Frostbite

Responsibility

"Oh my god why does he have a knife."

Peter covered his mouth as he snorted and stepped through the swinging kitchen doors, crossing the short hall towards the break room to dump his stuff on the couch. He draped his jacket and scarf on the closest armrest and rested his backpack against the throw pillow with the giraffe print. After he snagged a can of Arnold Palmer from the mini-fridge and tucked the dagger under his arm, he backtracked into the main room where Weasel's got a spread of bullets on the counter and Wade was standing with a full tan trench coat over his Deadpool suit.

"Oh wow, you really weren't kidding about that."

"There are three things I don't kid about: my undying love for our Lord and Savior Bea Arthur, Mexican food that soothes the rumblies in my tumblies, and taking care of my wittle weapons." Wade grabbed each side of the coat and flung it open like he was flashing people in public. On the right were neat rows of sheaths and holders, and filling up the space to the left were holsters and belts.

"You look like you got run out of a BDSM club for being too freaky," Weasel said.

"You don't know me."

"Unfortunately, I do."

"Unfortunately, you're right."

Peter sipped his drink right as Wade 360'd on one toe to point at him dramatically in a flurry of weighed down trench coat.

"But first, I need to know who the hell thought it was a good idea to give you, a tater tot, a fully functional knife that I'm pretty sure you won't even use because you've got a big no-no against stabbing." A gloved finger waggled. "So who's our culprit? Krampus? San-tee Claws? Dasher? Dancer? Prancer? Vixen? Comet? Cu—"

"My mom," Peter cut in dryly. He slipped the dagger from its t-shirt bundle and handed it over. "She thinks it'll be a good idea if I learn how to use it."

"That's one bumpin' blade, yeesh." Wade held it up to the light and twirled it around his hand. The metal gleamed almost eerily and the detail of each snake made them look alive, like they'd slither right off the hilt. He dug around his trench coat. "And speaking of that respectable woman who may or may not jingle my bells the way Batman smells—"

Peter's face screwed up in faint disgust. Weasel suffered a terrible premonition of every single cheesy pick up line he knew the asshole was going to use every time Crazy Bread showed up at the bar.

"—does the enhancement run in the family? 'Cause both my sore tushes and my fragile maiden heart thinks that getting thrown into that pool table wasn't one of those everyday things." He paused. "Is it weird that I would be totally fine if she stepped on me?"

Peter held the can up to his lips for a few seconds before slowly setting it down. "Okay, one, that's my mom, so gross."

"Not my fault she's a MILF."

"GRO-SS," he groaned. "I'm going to forget you ever said that. And for the second thing, her enhancement's kind of different? I mean, the only reason why I'm so spidery is because I got bit by a radioactive spider on a field trip. Or, more genetically engineered than radioactive if you want to get technical."

Weasel smacked a box of cartridges on the counter and looked up in honest to god disbelief as if his life wasn't already so goddamn weird. "You're telling me that the mom you literally met like two weeks ago is enhanced in a completely unrelated event. And. You got your powers from a bug."

"Arachnid."

"... What the fuck." He shook his head and whipped out his phone. "You know what? I'm actually going to go and process this like any normal barely-functioning adult. Ferret, run maintenance on the Gold Card machine and make sure all the stashed guns are loaded, I'm picking something up." He headed straight for the back way through the kitchen, but turned and squinted when his hand landed on the swinging doors. "Also you're in charge."