Chapter Text
It was Christmastime.
All over the world.
Even in the Hellhouse.
Of course, Christmas spirit in the Hellhouse consisted mainly of some half-hearted decorations, and an unfortunate slowdown in the amount of work for the ill-tempered, rough-housing clientele to whom the little man known as Patch catered.
The clientele, on the other hand, were as rowdy and mean-spirited as ever. Typhoid Mary cut her usual bloody swath through the crowd -- or, more accurately, they gave her room. The noise level was its usual deafening cacophony: the sounds of punches being thrown mingling with the sounds of beer cans being smashed against foreheads, billiard balls clinking against one another, raucous music, pagers sounding off, random macho shouts, and the rattle of Patch's five fax machines.
The balmy weather, unseasonable for December, let alone in Chicago, was doing nothing to improve the general atmosphere of the place. It had been eighty degrees since Thanksgiving. People were sweaty and cranky. The already volatile crowd at the Hellhouse became even more so with the abundance of alcohol and idle minds.
Outside, on the street, shoppers were having similar difficulty. The Windy City wasn't very windy, and the oppressive heat was making the mundanes as cranky as the mercenaries were. Festive red bows and tinsel hung limply from lamp posts and street signs, then slowly began to flutter as the wind picked up. Thermometers all over the city began dropping, and the first flakes of snow began to fall - with alarming speed.
Patch shivered, and reached a gnarled hand to slam his window as a breeze rushed through his office. "Damn, looks like the weather finally remembered what flippin' month it is."
The door of the Hellhouse blew open on that selfsame breeze, bringing a blinding burst of snow with it.
"Hey! Shut the damn locker room door!" yelled Fenway over his beer.
Unfortunately, the breeze had other plans. The wind whipped up to gale force intensity anytime anyone tried to get close enough to shut the door.
The breeze then vanished as suddenly as it had come, leaving three figures silhouetted in the doorway. Stepping into the dim light of the Hellhouse, the former two figures revealed themselves to be a set of twins - stunningly beautiful twins, with liquid brown eyes and lustrous brown hair. Their eyes darted quickly across the room in rapid scrutiny; each held her red-gloved right hand over the sidearm at her hip.
Once their inspection of the Hellhouse was complete, the twins curled their perfect Cupid's bow lips into identical sneers of disdain. They nodded first to each other, then to the figure who remained poised in the doorway.
"It's safe, sir."
"That's being generous."
"Now, girls. We're guests in the Hellhouse," boomed the mellifluous voice of the third figure. He remained shadowed despite having moved into the room. Murmurs traveled through the room, speculating on image inducers, telepathy, or illusion powers. All they could tell of the stranger with the twin bodyguards was that he was big. Very, very big. Whispers murmured in dubious, wondering voices whether it was the Blob looking for work, or the Kingpin slumming. Fenway grumbled that it better not be the Thing trying to bust up the Hellhouse.
The wide-shouldered man strolled past the bar, and laid down a wad of bills. "A round for the house, my good man." The bartender blinked, and glanced out at the crowd, who were known to react to the scent of cold, hard cash. The twins flanked their patron, standing poised in a posture that indicated any trouble would be dealt with - swiftly and harshly.
Patch pulled his microphone down and tapped it once before speaking. "I'm Patch. I own this lousy excuse for a place. Whaddaya want here? You a Fed, you bought yourself a whole mess of trouble."
The figure laughed heartily, to the point where his shoulders shook with mirth. "Hardly, Leslie. I have come to hire someone. I assure you, I am not a Fed."
Patch winced as the newcomer called him by his much-hated given name. Typhoid Mary and the twins glared daggers at each other across the room. The male contingent of the room gazed with drooling fascination at the two girls in red.
"Don't start none," said one twin.
"Won't be none," finished the other with a toss of her head. "The man just wants to set up the job and go."
Patch shrugged from behind his bulletproof glass partition. "Okay, depends on what you need done. It's gonna cost you. It is Christmas an' all, ya know."
"Money is no object. But I have someone specific in mind, Leslie."
Patch was impressed. This guy knows where the Hellhouse is, and who I am - but I've never seen him in here before. I'd remember a big man with two karate megababes. "All right. Tell me the job, and I'll tell you who I've got."
The large man leaned in close to Patch's partition, revealing a shock of white hair and steely blue eyes. "It's a rescue mission. I wish casualties kept to a minimum. I desire it done before the 24th of December."
"Okay, we can do that - it'll cost ya, y'know, getting somebody to keep casualties down. That's extra."
"Money is no object. Besides, I have someone in mind. Wade Wilson."
Patch nearly swallowed his microphone. Okay, this guy's a nutjob. He wants Deadpool to keep the body count down?
"Leslie, my boy, you're looking a bit peaked. You really should take off for the holidays yourself. It will be good for you. Do we have a contract, then, my good man? I should like Wade Wilson to rescue one thousand children and keep the body count down." The steely blue eyes softened to a warm, gentle, avuncular twinkle.
"Afraid not, old man," Patch shook his head, mopping uneasily at his bald pate with a handkerchief. "Deadpool hasn't been seen 'round these parts since his throwdown with T-Ray a few months back."
"I assure you, it won't be that difficult to locate him. I'm sure Jack knows where to find Wade."
"Jack?" Patch repeated, as the door blew open again.
A skinny young man stumbled up to the bar, fumbling off his glasses, which had fogged up the moment he stepped from the blizzard outside into the relative warmth of the Hellhouse. He looked frightened and dazed, to say the least.
"Weasel!" One or two of the waitresses called cheerfully, reaching to drag him beneath the mistletoe that seemed to have spontaneously sprouted out of the ceiling. When they were done greeting him, he had lipstick prints all over his face and a slightly less frightened dazed expression.
The twins nodded approvingly, and shifted their stance atop their bright red high-heeled boots.
"Ah! Excellent! Jack, you're just the man I was hoping to bump into here." The large fellow reached out a white-gloved hand and clasped Weasel by the shoulder. "Come, share your expertise with Patch here, hm, and tell him where to find Wade."
"Uh... " stammered Weasel, blinking.
"Close your mouth, dear," said one twin, smiling affectionately as she toyed with Weasel's hair.
"And answer the question," the other twin added, fingering circles on the front of Weasel's "Time to Die, Nerd-Boy" T-shirt.
"Well, yeah, uh, I know where the Deadhut is, old timer," Weasel said, peering myopically at the large figure in front of Patch's booth. "Why should I tell you? You could be Ajax in disguise or some other enemy out for a piece of Wade's a- his aaa- . Wade's hiney." Weasel blinked in shock. I wanted to say 'ass' !
"His HINEY?" Typhoid Mary repeated, then doubled over laughing.
The twins smiled approvingly.
The gentleman beside Patch gave another deep, hearty laugh, and shook all over when he did so. "I am only looking to hire him. For your trouble." White gloved fingers moved in a lightning-quick motion, and there was a glint of metal in the light.
When Weasel opened his hand, he found a small gold Krugerand in his palm. "Holy " he trailed off, goggle-eyed. "Okay, you're on." He vaulted over a table and was at the booth with Patch and the customer in a matter of seconds. "What can I do for you, Mister ....uh...? "
"St. Nicholas," laughed the large gentleman, bowing neatly. "Kristoph St. Nicholas."