Archive of Our Own ^beta

Peter Parker’s phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Five times. All Wade.

DEADPOOL: “BEDTIME, BABY SPIDERS.”
DEADPOOL: “DID YOU BRUSH YOUR TEETH OR ARE THEY FILTHY LITTLE LIARS?”
DEADPOOL: “ANSWER ME OR I’M BRINGING A THERAPIST AND A PIZZA.”
DEADPOOL: “NO REPLY IN 5 MINUTES = PIZZA AND THERAPY DELIVERED IN PERSON”
DEADPOOL: “THREAT ENACTMENT MODE ENGAGED.”

Peter flopped onto his bed, still in partial Spider-Man suit, mask halfway off, hoodie halfway on. He stared at the glowing screen and groaned. “Nope. Not doing this. Not engaging with the chaos gremlin.”

He shoved the phone under a pillow and pretended the world didn’t exist.

Eight minutes later…

A soft thunk came from the fire escape.

Peter froze. “No way—”

The window slid open with a squeal. Wade Wilson tumbled inside holding an extra-large pepperoni pizza, a Baby Yoda nightlight, and absolutely no shame.

“Relax, Aunt May!” Wade chirped. “I’m just here to make sure your adorable crime-fighting fetus isn’t out past bedtime!”

“I’m NOT a fetus!” Peter shouted, trying to hide his mask behind his back.

Wade muttered gravely, plugging in the nightlight. “There. Yoda watches over you now.”

Peter side-eyed the glowing Baby Yoda on his nightstand, the soft green light bouncing off his wall. For half a second, his chest eased. He mumbled under his breath, “...It’s kinda cute.”

Then he snapped upright, flailing: “Wait—NO, it’s creepy! Creepy gremlin merch, that’s what it is!”

Aunt May came into the room and crossed her arms. “You cannot just break into our apartment every time Peter ignores your texts!”

“Sure I can,” Wade said cheerfully. “I’m his legal mom now. Ask Daredevil, he notarized it in red ink.”

“I did not,” Matt’s voice said dryly from the fire escape. He’d followed Wade up, presumably to make sure no additional laws were broken.

Wade wagged a finger. “Don’t listen to him, he’s just bitter because this fanfic doesn’t give him enough lines. Brooding lawyers never get the punchy dialogue.”

Peter sat up, exasperated. “Wade, just because you found out I was sixteen does NOT mean you need to baby me! I’m practically an adult!”

Wade gasped so loudly it echoed off the walls. “Practically an adult?! You sweet summer kumquat, if you’re practically an adult, then I’m practically sane!”

“You’re not sane at all!”

“EXACTLY,” Wade shouted, pointing at him with both hands. “Which means you need 24/7 supervision! I will swaddle you like an emotionally unstable burrito if I have to. Do not test me.”

“You can’t swaddle me, I’m six feet tall!”

“Pssht.” Wade scoffed. “You’re six feet tall the same way I’m a licensed therapist: technically possible on paper, but deeply untrue in reality. Anyways, I once swaddled a fully grown bodybuilder named Dave in a weighted blanket and carried him through a Taco Bell drive-thru. Try me, Spider-Child.”

May sipped her tea and muttered, “Honestly, that sounds nice. Peter never lets me swaddle him anymore. He claims it’s ‘weird.’”

The next evening, Peter swung through Queens, trying to shake off the embarrassment of having been tucked in last night by an armed mercenary in a unicorn apron.

Below him, three guys were prying open a parked car. “Hey fellas,” Peter called, landing on a lamppost. “You know there’s an easier way to get into cars? It’s called a key. Or crime-free living. I’m a big fan of that one.”

The carjackers stared.

Then a unicorn-shaped umbrella descended from above like a wrathful bedtime fairy.

“BEDTIME!” Wade bellowed, body-slamming one thug into the hood of the car. “TEN O’CLOCK, SHARP! DROP THE CROWBAR, PUNK, AND LET THE BABY SPIDER GO HOME FOR COCOA!”

Peter groaned. “Wade, I’m literally in the middle of stopping a crime—”

“Crime doesn’t have office hours, but you do!” Wade yelled, webbing the second thug for him. “And Tony’s gonna be mad if I let you stay out past midnight again!”

“Tony doesn’t care!” Peter snapped.

From a nearby rooftop, a speaker crackled to life. Tony’s voice boomed, suspiciously AI-amplified:

“Correction: Tony cares very much. Now go home, kid, or I’ll ground you and your web shooters.”

Peter froze mid-swing. “ARE YOU SPYING ON ME?”

“Not spying,” Tony said smoothly. “Just… bedtime-enforcing via precision drone strike.”

“WITH WHAT AUTHORITY?!”

“Parental,” Wade said, holding up a glitter-covered legal document. “It’s me and Stark now, baby. Double Dad Power. Go brush your teeth.”

“I am not your baby!” Peter yelled.

“You’re my precious kangaroo joey,” Wade corrected solemnly, producing a suspiciously large baby carrier — a papoose — from seemingly nowhere. “And I WILL marsupialize you if you keep sassing me.”

“You don’t even know how to pronounce that.”

“I know how to do it.” Wade lunged.

Peter backflipped away. “NO. You are not carrying me around in that thing!”

“You screamed ‘I crave violence!’ while crying last week,” Wade yelled after him. “You OBVIOUSLY need a nap and a juice box!”

11:48 p.m. — forty-eight minutes past Peter’s Deadpool-mandated bedtime.
He crouched on a rooftop, mid-battle with some very confused arms dealers.

“Seriously, guys,” Peter said, dodging a flying crate, “who even does arms deals at midnight? Don’t you people have Netflix?”

A voice roared from across the roof: “YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE IN BED, YOUNG MAN!”

Peter’s stomach dropped. “Oh no.”

From a higher ledge, Wade Wilson swan-dived into the fray — clutching a baby carrier. Bright pink. Glitter. Cartoon ducks.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” Peter shouted, webbing two gunmen in panic. “KEEP THAT THING AWAY FROM ME.”

“Sorry, kiddo,” Wade sang, dodging bullets like raindrops. “You skipped bedtime. Now it’s papoose o’clock.”

“It’s not even pronounced right!”

“I don’t need to pronounce it to weaponize it!” Wade lunged, harness snapping open with a flourish.

Peter backflipped off a railing. “I SWEAR, IF YOU PUT ME IN THAT—”

“You’ll what? Cry? You already did last week when you stubbed your toe on a fire hydrant,” Wade said, vaulting after him with the grim focus of a man assembling IKEA furniture at gunpoint.

Then he paused mid-pursuit, cupping his hands around his mouth. “You know what this scene needs? A laugh track. Cue the laugh track! …oh right, budget fanfic. Fine, I’ll hum it myself.”

He immediately launched into a terrible off-key sitcom theme while diving at Peter with the papoose.

From a higher ledge, Daredevil landed, took in the chaos, and turned to leave without a word.

“Matthew, wait!” Wade yelled, ducking a crate. “You’re the godfather now!”

“Of what?!” Matt called over his shoulder.

“Our beautiful disaster nugget!” Wade grunted, tackling Peter midair. The harness snapped shut with terrifying speed. “Small, fast, constantly throwing himself off rooftops. Like a flying toaster with feelings.”

“LET ME OUT!” Peter thrashed, arms pinned like an angry burrito.

“Nope,” Wade chirped, tightening the straps. “Baby-wearing builds bonding. And abs.”

“THIS IS HUMILIATING.”

“Aw, you look adorable. Like a Spider-Kangaroo. A Spangaroo!” Wade zipped up the carrier and patted Peter’s head. “Nap time.”

A bullet pinged off the roof. Wade shot back without even looking. “See? Cozy AND secure. Parenting win!”

From across the alley, Matt groaned. “You’re all insane.”

“Thanks, Uncle Devil!” Wade shouted.

“Stop calling me that!”

By the time NYPD arrived, the thugs were webbed up, Wade was humming a lullaby, and Peter was mortified beyond speech.

“Wade,” Peter muttered through clenched teeth, “if you don’t let me out, I will—”

“You’ll what? Ground yourself?” Wade teased. “Too late. You’re already grounded… in the papoose.

Peter pushed open the apartment door and froze. At the kitchen table, Aunt May sipped chamomile while Wade Wilson sat across from her with three ring binders, a laptop, and a stack of color-coded pie charts.

“…so I’m thinking nine-thirty bedtime on school nights,” Wade said gravely, tapping a laser pointer at a chart titled OPERATION: SLEEPY SPIDER.

“Only if he finishes his algebra homework first,” May countered without missing a beat.

“Done. And no caffeine after six.” Wade flipped to a second chart labeled SPIDER-CHILD DIETARY INTERVENTION with a giant red X over “Monster Energy.”

“I already said that!” May exclaimed. “Finally, someone who gets it!”

Peter staggered into the room like a man walking into his own surprise funeral.
“What—what is happening right now?”

“Family intervention,” Wade said cheerfully. “We’re optimizing your bedtime protocols. I made a spreadsheet. And a pie chart. And an actual pie. It’s in the oven.”

“I hate both of you,” Peter groaned, dropping his backpack.

“Aw, you’re just cranky from low blood sugar,” Wade said, tossing an oatmeal cookie like a live grenade. Peter barely caught it. “Eat, young man, or I swear I will deploy the juice box drone.”

“Eat the cookie, honey,” May added sweetly. “Then go to bed.”

Peter pointed an accusing finger at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am,” May said calmly, folding her hands. “But your side has terrible sleeping habits.”

Wade spun his laptop around to reveal a PowerPoint slide reading ‘CASE STUDY: WHY SPIDER-TEENS NEED NAPS.’

“Look, I even made graphs,” Wade said proudly. “This graph shows how often the author screws up the timeline and the punchlines. Spoiler: it’s a lot. Honestly, I had to make a whole Excel sheet just to keep track of the continuity errors.”

Wade clicked to the next slide with a flourish. “This one tracks how many times you said ‘I’m fine’ in the last month versus how many times you face-planted into a dumpster.”

“Is that… an actual bar graph?” Peter asked, horrified.

“Technically it’s a fall graph,” Wade corrected solemnly, clicking his glitter pen like a laser pointer. “Upward trend. Pun absolutely intended.”

He leaned in conspiratorially, waggling the pen. “Graphical comedy! See, kid, this is called a visual gag. Except in prose. Which makes it… a think-gag? No, a read-gag. Eh, the author’ll workshop it.”

May patted Wade’s arm as if he’d just invented cold fusion. “You’re very thorough.”

“Thank you, you can call me Mom, Spider-Snack Pack,” Wade said, spinning the pen and nearly taking out a houseplant.

“I am not your—” Peter started.

“Shh. Cookie in. Words out,” Wade interrupted, fastballing an oatmeal cookie at Peter’s face. Peter instinctively threw it back, but Wade caught it behind his back without even looking, like some unholy baseball savant. “Bedtime is non-negotiable. If you resist, I’m prepared to escalate to Phase Two: bedtime lullaby flash mob. I’ve already hired Elmo, three barbershop singers, and a guy dressed as a giant chicken nugget.”

Peter buried his face in his hands. “This is psychological warfare.”

Wade jabbed the glitter pen at Peter’s head like a general planning troop movements. “Psychological parenting. There’s a difference.”

May took another calm sip of tea. “Be in bed by nine-thirty, dear. Or apparently the chicken nugget comes to you.”

At Stark Tower, Tony Stark had finally snapped. Peter knew it the second he stepped into the glass conference room and saw the glowing red words on the wall screen: EMERGENCY FAMILY MEETING: OPERATION BEDTIME. Wade Wilson was already seated at the table wearing a “#1 Mom” apron and sipping from a novelty Iron Man mug. Aunt May looked far too amused for Peter’s liking.

“Listen up,” Tony began, pacing like he was about to launch missiles. “I don’t do parenting. I build things. I delegate. Occasionally I buy a kid a lab and call it mentorship. But you two—” He didn’t even bother to glance at which “two,” just gestured vaguely in Peter and Wade’s direction. “—have officially given me heartburn. So this curfew thing? Fine. I’m in. Non-negotiable.”

Peter gawked at him. “Wait—YOU TOO?!”

Tony didn’t even break stride. “Oh, I’m not just in. I’m leading the mission. Congratulations, Parker, you’ve inspired the Iron Dad Initiative.” He clicked a remote and the screen changed to display a hovering drone schematic labeled SPIDER-BEDTIME ENFORCER, MARK I.

Peter stared at it in horror. “This is child abuse via Bluetooth.”

“You answer Wade’s texts,” Tony said flatly. “You answer my calls. You eat something green that isn’t a radioactive lizard tail. And if you’re out past eleven, this thing will track you down and sing you lullabies in eight languages while deploying a weighted blanket at Mach Two. Don’t test me.”

Peter blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“Does this look like a face that jokes about bedtime?” Tony asked, deadpan. “Don’t answer that. Just know this thing also has taser confetti.”

Wade clapped like an overexcited seal. “That’s my co-parent!”

Tony shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Stop calling me that. Ever again. Or I will drop you in a volcano.”

“Too late,” Wade chirped, already rummaging in his backpack. “I made us matching shirts. Yours says ‘Iron Daddy.’”

Tony froze mid-step. “…No.”

“Yes,” Wade said proudly, holding up his own shirt: ‘World’s Best Mom. Also Deadliest.’

Peter groaned into his hands. “Please stop. Please just let me die. I’m begging you.”

“Thank you, Tony,” May said warmly, sipping her tea like this was the best entertainment she’d had all week. “At least someone in this room is responsible.”

Tony muttered, “Oh fantastic. I’m the responsible one. We’re doomed. This family unit is one churro away from full-blown CPS intervention.”

“Don’t worry, champ,” Wade stage-whispered to Peter, leaning in conspiratorially. “If CPS shows up, I’ve got a guy. His name’s Carl. Works for both sides. Mostly Tuesdays. If he flakes, I’ll send Elmo. With a juice box. And a Glock”

Tony rubbed his forehead. “...I regret everything.”

“I AM NOT YOUR CHILD!” Peter snapped, shoving his chair back hard enough to squeak on the floor.

“Sure you are,” Tony said, clicking to the next slide. “You’ve got ‘groundable minor’ written all over you. Now eat something that grew out of the dirt, or I’m fitting you with a broccoli-tracking ankle monitor.”

Wade gasped like this was the best idea he’d ever heard and started scribbling furious notes. Peter looked one second away from flinging himself straight out the nearest window. May, still serene, took another sip of tea.

“God help me,” Tony muttered, rubbing his temples. “I’m running a day care for superheroes.”

DEADPOOL: “Snack status? Emoji only. 🍕🥛😴”
DEADPOOL: “If you don’t reply in 10 minutes I’m sending Elmo with a juice box. And a Glock.”
DEADPOOL: “Correction: TWO juice boxes. One for Elmo, one for you. Choose wisely.”
DEADPOOL: “Also, the Glock is for Elmo.”

Peter sighed so hard it fogged up his mask and typed back: 🥪😑🛌

A second later:

DEADPOOL: “Good boy. Mom loves you. Don’t make me rent a bouncy castle on a rooftop again. You know I’ll do it.”

Before Peter could even groan properly, something overhead chirped. High above, Stark’s drone blinked red and FRIDAY’s voice echoed down, cheerful and terrifying:

“Bedtime compliance: 100%. Deploying lullaby sequence. Volume: maximum embarrassment.”

“NO—!” Peter yelped as soft music blasted through the city — not just a lullaby, but a full symphonic arrangement of “Rock-a-Bye Baby” with subwoofers. Pedestrians actually stopped to look up as the Spider-Man of Queens swung frantically from building to building, chased by a drone that projected glowing holograms of cartoon sheep counting him down to sleep.

From somewhere unseen, Deadpool’s voice shouted through a megaphone, “THAT’S MY BOY! NAP HARD OR NAP HOME!”