. Don’t peek. Plausible deniability. That’s the only way to get by in a life like this.”
Peter dithers a little longer. “...But I don’t have to do it. I can just wash dishes.”
“Sure,” Weasel sips again, watching Peter all the while. “if that’s what you want.”
He sees the moment that the kid makes the decision, right before he opens his mouth to give his answer. Peter looks at him, looking resolved. Which is better than resigned, Weasel reckons.
“How would it work?”
“The sneak sneak?” Weasel clarifies, mostly to break the tension.
Peter chuffs a small, amused sound. “Yeah, that.”
“I’d give you a letter and a location. It’ll have an address and sometimes, a more exact location to leave the letter. It’ll all be people that want the information you’re giving them, so it’s not like you’re leaving behind ransom notes or taunting the police like that zodiac nonsense.”
“Then what’s it for?” Peter dares to ask. “I don’t want people to get hurt because of me.”
“Yeesh. Some people just need a way to communicate that the cops can’t trace. I facilitate, but computer messages are getting less and less secure these days. Good old-fashioned paper is where it’s at, but I’m not exactly light on my feet, you feel?”
“I guess,” Peter admits. He’s hiding his nervousness well, but Weasel picks up on it.
“They’re probably committing crimes, kid. That’s why it pays so well. But I can tell you this, I don’t deal with the real scum of the earth. People that hurt children, sex traffickers, those guys that kidnap people and keep them in basements, HYDRA torture hoes. I don’t go there.”
Expressive eyes flood with relief. “You don’t?”
“Nah, I got a friend who’d come slit my throat if he found out I was helping losers like that,” Weasel shrugs. “Keeps me honest.”
Peter’s mouth twists wryly. “Sounds honest.”
“Plus, those guys? More trouble than they’re worth,” Weasel adds dismissively. “They think they own you, start asking for more and more, it never stops at just helping a bit. No one owns me, not the government, not the police, no one. That’s the whole fucking point of this place.”
Peter pauses for another moment, then folds up the parole form and shoves it back in his pocket. Subtle, but dramatic in it’s own little way. He offers a hand for Weasel to shake.
“I’m in.”
“On the sneak sneak?” Weasel nods and plants his hand on Peter’s firmly. “Alright!”
“Is that really what we’re calling it?”
“I’ll figure something out, but before that, you’re going to need a name.”
“Did you forget it already?” Peter quirks an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth at the same time. “I thought you said you don’t forget anything.”
“Hilarious. Not when it benefits me, I said, but I digress,” Weasel sighs deeply. “You’re not going by Peter Parker here, like some kind of - you know what? I’ve made so many Harry Potter references at this point, I think you get it.”
Peter inclines his head, musing. “So I need an alias.”
“I gotta have something to yell at you sometimes, and it can’t be what’s on your license - “ Even as tipsy as Weasel is getting, he notices the drastic change on Peter’s face. A brief jolt of panic that fades to intense unease. Weasel hadn’t thought this was going to be the difficult part of the conversation. “Whoa, what was that face? Is Peter not even your real name?”
“It is my real name,” Peter says, harsh and immediate.
Weasel sets down his glass and leans against it, propped up on his elbows.
“For this to be legit enough for your parole officer, it can’t be under the table. I am going to see your ID, so you might as well tell me.”
Peter is tense, but he nods curtly, reaching in his back pocket again to pull out his wallet this time.
“Fine. Look for yourself.”
Weasel takes it, not sure what he’s supposed to expect. At first he doesn’t see what’s wrong with it - at least it’s not a fake. His first thought was that the kid was too young to work here, but he’s twenty, so that’s fine for a back of house position.
The picture is what draws his attention next. The longer hair, the softer jaw, it’s not just that he looks younger it’s - and the name is -
“Oh.”
Weasel blinks once, hard.
“Yeah,” Peter mutters.
A record scratches in Weasel’s head as his brain catches up.
“Fuck, they put you in a women’s prison, huh?” Weasel knows it probably isn’t appropriate to say, and probably makes him a terrible person, but he’s pretty relieved, if he’s honest with himself. Having to imagine this kid in prison with dudes that would make Weasel shit his pants was a bit much to think about on the regular. “That’s shitty, but safer, I guess.”
Voice still tight, Peter nods again. “That’s what my lawyer said too.”
Weasel brandishes the ID, waving it a bit as he heads toward the kitchen. His heart is pounding a bit faster than it usually does when he’s been drinking, but hell if he’s going to let it show. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, but the least he can do is be chill. He’s good at that.
“I’m going to go scan this, but as soon as payroll is set up, I’ll shred it. Let me know when you get that shit changed all official-like so we can redo the paperwork.”
It’s not like he doesn’t have a dead name of his own, even if it’s not quite the same thing.
“...Thank you.”
He gags dramatically. “Don’t be so polite all of a sudden, kid, it’s creepy.”
“Creepy?” He hears Peter’s voice loosen up a bit. “Me? Do you have a trench coat to complete the whole pervert-on-the-library-computer vibe?”
“There we go, “Weasel approves. He disappears for a minute to scan it, then comes“You’ll be in the back most of the time, doing dishes, or delivering messages, out of sight. I don’t need people inquiring about the barely legal chinchilla in my employ, for a whole host of reasons. The only person who’ll be back there with you is Helga, the cook. She’s mute and a little slow, so. She shouldn’t give you trouble. Have you decided on what we should call you?”
“No, I’m terrible at that, always have been.”
“When in doubt, go with an animal. Could be related to your job or appearance or skill, whatever.”
Peter grimaces. “How about Pidgeon?”
“Let’s stay away from plays on messenger birds,” Weasel snarks, “Kind of gives it away.”
“Eh,” Peter lifts his arms helplessly. “You keep comparing me to various rodents, so...”
“Mouse!” He snaps his fingers and points at Peter again. “Ha, Weasel and Mouse. I like the sound of it. Like an Adult Swim show or some shit. This is a hole in the wall, and this is where we live and eat and banter. It’ll be awesome.”
Peter makes a show of looking around the dusty old bar, cringing and wrinkling his nose.
“...To be clear, I don’t want to live in this place.”
“Great. So if you don’t want to die here either,” Weasel gulps down the rest of his drink and then slides the glass over to Peter, purposefully. “Get to work. We open in three hours.”