Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter Parker knew for a fact that if he went home to Aunt May, he’d have not only killed Spiderman for good but also put additional burden on each of the Avengers’ shoulders. He’d leave New York all of a sudden, and they’d be asking what happened to the hero in red-and-blue spandex, swinging over and in between buildings? The other heroes tasked to protect the city weren’t actually keen on crowd control, expecting the police to do that, while Spiderman had both hands deep in both departments. With him gone, the crowd might go wild, and not in the good way.

 Just with that one single decision of going back.

He looked around at his crappy old apartment. Even with its paint peeling in long strips from the walls, even with the dust bunnies multiplying under every table, even with the jacked-up heater that wheezed for him one last time this morning, he’d miss the old place. It had been what he’d call home for a little over two years. It had been there for him, shielding him from whatever storm New York suddenly barrelled into. It had housed him when he was cramming both his deadlines for his academics as well as his deadlines for The Daily Bugle. It had welcomed him with grimy, open arms, when he stumbled around in the dark as Spiderman, with all his cuts and bruises. It had tucked him in to sleep with a cold draft whistling through, and it would wake him up with the cold water sputtering from the rusty shower.

Of course he’d be sad when he had to say goodbye.

He had to face the reality. Aunt May’s stipend wasn’t exactly the best, what with Uncle Ben gone, and it was already lacking just with his expenses in college alone. So when he thought he had enough savings from working at The Daily Bugle, he had moved away from Aunt May and closer to the city to try and ease the pain in her pockets, but it got worse. Of course, living near the city’s heart meant a higher cost of living, and he had to send a lot of pictures of Spiderman to The Daily Bugle to have enough to buy food for a week, and not to mention the bills and the rent.

Until finally, a week before, his landlord had told him that he couldn’t do this anymore, and gave him an eviction notice with one week to shell out. He didn’t know where to go, and of course he didn’t want to insist on anyone, especially Aunt May. He’d want to save face, and keep the responsibility of being Spiderman altogether.

He’d have found a job that pays better, as an intern at OsCorp (and this time, it was his name on the name tag, but there was still a twinge of pain in his heart when the new Head Intern greeted them and guided them through OsCorp, the Head Intern who had replaced Gwen Stacy after she died), but the notice was far too late to talk the landlord out of it. He had the job to pay for a roof, but he needed to look for available space first, preferably somewhere small and preferably shared with someone who didn’t bother with their roomies.

He dragged himself to a small café and ordered a latte to ease his nerves.  His bags were beside him on either side of his feet. He looked around, willing himself to see something, anything that would give him a way to secure a roof above his head by tonight. Saying goodbye to the old place was heartbreaking, to say the least. He kept looking back at his unit, stripped bare of every piece of evidence that Peter Parker lived there, and wished that he could go back and just go flump! on the couch again, forgetting the whole idea of leaving altogether.

But that didn't happen, couldn't happen, and with a heavy heart that seemed to get heavier with every step he took away from the familiar door, he finally left.

He sighed and decided to go look for a miracle, but he was too caught up with the miserable thought that he didn’t know he had hit someone entering the café with his bag on the way out. Although the day was a bit sunnier than usual, the man was wearing jeans and a pull-over hoodie with a baseball cap. The hood of his jacket was drawn up, and the bill of his cap was pulled down so no one could get a clear look on his face. His eyes widened in horror when he saw the man’s papers, tucked neatly in his hands, scatter all over the floor.

“Oh shit!” Peter quickly ducked and took each of the papers to try and at least make up for what he has done. “Oh, God, I’m sorry – “

“Hey, hey, it’s all good, I can do it –“ The man said, a bit worried and more amused than annoyed like Peter expected. The latter looked up at the former, and he only saw clear blue eyes before the man straightened, turned and ran.

“I… what…” To say that Peter was confused was an understatement. The man had been quite flustered when he tried to help, but the second he looked at him, he turned tail and fled? He frowned to himself as he straightened up, the papers still on his hand. He awkwardly shuffled his bags and coffee and went out the door, trying to read the paper.

WANTED

ROOMMATE

He only saw the first two words but he felt like someone had pushed him into a wall to the point that he felt breathless. He fought back a joyful scream, and he patted his pockets for the phone to contact the number on the bottom of the page for the room. He waited patiently, rocking back and forth on his heels, while the phone rang. Finally, a gruff voice answered. “Hello?”

“Uhm, hi,” he said, flustered for a bit. Why the fuck was he blushing? “Erm, is this… uh…” He looked down at the name in bold letters on the bottom. “Mr. Wade Wilson? I’m to inquire about the roommate thing…?”

“Oh! Of course!” The person at the other end sounded happy, perhaps because his searching had borne fruit after all. He told him the address, and Peter didn’t have to write it down; his nightly patrols of New York made him memorize every part of the city. The apartment was actually only two blocks from where he was standing. “All bills, including rent, will be shared equally, and we only have one room, but two separate beds, and the shower’s really not that good but the heater at least works from time to time, and – “

“That sounds perfect,” he smiled to himself, not really listening to the other man rambling on. “Can I go there? I’ll be there in five.”

There was some sort of commotion on the other line. “Ah? Y-y-y-yeah, sure, sure! I’ll just ring you up then, alright? It’s room 304!” He said and ended the call.

“…Huh.” He smiled to himself, not really fazed by the man’s behaviour. But at least he got a decent deal. He silently thanked the blue-eyed man, whoever he was, for giving him (albeit indirectly) the chance to start again. And with that, he half-walked, half-jogged to his hopefully new address.

When the building came into his view, he slowed down to at least look calm and composed. He looked at the number of doorbells and saw that the number 304 was written in red and black crayon, and only the initials “W.W.” were hastily scrawled. He furrowed his brow and pressed the button, hearing a distant chime. After a few seconds, the intercom buzzed to life.

“Yep?”

“It’s me,” he said, smiling brightly. There was a buzz, and the door was unlocked. He helped himself in, then climbed the stairs and knocked on the right door.

By this time, he felt dread and excitement churning in the pit of his stomach. He hoped his roommate wouldn’t mind him going out every so often with late night ‘projects’ (ahem, patrols), and going back and waking up near noon, of him insisting on doing the laundry in some small and obscure laundry shop, of his hectic schedule. He saw a figure looking out through the small peephole, and he smiled and raised his hand in greeting.

After what seemed like a minute full of sounds that seemed like someone on the other side was unlatching a multitude of locks, the door opened.

Peter spoke up immediately, too excited to wait. “Hello, uh, my name’s Peter Parker, and –“

He suddenly stopped, staring in horror at the masked person who answered the door. He felt like his stomach fell into a never-ending pit, and there was a gnawing sensation inside of him. He stepped back, panic at what he had said and who he said it to, settling in. When he had finally found his voice, he could only manage out a strangled croak:

“Deadpool?!”

Chapter Text

He tried blinking rapidly, and then rubbed his eyes to clear them of the image of the unmistakable red-and-black mask. Surely, it had to be a joke, surely…

He looked up at the other person, hoping against hope it was someone else...

Nope. Still Deadpool.

“Oh, uh, I’m s-s-sorry, uh, wrong door I think,” he mumbled lamely, then started to take off, but then two words made him stop in fear, made his blood run cold.

“Peter Parker.”

Peter gulped. Shit. He had heard. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he had heard him say his name. Dammit, why couldn’t he just shut up?!

“Yes?” He turned around, mustering up enough courage to offer a meek smile. Deadpool had a short knife in his hand and was skilfully twirling it around his fingers as though it wasn’t anything sharp that could possibly kill a human being if buried to the hilt in the right place. The thought of that made him shiver.

“What a nice name.” There was the low rumble of a chuckle from him, and Peter felt rooted to the spot. He knew that the knowledge of one’s name was powerful, but he hadn’t actually been in the situation before. He felt absolutely, positively terrified.

He knew for a fact that Deadpool would take it the wrong way if he fled. Since the pamphlet held Deadpool’s name (of which he was sure, judging by the underlying threat he used in his voice when he talked), him killing Peter  and everyone else he was related to would be justified, since he would have a reason to silence him.

Yet he wasn’t making his move. He didn’t need to, to get his point across.

It was all maddening.

“Come to take a look around the apartment? I have a feeling that I’ll be saying ‘me casa es su casa’ to you very, very, very soon.” He tilted his head to the apartment, his hands never ceasing to spin the knife in his hands.

Peter closed his eyes. Think of Aunt May. Think of Aunt May. Aunt May, Aunt May…

“Alright.” He managed a stronger smile. Deadpool winked at him and opened the door.

Feeling like he was about to enter a coliseum gladiator style, his heart pounding against his ribcage, he crossed the threshold and entered the lion’s den.

The first thing that hit him about the place was that the moderately-sized unit was sparsely taken by furniture. The living room that they entered only had a big yet old TV set, with some CDs and DVDs scattered here and there. The couch looked worn to the point that one spot was permanently sagging. There was a long table, filled with scratches possibly from a small knife, mere doodles or a game of x-o’s, even little hearts with names inside, albeit always crossed out. He turned to the corner where a small mountain of empty take-out containers and crumpled papers were haphazardly piled. The dining room was seen through the living room, and althought the dining table and the counters were clean, there was a pile of used forks and spoons and some plates, all just waiting to be washed. The door to the bedroom was closed. And there was this conspicuous door that looked heavily locked.

“I didn’t have time to tidy up all the way, since you said you’d be here in five minutes,” Deadpool grumbled, and placed the knife down, then sat on the sagging spot on the sofa. He motioned to Peter to do the same.

Peter nodded and sat down on the other end of the couch, not making any unnecessary movements. He knew how unpredictably dangerous Deadpool could be if rubbed the wrong way. The mercenary pushed up his mask up to his nose. Peter was used to seeing the scars around his mouth and chin, because he had been on patrol when he usually bumped into Deadpool, and he had taken breaks with the mercenary, with the both of them eating Mexican food.

“That’s new,” the other mumbled, and Peter snapped into attention.

“What is?”

“Usually when I push my mask up, they’d start screaming or staring.” Deadpool raised an eyebrow – even with little movements such as those, it was clear to see under the mask – and Peter swallowed.

That’s right. Deadpool didn’t know he was Spiderman. He neither had the proof nor the reason to associate Peter Parker to the hero swinging around in webs all over New York. He felt a small flutter of hope in his chest that Deadpool at least didn’t know. But this turned into dread when he realized that he had to be extra careful not to let him know.

To cover up his fumble, he coughed into his hand. “Well, er, I thought it would be rude to do any of those, let alone both.”

“Hm.” The mercenary pursed his lips, possibly weighing up his answer if it was valid. After a minute, he smiled. “I like you already. Name’s Deadpool, but I think you already know that.” He tilted his head. “And yes, my real name is Wade Wilson.”

“You’d give that out so easily?!” Peter squeaked in surprise despite himself.

Deadpool – Wade – shrugged in reply. “I’m not linked to anyone deep enough that’s not a super, so no one can use anyone to blackmail me. Parents dead, no siblings, no love interest, I’m pretty much flying solo. Names really don’t matter.”

Peter bit his tongue to stop himself from saying what was on his mind, but then again, the mercenary had a point. What was the harm if that was the situation?

“Anyway, enough about me. I’m pretty sure you won’t be going anywhere since you’re scared and I know your name, and you know full well what I do and how good I am at it.” Peter could only nod, and Wade chuckled. “You can call me Wade. I’m going to call you Peter. Or Pete. Or Petey. No Wadeykins. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me more about yourself.”

Peter blinked in surprise. “Uh – “

“Name?”

“P-Peter Parker?”

“You’re not sure of your name?” Wade raised his eyebrow again, amusement in his voice.

“T-That’s not what I –“

“I know, I know, just messing. Age?”

“21.”

“And here I thought you were fucking jailbait.” The mercenary barked out a laugh, which grew even louder when he saw that Peter’s cheeks had coloured an interesting shade of red.

“I-I’m old enough!”

“You look under age! Jesus, I got worried the moment I saw you at my door!”

That got his attention. “What? Why would you?”

“Nevermind,” Wade backtracked, then turned away – was he blushing? – and cleared his throat. “Sexuality?”

“Excuse me?!”

“I need to know! Like, what if my roomie suddenly brings home a guy or a girl – “

“I don’t do one night stands!” Peter shrieked defensively. He could feel his blush creeping up to his ears. Oh God, why were they even talking about this?!

“Even so.” Wade smiled innocently. Expectantly. He repeated the question. “Sexuality?”

Peter admitted to himself that he actually didn’t know… correction, he knew the term for it, but he wanted to be extra sure. Peter looked away, puffing his cheeks out a bit. “I think I’m bicurious.”

“You think?”

“Emphasis on the curious,” he said, gaining confidence and a little bit of sass.

“And I thought I had a smart mouth,” Wade mumbled and chuckled. “Alright. Hobbies? Studying? Work?”

Peter bit his lip. He couldn’t tell the Spiderman side of him. He had to go with his normal, boring self. “Hobbies are studying and taking pictures. I’m studying in the college nearby. And I work part-time at The Daily Bugle, y’know, sending pictures of Spiderman.”

That got the mercernary’s interest. “You know him?” he squeaked, a little bit excited. It rendered Peter at a loss on what to say, until his voice came back after five seconds.

“U-Uhm… yeah? Well, not on a personal level, I mean…” He sighed. “He knows who I am, and he agrees to let me take pictures of him, he knows what kind of rut I’m in…”

“So in short you’re buddies?” the other man grumbled, obviously jealous. At who, however, he wasn’t sure.

“Er… we meet on the occasion something big’s happening so… kinda?”

Wade nodded and sighed. “Alright, alright. I can deal with that. Though, is it okay if you’d sleep on the couch when I have Spidey in here? I wouldn’t want a camera around, either…”

Peter nearly choked. Wade laughed loudly and patted his back. “I’m kidding. No, just half-kidding. Anyway, are you really interested in the place? Moving in with me? I mean, the moving in is quite mandatory, y’know.”

“Yes, yes, I’m all for it!” He stood up. “I-I’m short on cash, but not that short, I, uh, got accepted into OsCorp as a paid intern, so…”

“OsCorp, huh.” Wade was nodding in an attempt to appear sage-like. Finally, he thrust out his hand. “Let’s shake on it, then… roomie.”

Peter bit his lip, and looked up at the other person. His lips were twisted in a knowing smirk, and he felt like he was making a deal with the devil (the red-and-black ensemble didn’t help in the slightest).

He sighed, hoping for the best but expecting the worst, and slowly shook his hand.

Wade smirked, and suddenly his hands were both on his shoulders. He pushed Peter down on the couch.

“Let’s set some ground rules, shall we?” he whispered in a low voice, still smirking, and Peter knew he was in deep, deep shit.

Chapter Text

Wade had given a total of ten rules, ten simple rules that theoretically made both of them comfortable, which was mainly just for bills, and responsibilities, food, curfews (“Non-existent!” Wade had cried.) setting up their ‘territory’ in the bedroom and bathroom, et cetera.

Oh, and about privacy. Definitely about privacy.

“No touching of my weapons, no sneaking on my fake documents, IDs, disposable cell phones…” Wade enumerated, pacing back and forth. He didn’t even give him time to unpack. Peter was still there in the same spot for over an hour now, listening to his roommate prepping him on how not to disturb him.

“No complaining if my bed smells like tacos and/or burritos, I happen to like that shit, and – “

“Okay, okay, I get it!” Peter finally snapped, his arms up to stop the mercenary from saying another word. “Just stop, okay, I get it; I do not disturb you, under any circumstances!”

“What do you mean?” Wade seemed genuinely surprised. “Of course you can disturb me!”

“Well, I wouldn’t have any choice if, like, I slipped in the bathroom and got a concussion, or –“

“Or have a raging erection when you wake up,” Wade added, nodding to himself seriously.

“Yeah, that – “Peter’s trail of thought and word screeched to a halt. “Excuse me?!”

“I’ll do my best to relieve you, Petey-babe.” He winked – actually fucking winked – at him. Peter had to suppress a groan.

“Can I continue the rule-grounding or whatever the fuck that’s called again?” Wade said, his flirty mood suddenly switching to an irritable one.

Peter nodded and held his tongue for as long as he could. Finally, when he was done, he had finally opened the bedroom door to him and actually helped him with his bags.

The bedroom wasn’t so bad, since there were two single beds pushed against opposite walls, with a bedside table that was actually placed at the head of the bed. There was also a desktop by the foot of Wade’s bed, while at the foot of his bed there was only a desk (which looked oddly new and the only unmarred furniture in the room). There was a window on the wall that they faced, but it was draped with a red and black curtain. The floor was carpeted, and there was a sizable bookshelf by Peter’s wall. There was also a big dresser by Wade’s side.

“Here we are,” Wade announced, with a motion of his hands as if he was the one who had built and decorated the room as it was. “Make yourself at home. Dresser’s here, if you want to geek out in your new home right away, go ahead, put your books on the shelf, got some outlets fixed on either of our sides so we wouldn’t be arguing over what goes into whose sockets –“ he chuckled at that – “and yeah, also bought a desk. Good thing you’re a student, it’ll help.”

“Wow,” Peter mumbled to himself, smiling. His dread about living with Deadpool slightly abated. At least the mercenary was civil enough. “Thanks.”

Wade was about to reply when his phone started ringing. Peter could just make out a few muffled lyrics, but it was enough for him to know it was a sped up version of Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl”, which amused him greatly.

“Woop, gotta take that.” Wade patted his pockets of his costume for his cellphone, then ducked out into the living room. Peter didn’t miss the shift in the voice when he said “Yeah, this is Deadpool.” in his best, no non-sense voice (which was quite intimidating, he admitted).

With Wade occupied, Peter thought it best to start arranging his things in the dresser they shared. He took out his shirts and pants, and piled them up neatly and placed them on the space Wade had cleared for him. He looked at Wade’s suits, full of clumsy yet strong stitches.  He put his underwear and socks in the underwear drawer, along with scarves and his beanie hats. He took out his laptop, then sat with his legs crossed on the bed, biting on his lip as he waited patiently for it to start up. He found an array of names of internet connections. One was named “StarkBitchXO”, another bore “Virus Detected”. Another was even better: “Get Your Own WiFi, This Isn’t A Free Country”.

He went out, carrying the laptop in his arms gingerly as he stepped out into the room. Wade was still talking to one of his clients, and was striking up a deal. He didn’t want to interrupt him. Luckily, Deadpool didn’t see him nor notice him coming out of the room.

“…me a profile of the target in my e-mail,” he was saying, holding a hand gun. He was sitting on the couch, in an intimidating pose, his cellphone pressed to his ear. “Yeah. I want everything you know… look, you’re really not in the position to ask me how long it takes,” he suddenly spat, then waited. “Double the amount… No. Double the amount or it’s a no. I don’t care!” He growled. “$300,000, or it’s no go. It’ll probably be done in a week since you said he’ll be visiting New York soon.” Deadpool stood up and paced, his head down, his other hand busy with the gun. After a few seconds, he smiled. “Very good. I’ll text you the bank details. I’ll only start when the payment’s done.” And he ended the call.

Peter’s pulse was thundering, he could tell. Someone was going to die, in a week’s time. He felt the familiar, overwhelming urge to stop Deadpool. But he couldn’t – to the mercenary, he was just an ordinary student-slash-photographer. He didn’t know Spiderman was listening to him.

Deadpool looked at Peter, then tilted his head. His demeanor changed entirely – from hostile and authoritative Deadpool to open, friendly, and crazy Wade. “Hm? Petey? What’s wrong?”

“Ah… err…” He bit his lip, and Deadpool took it as a sign to pluck the computer off his fingers. Peter’s eyes widened. “Hey! Give it!”

“Internet?” He asked, and placed the laptop on the table. Peter followed, reluctantly nodding.

“Uhh… yeah…”

“Here.” He clicked the ‘Virus Detected’ WiFi name, and typed the password, his fingers nearly flying across the keyboard with their speed. “Password’s wadeadpool11.”

“Why 11?” Peter asked before he controlled himself. "Thank you, by the way."

“I was Weapon Eleven,” he said nonchalantly, shrugging off his thanks and standing up to get some food from the old fridge.

Peter sat down slowly, looking at his computer. He at least wanted to know more about Deadpool, as to at least take note of his mannerisms, behaviour in certain situations, hell, even his back story to convince himself that he wasn’t crazy in thinking about living with a mercenary who was probably being hunted worldwide. “What does being Weapon Eleven have to do with anything?”

At that, Wade laughed. It wasn’t the boisterous bark of a laugh that Peter would always hear when he was Spiderman, with Deadpool on his heels trying to catch his attention while he swung away decisively. No, it was a small, slightly nervous, slightly humourless laugh.

“It means that the mutations of Weapons One up to Ten were pooled into me,” he explained, straightening and looking up at Peter, whose eyes widened in shock.

“You mean…?”

Wade suddenly tilted his head to the side, and started mumbling. For a while, he did this, making small comments like, “But he has to know…”, “Come on, I’m living with him –“, “That’s highly inappropriate on the first day!”, and “Oh, for fuck’s sake, shut up!” After that last thing, he shook his head and sighed. “Sorry. Uh. Voices.”

“Err… I understand,” Peter mumbled, although it actually showed on his face how scared and confused he was. Peter didn’t want to push, however, and Wade suddenly changed subject about new taco stands opening in the city, and of Spiderman, and of his weapons and his clients and whatever else he could think of.

Peter didn’t know what to say or do, so he just opened some tabs in his computer, particularly his e-mails, and checked for replies from The Daily Bugle on his pictures while he let his roommate ramble on. He was so engrossed with typing up a furious reply to J. Jonah Jameson about why his photographs of Spiderman fighting were returned with a big ‘rejected’ across them that he didn’t notice Wade disappearing into his room and suiting up until he tapped him on the shoulder.

“I’m going out,” he said, and Peter looked up at him. He was wearing a dark trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat over his red and black trademark costume. His holsters by his hips had guns. “To see a friend.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “Should I stay up and wait for you?”

“Nah.” The mercenary laughed and shook his head. “Although that’d be terrific, like I’d come home all bloody and you’d be waiting like a good housewife with a pink frilly apron and I’d say, ‘Honey, I’m home! Sorry I’m late, work was murder!’” He laughed even harder and wiped an imaginary tear from his eye.

Peter blotted out most of his ramblings. “How will you get in?”

“I always leave a window open, don’t worry.” He patted his shoulder. “Right. I’ll be back soon, hopefully!” And he made a dash to the open window, and jumped without hesitation, leaving Peter staring after him for a good five minutes, wondering how on earth he ever came to decide that he’d live with the guy.

Peter had taken it upon him to clean the rooms as best as he could. Of course the heaps of trash had to go, and as he looked around the place better, he could see the numerous mountains of take-out containers (just how did this buff guy ever survive primarily on fast food take-outs?!) and bottles and crushed cans of beer and drinks. Being raised by Aunt May, he had known to at least sort the trash, and so he put the papers on one side, the bottles and glass and metal on the other, then heaved it out the hall and into the shared trash chute on each floor.

Then the second part – taking care of the dishes. He looked around for the dishwashing soap for a good fifteen minutes before he found half a bottle of the blue liquid thrown into a basket of haphazardly sorted cleaning materials. He set to work, scrubbing off the crusts and food particles from every piece of silverware or the rare plate or platter. Then he sorted them out evenly. He scrubbed the counter and sink as best as he could, then, finally satisfied, went to work on vacuuming the carpet in the living room. He finished in an hour, and after another trip to the garbage chute, he finally allowed himself a reward of a nice cold shower. One step into the bathroom made him tick a mental note to give it a good scrubbing the next day.

After getting a bit of rest and a bit of study time, he had fallen asleep on his bed. He had broken dreams, of Gwen and Uncle Ben, of Aunt May’s worried face, of his dratted previous landlord, and Wade. They were all looking at him as though he was some kind of freak, and they weren’t exactly subtle on their opinions.

He saw Wade suddenly bring his arm up, aiming his gun at him, screaming obscenities of lies and betrayal, and then –

…

Thump?

Guns don’t go thump…

There was a groan.

Peter heard a human groan.

He got up immediately, confusion washing over him at what he had heard, and at what he could see – or couldn’t. His room was pitch black, save for the steady blinking of his laptop on sleep mode. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of the sleepiness. He pushed himself up and peered through the door into the living room just as he heard a door close.

“Wade?” he said in a fervent whisper. If it was a burglar and Wade was here, he couldn’t really change into Spiderman. He bit his lip and braved a step outside, and then another, turning his head this way and that. “Wade, is that y—“

Peter’s eyes widened at what he saw. There were bloody handprints on the open window, and small pools of blood on the floor, drenching a small part of the carpet, steadily going to the bathroom. Wade’s mask, severely burned, scratched, and torn to raggedy pieces, was on the floor as though unceremoniously thrown.

Chapter Text

Peter could practically hear Wade hissing, and he heard the faint sound of bones clicking under the skin. It made him sick to the stomach, and not in the sudden way, but in a way that was subtle, growing into a full-blown force that made him retch and dry-heave. He felt guilty being so pathetic when his condition was assumingly better than Wade’s right about now. And yet as he composed himself and tried to calm his stomach, Wade’s hissing stopped and from the bathroom, he called out to him.

“Pete?”

“Y-yeah?” he said shakily. “You alright, Wade?”

“Eh, you can say that.” There was a heavy thump, and some things Peter guessed were his and Wade’s toiletries clattering to the tiled floor. “As good as having six knives on your back, a broken wrist, several lacerations, and ooooooh, is that my spleen? Holy shit, I haven’t seen it in so long! Also, I kinda sorta smell like barbecue, so I hope you had dinner, because I might’ve ruined it for you, and –“

“Do you need any help?” He interjected between his ramblings. He placed his head on the door’s cool surface, looking down at the carpet. “Err… do you have a first aid kit somewhere?”

Surprisingly, Wade didn’t reply. There was a scuttle and then silence once more. Then Wade unlocked the door.

Peter covered his eyes with his hand, knowing full well that Wade would have wanted to keep his face hidden (who the hell wears his mask around the house without any particular reason?). He opened the door and quietly slipped in. Wade was right – he did smell like barbecue, smelling of burnt flesh and fabric, and he almost slipped on something sticky on the tiled floor.

He hadn't heard any movement since he entered, and Peter gulped. “Uh… h-how can I help?” When the other man didn’t answer, he bit his lip. “Err… Wade?”

He suddenly felt a hand on his chin, tilting his face up. Peter sucked in his breath in a surprised gasp, and he could feel his cheeks heating up. He could feel Wade’s bulk of a form right in front of him, and he tried stepping back. “Wade, h-hey, wait—“

He felt his fingers getting pried away from his eyes, and Peter squinted up at him. “But y-your face –“

“Hm?” Wade tilted his head, showing him his… red-and-black mask?

He looked down at his body.

Oh.

There were a lot of open and bleeding wounds on the merc’s chest, stomach, arms, and legs. His costume was barely holding on to his body, and where it was clinging to his skin it was because of blood. His left arm was around his bleeding stomach, the wrist in an odd angle. It was a miracle Wade could still move so silently.

Peter blinked, and Wade laughed, the contours of his mouth visible even under the mask. “I have lots of extra masks, Petey-boy, don’t worry! You’re not gonna see this ugly mug for a long time!”

“It's not that!” Peter defended and tried to swat away his blush. What the fuck? “I thought you’d have wanted to save face because you keep wearing your mask around, and, well…”

Wade pushed his mask up to his nose, and grinned. “You know, with you stiffening up like the way you did and blushing the way you did, I’d have kissed you.”

Peter nearly slipped on the blood. Again.

“Sit down, for fuck’s sake, I need to at least fix you up!” Peter grumbled, turning away from him, both to hide his face and to look for the first aid kit.

“Ooooh, are you  fixer? Like Fix-It Felix from Wreck-It Ralph?” He sat down obediently on the closed toilet seat, rambling as though his guts hadn't just made a horrible squelching sound that made Peter want to puke. “Can I be Wreck-It Ralph, then? Ohhh, but Fix-It Felix doesn’t end up with him, does he? How about that chick with the guns? Oooooh, I can be her! Like, I mean, I’m bigger than her obviously, and I don’t have hair to dye white anyways, but I’ve got a big stash of weapons and guns that could make that bitch run for her game money!”

Peter let him ramble on as he finally got the first aid kit, and started to clean the wounds. Wade didn’t even flinch or waver in his steady slew of words when Peter got alcohol and betadine. In fact, the merc was the one who even righted his broken wrist, much to Peter’s awe (and obvious relief).

“ – and then boom, boom, boom goes the alien’s head!” Wade recounted, laughing. His voice resounded all around the small tiled room. Peter shook his head and leaned back for some air.

“What the hell happened?” Peter asked, exhausted.

“Uh…” The masked man looked away, and absently scratched at his chin. “Err… I kinda, sorta, broke into the Avengers Tower…”

“You what?!” Peter shrieked, and Wade smiled apologetically, like a kid caught with his hand stuck in the half-empty cookie jar.

“Uh… yeah… but I didn’t steal anything! I only broke some things, and that was by accident!” He gestured with his healthy arm. “And I only needed their supercomputer, Weas couldn’t give me access to his since he was being an ass again, going on about how I stabbed him for the last Cheeto, but still –“

“Why did you break in to Avengers Tower?!”

“Uh, Earth to Parker? I just said so! I was just using their supercomputer!”

“For what?”

“Any info on that Arachne-Boy.”

“Spiderman,” Peter whispered, the blood rushing from his face. His knees buckled, and he had to lean back on the wall to catch his breathing. He closed his eyes and listened to Wade.

“ – I’ve seen your pictures of him, by the way, nice shot of his spandex-ed ass! Really brings out the contours of those firm globes –“

“What do you want with Spiderman?” Peter finally asked, opening his eyes and squinting at Wade. He was in too much of a compromising situation.

Wade scrunched up his eyebrows, then raised them. “Oh, right! You’re buddies with the guy! Oh, don’t worry, he’s not the target I’m aiming for. Just looking out for him, trailing him, because I heard he’s on this ‘no killing’ spree and is much too friendly with the po-po and the men in blue don’t really know how to react, so…” He shrugged and leaned back as well. “I’m trying to trace his patterns, as well, so he doesn’t disturb me on my job.”

“Have you traced it? His patterns, I mean?” he asked, with a small voice. He was too nervous to even comprehend how he’d be able to stop the mercenary in the first place.

Wade blinked. “Ohhh, right. Yeah, yeah, I’ll give you the pattern after I’m done, so you can have more pictures of him.”

“What?”

Wade didn’t answer, and just stood up with a low, heavy grunt. “Aaah. Well, thanks for patching me up, anyway. I’ll just stay on the couch so I don’t mess up the bed.” And he started to limp his way to the living room.

Peter couldn’t find it in him to walk out just yet. He was going to be trailed by Deadpool, and he couldn’t trace him back to his own house, for fuck’s sake. Panic settled into him, first boiling in his stomach then going up to tighten his chest, then upwards and upwards all the way to his brain, where it screamed in agony, creating one hell of a headache.

When he finally did calm down enough, he packed up the first aid kit and went out of the bathroom. The blood can wait until tomorrow. His eyelids were starting to droop again.

He found Wade crashed on the sofa, flicking through TV stations too fast to be humanly possible. Peter stepped silently towards their bedroom, then subsequently flopped down on his bed. Screw the dried blood in his hands, he thought, as he felt his eyelids drop once more and didn’t fight the wave of sleep embracing him into the dark.

“Spidey! Spidey, yoo-hoo! Webcrawler! Oy! Webslinger? Helloooo?”

Peter tried really, really hard to ignore Deadpool. He kept trying to lose him, making sharp turns into alleys and every so often swinging onto the roofs of widely-spaced apart buildings. The howling of the red-and-black clad mercenary in the streets, however, was too loud to even ignore. He could practically feel the hate of everyone in a three block radius for him. He was sure that if they knew where he was, they’d call the police on him for disturbing their sleep.

“Spiderman! Arachne-Boy! Uhh… uhhh, how about… oh! His Holy Spandex-ed Ass of Righteousness! Please, let down your awesome webs and make out with me!”

Peter internally groaned. Wait, that wasn’t him. There was another, older man from somewhere who, apparently, heard enough of him from Wade.

Resigned to his fate, he webbed Wade into a dark alley and dropped in front of him, cutting the mercenary off from his attempt at making a Romeo and Juliet parody of them both.

When Wade saw him drop in front of him, he stopped struggling from the webs and smiled. “Spidey! Heeeeey, baby-boy! How’s it hanging? Ahahaha~ Get it~ Geddi--”

“Will you please shut up, Deadpool?” he snapped, shooting web onto the merc’s mouth. “For God’s sake, people are trying to sleep, and I’m trying to protect people who are out and about!”

“Mrmph, hrmph!” The mercenary said, taking a small knife from his boot. He cut out the web from his mouth, coughing. “Ughhh, Spidey, that’s nasty! You know, a little warning couldn’t hurt –“

“Shut up!” He pinched the bridge of his nose, counting to ten like his Aunt May told him to do to calm down and to not hit something or someone near. When he finished, his shoulders slumped and he placed his hands on his hips. “What do you want?”

“A kiss?”

Webs shot from his shooters, pinning the bigger man to the wall with webs on his wrists and his ankles. Peter was about to turn around and get on with his patrol, but the next word from Deadpool’s mouth turned his blood to ice.

“Peter!”

He nearly had whiplash from the speed he turned around to face him. “What?!”

Deadpool squirmed as much as he could with glee. “Yeah! Peter, Peter Parker, right? Remember him? Official Spiderman photographer of that shitpile of a paper Bugle? We’re roomies now, can you believe it? He’s such a nice guy, too, and he’s really cute, especially with those big glasses on and – “

I do? He thought, then he felt embarrassed at how his cheeks flared at the thought. Stupid! Good thing he had the mask on, or he’d have the mercenary around his heels for two weeks. He cleared his throat, interrupting Wade’s ramblings. “Don’t hurt him, alright? If I hear you’ve harmed even a single hair on him –“

“Oooh, where’d this side of you come from?” Even under the mask and the dim light of the alleyway, the slight raise of his eyebrow was noticeable (how the fuck he does that, Peter will never know). “To be honest, it fucking turns me on! Is there a scandalous relationship that has stemmed from the hero-photographer relationship? Gasp! No wonder the Bugle's had it in for you! Suddenly, 'Spiderman swinging' has an entirely different meaning --”

“Put a sock in it!” he shushed. “There’s no such thing! Peter’s just down in the dumps lately –“

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do my best to cheer him up. Hey! Do you think a surprise blowjob in the morning would help? Or do you think I could wear one of my dresses –“

“Don’t.” Peter stressed. He felt his cheeks, ears, and neck were on fire. He tried hard not to think of the surprise blowjob, not to mention Wade in a frilly dress. “I’m going now.”

“Goodbye kiss!” Wade huffed. “I’m still not free, y’know! And besides, it’s great motivation to not hurt Peter!”

“Is that blackmail?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and cocking his hip to one side. Deadpool looked away, suddenly squeamish.

“Uh…”

And then Peter got a brilliant idea.

“A kiss, hm. For Peter’s sake.”

Deadpool didn’t even see it coming. In a flash, Spiderman was in front of him, rolling their masks up, and leaning into him, their lips an inch away. Peter could feel rather than hear his sharp intake of breath, and him stiffening in surprise, and –

Peter rubbed their noses together, then shot a string of web upwards and swung away.

He counted up to five, then laughed to himself mid-air as the sound of Deadpool cursing “whoever the fuck invented eskimo kisses!” reached him. Of course he blatantly ignored the fact that his heart was racing inside him for the same reason Deadpool was swearing into the night.

Chapter Text

Peter didn’t know that Deadpool, the world’s most infamous mercenary, would have a domestic side.

And a very weird way of showing it.

Wade would fuss on him nonstop when he’d gotten a small paper cut when he was trying to sort his files for school. He’d insist on making breakfast every day (Peter didn’t know he’d have enough of the taste of ‘genuine Canadian-style pancakes’ in less than a week). He’d ask Peter every day if he was okay with living with him, if he was troubling him a bit too much, if he’d have to cut down on the take out because he thought it would put Peter in an unhealthy state to study in.

Peter actually appreciated all his efforts, but he always found Wade looking at him when he thought he didn’t notice, and mumbling to himself – to his voices – about what if Peter would leave, what if Peter would squeal, how he’d even last a week living with him, et cetera.

The younger man decided to confront him, once and for all, about his self-hatred. Wade was actually very hospitable, and very fond of him by the looks of it. He’d look surprised if Peter laughed at his jokes, or smile very widely when Peter asks him about his guns. Once, when Peter had complained out loud about his boss’s maltreatment to Wade, the latter became silent, and had spoken with a hollow voice.

“It’s going to be okay, you know,” he had mumbled, as though not believing the words himself.

Peter had cracked a small smile for him. “Yeah… in the end, that’s what I always say.”

Three days later, word has it that Jameson had left the country for an indefinite period of time, ‘on a vacation’, he said. The Bugle would be run, as specified by Jameson himself, by his assistant, who was a good friend of Peter’s and knew how he was being beaten by Jameson and how unfair his treatment was.

Somehow this turn of events didn’t surprise Peter. He could only guess what had happened, but it must’ve been one hell of a threat if he made Jameson scamper off so easily. Then again, it was Deadpool.

He texted Wade that he had made dinner and he was waiting for him before eating. After a few minutes, Wade crashed in through his normal entrance and exit way (the window), hollering. “Honey! I’m home!”

Peter rolled his eyes, but annoyance wasn’t there. He had gotten used to the acts of endearment he received. He decided to play along, teasing. “I’m in the kitchen with only an apron on, Wade.”

He heard Wade scamper as if he were a dying man running to his last feast. When the merc came into view, his face was painted with joyous disbelief, and his body almost emanated hope. Peter laughed when he saw Wade’s face fall as he registered that, in fact, Peter wasn’t wearing only an apron on and was fully clothed.

“Sike,” Peter chuckled, winking.

“I’m gonna make you pay later,” Wade grumbled, and sat down on his usual seat heavily. “Do you know how hard it is to get hard in this fucking suit? It’s like junior wants to get free but then it can’t and it’s crushing his dreams and --”

“I did not need to know that,” Peter mumbled, looking away as he felt his cheeks starting to burn. He made a mental note to himself never to get hard when he was Spiderman.

Luckily, Wade was distracted by food to start the teasing. He was babbling on about his stake-outs and Spiderman. Peter had to hold down a chuckle when Wade would say he was a fucking tease.

“ – I mean, who the fuck does eskimo kisses these days?” he complained, the insides of his half-eaten burrito threatening to fall everywhere. “Kids these days are more into make-outs! How about you, Peter, what do you say?”

“I… I don’t know…” he mumbled, surprised by the sudden turnabout of the conversation from Spiderman to him (which was one and the same for Peter, but two opposite ends for Wade). He chewed thoroughly and swallowed before answering. “I guess… I like eskimo kisses, too, it’s something real than those make-outs that could lead to sex but have no feeling whatsoever. For me, I wouldn’t mind make-outs, though… But I’ve never had one for a long time, so…”

“Well…” Wade’s voice went back to a teasing, subtly suggesting tone. Peter met his gaze and his cheeks flared again.

“W-What’re you -- ?”

Wade had gotten up from his seat across Peter’s and pulled him up on his feet. One hand snaked around Peter’s waist, one finger looping around one of the belt loops of his jeans and was steadily pulling it a bit lower. His other hand tilted Peter’s face up by the chin, and if Wade heard Peter’s sharp intake of breath, he ignored it.

He leaned forward, ignoring Peter’s lips, and he felt Wade’s hot breath ghosting over his exposed neck. “Want me to change that?” he whispered. “I can’t guarantee that I won’t hold back, and… that it would just be a make-out.”

Peter could only choke out a very intelligent “uh”. His head was spinning, and warmth spread out his cheeks, neck, chest, steadily going down his groin. Wade must’ve known what he was doing, because he planted a soft kiss on the soft flesh over his pulse, making Peter let out a soft moan.

Someone knocked on the door, and they jumped apart, surprised. When the knocking didn’t stop, Wade swore to hell and back before answering the door and scaring off some kids who were just trying to go trick or treating. Peter retreated back to his bedroom, hand clamped over his mouth and heart thundering in his chest. The spot where Wade’s lips touched him felt on fire. Wade didn’t disturb him for the rest of the night, thankfully, and Peter drifted off to sleep, confrontation forgotten.

Deadpool sighed – an uncharacteristically deep sigh. “Oh, Spidey… I think I’m in love.”

The man in red and blue spandex nearly choked on the taco he was eating.

Deadpool had caught him in one of his breaks, and Spiderman was in the mood to be nice to the guy, so he’d let the mercenary buy them tacos from his favourite taco stand, and they’d seated themselves on the rooftop of a building not so far from OsCorp Industries. The mercenary thought it best to actually tell Spiderman that he’s been thinking if he had fallen for his roommate.

“First off,” Peter said, his mask rolled up to his nose like Wade’s to eat. Good thing he didn’t have anything significant on his jaw and mouth area; otherwise, Wade would’ve recognized Peter in Spiderman and it would be hell. “You’ve been roommates for how long?”

“Two and a half weeks!” Deadpool huffed, as though he already knew his argument and considered it already ludicrous. “Get in with the times, Spidey! People marry after an accidental date!”

“They stay together for a shorter period –“

“That’s not the point!” The mercenary groaned and fell back, his back hitting the roof hard and making a loud thump. “Peter’s just… ahh, Spidey, you should’ve heard him moan –“

“That’s highly inappropriate –“

“But he’s just so cute and so caring and kind and he even laughs at my jokes!” He pouted. “I mean, Cable and Presbot and Weas occasionally laugh at my jokes, and you, too! But Peter asks about me, my guns, my jokes, and…” He paused, and he sounded breathless. “What do I do?”

Spiderman stood up then, crumpling the garbage they had and tossed it to Wade, who passed it easily and let it fall from the side of the building. He didn’t need to see to know that Wade’s half-assed shot would actually go into a bin. That’s how skilled he was. “Look, I’m not a relationship counsellor; I really don’t know what to do –“

“Do you think I should try and grope him?”

“Wh – NO!”

“How about continue where I left off –“

“Stop, stop, stop!” He nearly begged, flailing his arms. He pulled down his mask hurriedly before Wade could see the blush creeping on his cheeks and neck. “Look, whatever you do, don’t rush him.”

Wade looked at him as though a lightbulb went on over his head. “D… Do you think he feels the same way?”

“What?!”

“Think about it!” The mercenary shot up on his feet and started pacing, hands shaking. “It makes sense! He wouldn’t have been so startled, and he wouldn’t have moaned! He’d have pushed me away, and –“

“Don’t get your hopes up, Deadpool,” he grunted, obviously annoyed at how helpless he was as Peter when he was around Wade without his mask.

The mercenary looked him over, then grinned. “Why, Spidey! I didn’t know I was hurting your feelings.”

Peter’s eyebrows scrunched together. “What are you – what – no!”

“Awww, Spidey’s jealous!” Deadpool made a little silly dance around him, cornering the younger man. “Are you? Do you want me? Ooooh, are you going to confront Peter about it? Like those Mexican telenovelas that involve too much screaming and dramatization and slapping and crying? Ooooh, I like those! Can I wear the dress during the shoot –“

“FINE!” Spiderman exploded, throwing his arms up in anger. “I’ll help you with Peter!”

“YESSSSSS!” The bigger man barrelled into him and swept him off his feet, into a nearly bone-crushing hug. Spiderman tried to wriggle free, choking out that he didn’t have a healing factor as fast as Wade’s, and that broken ribs would be hell for him when he’d swing back home to wherever he was staying. The mercenary mercifully put him down, and Peter’s ribs hurt a bit when he gasped in a huge breath but it was okay after a few minutes. He realized that Deadpool had been talking since his feet touched the ground.

“ – dozen flowers be enough? Oh God, I don’t know any songs to sing him!” He was wailing. “Oh, God, I need a band! A mariachi band with everyone wearing Deadpool masks and moustaches! Ah, yes, that would be perfect!”

“…What are you talking about?” He asked, confused.

“Spidey, keep up with me! I need that romantic vibe thing! Throwing stones against the window would do the trick!”

“…You live together,” he stressed. “Won’t that, like, kill the mood?! Besides, you’ll just see each other at home, why not surprise him then?!”

There was actually a very loud groan of despair from the bigger man. “Romanticism is not dead, and so am I!”

“Those two aren’t related.”

“Romance et moi sommes un,” Deadpool huffed. Peter looked at him strangely for what must’ve been a long time, because the mercenary started squirming uncomfortably. “Would you quit that?! You act like you’ve seen a fucking ghost.”

“I never knew you were bilingual,” Spiderman mused, thoroughly impressed.

Deadpool laughed. “Baby-boy, I’m multilingual.” He chuckled to himself. “Just like something else…”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.” Before Peter could make up an intelligent reply, Deadpool yanked him across the roof, towards what he could recognize was the direction to their apartment. “Come on, let’s map out the plan! God, I hope Peter’s not at home, I better make sure.” He pulled out his phone from his numerous pockets and pressed a number, since he had Peter on speed dial.

Spiderman ducked into an abandoned building some ways away, excusing himself that he had to ‘mentally get ready for the mess that was Wade’s room’, or so he made up. He made it to ‘safety’ just in time – his phone had started to ring. Peter pulled his phone out to look at the picture Wade had somehow set as the caller ID, and Peter was too lazy to change it.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. This was going to be more work than he thought.

Chapter Text

Deadpool was still calling him. Peter’s heart drummed relentlessly inside his chest. He rolled up his mask, took three deep breaths to calm down, then answered.

“Hullo?” he mumbled, feigning fatigue and a tone of misery. Damn, he should've been an actor. “Mmm, who’s this…?”

“Petey-boy, you okay?” The voice on the other end was tinted with worry. “Where are you?”

“Wade, is that you? I’m overtime at OsCorp…” he mumbled. “So sleepy… Haven’t had coffee…”

“Shit, baby-boy, want me to pick you up? Doubt Osborn appreciates slackers on the job, even if you were his childhood friend and/or an intern.” Peter felt a small swelling in his chest. Wade was genuinely concerned. “I’m near the building, actually, it looks real shiny. Want me to pick you up through the front door, or at the floor where you are? Also, I’ve got Spidey right here with me, I’m sure he won’t mind swinging us home –“

He suddenly yawned – which, this time, wasn’t acting. “No, no, it’s fine… I’m gonna head home in an hour, I guess… Don’t wait up, okay? I’ll just pass dinner…”

“You sure?”

“Yes… Thanks for the concern.”

Deadpool chuckled at that. “Please, baby-boy, I wouldn’t want you to sleep on me while we’re doing the nasty.”

“That would make it nastier,” he laughed weakly. “Gotta go now. See you in the morning, probably; I think I’m gonna pass out on the front door.”

“Then take care, babe, or I’m gonna do it for you.” Wade made an obnoxiously loud kissing sound before ending the call.

Peter stared at his phone, a slight feeling of horror sinking in. Was that not… flirting with Wade? He coughed loudly and put back his phone, a shiver running down his spine. Not that he was disgusted by Wade, far from it, actually. But it was that he had been snarky enough to even display interest in the other man – interest that Peter could’ve sworn had not existed a mere two and a half weeks before – that surprised him to no end.

He leaned against the wall, ignoring the fact that it was dirty and grimy and had the faint smell of piss, trying to gauge if he liked Wade that way. Hell, he didn’t even know he swung that way!

‘For Christ’s sake, this’d be comedy gold for him,’ he thought to himself. He shook his head, as if that helped remove the thought from his head, just in time that a bulky figure dropped into a controlled roll from the broken window. Deadpool stood up, seemingly happy for some reason, but this was gone almost instantly with a grimace and an overly-done action of pinching his nose closed.

“Ugh! Spidey, when you said you wanted to ‘prepare yourself mentally’ for my crib, I didn’t think you’d be meditating while taking a piss!” He whistled and backed away. “Man, that stinks!”

“Idiot, I didn’t take a piss,” he fired at him, annoyed at Deadpool as though he was mocking his confusion about his feelings simply by existing and standing a few feet away. He pulled his mask back down and sighed. “So? Is Peter at home?”

“My baby-boy’s working overtime, can you believe it?” It was supposed to be impossible, but a big man such as Wade managed to swoon like a Disney princess in one of those shows for kids that demands over-acting skills. “He’s probably busting that cute, cute ass – oh no! I’ll have to massage it when he gets home, I –“

“I don’t think Peter will appreciate that very well,” he stressed each word, pushing himself off from the wall and shoving Deadpool to the window. “Come on, come on, we don’t have all day.”

“Oooh, Spidey, don’t stop!” The mercenary swooned yet again, and Spiderman had to use his super-strength to actually hold him upright. “Manhandle me more, por favor!”

“You know, if you’re gonna act like this, Peter won’t appreciate it very much,” he mused, and Deadpool almost instantly extricated himself from his arms, dusting his suit as though Peter got germs all over it.

“Ugh! Spidey, don’t be a home-wrecker!” He snarled, placing his hands on his hips. “I’m loyal to Peter, so don’t get in the way!”

“Right. I’m rolling my eyes under the mask right now.” He said, knowing full well the other man couldn’t see it. “Now go. Lead the way, before Peter comes home.”

“Roger!” And the mercenary tumbled out of the window – down into the alley, with no second thought whatsoever.

Peter sighed, and followed after him, albeit with more grace. For example, he landed on all fours with a soft thud, while Deadpool was realigning his dislocated shoulder.

“Are you never going to stop that?” he snapped as the alley they were standing in echoed with an ominous crack, and Deadpool swung his arm out to test it.

“Hm? No, it’s fun!” He defended, laughing and swinging his arm around like it was some sort of side-propeller. “See?”

“Peter wouldn’t let you keep up with this self-destructive behaviour.” He placed his hands on his waist, trying to appear authoritative.

Deadpool just groaned. “Oh, what’s it to you? You act like you know Peter to the core –“

“I would know Peter better than you, yes!”

“ – But you haven’t seen him with tousled hair, chin on the pillow he’s hugging with his arms, his back exposed to the light, and his Spidey boxers hanging a bit too low, but still not enough for my liking, his blanket wrapped around his legs, and –“ Deadpool sighed dreamily. “Man, I’d tap that so hard.”

Peter felt blood rush immediately to his cheeks and neck. He was silent for a few seconds, caught up with making up scenarios of what Wade must’ve seen, thought, felt, when he saw him like that, but apparently his silence was worrisome for the mercenary. “Yo, Spidey, what’s up?”

“N-Nothing.”

“Is the picture of Peter having Spidey boxers turning you on?” He waggled his eyebrows under the mask suggestively (how Wade makes those quirks visible even with a mask, he’ll never know).

“What – no!” He growled. “Let’s get on with it!”

“Fine, fine! So demanding!” He huffed. Wade placed his hands on his hips. “But! I can’t swing from building to building like you do.”

Peter could feel the blush that was dominating his face under the mask suddenly seep out. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

As a matter of fact, Wade had been suggesting what he was suggesting.

“Woooooooooooooooohoooooooooo!” Deadpool was howling, legs around Peter’s torso, one arm on his shoulder, the other fist-pumping into the air. “This is the best day of my liiiiiiiiiiife!”

“Will you quit it?!” Spiderman yelled, as he narrowly made a turn round a building.

The mercenary, almost ten inches taller than him and obviously bigger and bulkier, was hunched over him like some chunky cape two sizes too big, hollering at passersby about how fucking awesome it feels swinging around New York City. Although he seemed to be enjoying himself a little too much than was necessary and a lot too much to be appropriate at this time of day, the thought of him actually hampering Spiderman a little bit didn’t even cross his mind. Sure, Spiderman had super-strength, which helped him support Wade on his back (thank the gods), but that didn’t mean the laws of physics would suddenly bend to their will. Inertia would always try pulling them a little bit harder and longer than what Peter liked and was accustomed to, but he just sucked it up. He could see the rooftop of the apartment anyway.

“Whoooaaaa, there, mighty spider-steed!” Wade pulled on his mask as though it were reigns, and Peter felt it tugging loose from how he tucked it into the rest of his spider-suit.

He shrieked and landed in a collapsed heap on the roof. As soon as his hands weren’t busy directing web to hold them both, he tugged his mask down again. “Mind your own damn business!” he yelled.

“Whoooaaaa, chill!” Wade scrambled upright, hands up in the air. “Spidey, relax –“

“You nearly took my mask off!” he snapped, but he wasn’t angry. He was panicking. And by the way he was forcing ragged breaths in and out through his mouth, it was obvious.

“Spidey, relax, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –“ the mercenary reached out to him. “Look, it was an accident, and besides, even if I did see your face (which would probably be hella cute, like 10/10 would fucking bang upside-down), I swear that I will never reveal your identity to anyone, even when faced with Death; which is practically useless, actually, since I don’t stay dead for very long, but hey, it lasts at least a couple of minutes and at least I get to see Death again, which would mean it’s a great day since we’d have tea and exchange kisses and stuff, and –“

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Peter gulped in breaths to try and steady himself more. He tried to think of the absurdity of exchanging kisses and having tea with Death, instead. “But trust me, you wouldn’t like what you see under this mask.”

At this, Deadpool laughed. “Karma’s a bitch.”

Out of all the possible responses to that, Peter didn’t expect this particular one. “What?”

“I steal your bit with being the friendly neighbourhood mercenary, and you steal my bit about not liking the thing under the mask.”

“What do you –“

“You’ve seen my scars while we were eating together, right?” he asked, suddenly serious. Peter didn’t know what else to do but nod. Deadpool sighed at that. “Yeah, well, I wish I could say it gets better the higher the mask goes up, but it doesn’t.”

“Deadp—“

“It’s fine, Spidey. I’m fine.” The mercenary shrugged and eased himself over the edge of the roof, then crawled down on almost invisible footholds so fast Peter had to wonder how many years he’s been doing this. The footholds stopped for him to actually ease into the window of their apartment.

Spiderman followed him, a lot more slowly than Deadpool did it. The footholds were actually quite small, and one inch too much to the left would make him grip the handhold a little tighter to right his balance. After a painstaking ten minutes, though, he finally got both his feet on the window ledge, and he gratefully swung inside the familiar living room. He pretended to look around. “Huh. I’m surprised it’s not a dump.”

“Peter’s been cleaning up, so I thought it’s probably time to dump the Leaning Tower of Pizza (Boxes! Ehe, see what I did there, Spidey?) and tidy up the place.” Deadpool shrugged and motioned to the kitchen. “Anything to wolf down?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“More for me!”

While Wade probably dived into the refrigerator for beers and cold pizza, Peter couldn’t help but twitch in annoyance. He felt oddly constricted being in his house with the suit and mask on. He couldn’t be seen being too familiar with where the things are, or how the things work, and it made him a thousand times more conscious with every single step. However, he did get one upside in being the stranger – he got to ask questions.

“What’re those scratched names for on the table?”

“Hm?” Wade’s head appeared from the kitchen door, mask rolled up and a slice of pizza hanging from his lips. “Owrh, that.” He gulped down a bite and held up what was left. “Well, Spidey, those are my lovers.”

Peter masked the unmistakable twinge of jealousy in his chest with a snort. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You have lots of lovers?”

“I happen to be very charming even with the mask – “

“I would’ve thought you would just fuck around and be over with.”

Deadpool just stared at him, and he wondered whether he had gone too far. He started to backtrack – immediately, before the mercenary’s mind switched to kill mode. “I-I’m sorry, I –“

“You dropped the F-Bomb,” he interrupted, awe in his voice.

Peter felt like a sack of bricks just crushed his trail of thought. “Um… what?”

“Spiderman cursed!” Deadpool made an exaggerated gasp and flailing his arms around. “What has the world come to?! My idol! Nooooooooooooooooo!”

 Peter was about to place a not so well-mannered retort on the mercenary's priorities when a familiar springing sound was heard. By the looks of it, Wade heard it, too. He took it quite badly, though.

Peter saw Wade drop the pizza, running at full speed toward him, screaming at him to duck, to not look back. He recognized what it was all about, and acted on instinct, holding his hand up. Even when the bigger man pushed him to the ground and made both of them land in a mess on the floor, Peter still caught the arrow from the crossbow that was Wade’s anti-theft security system hidden between glasses of beer on top of the shelf.

Deadpool’s hands were all over him – Peter tried very hard not to make a sound, for fear of his voice betraying him. “I’m sorry, I think my flailing triggered it, and oh God… Are you okay? Oh God, tell me you’re okay! Is that blood? Oh, that’s my shadow… FUCK!”

“I’m fine,” he managed to choke out, and showed him the arrow he caught. “See? I’m perfectly fine; now will you please be so kind as to, er… take off your hands?”

The mercenary just stared at him, and the arrow enclosed in his fist. He didn’t take away his hands, and Spiderman could swear he almost heard the voices in his head arguing. It was short-lived, however, because he shifted, probably having decided to move; one of Deadpool’s hands found its way to his throat while the other pinned the hand holding the arrow down.

“Not even your Spidey-sense could’ve sensed that,” Deadpool growled, their noses an inch apart. He tightened his grip, and Peter gasped out a strangled cry. “Just tell me what the hell are you fucking hiding.”

This was bad. This was very, very bad.

Chapter Text

There was a heavy silence between them, but it wasn’t exactly silent. Not with Deadpool’s grunts, getting more impatient as his hand squeezed Spider-Man’s windpipe, and Spider-Man choking out half-formed words and trying to remember how to use his super-strength to pry Deadpool’s fingers off.

“Who are you,” Deadpool demanded, “And how do you know my super-secret anti-theft system?”

If he was going to die, Peter thought, he’d at least tell Deadpool who he was.

“…Peter!” he choked out finally, and Deadpool’s fingers slackened in surprise. Peter used this to his advantage and crawled away from him, coughing and massaging his sore throat. The mercenary looked at him, speechless, arms beside him.

“Peter… invited you in before?” Even with the mask, Peter could see that Deadpool was looking at him owlishly. That, or his mind really lacked oxygen and his thoughts were swimming between the lines of surreality. He tried shaking his head, but he got a bit cross-eyed and he just leaned against what he guessed was the couch to try and straighten the world out. But one thing was clear: he hadn’t admitted that Spider-Man was Peter Parker.

Guilt twisted his gut into a shape a contortionist would be proud of. But he managed to lie through his teeth. Again. “Yeah… yeah, he did.”

“Jesus, Spidey, you should’ve told me sooner.” There was some shuffling, and he felt body warmth next to him. Some fingers lightly pressed against his throat, non-threatening. Peter looked at Deadpool, trying to gauge his expression, since the mercenary was uncharacteristically silent. “I’m so sorry,” he finally said.

“S’fine…” Peter mumbled and coughed. Deadpool went to the kitchen to get him a glass of water, and he raised his mask up to his nose and gulped it down slowly, trying to ease his throat. He put the glass down and leaned back. He felt Deadpool’s fingertips on his throat, and even though it was light, he jumped at the contact, and his reflexes went into overdrive. When he gathered his senses two seconds later, he was looking at the mercenary from the ceiling, hands and feet sticking to it for dear life.

“I… S-Sorry, I…” Wade seemed to crumple upon himself. Peter felt as if he had just swallowed a dead weight.

“No, no, no, Deadpool!” He amended, or at least tried to, jumping from the ceiling and onto his feet lithely like a cat. He pulled his mask down again. “Sorry, it… I’m just –“

“Tense, I know, you’ve got a reason to be.” He laughed. An empty laugh. Peter cringed internally as the sound filled up the room. Wade leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Look, I’m sorry…”

“I…” He couldn’t do this anymore. He had to leave. “I have to go.”

Peter realized that that was the wrong thing to say when Deadpool stiffened, and his gaze dropped from him to the gun holster by his hip. Something tingled inside him. It wasn’t his usual Spidey sense. It was his gut. And it clenched uncomfortably.

“See you around, then,” Wade deadpanned, still not looking at him.

“Deadpool, I’m so – “

“It’s fine.” The mercenary swatted his apology away. “I’m fine.”

Peter took none of it. “I’ll swing by tomorrow, is that good? I’ll… I’ll buy us dinner from Taco Bell, for Peter too. My treat.”

This time, Deadpool looked up at him, confusion evident even with his mask on. “You don’t have to – “

“I want to,” he stressed. “I want to. Alright?”

“But – “

“I’ll see you tomorrow. I will.” And this time he patted Deadpool’s head. And the older man stiffened in his seat. A thought weaselled into his mind that perhaps this was why Wade craved for affection – it was because he lacked it, all his life. Peter took a mental note of that before walking to the window. “And hey.”

“Y-yes?”

Peter looked back, and Wade was staring at him wide-eyed, disbelieving. He smiled under the mask.

“Have a good night.”

After three seconds, Deadpool seemed to shake off his surprise, because he let out a soft chuckle. “You too, Spidey.”

And with a small wave, Peter took his leave.

He arrived forty minutes later by the front door, yawning and a bit out of breath. He felt weary and tired, and his shoulders felt sore from carrying Wade while swinging around in the city. He groaned to himself as he unlocked the door, drawing out a whine of “Waaaade, ‘m’hoooome”.

But his Spidey sense tingled again, and he went into overdrive. He opened the door, and what greeted him was darkness. Which was odd in itself, because even when Wade left the house, it was always with at least one room lit. And there was a strange, rusty smell all around.

Panic settled in, and Peter more or less hugged the wall, trying to find the light switch. When he did, he told himself to stay calm, then switched the light on.

His fear materialized.

Wade was sprawled on the couch, a gun in his hand. Blood had flowed from where his head rested on the couch. His mask was pushed up to his nose, jaw slack.

Peter felt an intense need for fresh air, which he suddenly found scarce. He retched and coughed, covering his nose and forcing himself to breathe through his mouth. Was he the reason he did this? His eyes watered. No… Not again.

Faces swam through his mind’s eye – his Uncle Ben, gasping for air as he tried and failed to staunch the bullet wound; Gwen’s father, wasting his last breath seeing the vigilante unmasked, making him swear he’d leave Gwen out of this superhero business for her own sake; Gwen herself, her beautiful face warped in an expression of pure terror, her body hitting the ground a second too late after his web took hold of her, and she was still beautiful even if cold and broken, as broken as his promise to her father  – all dead because of something he had done.

And now…Now it was Wade.

He tried to hold down his emotions, enough for him to cross the room and place his hands on Wade’s shoulders. He could hear himself choking out broken whispers of “Wade”, telling him to wake up because dammit, didn’t he have that fucking healing factor? He shook his shoulders, patted his cheek, touched his chest through his suit, kicked the gun away.

Why wasn’t he waking up?

“Come on…” He mumbled, feeling his eyes well up with tears, guilt racking him even more. What if Wade didn’t have that healing factor? He’d be the cause of yet another death, and this one was just because he couldn’t reply properly. “Wade, Wade, come on, please…”

He heard a small groan, and Peter looked down to see Wade ever so slowly closing his mouth, his face twisting as if he tasted something wrong in his mouth. “Fucking… five more minutes, mom…” he mumbled, arms going around Peter’s waist as though a pillow.

He didn’t even tell him off. He was just glad he was back.

“Hey, tiger,” he laughed quietly and closed his eyes. A solitary tear fell, and he wiped it away hurriedly. He was sure he was blushing by now. “I’m not your mom.”

“Pete?” Wade looked up at him, then hurriedly let him go, stammering. “O-oh, oh, shit. Uh… sorry, I uh…” He groaned and rubbed the nape of his neck, and Peter cleared his throat to let the blush die down.

“Wade, you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, just a headache –“

“No, I… I mean…” He bit his lip, suddenly at a loss for words. After a few seconds, Wade finally looked up at him. He must’ve just realized that Peter chanced upon him dead, and he hissed.

 “Oh God… I’m sorry, I didn’t… I’m sorry you had to see that – “

“I thought… something bad happened…” This time he couldn’t help it. He wiped another tear away, and cleared his throat. He was so, so, so tired but he wanted answers.

Wade seemed to panic at the sight of him crying. “H-hey, don’t cry now, baby-boy…”

“But you… I went home to you dead…” he mumbled and looked up at him, suddenly scared. The anxiety, the insecurity of being at fault for someone’s death, threatened to overwhelm him and push him down on his knees. “If it weren’t… for your healing factor, I… I don’t know what…”

The mercenary just looked on, emotions conflicting obviously with his dark mumbles and his expressions. Finally, he leaned forward and pulled Peter to his lap. “C’mere.”

“Wade…?”

“Shush.”

Wade’s arms were around him again, and Peter just now realized how he could easily fit in them. A gloved hand stroked his hair, lulling him to calm down. The young man just sighed and slowly his shivers and quiet sobs dulled to easy breathing. Even after Peter looked up at Wade to tell him that he was finally okay, the mercenary didn’t let him go, and only hugged him a little bit tighter, a small  “hmm” rumbling in his chest.

Peter just let him, needing the warmth and comfort after the exhausting day. He figured it was tiring for Wade, as well. If he could calm him down by being there, he’d actually be alright having Wade cling to him while he read a book or watched TV. It was actually kind of nice.

“I still gotta wash off the blood, y’know,” Wade broke the silence, after around half an hour just staying like that. Peter looked up at him and he saw a sheepish smile on his face.

He could only smirk. “I like this. Let’s stay like this for another half-hour?”

“But… the blood…”

“What about it?”

“Doesn’t it trouble you?”

“Well, yeah.” Peter made a face, chuckling. “But I’m too tiiiired…”

Wade laughed. “If we don’t get you to your bed, we’ll fall asleep right here and now.”

“Honestly, I don’t mind.” And Peter was surprised to hear such sincerity in his voice, knowing for himself that he really didn’t mind falling asleep sprawled over Wade, even if the other was covered in dried blood.

The mercenary looked genuinely shocked, as well, but when Peter didn’t try to backpedal, he just smiled and eased them down the couch so they were both lying down on their sides, facing each other. Peter used Wade’s arm as a makeshift pillow, arms curled between their chests, before he closed his eyes, sighing contentedly. Wade plucked the glasses off his nose with his free hand before it lazily draped over his torso.

“Peter?”

“Hmn…?”

“You’re cute.”

“Don’t make me have second thoughts on sleeping with you on the couch, Wade,” he teased, and the older man just chuckled.

“Alright, alright, fine…” Wade hummed for a couple of minutes before he started again. “Wait, so does that mean you’ll sleep with me in bed, too?”

Peter’s brain was too sluggish to even say anything flippant. “When the need arises, sure.”

“And that would be when?”

“Well, we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”

Wade didn’t answer for a few seconds, then Peter could hear a soft “Yeah, we will”, before he felt Wade pull him just a bit closer to himself and nuzzle his face in his unruly hair.

Peter just yawned and only had time to say a muffled “good night” before he fell asleep.

He must’ve dreamt up the soft “Good night, Peter” he heard, along with the soft kiss to his forehead that he felt. Yeah… he must’ve. Because when he woke up the next day still pressed against Wade, who was snoring peacefully, arm wrapped around tight, he thought that the action would have been both appropriate and absurd in their situation.

 However, he dismissed the thought from his still sleepy brain and nuzzled closer to the mercenary, determined to get a few more hours of warm sleep, the likes of which he hasn’t had for a long, long time.

Chapter Text

After that night, things significantly changed for the both of them. Peter vaguely remembered that after they woke up from that day on, they’d touch more often (but no more than what was appropriate for two manly men rooming together! Ha! Ha!). They had this routine that every morning Wade would ruffle Peter’s hair, awake or asleep, and Peter would hit his shoulder. When they’d get home and watch reruns of Golden Girls, they’d sit together on the couch. Wade would have his legs resting on the table, only wearing sweatpants and a singlet (because he had already trusted Peter with his scars), and Peter would lie down on his side, head on Wade’s stomach as they both munched on bowls and bowls of popcorn.

As Spider-Man, he’d usually meet up with the mercenary as well. He’d graced him with a few nights of team-up that made Wade extremely happy (“Don’t tell Peter, but I have the strange urge to kiss you right now.” “Please don’t.”), and the few nights stretched into weeks, and even as the masked vigilante, Peter had been extremely comfortable with the Merc. To his credit, Wade was on his best behaviour almost 98% of the time (the remaining 2% would be the times him and Peter would have ridiculous fights that encompass the whole goddamned city at 3 AM because Peter unknowingly ate the last quesadilla), and, thanks to Spider-Man’s ‘no killing’ agenda, had Wade begrudgingly using hand-to-hand battle techniques during their close calls.

When Peter’s final exams loomed ever closer, he excused himself from vigilante business and visited the library and the nearest Starbucks before going home. He’d sometimes buy Wade some coffee, too (he’d noticed that Wade always takes his coffee black, and almost always scalding hot). If Wade was out, he’d leave all his stuff behind and go patrolling for a few hours. He’d be itching for another fight or two, but he’d force himself to go back and study. And show to Wade that, no, Peter Parker does not have a double life and there was absolutely no reason to suspect he was a masked vigilante travelling around New York in webs and a skin-tight spandex.

Sometimes, however, Peter found himself thinking about confessing to Wade about who he really is, and what he really does when he’s off late at night. He was only waiting to have the perfect moment to interject that one small yet important fact. He wondered how Wade would take it. He hoped he’d take it well.

To Peter’s relief and annoyance, Wade was distracted with something else.

“So, Petey,” he said, a plastic bag of chimichangas on a table he set up between their beds. Peter was hunched over the desk Wade bought him, which was laden with books about biology and chemistry and, as Wade colourfully described it, ‘nerdy shit that made the science side of Tumblr go crazy’. Peter looked up from the heavy tome he had borrowed from the library about the different species of spiders local to the Amazon (Peter snorted at the irony as he had checked it out, to the librarian’s chagrin).

Wade himself was lying on his stomach on the bed, reading what appeared to be three comic books at once. Peter frowned. Where had he gotten room to hide those from him from the general clean-up he did? And why didn’t he share? Totally uncool.

“What?”

“Do you think my butt looks big?”

Peter laughed and shook his head, not even bothering to look at him. “You sound like a teenage girl. Why the fuck would you ask that?”

“To know if you liked big butts or not.”

“What?! Why?!”

“Because if you like big butts, then you cannot lie~” he started singing, and Peter snorted and let him be.

After a few more minutes, he restarted the conversation.

“What’s your favourite color?” he asked seriously, looking up at him with his mask rolled up to his nose. Peter didn’t flinch whenever he saw Wade’s scars, although he didn’t inquire about them. He figured he’d tell the story in his own time.

Peter pushed the glasses further up the bridge of his nose, resting his elbow on the page he was in. He looked at Wade, trying to gauge what the question was for. Wade just looked back, pretty serious even when his legs swung and he twirled an invisible lock of hair.  

“Why?” he finally asked, failing to keep his amused smile to himself.

“So I can paint my nails, duh.” Even with the mask, Wade managed to show he was rolling his eyes. ‘Spidey could learn some tricks from him,’ he thought. “It’s a surprise.”

“Erm…” He rubbed his neck nervously. “Red.”

“Ah, so you like red?” Wade smirked and jumped from his bed to Peter’s, making both of their springs (along with Peter himself) squeak in protest. The big man was now sitting on the edge of the bed behind him, cross legged.

“Yeah, yeah, I do.” He gulped and turned back to the book he was reading, trying not to be too distracted by Wade’s breath prickling the back of his neck. “I-I’m going back to study –“

“Screw academics, you look tired, baby-boy.” He felt and heard him chuckle. “Boxes tell me you’ve got tense shoulders and muscles. Do you work out? I never see you work out. Then again, I see you’ve got a skateboard you use every now and then. Do you do parkour? Peter Parkour? Hey, that’s a pun!”

Peter couldn’t help but laugh and turn around to face him fully. “I’m just tired, Wade.” He winked. “Are you sleeping on my bed, then? I’m gonna sleep on yours, if that’s what happens.”

“Oooh, no.” Wade pouted and started pulling Peter to the bed. “You’re breaking the rules. The ‘Wade can sleep in any bed but Peter can only sleep in his.’”

“That’s bullshit, there’s no such rule!”

“I made it up. Like five seconds ago. Rule number 11.”

“That’s cheating!” Peter shrieked as he fell on top of the bigger man. He looked up at him, and Wade looked down at him, and then they both laughed. Peter could feel a deep rumbling in Wade’s chest when he did. It felt warm, to him.

“Stay like this for a bit, will ya?” Wade mumbled and started stroking his hair. Peter took off his glasses and closed his eyes with a sigh.

“Alright…”

He hummed a quiet tune, and Peter yawned and almost fell asleep. “Wade, stop…”

“Why?”

“I still need to study, you ass.” He laughed and tried to get up, but Wade’s arms were heavy around his waist. He didn’t even remember them snaking around his body in the first place. Was he really that comfortable with the merc now? “Lemme go!”

“You’re pretty strong for a twink,” Wade laughed. “White tells me it’s because of the parkour. Yellow says you’re a ballerina.”

“Why am I a ballerina?!”

Wade tilted his head to the side, then shrugged. “He says you’d look good in a tutu. Not to mention that you’re a totally manly ballet dancer in some of our AUs, and I’m a kick-ass hip-hop dancer and we make sweet, sweet flexible love --”

“Alright, that’s it.” Peter had had enough. He used a bit of his super-strength to go back to his chair by the desk, despite Wade’s insistence and whines and grabby-hands. “I’m not turning back until I’m finished studying, Wade.”

Silence hung over them, but Peter couldn’t concentrate even if he wanted to. Something else was tingling inside him. After half an hour of uneasy shifting on his seat, he finally looked around. “Wade, if your eyes are glued to my ass one more time, I’m seriously going to shell out all your ready-to-fry burritos – “

He stopped, blinking in surprise, when he saw his empty bed. And an empty room.

He shouldn’t have felt pissed at the lack of attention, but he did. Which was odd, because he wasn’t in any position to actually demand attention from the other man. Besides, shouldn’t he be accustomed to Wade’s mood swings by now? He stood up and went out the room, but stopped halfway through opening the door.

“ – I come in?”

“Coulson, my man!” Wade was saying. He heard the front door swing open. “What is S.H.I.E.L.D. ready to offer me today? How’s Preston, by the way? She still rocking that mecha suit of hers?”

“Agent Preston is busy with S.H.I.E.L.D. business,” this Coulson man replied, not too curtly. “And there are no missions –“

“What?! Then what the fuck are you doing here if not for my wicked merc skills?!”

“ – but we have something to discuss about.”

“We do, huh.” There was an ominous click, and Peter couldn’t help it. He snuck a glance out the room. He saw Wade pointing a gun at the stranger sitting rather tense on their sagging sofa. “Care to refresh my memory on what exactly we have to discuss about?”

“It’s of a… spider-y nature,” Coulson replied carefully, and he swore he saw Wade flinch. Even a slight dip of the gun was enough.

He held it back up again. “Are you telling me to spy on Spider-Man?”

“Well, technically, no.” A sigh escaped Agent Coulson. “We’ve got rumors of someone who plans on contacting you to…  wash the spider out of the drain, so to speak.”

“…Spidey’s hanging out in the sewers again?” Wade asked, incredulous. “Man, and I thought that Connors guy in The Amazing Spider-Man was already lesson enough not to sneak around the city sewers –“

“I meant to kill him.”

Peter couldn’t believe his ears. He guessed Wade couldn’t, too, because he dropped the gun. It clattered noisily on the ground. He doubted the safety was on, and he praised whatever higher being there was that the gun didn’t fire into poor Coulson’s leg.

“…Oh.” Wade mumbled intelligently. Then he shook his head. “I still can’t process why you’re here.”

“Let’s just say I’m here to make sure you don’t accept the job,” the S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent deadpanned, looking at Wade in the eye.

The Merc hummed. “That’s stupid, y’know. You’re stupid. I’m a mercenary, and, as your beloved Black Widow once spat, my loyalty goes to the highest bidder. She said it like I was scum, you know. That hurt!” He feigned it accordingly, placing a hand on his chest and looking dismayed. “As though she knew better! Anyway, if he offers me some bills, who am I to say no?”

Coulson seemed to expect this, because he only nodded sagely and pulled out a check. “How does one hundred grand sound?”

Wade was clearly unamused. He had his arms across his chest, defiant.

Coulson raised an eyebrow. “A month. Until this anonymous bidder is discovered by S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents.”

“Coulson, you’re robbing me blind. This baby mission could only last one, two months tops. My flat rate is one-fifty grand, and I get those within the week of calls.”

By now the S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent looked apprehensive. Worried. He was chewing on the inside of his cheek, and one of his hands slowly balled into a fist. “I do apologize, but one hundred is our final bid. However… we could… also offer a temporary, temporary membership to the Avenger –“

“Now you’re talking business! Sign me up!” Wade shrieked like a boy who just discovered the Santa Claus was real and was going to give him the sickest jet ski in the market.

Coulson, who looked partly relieved and partly tense, gave him a paper to sign. “On the dotted line, Wilson –“

“I am soooo going to sign with my trusty red crayon.”

Peter shut the door to their bedroom. To hell with it only being 9 o clock in the evening and he hadn’t had dinner yet. He turned off the bedroom lights and started eating the bag full of chimichangas Wade had left on his bed.

After the front door swung shut, Peter shut his eyes tight and pretended not to hear the confused grunts Wade made on the other side of their bedroom door when he saw it was locked. What was he thinking? The mercenary would probably blow his head off after blowing the hinges off the bedroom door for locking him out. Hell, he’d probably duct-tape several packs of C4 to Peter’s body just for finishing his bag of chimichangas.

No. He didn’t want anything to do with Wade for the moment. He needed to get away from the house. From S.H.I.E.L.D.

He needed to get away from Wade.

In under three minutes, he was in his Spider-Man suit and was swinging out the bedroom window. Wade couldn’t bother him by this time.

He had been oh, so wrong.

“Rough night?” Spider-Man greeted, trying not to groan out loud when he heard the mercenary drop in unceremoniously (as always) beside where he sat on the ledge of an apartment complex. His tone was noticeably a bit unwelcoming, though – something Deadpool wasn’t keen on ignoring.

“Chill, Spides, I’m not stalking you,” he managed to say before flumping down next to him, adding, “Not anymore, anyway.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, nothing.” He looked away, and for once in all the time they spent together, in suits or out, a heavy, awkward silence settled between them. Even the occasional mumblings from the Merc was absent now. Peter found his tongue heavy in his mouth, burdened by the lack of words. The silence was deafening, after being with Wade almost 24/7. It was maddening. He needed to do something. To say something. Anything.

“Hey.”

Peter looked up, and Wade did the same. Did they just say the exact same thing?

“Uhm,” Peter laughed awkwardly. What the actual fuck. “S-sorry, I, go on ahead – “

“N-No, no, you go first,” the mercenary insisted.

Peter was again at a loss for words. What was he even going to say? What the hell was he thinking? He bit his lip under the mask, then blurted out, “I’m going away for a while.”

He didn’t know what to take of it, but surely Wade stiffening to an oddly still position wasn’t anything good. Peter urged on. “I just, you know, have a lot to do, and… it’s starting to break my back, and… I need to rest.”

“Right.” Wade nodded. Was he imagining it, or was Wade’s voice suddenly empty? “When do you have to leave?”

“Right now, actually.” He suddenly stood up, already regretting yet another lie he’d have to be careful to uphold so as not to be caught red-handed. He was already getting ready to turn and swing the hell out of there. “Well, see you in a few weeks, big guy.”

And before Wade could tell him to ‘wait’, he shot a string of web and jumped off the ledge. What was he thinking, befriending a mercenary like that? Who’d gladly take assassination cases just so he could buy out a chimichanga stand? Who’d gladly get minced if it meant killing everyone in a five mile radius? Who’d categorize unnecessary killings in the folder labelled “BIG OOPSIES” before never thinking about it ever again?

Spider-Man wasn't a friend anymore, nor an ally, nor a teammate. He was just another name inching dangerously into the 'to be killed' list. No. Peter won't be waiting until that happened.

He couldn’t remember how he got home, or if he even took off his suit and mask. He only remembered climbing through the window, collapsing on the bed, curling up in a ball under the covers. Someone was going to contact Wade to kill him. It was best not to tell him his secret identity, as originally planned. He fell into an uneasy sleep, dreaming of dark shadows chasing him into cold, dark alleyways that seem to have no end.

Chapter Text

Three days afterwards, New York found itself restless wondering where the swinging vigilante disappeared to all of a sudden. The Bugle, credit to those who were favoured by Jameson and had the misfortune to stay in business while their boss was away, started pulling out the big guns and the conspiracy theories on Spider-Man.

Peter wasn’t surprised by this. Not at all. In fact, he got exasperated when they only put out the gossip-worthy articles on the third day of Project No-Show.

Peter was surprised that he couldn’t care less.

For once, he was being selfish, which made him cringe everytime he thought about it on the first day. New York needed him. They were his people. It was his city. And now he’s abandoning them because poor little spider is threatened by whispers of an up-and-coming bounty on his head. Peter felt shame rise up like bile in the back of his throat, threatening to make him sick but not quite getting to the point of actually puking, because Peter has faced worse than that. He faced humiliation, direct death threats, even near-death experiences as Spider-Man. And now, just a whiff of danger and he goes running.

But on the second day, bleeding into the third, he found himself thinking. Why shouldn’t he be able to preserve himself? He’s a hero, sure, but he’s not getting paid for it. The Avengers never treated him as a hero that can actually save the city, more like an amateur, a wannabe that’s just too young and is always doomed to get in everyone’s way. The Bugle gives Spider-Man a bad reputation, and most of New York’s citizens who have not yet been in a situation Spider-Man had handled up close actually believe the bullshit that rag of a newspaper sells. No matter what way, in general, New York does not want, nor need, Spider-Man. Peter snorted at the thought of S.H.I.E.L.D. actually paying Wade to protect him, because he wasn’t an ally of S.H.I.E.L.D., nor does he think that the covert organization that was the backbone for the Avengers would want him of all supers safe.

Thoughts of S.H.I.E.L.D. made thoughts of Wade weasel into his mind. Come to think of it, Wade had been out of it for the last few days. He had been stumbling about the room, out of sorts, and he had even snapped at Peter that one time at breakfast even though he only said a ‘good morning’. Of course, Wade had apologized profusely after that, but Peter knew better and hid all the guns Wade had easy access to. There was no point in having a repeat of Wade bleeding, dead, on the couch with a shattered skull. Just the thought of it made a shiver run down Peter’s back.

“Earth to cute ass over here,” a voice said, and Peter looked up from his biology textbook to see Wade in his suit. He had on the trench coat again, but now he had a backpack and a duffel slung casually over his shoulders.

“What?”

“I need to leave. Mission.”

Peter’s gut clenched uncomfortably. Mission. Which means killing. Killing a target. Like Spider-Man.

He shook his head. He can’t get distracted. “When will you be back?”

“Couple of days. Worst case scenario is a week.” He ruffled Peter’s hair, and he just scowled because his glasses are knocked off the perfect place on the bridge of his nose. “See you til then. I’ll give you a surprise.”

“Wait.” Peter didn’t know what he was thinking, but it surely wasn’t to grab Wade’s wrist to stop him from leaving. The mercenary halted, however, obedient, expectant. He grimaced. “Who are you going to kill?”

“No killing.” Wade shook his head. “If you can believe it… Nah, I’m working on recon.”

“On who?”

“Spider-Man.”

All common sense flew off to la la land when Peter next opened his mouth. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Please… don’t.” He couldn’t look him in the eye, even if it was through the familiar red-and-black mask. It just hurt so much knowing that Wade just took the money from S.H.I.E.L.D. and is still on recon for Spider-Man. At this point, Peter would not just have to hang up the mask and suit forever, but he’d never be able to tell Wade who he is. Which made his chest constrict to ungodly levels of pain, which he cannot understand. Why does he care if Wade knows or not? When he looked up at the mercenary again, the question dissolved. “Don’t kill him.”

“You heard…?”

He must’ve looked pretty damn scared because Wade snorted out a small laugh that tried to be cocky but failed, miserably. He patted Peter’s shoulder, trying to be reassuring. “I won’t.”

Peter looked up, a surge of hope flaring in his chest. “Then why…?”

“He’s been missing for three days. I’m getting worried.”

Something other than hope rears its head inside Peter. He suddenly found his mouth dry. “Worried…?”

“I-I mean of course I will be, he’s my pal after all.” Wade looked away, a habit of his when he’s caught in a lie. Peter’s caught him on it everytime he asked who ate his cookie for the day, and he’d know when Wade was lying about the pettiest of things. Does that mean Spider-Man isn’t his pal after all? Does he think his bond with Spider-Man is petty? Wait, what bond is he even thinking about? “I can’t just let him go off like that.”

“Right… right, yeah.” He cleared his throat and let go of him. “You know where I’ll be.”

Wade winced. “Peter, it’s not like that –“

Wait, what? “What’s not like what?” he pressed, thoroughly confused now.

“I’m – I don’t like Spidey – “

At this, Peter laughed. It wasn’t his normal laugh, nor was it the passing-off-as-awkward laugh. It was the empty one, nearly derisive, sarcastic. He balled his hands into fists to ground himself, to remind him that starting to confess that Peter and Spider-Man were one and the same was a reckless thing to do, and that it would make him end up lying dead on the floor with a bullet between his eyes. “Why would you tell me this? It’s not like we’re dating or anything. Honestly, like… me and you? Together?” He snorted, trying to cover up a trail he should never have left in the first place. “Really?”

It wasn’t his Spider-sense, it was his gut telling him that something was wrong, it was what he said, and now it resulted to the room temperature seeming to drop almost 15 degrees.

“…Right. I’m off then.” And with that, Wade was out the door.

Peter stared after him for a good five minutes, before he lashed out and threw his library books out the room. He flung a string of web and slammed the door to the bedroom shut, then took off his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose.

This was going to be a long vacation.

He left a note on the dinner table in case Wade went home. It read:

“Wade,

I went to my Aunt May, staying for a bit. Be back by Monday night after exams. – P.P.”

It wasn’t that he was actually imposing, he reminded himself on the way home, the houses blending in to faded versions of the ones brightly-painted walls when he was a kid. Aunt May had been badgering him for weeks to come and visit after seemingly figuring out that he had moved. When asked how, Aunt May vaguely mentioned about a surprise visit that had cost a man and a woman some alone time, as though that news wouldn’t make Peter retch that a couple was doing the nasty on the couch he usually bled on after Spidey work (Peter decided they didn’t need to know that, and comfortably kept his mouth shut).

It wasn’t like Peter was shutting her off, oh no – he missed her, of course, and once he was knocking on the door of their old home he was already giddy, feeling like he was at least ten years younger. Sure, back then he’d go home with Harry in his more expensive clothes and a pair of sunglasses that made Peter want to hide his banged-up pair, but Harry always loved the Parker’s place, or so he said. To his credit, Peter noticed that Harry acted more his age when he was under their roof than out of it, which was, unfortunately, more often. He felt a little sad and wistful knowing they can’t go back to the way they were once. Peter had seen him in his ugliest form, as the Green Goblin, and even though Harry had been miraculously free from any Goblin duty and has seemingly forgotten those choice months (how, no one exactly knows why), there was one thing Peter can’t ever forget whenever he saw Harry’s face. And that was Gwen, and how she looked like when she fell, when she hit the ground, closed her eyes, and never woke up. It sounded foolish to him to keep the wound open, he knew, but it served him as fuel to save everyone as best as he could. This would sacrifice Peter and Harry’s friendship, however, and although the Osborn heir felt the growing gap between them and respectfully left Peter alone, he hoped Harry understood, or at least misunderstood, why. Like professionalism. They can’t be seen being buddies, the boss and the underling.

“Get inside already!” Aunt May’s voice jarred him from his thoughts, and a force around his midriff knocked the breath out of his lungs. Even old, Aunt May was still in great condition, which was why she took it upon herself to work shifts as a nurse sometimes to help with Peter’s college fees. He protested against it as long as he could, but when he saw Aunt May actually enjoying herself taking care of people other than him even when she got back home exhausted, he dropped the arguments altogether and let her be.

“Hey, Aunt May,” he said, and hugged back. He got a whiff of something before he felt himself perk up excitedly. “Is that…?”

“Apple pie?” she filled in, laughing and swatting Peter’s back. “Come inside, and I’ll put it out and give you a slice. You must be tired.”

“Thanks, Aunt May, you’re the best.” And she was. That opinion had only changed when it became fact. He went up the stairs to put his travel bag on the bed in his old bedroom. Even though he was travelling light, it still felt a bit heavy when he dropped it on the bed, or maybe that was just him. Here he was familiar with things, and there was someone he can completely be with. Hiding Spider-Man from Aunt May had been second nature to him, so he didn’t find it hard.

 He looked around in his old bedroom, converted into a guest bedroom that was still technically Peter’s since he was the only one who often came and slept in the house. The bed was still where he usually slept, albeit the change in sheets from blue to a simple white. His walls looked painfully bare to him since he was fond of putting up numerous posters of bands and scientists. The shelves looked neat and tidy, and Peter felt an itch to stuff it full with heavy tomes that weren’t exactly as big as the shelf had space for. He knows Aunt May couldn’t really bear any semblance that Peter had lived there when he left (a thing that had eaten at his conscience ever since he stepped foot into his own apartment) but he was glad to be back, and he was pretty sure Aunt May was, too.

Dinner was filled with excited chatter, mostly on Aunt May’s part, and awkward one-liners from Peter. Of course, he wasn’t really keen on telling her that he had moved in with someone, or that he was still technically single (wait… ‘technically’? Of course he was single!), but it became easier when the conversation jumped to OsCorp, and work with the Bugle, and Jameson leaving.

“How are you holding up at OsCorp?” she asked, finishing a slice of apple pie.

“I’m doing fine, Aunt May, really,” he replied, trying hard not to gobble down his own share. Damn, it was too delicious to eat sparingly by the forkful. “Harry’s doing okay, too. I mean, I don’t talk to him, of course, he’s always busy at work and I’m just an intern, but he looks fine. He’s living it up to be an Osborn.”

“That poor boy hated the whole family business. He didn’t want anything to do with it, you know that.” She sighed and grimaced.

He laughed quietly. “Yeah, well… a lot has changed since then.”

Silence hung over the table, but Peter barely felt it – he had grown used to the social awkwardness with Wade over the last few days – until Aunt May cleared her throat. “Have you visited Gwen lately?”

Hearing her name felt like a pang of ice stabbing his heart, but he suppressed the urge to wince. “Gwen?”

“Peter!”

“I-I didn’t forget her, of course,” he made up for the mistake even though he really didn’t commit anything. “I just…”

“Today’s the fifth year since then.”

Five years.

Peter didn’t even know how he survived for so long without her. He was certain that, were she still alive, he’d have probably asked her to marry him sometime soon, or right after she graduated from Oxford. He had dreams of it, too – swinging to the graduation ceremony in full Peter Parker costume, whisking Gwen away right after she got her award for summa cum laude in whatever she took , and probably changing into civilian clothes and taking Gwen to the London Eye, and proposing to her at the very peak. He knew she’d say yes. He knew, and he knew how she’d say it, how her eyes would light up, how her hands would fly to her mouth to keep it shut. In one single moment, that illusion would be gone, and all he could see was Gwen’s broken body in that godforsaken clock tower, his web uselessly hanging on to her.

He quietly excused himself from the table, saying something about going to the cemetery and buying a rose. He knew the effort was half-assed, and that the rose wouldn’t even be as good as the ones that came in fresh in the morning, but he promised to himself (and, mentally, to Gwen) that he’ll go first thing the next day and buy her the reddest bouquet of roses in the store as compensation. He tied a thin, white ribbon – somehow he just pictured Gwen in the dress she had been wearing when she was finally laid down to rest – and slowly walked the remaining blocks to the cemetery.

To some people, five years would be enough to at least stop the waterworks from flowing when he finally trudged up and faced the all-too-familiar headstones bearing her name and her date of expiry. But out of everything that happened to him (and that was saying something, being Spider-Man and all), she was the best damn thing he had encountered. He just wished that she could’ve stayed a little bit longer, and that her absence wasn’t as permanent as it was now for many more years to come.

“Hey, Gwen,” he started, sniffling. He didn’t even know what to say. It was tradition now that he talked to her headstone. Too many days has he spent in the exact same spot in whatever weather, just staring at her name engraved in the stone, until he decided that if he stayed silent a moment longer, he’d go crazy. So he started talking. But right now, all coherent words flew out the window in his brain, and all he was left with was a big fat load of nothing. “Uhm… I’m sorry I nearly forgot. I didn’t mean to, I promise… It’s just…”

The words died in his mouth, and he looked up at the twinkling stars. It reminded him of her eyes. He remembered it doing funny things to his heart and his breathing whenever her face would scrunch up in happiness, and her smile would be all that he could see. Now, it was just a memory, and it was a fond one. But the effects of the memory weren’t as strong as before. He found it nostalgic. He missed her, but he didn’t feel as though he can’t live without her anymore. He just couldn’t live the same anymore. It was different.

There was the sound of a twig snapping, and Peter nearly snapped his neck when he turned to see who it was. All of his senses were on high alert and, before he knew it, he was crouching down and pulling the hood of his jacket on his head. If ever he needed to make quick use of his webs, he’d have to hide his identity still. He hoped the darkness would help him tonight.

What nearly makes him double over in surprise was the one voice he didn’t expect to be hearing tonight, nor anytime soon. When the person called out a tentative “Hello?”, all thoughts of Gwen and Aunt May flew out the proverbial window as his windpipe constricted and his chest tightened, making it harder to breathe. He could only choke out one word in his surprise, because that was the only thing that was running around in his probably shell-shocked brain.

“Harry?”

Chapter Text

Peter had to be hallucinating. He had to be. Because there was no way in hell that his childhood best friend who had his secretary Felicia hovering by his shoulder round the clock, whose net worth is in the millions, was now walking around in the public cemetery, in the dark, with no bodyguards whatsoever.

 He was dressed plainly, as well, compared to what he got used to seeing him in at all the videos being aired around OsCorp every morning about the different projects and updates of the company. Harry was wearing a long black coat that reached his knees, and a suit and tie beneath. Peter noted that he was breathing a bit raggedly than normal. Did he run away from a party or something?

After a few seconds, the blonde smiled. It wasn’t the feral grin he was expecting, like when he saw Harry all juiced up with the spider venom as the Green Goblin. It wasn’t the usual polite smile for the cameras, either – it was like that first smile Peter ever got from him after splashing mud on his sunnies. A genuine Harry smile, not the cold Osborn one. “Still maintaining the unibrow, Parker?”

With that, it seemed like all the sparks of tension and discomfort melted away. Peter laughed nervously under his breath and stepped forward, making sure he hid his webslingers with the sleeves of his jacket. “I’m glad you noticed. Impeccable dress style, I must say, Mr. Osborn.”

“Please, it’s all Felicia,” Harry waved the compliment off with a flick of his hand. “She pretties me up for the press.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Well, it’s one less thing to do. Now all I have to do is sit still.”

Peter couldn’t help but full-on laugh at that one, then ran to hug the ever-living shit out of Harry because fuck yes, it’s childhood-friend Harry and not boss-at-work Mr. Osborn, not even batshit-crazy Green Goblin. It’s not even  He felt slim arms wrap around him and give him the old-fashioned pat on the back he got used to when hugging him. Tradition states that after the pat, Peter should mess Harry’s hair up like a duck’s tail, and he does it without further ado.

“Peter.” Harry was smiling widely now, eyes wide and looking him up and down as though taking a first good look in a long time. “So glad to meet you after all these years. How has it been?”

He paused for a bit before guardedly looking away. “Oh, you know. Fine.”

“’Fine’?” He could hear Harry huff out in annoyance. “Is that how you describe yourself to your best friend after dropping off the face of the earth for five years?”

“I didn’t disappear,” he defended, crossing his arms. “I… I needed time to think.”

“Think? Of what?”

He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep his annoyance in check. Was he really going to play innocent in Gwen’s death? No matter what happened, no matter what state of mind he was in, he was the one who threw Gwen off the top of that clock tower. Even if he wasn’t in the right state of mind, it was still understandable that Peter was more than a little wary and uncomfortable talking about it with him. Harry Osborn wasn’t thick and he could read the situation unconsciously, so this was a new trait of his.

Peter filed it in his mind under ‘rude’.

He looked back at Gwen’s headstone, then shook his head. “Not here.”

Harry didn’t look convinced and peered over his shoulder to look at what he was looking at. His expression immediately turned somber. “Oh. Is it today?”

Without a word, Peter bobbed his head once. He pushed his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and shuffled his feet, awkward. Harry was the first one to make a move, and it was toward Gwen. He touched the stone for a moment, then knelt and left something, before going back to Peter. Once he squinted, he could see it was a white rose.

“I know how hard it must have been,” Harry mumbled, folding up the collar of his coat so he more looked like a vicar. “Gwen was so bright and innocent, and all that, gone because of some asshole running a red light.”

Peter felt cold suddenly seep into every nerve cell of his being. He stared at Harry as though he had lost his mind. A clear ‘What? Did I say something wrong?’ expression was painted across Harry’s face.

“What do you mean, ‘because of some asshole running a red light’?”

Peter had to be stone-faced all the way to the café he had agreed to go with Harry to, to listen to him explain. To his credit, Harry seemed to read the situation (as always) and, sensing that Peter was just looking for one window of opportunity to land a punch square on his jaw, steered clear of him and walked three paces ahead of him, silent. Peter was grateful for that, but it did nothing to soothe the angry monster raring up inside of him because Harry had the audacity to sugarcoat Gwen’s death as a hit-and-run.

The café they finally entered in was small and private, like a little cove in the streets. Orange lights hung everywhere and the seats were comfy and bouncy. Harry picked it so that not a lot of commotion would happen once he’s sighted. Peter sat down with his arms crossed as the blonde sidled up to the counter and ordered coffee for them both.

“Explain,” Peter demanded even before Harry could sit down. The other person only frowned and gave him the cup of coffee.

“Look, I don’t know why you’re angry,” he said, holding up his hands when Peter visibly winced. “But after her accident, I kind of had my own accident. They say I nearly OD’ed on the drugs I took to cure the Osborn curse and hit my head, that’s why I had big lapses in my memory. The doctors, they filled me in with the accidents, or anything else important I might have forgotten. To prevent controversy I went into this rehab center called Ravencroft. It’s OsCorp’s, and I got a nice room there to get the drugs out of my system. I didn’t feel anything, I didn’t get any cravings, but I did get… visions.

“I got visions of… of Spiderman, and something… horrible.” He visibly shivered. Peter didn’t know whether to buy it or not, so he kept listening. “And I kept hearing voices. I mean, Dr. Hamilton – that’s my shrink at Ravencroft – he told me these were common signs at rehab.”

Harry stopped to drink his coffee. Peter could see his hands were shaking, and the guy looked pale. He wondered what it was like, having after-effects of the Green Goblin haunt him even while awake. Which reminded him… “So you’re cured?” he asked, shocked.

Harry put down his cup, smiling weakly. “Yeah, I am,” he said, relief making his voice less wobbly. “The great Osborn curse, cured from the bloodline. Frankly, I couldn’t believe it either. Dad was… He was fighting it for a long time, with the best machinery (well, second to Stark’s) the world could give, and he didn’t make it alive to see it regress. It was just suddenly gone in me. I don’t know how or why, and neither do the doctors at Ravencroft. They keep checking in on me at work, like I’m in remission or something. I’m just glad it’s gone.”

For a moment, Peter forgot to breathe. Harry, with memory lapses on what happened, including his dual identity and the Goblin fiasco. Harry, cured of the disease. Harry, lying low and playing puppet for the press while leading a world-renowned company under 30. Harry Osborn, being a normal human, having human problems, without any conscious association whatsoever with the world of supers. Peter at once felt happiness bloom in his chest, but there was always the side of jealousy he has learned to expect every time he takes a moment to revel in humanity’s normalcy – the one thing he had to shun to be one of New York’s protectors. He finally cracked a small smile, and, voice weak, said, “That’s great, Harry.”

Three words, and Harry slumped in his chair, letting out one of the biggest, most authentic sighs of relief Peter had to have come across in his life. “So you’re not mad at me anymore?”

In all honesty, Peter couldn’t bring himself to hate him. The guy made mistakes, sure. And, he thought, Gwen wouldn’t want me to distance myself, even if it’s because of her death. He took a deep breath and shook his head, smiling at Harry reassuringly. “No.”

The catching-up with Harry had taken nearly four hours. The barista who was working the graveyard shift gave them the stink-eye and a slew of verbal onslaughts followed them out the door after Harry answered her complaining about closing hours with five hundred dollars to literally ‘buy them some time’. Peter had stitches after they ran up the park laughing and wheezing. He wouldn’t be surprised if some stray dog started to chase them around for disturbing the peace of New York at night.

Harry had bid farewell but not without a promise to seeing him again and a private number to call him ‘just like old times’. Peter had a spring in his step while walking all the way home. The past had come back to him, and it seemed that everything had settled to near perfection during the time Peter had shoved matters to the back of his mind.

 To be fair, he had suspicions on the whole thing, since he was only puny Parker, with no lasting luck in his genetics. He had the strong urge to keep himself from celebrating and merely wait for the other shoe to drop. But he just couldn’t. Out of everything that has happened in his life – his parents, Uncle Ben, the Green Goblin, Gwen – shouldn’t he be at least given some window of calm and peace? Heck, after all he’s done for the city, one evening of normalcy wouldn’t harm anybody. Right?

Thoughts of justification still go through his head, even when he stumbled into the house with the lights still on in the kitchen and far too much noise for only one person in the house. He stopped in his tracks when he heard someone who was definitely not Aunt May laughing in the kitchen.

“Peter, is that you? Come into the kitchen, you have a guest!” Aunt May called out, and the laughter abruptly stopped. Peter put his internal panicking in check and crossed the living room to the kitchen.

Never in the months he has been living with Wade has the thought of him sitting down on their dinner table eating a plate of empanadas. He knew it was Wade even when he still had his back to him – the hunched over frame was all too familiar, as was the red and black hoodie and cargo pants he was wearing.

Aunt May was rambling off on how unexpected Wade’s visit was. Peter, admittedly, tuned her out the moment Wade turned around. He wasn’t looking at him, deeming the tiled floor a whole lot more interesting than Peter. He noticed the fresh cuts on his face. A soft, impersonal “hey” was the only thing he said, still not looking him in the eye as he did. Peter winced, hating the cold monosyllabic word.

Guilt. That was definitely guilt tugging at his heartstrings right about then. Peter was willing to bet one of his webslingers that this awkward, cold Wade was because of what he said before he left. Peter’s self-hatred got renewed just thinking back to that incident.

Well, he thought, there goes the other shoe.

Chapter Text

He didn’t know what was worse – the fact that Wade was doing his damnedest to not look at him, or that he had agreed to Aunt May’s offer for him to spend the weekend with them.

Not that Peter was going to be a downright rude host to shoo Wade out of the house at an ungodly hour. Nor was he going to go against Aunt May’s judgment (“Poor Mr. Winston would be lonely in your shared apartment since you’ll stay the weekend here”). However, he knew that Aunt May felt the tension between them. It was palpable in the air the moment they had seen each other. He just didn’t know whether Aunt May dismissed it as an issue they needed to sort out themselves, or as a reason to hurl them both in a controlled environment.

Peter had the nagging suspicion it was the latter. What with Aunt May practically demanding (in a sickly sweet voice, of course, the one that made children want to sit down beside a fireplace for storytime) the man to stay with them, even though it was common knowledge to her and Peter that the only room where Wade could sleep was in Peter’s old room, which Peter was occupying that night. The bed was big enough for two people; a bit of a tight squeeze, but the situation they were in made it almost impossible for him to think that they'd agree to it.

He didn’t want to be the one to break the news of the sleeping arrangements to Wade, still unsure on how to approach the guy after their outburst some days ago. And so, to show Aunt May that everything was normal between them and there were no qualms with Wade staying whatsoever (it proved ineffective, in the end), he had volunteered to wash the dishes, tuning out Wade’s “let me do it” by turning his back against him. Perhaps he was doing more damage to the mangled bridge of a friendship (‘friendship’) they had, but he wasn’t in the mood tonight. Aunt May steered Wade to the living room, and the giant of a man just ducked his head and dragged his heavy bags across the carpeted floor.

By the time he had loaded everything into the drier, there was an indignant yelp from Wade. Aunt May must’ve told him already.

As if on cue, he went out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel, while Wade sputtered, “That would be invading his privacy, I wouldn’t want that. Please, let me sleep on the couch, it’s already very comfy –“

“Nonsense,” Aunt May interrupted. “That’s not the proper way to treat a guest.”

“I could sleep on the couch, if the guest isn’t comfortable with me,” Peter offered absently, speaking more to Aunt May. But it was Wade who answered.

“Petey, you know I don’t mean that,” he said, a gentle plea in his rough voice.

Peter vehemently ignored him. Whatever it was between them, they had to resolve it on their own. They didn’t need Aunt May to play counsellor.

A few beats passed and he remembered he didn’t answer, and they were both expecting him to. He conceded, with getting Wade’s bags and dragging them up the stairs, to his old bedroom. Wade called out to him and followed him up, trying to reason with him.

“Peter, damn it, listen to me,” Wade demanded, but he wasn’t doing anything. Not yet. Not until they’re in the clear. He could apologize to Aunt May for the night’s rudeness in the morning. Make her banana pancakes. He thought, as he opened the bedroom door, too engrossed in his musings to bother turning the light on. Yes, that would work—

A pair of heavy hands pushed him against the wall, rattling him from his train of thought and into the ‘what the fuck happened and why didn’t my Spider Sense didn’t see that coming’ trail. He looked up at Wade, scarred face mostly hidden in the shadows that his hood gave, and snarled. “What do you think you’re doing?”

And as if he wasn’t mindfucked already, Wade had the actual balls to smile, and not in a feral, predatory way, but in the reminiscing way. “Hey Pete.”

“Get off!”

“You’re finally talking to me.”

“Wade, for fuck’s sake, I’m going to kick you in the balls—“

“Will you?”

That made him shut up, and Wade leaned in close, much too close. His face was just inches from his, hot breath that smelled of Mexican food tickling his neck. Peter heard him inhale deeply, then hummed, seemingly satisfied.

“Did you just smell me?” he finally asked, eyes blown wide.

“Watching Hannibal lately?” The other laughed, but didn't wait for an answer before asking another question. “Yeah, so?”

Peter squirmed, and Wade finally had the bright idea to loosen his grip. Just a little. But it was a window Peter didn’t take for granted. With a little extra push from his superstrength he shoved him off, stalking to his bed to sit there, fuming.

“I cannot believe you would do that.”

“I missed you too.”

Peter hated the way Wade could make him feel tongue-tied in the simplest of words. He cursed himself when he felt the heat rise in his cheeks, but thanked the gods he could list off the top of his head it was dark. “Did you.”

A look of confusion, mixed with a hint of pain, seemed to fill Wade’s body language. “What do you mean? Of course I did.”

“How did the tracking go?” he all but spat, hating the fact that he was inches from the man who would cash in his body for a truckload of chimichangas.

To his credit, the mercenary didn’t know what to feel about all that venom in his activity for the past few days. He sat down on Peter’s old computer chair, where the natural light from the city streamed in from the window, illuminating his scarred features, seemingly grimacing thoughtfully. But he answered anyway, the touch of disappointment evident. “Bupkis.”

Peter nearly sang. Instead, he snorted through his nose, and stood up. “I’m going to take a shower.”

He could feel Wade eager to break the tension between them. Admittedly, Peter ached when the tentativeness crept into the other’s voice, something he hadn’t thought was possible. “Can I join?”

It was a truce offer; if he answered positively, everything would go back to normal between Wade and Peter. If not, he didn’t know what Wade would do. Hell, knowing he was a mercenary, he wouldn’t know what to even expect from him. He had also acknowledged that it was primarily his fault for the whole misunderstanding, and Wade was the one who was mature enough to actually try to amend things even when he was the victim. That made his stomach coil in guilt. He needed to amend things. Or at least, start to.

“No, you can’t,” Peter said, deftly turning his head from him. But when he was at the door, he added, “But we can talk afterwards.” He left the room without expecting an answer.

The lukewarm water hit his skin, and Peter closed his eyes, trying to soak in whatever weird mix of freshness and warmth the water had to offer. He knew he was biding his time, standing still in the shower, just letting the droplets fall from his hair down his body. He inspected himself, already seeing the bruises that he had acquired from one of his last fights starting to finally heal, the dark purplish tint turning into an almost sickly yellow. Even the cuts he had sustained from minor mishaps and bad falls had almost healed, leaving only behind itchy skin. He still stood on the same ground with him laying off the Spider-Man business for a while. It was simply too dangerous.

And too heartbreaking, a nagging voice in his head echoed. He nearly slapped his ears, wide-eyed. That had certainly not been his opinion of it.

But even as he said that, imagined staring down the barrel of a gun, or feeling one of his katanas slice into him, knowing that he was the perpetrator, that he’d die by his hands… it all seemed so saddening.

Wade. He neither knew where nor how to begin to describe his feelings for the man. Although he didn’t seem to be inherently hostile to him, no, not really. And he was pretty sure that his feelings were strictly friendly.

…Wasn’t it?

Suddenly the image of them cuddling on the couch with dried blood between them weaselled into his thoughts. He still didn’t know whether Wade really had kissed the top of his head, or some hallucination in his half-conscious state. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, making colors explode beneath his eyelids.

Say that it was true… that he had kissed the top of his head. What then? He felt his chest pool with warmth, and he yelped, stopping his imagination altogether. He turned the shower off and leaned against the wall, no doubt a blush settling on his cheeks.

Perhaps he had a little, teensy-weensy, ‘n multiplied to 10^-4‘ crush on the man. Which would explain how sad he was to know that Wade didn’t feel the same way. Even if he did, that’d probably change when he finds out Peter Parker and Spider-Man were one and the same. Correction: if he finds out.

Peter was set on not telling Wade his identity. Perhaps when the search has gone cold, or the offer was null and void since Spider-Man had gone AWOL. Yes, that’s probably for the best.

He stepped out of the shower, dried his hair, and put on sweats and a t-shirt. Took his time with brushing, flossing, making silly faces in front of the mirror. Biding his time until he needed to talk to Wade. When Aunt May finally told him through the door to go to sleep, he relented, but kissed her cheek on his way upstairs.

He found Wade setting up his own sleeping bag on the floor right next to Peter’s bed. He had changed into boxers (which, curiously enough, had some kind of pattern Peter had trouble seeing in the dark) and a fitting black shirt that made Peter want to bolt. Wade looked up at him and had smiled so shyly, he didn’t have the heart to keep pushing him away. Not for the rest of the night, anyway.

“Don’t be stupid, you can sleep on the bed,” he said, going for nonchalant, pointedly not looking at him.

It seemed to shake him though. “No, that’s alright, I mean, I’ve slept on harder places. Honestly, a floor is heaven.”

“You’d pick a floor to a bed with me?” he mumbled, feigning hurt.

Wade immediately amended. “You’re inviting me to sleep with you?”

“Only sleeping.”

“Deal! Haha, yes!”

“Then get your ass here. No touching anywhere.”

“That’s ruining the purpose of sharing a bed, you know.”

“Backing out?”

Wade shook his head fervently and slid beside Peter on the bed. He lied down on his back, looking up at the ceiling. Deftly he wondered where to start. He could feel Wade’s body, tense and stiff. He sighed and asked the first thing on his mind. “Where were you?”

It took Wade a few moments before he answered. “All over the place. I had asked a lot of people, lots of old friends of his in prison, you know. To help me find his Spideycave, but I got nothing.”

“Are you really going to kill him?”

“Christ, Peter, I already said no.” He smiled and poked his cheek. “Why’d you get your panties in a twist about him, anyway? Unless you like him?”

He laughed. “No, I’m pretty sure I don’t.”

“Then who do you like?”

It was an innocent enough question, but it held the fragility of someone secretly hoping for a specific answer. Peter just turned his back to him, curling up in a ball. He changed the topic.

“Wade?”

“Yes, Peteypie?”

“I forgive you.” And I'm sorry, he wanted to add, but his tongue couldn't bring the words out.

“I actually don’t know what I did, but thanks for that.” And he could feel it, the gratitude in his voice. “So we’re okay then?”

“Yeah.” He smiled to himself. “We’re okay. Good night, Wade. Remember, no touching.”

“I promise.” He laughed, and there was some shifting on his part, possibly to get more comfortable on the bed. Peter had already fallen asleep when he finally said, “Good night.”

When Peter woke the next day, he noticed two things.

One, that he felt a very warm, very solid, very open something and Peter couldn’t help nuzzle against it.

And two, that he had a heavy weight around his waist, and that his legs were tangled with someone else’s.

For the first few minutes, Peter didn’t seem to mind. Happy, even, for the warmth, the comfort, the overwhelming sense of security this warm, solid something has to offer. Nuzzling into the warmth seemed the most natural thing to do, and he did so burying his head on a nook he found most comfortable, inhaling musk that made him hum. He opened one eye, then the second. His eyesight was still blurry, but he gave his eyes a few blinks before everything came to focus.

His mind registered things slowly. The black t-shirt he had been sniffing, the scars on the skin that stretched out. The slow, rhythmic beat that he can feel drumming steadily under his fingertips where they had bunched the black cloth, seemingly afraid to let go. The even breathing pattern that tickled his forehead and hair.

The boxers that the other wore, with an unmistakable pattern of two masked cartoon heads with heart speech bubbles.

“Mornin,’” the warm, solid something drawled and Peter looked up. Wade still had his eyes closed, but judging by the smile on his lips he was acutely aware of what position he had woken up to.

“Good morning,” Peter said, a bit drily. “What happened to no touching?”

“Baby-boy, you were the one who started nuzzling and sniffing around midnight,” he teased, a deep rumble bubbling in his chest as he laughed the morning haze away.

Properly embarrassed, he broke free of the (admittedly comfortable) restraints, much to Wade’s disappointment, if his whine was anything to base his current mood on.

“Is that how you treat your husband back from the war?”

“You’re not my husband, and you haven’t been in a war.”

“I’m hurt! Such cruel things to say to your master!”

“Wade, for Christ’s sake –“

“Want to call me ‘Master’ again?”

“No breakfast for you.”

Wade paused for a bit, then relented. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Pancakes.”

With a simple word, Wade had bound down the stairs, no doubt calling dibs on the ingredients onhand. Peter smiled to himself as he followed him, sitting down on the kitchen counter to watch Wade enthusiastically make his signature breakfast meal. It felt so normal, and the domestic warmth he felt with Wade, even after what happened, was settling in his chest and stomach without much alarm.

“Baby-boy?”

He shook his head and looked up at Wade’s concerned face. “Sorry, I spaced out.”

“I was asking you what your Aunt May likes better – chocolate syrup, strawberry, or maple. I personally recommend maple, of course, but I want to make your Aunt happy as thanks for letting me stay.”

Peter had to smile at that. Wade didn’t have a very long list of people he tried to impress, much less the people he felt indebted to. For Aunt May to be in both lists after only a short time with the man was a great feat. “Maple.”

“Excellent choice, Mr. Parker,” he replied in a fake British accent, and after a few moments he nearly empties the bottle of maple syrup onto three plates holding up tall stacks of pancakes.

Wade was in the motion of taking one helluva tall forkful from his own stack when his phone began to ring. Peter pursed his lips as the man patted his ass, sure that the gadget was in the only pocket. “Sorry, babe, gotta take this,” he said in passing, going to the living room for privacy.

“Not your babe!” Peter called after him, smiling to himself. He didn’t notice Wade going still when he finally answered the phone. He did, however, hear the first string of words that came out of his mouth.

“Coulson, you’ve got ten seconds to call your men off the Parker house, or, so help me, our contract is void.”

Chapter Text

Peter’s mouth went dry.

Coulson. Agents surrounding their house. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents surrounding their house. He didn’t know what for, per se, but he doesn’t want to know. Not now, not with Wade here. If S.H.I.E.L.D. had somehow gotten hold of his identity (though from what, Peter couldn’t pinpoint; he had been quite certain he wasn’t leaving any traces as Peter Parker in his Spider-Man suit as much as possible), he didn’t need them to expose his alter-ego to Wade, of all people, right after they made up, right after things had started to become normal again.

“I’m not kidding, Coulson,” Wade growled into the phone. Peter could see him, body tense in the middle of the living room. After a minute he started pacing, his free hand curling and uncurling into a fist. “No. I’m not… There is nothing in that contract about—“

“Wade?” Peter’s voice instantly made him stop, and Wade turned, not quite covering his phone. His face fell from being angry to being worried. Perhaps Peter looked pale and faint; he certainly felt so. “Wade, w-what’s going on?”

Wade tried to push him back into the kitchen. “Petey, please, let me –“

“Why’re you talking to Coulson about the contract?” He demanded, clawing at his arm. “Wade, what are you trying to –“

“This is a big misunderstanding, Peter, please –“

“Wade – “

“Step away from the boy.” Peter felt Coulson’s cool, crisp voice even through Wade’s cellphone. “Step. Away.”

Wade looked out the window and snarled, but put one arm up. The other still held his cellphone to his ear. “Call off your sniper, Coulson. I swear to God...”

Sniper? Peter’s knees felt weak, and he grasped at the wall to try and right himself. This wasn’t S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol; at least, not what he had found out after looking for a pattern. Spider-Man had been asked to join, but Peter had declined when the agreement included the surrender the identity of whosoever was behind the mask. Peter couldn’t live with that, no matter how tempting it was to accept. There weren’t any snipers when an agent contacted him, Spidey-sense guaranteed.

Had S.H.I.E.L.D. gotten hold of his personal information somehow, had tracked him here to Aunt May’s house? Did they think Peter was conspiring with Wade? Perhaps they thought Wade had found out as well and was holding him hostage? That last one sounded the most plausible, and he held out his hand.

“ – am not going to beg, Coulson, and I am not going to explain why I’m here until there is no barrel – “

“Wade, give me the phone.”

Wade looked at him, annoyed, before going back to Coulson. Something in Peter’s stomach went funny. He had never been on the receiving end of anything hostile from Wade after their first day living together.

“Wade.”

“Peter, please.”

“Give it.”

The annoyed look hardened into a glare, and Peter thought he might have to use his webs just to get the phone, then knock Wade out hard enough for him to forget the whole incident. Fortunately, he didn’t need to do anything of that sort, because Wade reluctantly gave the phone to him.

Coulson’s irritated, stern voice that Wade had been talking to suddenly turned amiable, placating. “Mr. Parker?”

“What’s this issue with your men surrounding my house?”

“Rest assured, Mr. Parker, we will ensure your family’s safety from Mr. Wilson –“

“My family’s safety from Wade?” He scoffed. “Right now, your men are the only threat here!”

“Mr. Parker, we understand your concern, but Mr. Wilson is dangerous. He – “

“No, I don’t think you understand, Mr. Coulson. Wade is my roommate, and I had agreed to his terms to board with him.” True, he agreed due to subtle threat, but he agreed nonetheless. Plus, he had been enjoying his company. Their arrangement wasn’t normal to others, but it worked for them. Peter wasn’t going to lie about that. “And I know about his day job – or night job, if you will – and he never once threatened me nor my family.”

There was a pause, then he could hear Coulson’s voice, faraway and muffled, as though he was talking to someone else with his hand covering the mouthpiece. Peter saw Wade visibly relax, but he wasn’t exactly relieved. His shoulders were still tense, and his arms were still beside his body, still, as though he was ready to whip out the guns from the imaginary holsters strapped to his legs, as if it was instinct.

“Sniper’s gone,” Wade announced, voice guarded. “I’ll still watch out for any sudden movements.”

“I’m sorry for the confusion, Mr. Parker,” Coulson said after the pause. “There seems to have been a misunderstanding. May I please extend my deepest apologies to you personally?”

Peter frowned at that, unsure where this was headed. “Uhm… yes?”

“Great. I’m at your door right now.”

The doorbell rang, and Peter didn’t have the time to warn Wade who it was when he answered it. The minute Wade saw Coulson at the door, phone still pressed to his ear, the snarl that came out of his mouth was enough for Peter to know that this was not going to start off well.

Aunt May was nothing but gracious when she discovered an important-looking man that introduced himself as Mr. Phil Coulson sitting on their couch, hands clasped together, face nothing but amiable, but without a cup of coffee at least. She had berated Peter and Wade for not telling her there was a guest and for not entertaining him themselves, then quickly busied herself preparing tea for all of them, leaving Peter sputtering pathetically for an excuse and Wade uncharacteristically silent.

Once Coulson was sipping on tea, she pulled both of them into the kitchen to discuss some matters. Peter was still wary because he noticed Wade itching to leave, his mouth twisted into a grimace.

Aunt May had her hands on her hips. “Why is Mr. Coulson here?”

“That’s my fault, Auntie May, sorry about that,” Wade grumbled, not looking at her at all. He was fixated on the kettle by the stove. “I shouldn’t have gone here.”

“Nonsense, Wade.”

“He followed me here because he thought I was a danger to you and Petey.”

“If you were dangerous, Wade, I’d have known.” She frowned. “You’re a good man.”

Peter saw Wade visibly compose himself to stay calm. He thought it was because Wade never heard the truth enough. Peter took a mental note to keep it up once they were back in the apartment. “Thank you,” the man mumbled, and Aunt May patted his back before going back to entertain their guest with small talk.

Peter followed, leaving Wade in the kitchen. He was determined to set Coulson straight, and even though he was still scared that S.H.I.E.L.D. had suspected him somehow, he wouldn’t let the paranoia show.

“Ah, Mr. Parker,” Coulson greeted, standing up and offering his hand. It felt like a business transaction. Aunt May excused herself to make more tea for Coulson’s staff, who were standing outside on the porch, stock still. Peter shook his extended hand firmly before sat down.

“Please. Peter.”

“Peter.” Coulson took his seat as well, smiling. It felt odd, and uncomfortable, seeing him in his house, making small talk with Aunt May as though it was normal. Peter had to bite back the urge to flee right there and then. He managed to catch the last few words of Coulson’s sentence. “…secret identity?”

It felt like a punch in the gut. “I-I’m sorry, what?”

“How long have you known Wade’s secret identity?” he prompted. He looked stern, but Peter didn’t know why. “Miss May here told me you’ve been living under the same roof for a few weeks now.”

“Oh.” He nodded, trying to hide the fact that he was close, so close to webbing his face and catapulting out of the house. “I opted to go find a cheaper place to stay. I now have a steady source of income but it’s not enough. Uhm… I saw a flyer for a roommate from a Wade Wilson, and when I went there, it was Deadpool.”

“You weren’t threatened?” He raised an eyebrow. “Never threatened to stay? Surely you must’ve been scared. I imagine Deadpool had you at gunpoint.”

 “He didn’t,” Peter insisted. Half-truth, but truth all the same. He was getting better at lying, a skill crucial at these kinds of situation. “I stayed because I didn’t have any other choice. The day was ending, and I didn’t want Aunt May to worry about me. I had work the next day, so I couldn’t have stayed with her for  the night if I wanted to get to work on time.”

“Why not stay at a hotel for the moment?”

“I didn’t have money.”

“Yet you went into a coffee shop just after going out of your building.”

“I – how do you know that?” Peter demanded, face flushed. Coulson held up his hand.

“I apologize if I seem intrusive. When we caught wind that Wade was staying the night at you and Miss May’s place, we had to investigate.”

“That doesn’t answer the question, Agent Coulson,” he hissed. Coulson twitched minutely, fleetingly, and then his face was back to its serene mask.

“It’s classified,” he finally answered. “But if you must know, S.H.I.E.L.D. has eyes and ears all over the place, to pinpoint potential threats within civilians and exterminate them if necessary, before anything happens.”

“So you’re spying on everyone and taking out the factors that you deem unfit for society.”

“You’re oversimplifying it, Mr. Parker.” The tension between them seemed thick enough to physically cut. “We’re simply pulling the weed out from its roots.”

“Before it even grows. How do you know it will grow a weed?” He spat, angry at S.H.I.E.L.D. for compromising his city, and eliminating innocents in the sense of taking out a future threat. It was inhumane. “You’re not making my city safe, Agent Coulson. You’re instigating fear, thus making yourself the apex predator in this concrete jungle.”

A deadly shadow lurking where people think they had privacy, while in broad daylight they pose as protector of all. It came to mind what Deadpool had said once.

“If you think about it, S.H.I.E.L.D. thrives with Hydra,” he had said on the off-hand, waving a half-eaten burrito around as he gesticulated wildly. “And Hydra lives within S.H.I.E.L.D. There’s not really so much as a perfectly clean slate like S.H.I.E.L.D. represents. Maybe except Cap, of course. He’s the bomb.”

Peter let that sink into his mind, processing it. Now there was more reason for him not to join S.H.I.E.L.D., nor resurface any time soon. Coulson was saying something, so he turned to focus on what he was saying.

“…can’t help but notice two things,” he was saying. “How you called me Agent Coulson, and how you call it… your city.”

He had slipped. He knew it. Peter acted up in defense. “I-I know from Wade’s stories of S.H.I.E.L.D. how they call you. And it’s my city because I live in it.”

“Wade never calls anyone ‘Agent’.” Coulson leaned in by a fraction, but the movement made him look intimidating. Suddenly, the calm, happy face seemed dangerous, more dangerous than Peter had first expected.

Thankfully, Wade was there to the rescue. He had put on his clothes from the night before, and was carrying his bag from upstairs. He hadn’t even noticed when Wade had gone from kitchen to their bedroom.

“Just let it go already,” he sighed and threw the bag on the space beside Coulson. Peter had to grudgingly applaud the man for not flinching despite the high likelihood that Wade could’ve easily stuffed a landmine or some sort of explosive in that bag and just manhandle it with abandon. The mercenary plopped down heavily beside Peter and offered him an apologetic smile, before turning back to the S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent. “You just want me, right?”

“Wait, what?” Peter sat up in alarm. “For what?”

“For interrogation,” Coulson replied smoothly and stood up. The men outside took it as a signal to enter the house. One of them got Wade’s bag, and another two flanked either side of the man himself. With a heavy sigh, Wade stood up and ruffled Peter’s hair.

“Relax. I’ll be home tonight.” He offered a crooked smile, one Peter didn’t try to mirror. He wasn’t in the mood for smiles. “You just stay with Aunt May. When are you coming back again?”

“Mon—“ Peter started to say, confused, but he caught Wade shaking his head. The slightest of movements, hidden by the hood pulled over his face. He got the message. “I’m thinking by Friday,” he backpedalled, loud enough to make sure Coulson had overheard. “Finals, you know.”

“I get it. Don’t do school and stay in drugs, kid,” he winked.

Peter rolled his eyes. “I’m not even going to think that you messed it up accidentally.”

Wade laughed, a genuine one, and it made Peter feel giddy. Coulson excused himself to Peter and Aunt May, before leading the trail of suited men, plus one man in a hoodie, into the black cars. Peter had a bad feeling creeping up his stomach, throat, threatening to make him hurl, but he kept it back.

Wade had made him give a false scent to S.H.I.E.L.D. As much as Wade was talkative, he was highly perceptive that they were now in dangerous waters. “Aunt May,” he said finally, after watching Coulson go into a car and Wade and the other man in another. He noticed how the men treated him roughly, and it made him clench his fists. “I’ll be at the library today.”

“Oh, dear,” she mumbled, watching the scene as well. They were quiet until, one by one, the black cars went off. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”

He allowed a small smile. “Oh, yeah. I have faith in him.”

Now was the time to look into whatever public record S.H.I.E.L.D. had. If their state of mind would be placated if Spider-Man joined the ranks, and if that meant they’d get off of Wade’s back, he’d gladly take off his mask, with a few tweaked conditions. Still, the air felt heavy with the rush of events. S.H.I.E.L.D. had eyes and ears all over the place. They could get snipers on top of buildings in a heartbeat. They eliminated threats before they bloomed. As a force with an acronym for something that protects, it was more of a driving force than one that endures.

He took a quick shower, got dressed in denim pants and a hoodie, before heading out to seek for answers, away from the library.

---

Unbeknownst to Peter, Coulson was on the phone. He had called a dozen other numbers, given his same credentials, with the same inflection in the voice that said ‘reward if done, you know what happens if not’. He had given the exact same instructions, and had gotten the exact, same answers and promises.

As the phone rang, he looked down at his tablet. Displayed on it was the curriculum vitae of one Peter Parker. Coulson had called every institution he had ever studied and/or worked in for information, in addition to his little birdies. The boy intrigued him, with the two things that he had let slip. Coulson had noticed the bluff, and took it as a sign. He needed to investigate the boy further. With that closeness with Wilson, he could prove to be a powerful ally to S.H.I.E.L.D. to get the mercenary in check, or a very serious threat.

He hadn’t lied when he told Peter that he pulled the threats in the city out by the roots. But what he didn’t need to know was that these threats had the potential to be something good. Half of them were on Coulson’s little birdies list, their skill set proving useful in the field of data gathering.

Peter was an unknown variable, and Coulson was eager to find about him.

Finally, the caller picked up. There was some shuffling, and grumbling, followed by a gruff “Hello?”

“Good morning, Mr. Jameson,” Coulson greeted smoothly. “Or should I say, afternoon, where you are?”

“What the fuck do you want?” he asked, impatient. Coulson didn’t so much as flinch. His own underlings had a very colourful vocabulary, and in most days he was very enduring. His patience was running thin, but Mr. Jameson didn’t need to know that.

Coulson inhaled and exhaled slowly, calming himself. This will be worth it. He looked down at the letters on his tablet, spelling out, ‘Exclusive photographer of Spider-Man from The Daily Bugle’ under the ‘Work Experiences’ heading. This will be a vital source of information.

“My name is Agent Coulson, and I am from S.H.I.E.L.D.” Just as he had said, a thousand times before. “I’m offering a trade for any information you can give on one Peter Parker…”

Chapter Text

“Harry,” Peter called not so politely, making neither heads nor tails with what little information he got from the net. After using an office computer that wasn’t his at OsCorp in searching for any information he could get on the connection between S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra, he had only gleaned little information on their modern relationships. Most of the information was before Captain America had his deep sleep. Frustrated, he had gone to the CEO’s office, where, predictably, he had found his best friend looking out the window with a glass of scotch in hand.

“I need to ask you something,” Peter said without preamble, not even with a please or a smile to show. Harry looked up at him slowly before showing him a thin smile.

“You’re lucky it’s Sunday, and there aren’t any meetings,” he replied and motioned to the scotch on his table. Peter shook his head no, and the young CEO just sat down, downing the contents of his glass. He took a moment, baring his teeth a bit as the scotch burned down, but then it dulled and Peter knew Harry was feeling a bit buzzed in the least. “So. What can I do you for?”

“Do you have any information on Hydra?”

Harry frowned. It almost looked comical, like when he was six and had soiled his dress shoes when Peter tricked him into escaping through a window in his house only to land on mud. Finally, he said, “The Greek shit?”

“No, no.” Peter wished Harry’s alcoholism had gone along with his Goblin powers and memories, but he figured Harry had to cope with the memory loss somehow. “The one that got inside S.H.I.E.L.D.”

The other’s frown deepened. “I don’t want to discuss that.”

“Why not?”

“Stark,” he said simply, and Peter understood. OsCorp and Stark Industries had been neck and neck for a while now in the long run, with OsCorp leading in the medicinal field while Stark in the more ‘destructive’ path, as Harry would spit sometimes. However, with the overseas partnership of Stark and a Korean company and handling a project that could fasten the rate cells normally grow, OsCorp was threatened to become unseated in its throne since Norman Osborn headed the corporation.

Tony Stark himself had given a snarky “Good luck, kid; if you ever need advice on how to run a business, you know who to call” on air when it was announced Harry was the successor. Peter’s friend didn’t take it lightly, and had overworked himself everyday trying to master the business world in so little time and getting increasingly frustrated.

“Stark is under the Avengers, though,” Peter tried to talk sense into him, but Harry was already half through his umpteenth glass of scotch. “You should really lay down the alcohol, Harry.”

“Avengers are under S.H.I.E.L.D.” Harry spat and glared pointedly at Peter before downing the scotch. He bared his teeth again before relaxing. “Look, what’s gotten into you lately? First thing I know, you’re hung up with Gwen. Second I know, you’ve been rooming with someone. And now you’re so interested in S.H.I.E.L.D.? Now I know you’re keeping secrets from me.”

“I-It’s not like that,” he defended, but Harry looked so depressed, staring into his empty glass. He sighed and went to fill it up once more, but Peter took the bottle from him. “That’s enough.”

“Parker, you never change.” He smiled, all humor gone. “You still fight a losing battle.”

“I’m not the one fighting alcoholism, Harry.”

“Who says I was fighting it?” He spread his arms wide. “Hell, I’m embracing it. What else can I do?”

“You’ve had enough, and that’s that.” He went to the bar and stashed it somewhere he wouldn’t be able to access. He’ll have to tell his assistant, Felicia, where it is, but after Harry had gone sober for the day.

There was a crash, and he turned around to see his best friend with a death grip on the edge of the table, and the remains of an expensive-looking lamp on the floor.

“…It was in the way,” Harry mumbled, defeated. Peter just shook his head and proceeded to urge him back to the car. Thankfully, Harry still had enough sobriety to point him to the parking lot, and to his own car the first time Peter asked. The driver didn’t look surprised when Harry threw a slur of a thanks before collapsing on the back of the car.

“Please get him home safely,” Peter said to the driver, whose mouth twitched at that. Was that a semblance of a smile?

“Of course, Master Parker. I’ve seen Master Osborn go through worse.”

“Just Peter will do,” he said, surprised. Harry always had this habit of making sure everyone called Peter ‘Master Parker’ back when they were kids, to Peter’s dismay. He had to run around the mansion telling everyone to just call him Peter.

The driver only bowed.

“Of course, Peter. Excuse us.”

After making sure the car was out of sight, he discreetly went up to Harry’s office and tried to access his computer…

…which he couldn’t see anywhere.

After fifteen minutes of looking around in the office for any semblance of a laptop or a tablet or whatever, he gave up and dejectedly went to a nearby café he frequented during his breaks. Although those times were usually his midnight breaks, when he would stay in the darkened laboratory just to finish up on a new substance he was hell-bent on perfecting, so when he went inside, Yvette, the blonde waitress he was friends with, wasn’t in her shift. Instead, there was a surly-looking teenager with one headphone plugged in. He was chewing gum, as well. Peter just grimaced and ordered a latte, which the teenager dolefully rung up with a small ‘tsk’ and a not-so-polite ‘thank you’ when he gave him the coffee and his change. He just shrugged it off and went to his favourite spot by the window, which was blissfully vacant.

He turned one particular thought stone over as he sipped his drink. He was seriously considering himself to turn in to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s offers and save Wade the trouble of having Agents like Coulson on his back all the time. Still, he felt something under his skin crawl whenever he thought of actually surrendering the only part of his life that had been private thus far after becoming vigilante.

The question remained. Was Wade worth it?

He made an unflattering noise as the coffee spilled a bit onto the table. The teenager from the counter gave him the stink eye, and Peter hurriedly put the cup down and wiped the mess with tissues. All the while, he thought of how he cleaned their flat. He remembered how surprised he was of the little names carved into the wood, inside hearts. All of them were crossed out, and it had come to no surprise that there were just as many male names in those hearts as well as female ones.

Wade was the type of guy to mess around when someone got comfortable with them. That much was a given. Peter was – dare he say it? – his best bud, and awkward pat-downs during movie marathons were what guys usually did, right? Their banters were 99.9% playful, and both of them were quite civil about the living arrangements they were in. They were complete bros, nothing more, right?

Right?

He puffed out his cheeks. At least that’s what he wanted to believe. The butterflies in his stomach that always get agitated at the slightest mention of Wade worked themselves into a flurry now as one particular scene weaselled into his mind.

That of them cuddling in a couch and eventually sleeping together after Wade had blown his brains out.

Peter had his face buried in his hands before he knew it. God, he was all over the place because of this guy. Because of some asshole who smelled like Mexican 24/7, who made inappropriate jokes all related to Peter’s ass, who smiled widely and followed him like a puppy if Peter mentioned getting food, he was getting the jitters. He was probably head over heels because of –

A mercenary who saw Spider-Man in dollar signs.

No matter how much he loved the goofball with scars and comic books, he could never really separate Wade Wilson from Deadpool. Nor can he do vice versa. Everything came in one package, and unfortunately, Peter, with all his secrets, came in one as well. And he knew he couldn’t risk it. Sure, he was being selfish, but really – who would want someone you love be the one holding the knife that’ll eventually stab you in the back?

By the time Peter took another sip of his coffee, it had already gotten cold. He barely noticed.

The days passed by in a flurry. Peter had to check up on Harry every once in a while at work, where he had asked for an excuse to work full-time for a week, since he had to focus on exams. His superiors had been lenient on him primarily because Peter was weeks ahead of their research thanks to him staying most nights.

Harry was feeling better, as well, judging by the fact that he was actually sober, but he sometimes panicked whenever Peter would come unexpected in the room. He would always find his friend staring off into space, or leaning back from his pristine table.

By Wednesday, Felicia had told him to set an appointment before going up to see Harry.

“CEO’s orders, Mr. Parker,” she had said, a small smile on her face. “I’m sure you understand. We’ve got some major representatives from Japan and Korea coming any day now. Mr. Osborn’s getting worked up.”

“I understand,” Peter had replied, and hurriedly excused himself. Harry’s silhouette was barely visible through the glass panes of his office, but he looked like he was talking to someone. Peter didn’t want to bother, so he just resumed working and/or reviewing his notes by his station before it was time for him to go to the university.

Friday came. Peter’s last exams were over at two o’clock, and by that he was rushing home to his flat, carrying take-out Mexican that could probably last him either three days (Peter-wise) or three hours (Wade-wise). He had to bend over to catch his breath, and by the time his heart rate was nearly normal, he straightened and knocked on the door.

There was a rush of air as the door opened, and in a few seconds he was met with something very broad, and warmth enveloped him. The tell-tale smell of Mexican and gunpowder, along with his signature musk, was all it took for Peter to know it was Wade giving him a near bone-crushing hug. Although he tried to hug back, all his arms could do was flail. He tapped his back, choking out, “Wade… Oxygen… Please…”

“Oh, whoops.” Wade leaned away, but not much, just enough for Peter to breathe and get the things he dropped in a rush. He was wearing shorts that hung low on his hips, and a towel was hanging around his neck. Peter finally registered Wade was naked from the waist up. He didn’t seem to mind though, being at home with Peter on the subject of his scars. He smiled widely and patted him on the shoulder, saying, “I forgot even cuties can actually die from oxygen deprivation. But then, you are a nerd. Do you need an inhaler? Two inhalers? A nebulizer? Two nebulizers --”

“Har, har, what a riot,” Peter shot back, rolling his eyes, but there was a faint smile on his face. This was familiar. Their banter, Wade’s hand swatting him on the rump as if they did that often – wait what?!

“Oh, dang, I’d seriously tap that,” Wade said loudly, smirking. Peter nearly webbed him in the face in shock. Thankfully he didn’t process the action on time.

“Di… Did you just –“

“Cop a feel in the glorious Parker gluteus maximus?” Wade feigned thinking, then nodded sagely. “You bet your camera I did.”

“But –“

“I missed you, honey.”

“Wade –“

“No, but seriously.” Wade stepped closer, towering over Peter, who took one small step after another back, until Wade had cornered him against the wall in the hallway. “I missed you.”

“Wade, l-let me through.” Fuck. Peter’s speech was faltering. He felt like he was going to barf the butterflies in his stomach. He was sure he was as red as a tomato by now. Wade’s body heat and scent was making him heady.

“Not until…”

“Until what?”

"Until this."

A scarred finger lifted Peter’s chin up. They made eye contact, and Peter unconsciously gulped. “Wade?”

The other just winked and leaned closer. Peter swore his heartbeat was on speaker for the whole building to hear.

Four inches. Peter was still shocked, knowing full well what was going to happen. He needed to get away, to not entertain the thoughts his heart was screaming for.

Three inches. His hand had balled up on Wade’s towel, not knowing what else to grip and not trusting his ability to control his super strength in such a dangerous situation.

Two inches. Peter shut his eyes, waiting for the moment, the pressure. He could feel Wade’s breath ghosting over his lips.

One inch. Wade was saying something. Peter strained to hear it.

“They’ve bugged the whole place,” Wade murmured in the softest tone.

Peter couldn’t process it fully, what with Wade’s mouth on his own.

Chapter Text

“Agent Coulson,” a tall man in a suit acknowledged before sitting down in a café, as if they were old friends. Coulson nodded minutely, continuing to drink his coffee while studying the menu. The other man continued on. “I’ve got information.”

“Tone your voice down, agent,” he said, amused, then put down the menu. He put his palm up. The man put an envelope on his hands, then excused himself.

This was interesting, Coulson thought, studying the envelope. It was plain brown, like a manila envelope, but the opening flap was on the side. Pictures, he finally realized, then opened the envelope to get them.

It was a little grainy, and almost entirely black and white, but there was no doubt in what he was seeing. He frowned, placing the pictures of Wade and Mr. Parker locking lips in the hallway of their shared apartment.

This could get sticky. Wade had a penchant for the members of the red light district; that much was obvious. Peter didn’t look like the type to frequent any bars, and, from what information he had gathered, Peter wasn’t, in any way, affiliated with any group that was even the least bit rebellious or of note for S.H.I.E.L.D. His psychological tests, of which the school was happy to provide, proved to pass his standards; Peter, apparently, had a heightened sense of justice, bravery, and equality after his Uncle Ben died. This increase only strengthened around the time his girlfriend, Gwen Stacy, passed.

Peter looked like any average civilian with a strong sense of responsibility and social awareness. Coulson applauded him. Not many of his generation were socially aware, much less socially participative. To think that he was with someone toxic, someone not right in the head, someone who has been immersed too long in the disappointments of life…

It made Coulson shiver. Peter was one in a million, with his skillset and his ideals. Wade was a highly unstable person. The very idea of him corrupting Peter…

If Coulson played his cards right, he could recruit Peter. He could make him join S.H.I.E.L.D. With his stellar performance in the field of science, plus his added experience with OsCorp, he would very well fit with the likes of Agents Fitz and Simmons. Yes, that would be the perfect field for him. He could see Peter puttering around in their lab, or, hell, even up at the Avengers Tower, scientific lingo bantered back and forth with the likes of Tony and Bruce. He knew that once Tony would see his resume and his areas of expertise, he'd be inclined to "pirate" a mind like him from a rival company like OsCorp's, corporate morals be damned. For some reason in his mind, Coulson could place Peter right there with the Avengers. 

But Wade was the problem.

He regarded the photos again. If Peter was in love with Wade, that would make his plan to separate them all the more harder. Perhaps a full scholarship to a university abroad would do? No, that wouldn't work. Seeing as he had no other family left, Peter was understandably overprotective of his Aunt May, which meant family relocation was a necessity. But relocations were messy, and costly, and raised too many questions, most of them he didn't want to answer.

And that wasn't all; Coulson remembered how Peter had practically snarled the word ‘Agent’ at him, as if it was some detestable word. He had felt something stir inside him, a kind of unease, when the memory of Peter's face while he said it popped up in his mind. He had chalked it up as Wade possibly starting to corrupt the boy. A mind like that would pick up something curious and research the hell out of it just because he could. Maybe that was how he knew how to formally call him.

"Stop making excuses, Phil," he whispered to himself. Something really wasn't right. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it, but he had somehow heard his voice before. And it wasn't just in passing. He didn't hear it on a public radio somewhere, or just in passing in the busy streets of New York. He didn't know for certain, but he had a very unsettling feeling that he had once talked to Peter before, had a full-blown conversation.

He sipped contemplatively on his drink, draining it in one go. He left a few dollars on the table, tucked the envelope inside his coat, then walked away. He had more to discover.

And soon, he thought grimly, putting on his hat and glasses before exiting the way he came. Before it’s too late.

 “Rate me.”

“What?” Peter looked up at Wade, his brain and the rest of his body feeling mightily sluggish.

He had been dwelling on the tingly feeling on his lips for the past two hours. After the initial shock had worn off and Peter's big brain finally realized that Deadpool was kissing him, he didn't know what to do. Was he going to fall prey to the butterflies in his stomach that wanted to burst fortth out of his esophagus and push their lips against each other some more? Was he even going to dare open his mouth, risking being betrayed by a stray sigh of pleasure? 

But even before he could form any coherent thought on a fucking response, the heat on his face had suddenly disappeared. Wade had left him, shell-shocked, in that hallway, and acted as if nothing happened. After a few minutes of trying to rearrange his thoughts, Peter had gone further inside their flat only to find Wade lounging around on the couch with a plate full of chimichangas. Complete disregard to warring feelings inside of Peter Parker.

Wade pointed at his lips then made a loud smacking noise. “So, how was your first kiss?”

“That was most definitely not my first kiss,” Peter countered, voice testy.

“My hopes and dreams of having a cherry boy tonight are over,” the other wailed.

“First off,” Peter huffed. “Your kiss was a 3 out of 10. At best.”

There was a huge gasp. Wade had his hand on his chest. “That hurt!”

“Second,” Peter hissed, then whispered the thought that had his stomach coiled in tension, betrayal, and anger. “You just did that because we got bugged.”

Wade stood up from his seat. A grim look had shadowed his scarred face, and Peter only had about two seconds of peace to fully process that he had said something wrong to flip a literal switch inside of a dangerous mercenary like Deadpool before he found himself physically pinned against the wall by the larger man.  

“First off,” Wade growled. “I’m an 8 at least. All my lady friends say so.”

“Perhaps they meant they wanted an 8-digit tip,” Peter mused, baring his teeth and trying to squirm out of his grip. He wasn't backing down without a fight. Wade owed him sincerity in his emotions. A little voice inside Peter's head mocked him about it, what with him tiptoe-ing on eggshells around the very subject of his identity to Wade, but he drowned it out with a loud groan after Wade squeezed his wrists, which were being held down by only one hand, to get his wandering mind back to base. "Let me the fuck go."

“Second.” Wade said loudly, as if to drown out the protests escaping Peter's mouth, and here the hand on his hip squeezed, Wade's thumb rubbing a small circle lightly into his hipbones. Peter went from squirming to stock still in half-a-second, pointedly trying not to moan. “We’re still bugged. So act like a couple.”

“With you smelling like the back of an obscure taco stand in Queens? No thanks,” he snapped. He had succeeded and gotten one arm free from a death grip, and he tried pushing at the large expanse of muscly chest that Wade was to try and break free. The mercenary just stood his ground and caged him, both arms holding his hips back against the wall. 

“Hon, you don’t understand the situation right now,” Wade whispered, an inch away from his lips. Peter was finding it hard to breathe, and that wasn’t because Wade was all up in his personal space. “You need to play along.”

Peter would be lying if he said he wasn't half-hard in his jeans because of the static and tense atmosphere that coarsed dangerously around them. Wade was electrifying when pissed, and Peter couldn't help but egg him on even more. “And if I don’t want to?”

“Then you won’t see Aunt May for a long, long time.”

He felt like he got punched in the gut with a fist made of ice. “Don’t you dare,” he started, but Wade shook his head to try and dispel the misunderstanding he could see already forming in Peter's mind.

“I won’t lift a finger against a sweet old woman who gives me free pie, idiot.” Wade let him go, walking to the kitchen to get a bottle of Corona. “But I doubt Coulson would be the same.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. is one of the good guys,” Peter tried to defend them, but his once black-and-white view on S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra was going grayer and grayer every second. “A-And Coulson is a higher-up in S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Petey, you can’t trust everyone in S.H.I.E.L.D.” he shook his head. “I once got an offer to kill Samuel L. Jackson –“

“Who?”

“You know. The eyepatch guy.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “You mean Director Fury?”

“Yeah, that guy. Like Anger from Inside Out.”

“I have no idea what you just said just now.”

Wade waved the distraction away with a flick of his hand, looking irritated. “Look, what I’m saying is. I once got a sweet-ass offer from someone in the lower higher-ups to kill the highest higher-up. It was like a self-conceited person giving itself a gift.”

“Maybe they were just using an alia-“

“You think I’d be that easy to fool?” Wade snorted. “Kid, I’ve got major XP points in this career. People backing out of a deal without paying me for the work I did isn’t something new. I track those bitches down like a bloodhound.”

“Don't call me a kid," Peter grumbled out of instinct, pouting. "Maybe it’s Hydra?”

“Exactly. So, being the extremely handsome and more-than-capable kisser expert in this field, I suggest you stay low.”

“So I’m supposed to take a mercenary’s advice on where to put my loyalty and trust,” Peter snorted.

“Hey! I didn’t italicize that shit above for nothing, you know.” Wade huffed indignantly. “Want a beer?”

All Peter could do was sigh deeply and rub the balls of his hands against his eyes. “Get me a Smirnoff Mule.” He needed something inside his system to dull his senses even just a tiny bit. They were going haywire. He never liked beer. Smirnoff was something he had drank at a party in the university when he was a freshman. It tasted and had the consistency of Sprite. The vodka chased the liquid down and sat as an aftertaste in his tongue.

“Ooh, vodka. Don’t tell me you and Black Widow get along.”

“Who?”

“Nevermind. Russian bombshell. Literally and figuratively. Probably better if the U.S. didn’t get involved, but hey, that’s what the good ol’ U.S.A. does best, am I right? Head's – oh shit, watch out!”

There was a small twinge and Peter’s hand unconsciously shot up to catch the bottle mid-air. He didn’t so much as blink, and just murmured a small, “Thanks” before drinking a quarter of it. It was better than regular vodka in this situation. It made him think clearer, his mouth loose. And it went down his throat with less fire. He nursed the bottle, still leaning against the wall, while Wade was uncharacteristically silent.

Finally, he broke the silence (a record of two minutes and 35 seconds). “How did you do that?”

“What?” Peter looked up at him. “Do what?”

“That! That… freakish catch thing?”

“Uhh…” Shit. He looked around the room and saw a ball. “I played basketball,” he mumbled.

“Your Honor, I call honorable bullshit on Mr. Parker’s statement, on the count of insufficient evidence. He is much too lean for someone who played basketball.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Can and will, babe.” He winked and sipped his beer. “Can and will.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“I’d like to fuck you very much in your –“

“Stop!” He shouted before Wade finished the sentence. “I’m not playing this game!”

“What game?”

“This!” He gestured between them, words tumbling out. He hadn't meant for an outburst, but god-fucking-damn was Wade an inconsiderate asshole when it came to fucking emotions. “Wade, this – this isn’t fooling anyone!” Anyone, he thought, meaning me. His chest hurt when he thought that Wade had just kissed him to put up a front, to leave a false trail. He didn’t know why.

Wrong. He knew exactly why. But he wasn’t acknowledging. No. Not now. Not in this situation.

It hurt too much. To be worth next to nothing. To be led by false hopes. If Gwen were alive –

Gwen. Gwen, who was beautiful and good and charming and sweet and was the sun in Peter’s otherwise dark life. In a sense, she was the sun. Peter had grown accustomed to her dimpled smiling face, her presence during school breaks and weekends. Her blond hair, topped with a pink headband, the sign he’d look for on a Saturday afternoon that she would come over on her bicycle.

Gwen was his sun, a constant force that he had taken for granted, and now that she was gone, he was fumbling in the dark. Lost, blind, cold. Gwen saw him as a person, with feelings that were legitimate, not to be played with.

Wade was none of that. Wade was the type to switch gears at the drop of a hat, would play with his feelings just to save his own ass. Not to mention Wade would kill an innocent man, his fucking best friend, just for extra chimichanga money. The very fact that he had willingly hung up his own damned suit out of fear what Wade could do to him was testament to that fact. Wade was a force to be reckoned with, and Peter missed the past. Everything had been so arbitrary with Gwen. Being with Wade felt like sticking his hand in a covered tank, not knowing if he was about to be stung, sliced, bitten, or petted.

He paled when he realized what he was mentally doing. Why was he comparing Wade with Gwen?

His throat constricted. God, what was happening to him?

He tried to catch his breathing, then looked up at Wade’s face.

He looked back at him blankly. Unblinking, unreadable, and eerily silent. So much for the Merc-With-A-Mouth.

“A game.” He scratched at the back of his head. If Wade still had hair, Peter could imagine it sticking up at odds and ends. “You think this is…”

“What else could it be?” He tried laughing it off, but failed. It sounded empty. Hollow. Fake. He didn’t feel like laughing anymore.

He needed a friend.

Aunt May, bless her, would just give him cryptic advice, after a long hug and a soothing cup of tea. Maybe a plate or two of muffins. Classic, but not what he needed right now. She knew Wade, and both of them had taking a liking to each other. No doubt she'd call him up to invite him again, and this time force them into his room until they settled their differences.

Gwen, sweet, beautiful Gwen was six feet under. His parents probably leagues more, lost in the vastness of the ocean.

There was only one person left. A lifeline. “Harry,” he whimpered as he realized who he had left. He sounded pathetic. “I need Harry.”

Wade’s face darkened immediately. It looked like there was a storm inside him, barely contained. “Fine then,” he spat out, venom and jealousy and thundering anger booming. He rifled around their closet and flung his battered duffel bag at Peter. “Pack your shit. I was going to ask a friend of mine to check the pipes anyway.”

That was Wadespeak for “I want you out of my sight”. Peter knew it. He nodded and meekly started to throw in clothes, underwear, a towel, toiletries into the bag. He was backing down from this, because he had started it and didn't know how to end it. He needed someone, anyone but Wade right now. Maybe a little break from each other would do them good. Peter left without slamming the door. He kept it open instead, a last derision until he came back home... if he came back home. He didn’t try to pick up where they left off, didn’t try to make a scene.

But somehow he knew that the crunches he heard while he went down the stairs was Wade’s fist repeatedly going through the drywall.

A half-hour later, Peter was in a cab, looking at a dog-eared picture of him and Gwen in their high school graduation robes. He must’ve looked weird to the cab driver, teary-eyed, wearing jeans, a baggy university sweatshirt and a duffel bag. He must’ve thought he had been thrown out by a lover for something awful. Most likely he would have been mistaken for a university student thrown out by his parents for bullshit reasons like a low GPA or a secret romance. S.H.I.E.L.D. would have a riot.

A downpour had already started when he finally got out of the cab, giving the driver a wad of cash before he drove off. He was so out of it, his mind blank, that he just stood there in the rain for ten minutes, looking at the nameplate he sought after.

‘H. Osborn’, printed in cute, neat letters, right at the top of the callbox on the front of the building complex. Must be Felicia’s handwriting, he mused to himself, entertaining a thought of Felicia bustling about in Harry's penthouse suite like the capable little busy bee she was, before finally pressing the button beside Harry's name.

He didn't expect an instantaneous response, sure that he was invading his best friend's personal space. He was about to turn back, regroup in a warm and dry place to get his mind sorted out, when the intercom buzzed to life with a small crackle.

"Hello?" Harry's voice sounded tiny but clear from the speaker. The tone of uneasiness was not missed. "Who is it?"

"It's me," Peter said, feeling shy that he was imposing his presence. Harry didn't acknowledge him but quickly hung up. And within a few minutes, Harry himself – no butler, no servant, no Felicia – walked out, in a black robe and holding an umbrella.

“Pete, you look like someone –“ Harry cut himself short, the playful smile he was wearing falling as he saw the right state Peter was in. “-died.”

Peter couldn’t say anything else. He knew Harry like the back of his hand, and he was confident Harry was the same, excluding vigilante business in the dead of night. By the look in his face and the gauntness under his eyes, Harry understood. Harry asked no questions. He moved aside to let him in, holding up his umbrella. Peter tried to show the overwhelming gratitude he had welling in his heart with the small smile he could muster.

The door closed behind them with a soft snap.

Wade glared at the fist-sized holes in the drywall as if the damn thing had personally insulted him, his hero (Spidey), his mom, his dad, and everything else in between. Had the drywall been a lesser man, a shifty lone mugger in the dark alleys he and Spidey would often patrol at night, he knew that his murderous look would have made the man pee and shit and beg for his life, not necessarily in that order.

And as if that wasn't enough, he had hit the concrete post in their living room, too, just to be safe. This whole house felt so damn fucking insulting for some reason, and it irked him to no end. But even with all of that done, it was all so unsatisfying. His knuckles were split and bleeding, and he hissed at the sharp but not unfamiliar pain it brought when he kept on throwing punches. But the damn thing didn’t so much as budge.

Fucking asshole engineering.

He concentrated on inhaling and exhaling. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Pffft, what a weird-ass kink. Monks were full of shit. If the levitating part was true, he’d have hung up his holsters a long time ago.

…Maybe he’d hung them up for maybe an hour or two.

Maximum.

[Peter wouldn’t like that, you know.]

“Fuck him,” he growled internally against Yellow’s box. “Seriously, you’re siding with him? My own head betrays me? You know shit’s about to go down when man fights himself.”

{Technically, we aren’t you.}

[We’re just in you. Innuendo aside, because that’d be really gross otherwise.]

“White, are you serious? You never side with Yellow.”

[Yeah, White, you never side with me. Who are you? What are you? You’re not white. Are you, like, very, very light gray?]

{Enough. No more The Lego Movie references for you.}

“But Batman!”

{To be fair, the only thing you're close to in that movie is Green Lantern.}

[Hey, you even have the same actors in the films!]

“Don’t remind me,” Wade groaned out loud, a picture of Ryan Reynolds in an animated green suit coming to mind. “That was just an embarrassment.”

White and Yellow had started to bicker on how amazing Ryan would be in the Deadpool movie. Wade, as usual, closed his ‘mental ears’ off from them. He concentrated on the rings coming through the tinny speakers of his phone.

“Hello?” The monotone voice that greeted him made him gnash his teeth. What a noob, digitally enhancing his voice to remain anonymous. “Mr. Deadpool, what can I help you with today? I hope you’ve reconsidered my offer?”

No preamble. Wade would have to match his pace. “I have.”

“Good. And?”

“I’m in.”

[You’re what?]

{Wilson, I knew you were crazy.}

[Petey wouldn’t like this!]

“To hell with him,” he grumbled.

[What about Spidey?]

“He’s dead.”

{Technically, he’s just in unlimited vacation mode.}

[He might come back any day!]

“And he’ll come back to me,” he mumbled under his breath. No more playing around. He had no one to be good for, no one believing in him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Deadpool. I can’t just rely on oral promises,” the voice over the phone continued.

“Send contracts, I don’t care. If you know my number, then you know my e-mail address. Send it there.”

“Very well. You know what you’ll have to do, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you willing to do it? Kill a close friend?”

White and Yellow were annoying, trying to stop him from what he wanted to say. He knew, deep in his gut he knew, that what he was going to say was wrong. Some part of him didn’t want to do this, and White and Yellow knew it too.

But he had been left behind, and for no logical reason. He had been deserted before, but not abandoned, dangled over nothing, like this. To hell with Peter and his baby-face and chubby cheeks and cute perky butt. To hell with his hope in Wade, that he was a good guy. He tried protecting the boy, but all he did was hurt him in the process. Sounds to Wade like he was a good-for-nothing piece of shit.

And that was what he was, basically. That was why everyone left him, beat him, isolated him, and, as if to add insult to injury, life had to fuck him over, not once, but twice: with the cancer and the project that would give way to what he was now.

Suddenly, his head was clear. White and Yellow were just background noise, along with the constant static in his mind. The words flow out of his mouth without a hitch.

“Spider-Man is no friend of mine.”

Chapter Text

Peter watched his feet in the shower, feeling as if a personal rain cloud was hovering over his head. The water falling from the shower overhead, however, was nice, warm, and comforting. It made him want to curl up under it, shut out the world and just concentrate on the pitter-patter. He should’ve brought a chair or a stool. He could last at least an hour in there. The water rolled off his skin, and he closed his eyes, imagining that it brought his sadness and guilt and everything that made him sick out of his system.

There was a soft knock on the bathroom door, and his best friend’s voice rang out over the sounds of the shower. “I hear that, Parker.”

“Hear what?” he mumbled, not really in the mood for anything.

“Water, idiot. From the shower. I told you to take a bath.”

“I don’t want to be a prune when I come out.”

“You should be one right now. You’ve been there for forty minutes.” Harry audibly scoffed. “Honestly, I’m not complaining about the water bill or anything. It just gets me worried.”

“Sorry,” Peter apologized and turned the water heater and the shower off. He padded onto the soft fluffy mat at the edge of the shower, then got a towel to dry himself with. Harry had given him a fresh set of clothes to borrow, but once Peter tried on the sweatshirt with the OsCorp logo on it, he jumped at the sound of fabric tearing. He knew he had found a problem. “Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“I might’ve ripped one of your OsCorp sweatshirts,” he mumbled, raising his arm to look at the rip on the seam by his side in the mirror. He had a bigger build than what he had before because of the vigorous exercise care of flexing around the urban jungle that was New York City, and in spandex no less. Even if he had a semi-hiatus on Spiderman duties, he found that he liked the exercise, maintaining his physique with early morning jogs and a bi-weekly trip to the cheap gym nearby.  “Wait, why do you even have one?”

“Corporate sponsors, mostly. It’s fine, I don’t use them much unless for pajamas.”

Peter added underwear and sweatpants on, and he looked like he was ready for a jog. He dried his hair with the towel, then went out.

Harry looked up at him from fiddling with his phone. “What took you so long?”

“You said you had an emergency at OsCorp, so I thought… While you were on the phone…”

“That was rude of me,” he hummed. “Sorry. I should put my phones on silent when there’s a guest.”

“I basically intruded –“

“Oh, as if you ever really disturbed me.” The young Osborn rolled his eyes and led him to the kitchen, where there was a bowl of mac and cheese. Peter’s mouth almost watered on sight. “I made some classic mac. You know how I like it.”

“I love it,” Peter whispered, remembering so many afternoons spent with them sharing a big bowl of macaroni with cheese practically oozing from every piece. Harry, always the spoiled kid, never had to eat anything that was ready-made and from a box, and had their cooks make it from scratch, with four kinds of cheese, the kind that was bought in blocks and were bought based on how 'ripe' it was (whatever the chef meant by that). Peter was only half-joking whenever he said Harry had ruined mac and cheese for him forever.

“Help yourself. I made one bowl for each of us,” he said, gesturing to his own glass bowl on the coffee table, half of its contents already eaten.

“Tut tut, Mr. Osborn. There’s a serious hunger problem in New York City,” Peter admonished lightly. He reached for a big spoon and settled in the plush sofa in front of the flat screen TV.

“You seem to forget I had Felicia organize a marathon two weeks ago, with the proceeds all going to homeless shelters around New York,” he countered evenly. "And I know you know this, because you were one of the photographers who were present."

Peter just conceded with a half-shrug. “I’ll give you this round.”

“Don’t even try a second.” He hummed and turned on the television. An episode of a shallow late night show was on, and he turned the volume down, enough that it wasn’t distracting. “So, are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?”

“The what?”

“Your roommate?” he clarified with a roll of his eyes.

“My roommate is an elephant?” Peter squeaked, then, realizing he was talking and thinking like Wade, tried to divert the attention to him stuffing his mouth full of mac and cheese.

“Gross, Parker,” Harry groaned, throwing him a box of wet wipes. “You’re like a child.”

“I’m taller than you!”

“Wrong scale, Parker.” He rolled his eyes and waved the argument off. “Wrong scale.”

Peter laughed and smiled at him wryly. “Harry…”

“Don’t get sentimental,” the other warned, wagging his spoon at him.

He didn’t heed the warning. “Why are things so different now?”

Harry sighed. Looks like Peter was in one of those moods. He allowed a window of silence for them to eat, then began. “What field are you talking about in particular?”

“Uh, our whole lives?” He snorted, looking off into the distance. “When I was ten, I thought I’d be an engineer and I work for OsCorp…”

Now Harry looked at him, confused. “Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”

“No, I-I mean…” Peter fumbled. Shit. He faked a cough, one that made Harry roll his eyes in exasperation. “I wanted to arrive at this point without a hitch…”

Harry tilted his head in silent acknowledgement. Of course, the death of his adoptive father and his girlfriend was never in the plans. “Pete, you gotta move on, man.”

“I know,” the other mumbled, picking at the hem of his borrowed sweatpants. They smelled nice, and felt incredible on his skin compared to what he had back at Wade’s. No, don’t think about him. Think of blond hair and a cheeky smile. Gwen… “It’s hard to.”

“But you’ve got to.”

I know,” he said petulantly, like an admonished child. It’s not as if he’d tried, but the lingering guilt was taking its time fading.

Harry frowned at him. “Hey. You can crash at my place as long as you like. Just don’t expect a ride to work every morning.”

The smile on Peter’s face emanated pure gratitude. “You’re a real hero, Harry.” He picked up his spoon and continued eating, entirely missing the split-second shift on his best friend’s face at his words.

“Hero…” Harry mumbled to himself, forcing out a small laugh. Peter didn’t seem to hear what he said either. “Yeah.”

[Are you fucking serious?]

“He died in the fifth movie, remember?” Wade replied. “And although I fell for Death (capital D), I’m not too excited about the prospect of fucking the dead.”

{Ah, the old ‘Sirius-serious’ joke. Classic.}

[More like ‘grow the fuck up’.]

He was perched on top of a high-rise building with a great view of the city below. Dusk made everything come alive, moreso than dawn. This was the time that almost everyone gets out of work and actually have time to unwind a bit before going home. Wade would try to exercise his people-watching skills once in a while, completely decked out on his suit and guns if the need arises.

“Thanks for the exposition, author. Where’ve you been all this time?”

{She’s gonna ignore you.}

[Author used ‘Ignore’. It’s supper effective!]

“Aw, that’s sad. Everyone ignores me,” Wade said, pouting like a petulant child.

{If you just go back and apologize to Pete –}

“Remind me again why I have to be the one to apologize?” he scoffed, pushing his mask up so he could breathe the air around him directly and not through his mask. No way in hell was he going to apologize. Why should he? He was doing something that was in their best interest to actually be safe!

“That and I wanted a legit excuse to kiss the guy…” he mumbled to himself. He had always imagined Peter’s lips to be soft, but goddamn, that boy felt like heaven to kiss. Pupils blown wide, lips soft as goddamned clouds, mouth pliant and loose… This was better than any porn from Japan he had 'borrowed' from Weasel's prized stash. Wade squirmed, trying to dispel the thoughts of Peter in a seifuku uniform on a windy day, lest he wanted a raging boner in tight-as-fuck spandex. “Boxes, distract me!”

{Just breathe in the air pollution. It’s safer than the mask. It’s starting to stink. You know. Like the rest of us.}

[Now you can inhale the smog of the city directly!]

{The smog levels up here plus the stink could kill any normal man.}

[Good thing we’re not normal!]

“Far from it,” Wade agreed, leaning back on a post, thankful his boner was now, at least, in check. He had a great view of the last hurrahs of the day’s sunset from up here. “We’re on the other side of every spectrum.”

{The good and Wade.}

[The hot and Wade.]

{Spiderman and Wade.}

[Wow what a douchebag, can you believe this guy?]

Wade grumbled something and inched for the gun on his holster. “If you two won’t shut up about Spidey I’m going to make you.”

[Oooooo, scary.]

{Positively quaking in my boots.}

[I’m shitting myself. Smell that? Oh wait, it’s just Wade.]

“I’m serious,” he growled, taking the safety off the gun and pointing it to his head.

{Well go on then.}

[It’s not like we’re going to disappear when you revive.]

{No matter what, we’ll still be here.}

“How touching,” he mocked, putting the safety on again and placing the gun back. It was useless to argue, and pointless to waste ammo on something temporary. Today wasn’t a good day, but it wasn’t that bad. Besides, he didn’t have his Harley Gun.

{For the readers, his Harley Gun has ‘good night’ carved into the handle.}

[It’s what he uses when shooting himself for recreational purposes!]

“That makes it sound like a drug,” Wade hummed, swinging his legs in the air.

{I mean, if Harley Quinn was a drug, you’d be shooting up all day, every day.}

[Amen, amen. Margot Robbie’s gonna kill it in the movies.]

“Can we please get back to the subject?”

{We’ve got a better idea – Wade, if you had to pick, would you --}

[ -- insert Daveed Diggs as Jefferson saying ‘Whaaaat’ here -- ]

{Harley Quinn or Petey?}

“That’s tough,” he said, contemplating. He took out his knife and started to roll it between his fingers. “On the one hand, Harley’s in my lane. We could fuck shit up together.”

{The term ‘beautiful disasters’ is apt. More apt than for your face.}

“But Harley’s coo-coo.”

[Aren’t you?]

{Yellow’s got a point. Wait, yellow has a point?!}

[White, don’t you start --]

And here they were again, bickering nonsense in his head. Wade already had a migraine from desperately trying – and miserably failing – to forget about Peter and the failure that was today. He didn’t need any more reminders he was too fucked up to deal with, even by the only human who had been insane enough these past few weeks to actually live with him.

[ -- Just fucking kill yourself, why don’tcha. Do Wade and I a favor.]

{You very much well know that both of us got into Wade’s head at the exact same time. So both of us are nuisances. Kill me and you kill yourself too.}

[Not permanently.]

{Unfortunately.}

“Unfortunately…” Wade echoed, looking down at the city. The lamp posts were on, finally, and looking down between his legs – [not the first time he’d done that, wink wink] – at the people below, crowding and pushing against each other like ants with their own personal agenda. Rush hour was already here, and in three minutes the streets were suddenly too filled with people, too noisy with cars honking and angry yelling.

Too much noise. Too many senses. Wade winced, trying to block it out, but White and Yellow were being noisy in his own damn head, too.

{Kill yourself - }

[No, you kill yourself - ]

{Idiots first -}

[Go ahead then - ]

Wade had had it. In a mindless, thoughtless second, he had his gun out his holster, in his hand, safety off.

In the next, there was an audible bang from the rooftop of an average-looking building. Some people down below heard it, startled, and looked up to find the source. It only took them two minutes to lose interest and they want back to what they were doing. Unaware to them that, after the bang wasn’t silence, but the heavy thud of Wade’s lifeless body as it fell backwards.  

Chapter Text

The last time he had blown his brains out, he received some serious aftercare vibes from Peter.

Soft, caring Peter Parker with his sexy hair that's always sticking out at odds and ends as though he'd been wearing a beanie or running his fingers through it every five seconds. Peter with his cute face, brown doe eyes, nerdy glasses perched on top of a nose with a bump at the top, pink lips that give him butterflies in the stomach when they smile at his jokes, scoff at his jokes. His slight build, and although he was smaller than Wade, he was pretty tall by himself but had no trouble curling around like an armadillo. Peter with his sharp tongue and quick wit and big brain and perky ass.

But none of that whole beautiful package was with him in the moment. Right now, Wade was on the rooftop of a decrepit building in the middle of butt-fuck-somewhere in New York, lying in a pool of blood, scattered brain matter, and like 90% piss.

Wade groaned in pain as he blinked away the stars that popped up in his vision. He slowly sat up, cursing whichever god thought it was a good fucking idea to design people that piss themselves when they get shot in the head. Fucking inconvenience, to be brutally honest. Now he had to walk back to the apartment in a piss-stained, piss-smelling latex suit, and had to wrestle with the washing machine again.  

When he finally came to his senses, he looked around. No one had come up to him, or checked out the source of the noise.

Stupid, he admonished himself, standing up and preparing to leave for home. Why did he feel... disappointed that he was alone? He blew his brains far more times than he can count the sores on his body, and yet this one time he actually revived, he thought there'd be someone there waiting for him when he came back. In a quick moment, the memory of him cuddling with Peter on the couch came to mind, and he hurriedly dismissed it with a scoff. Did he miss Peter that bad? Did he actually assume that Peter would be there for him everytime he'd kill himself and give him some semblance of after care? 

[That would be great though. Can you imagine? That could be Peteypie's superhero. Or like a Quirk, from Boku No Hero Academia. Mwah, one smooch and you're alllll better.]

“I see you survived.” He huffed, still a bit touchy that they annoyed him into killing himself again. “What about White?”

{Heyo~}

“Jesus, how long was I out? Yellow’s the only one who should be here for like, an hour, until you show up.” He groaned, rubbing his face with his gloved hands in frustration. Great. 

 [You were out for like, 25 minutes I reckon.]

 {That’s only in-story, though. Author’s been AWOL for almost 3 years, so she’s kind of to blame.}

[Yeah, you’ve basically been dead for 3 years. And yeah she's totally to blame.]

"You mean I've basically lied down on this dirty-ass rooftop in my own piss for 3 years?"

{Yep.}

[Basically. Pay attention, damn.]

“Brilliant.” Wade scoffed and rolled his mask down, then, when he had already made sure all of his gear was in check and accounted for, he set off for the apartment. He knew he still had to track down Spider-Man, and with the super’s trail gone cold, he’d have to work doubly harder, so that’s just-

{Super?}

“Yeah.” He grimaced and landed on his building’s rooftop, then shimmied down to go through the bedroom door. His thoughts were now pre-occupied with Spider-Man. It had been over two months since his last sighting, and the lone articles about him that come up in obscure media once a week was an opinion piece debating on whether or not Spider-Man had already retired from the public eye, was dead, or had been involved in a financial scandal that could strip him of his Hero status if discovered. When he landed though, he heard voices in the living room, which spooked him enough out of his current train of thought and to get his gun. But then he heard Peter, and he relaxed.

Just a tiny little bit, because Peter wasn’t alone.

 “Christ, Parker, how do you live like this?” Harry asked, mortified at the small space.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t born to a family who could afford to pay 30 servants, 3 drivers, and 5 gardeners, Harry.” Peter frowned and cleaned up Wade’s mess. He had empty pizza boxes lying on the table, and several cans of beer (why he drinks when he can’t ever get drunk, he’ll never understand). Traces of Wade's sloppiness was everywhere, like fingerprints or semen in a rented van or party bus (ick). Harry had a grimace on his face, perhaps trying (and failing) to imagine the practicality and feasibility of living in such a small space, let alone sharing it with somebody else, especially if that somebody else took the daily liberty of trashing the common areas of the whole apartment.

Peter had ultimately declined Harry’s offer to stay for a few nights, as his comings and goings to the young CEO’s office these past few weeks had already been suspicious enough to other interns, especially the Head Intern, who thought that Peter was abusing his childhood friendship for a better, more permanent position in the team. Sure, he was given good recommendations by the higher-ups, especially with his progress in his own research and his work ethic. But other interns have become cautious around him. If they didn't think that Peter was being a bright know-it-all and dazzle the experts into favoring him in the long run, they believed that Peter was just way out of their league, making everyone else look bad. Either way, it was a lose-lose situation for Peter's social circle, and he was slowly excluded by other interns.

 When he explained this to Harry, he just rolled his eyes at him in frustration.

 “You seriously care about what they think?” Harry had asked, his bowl of mac and cheese already finished. He was already inching for the shot glass by the bar, eyeing a fancy bottle of whiskey on the top shelf.

Peter had raced to get the shot glass out of his reach, eliciting a small whine from Harry. “Of course I do, because this concerns your image, too." He put the glass and the bottle somewhere else when Harry had turned his back. Peter had to make another mental note to tell Felicia where he hid his stuff. "How would it look like for OsCorp to have a CEO with favoritism? The labor groups would go nuts and insist on OsCorp hiring with equal opportunities.”

“It doesn’t really bother me, because first and foremost, it’s not true.” He shrugged, sulking toward the couch to continue watching the television program he had put on earlier as white noise. “Secondly, I could just fire this guy and make you Head Intern. He’s nothing but a gnat to me. Smart, and useful, but ambitious and obnoxious.”

There was silence for a few minutes. Harry looked up to see Peter staring at him with a blank expression. “What?” he had asked a bit defensively.

“It’s not just about him.” He sighed and did the dishes, ignoring Harry who ordered him to stop doing chores like a nanny. “I want to earn my achievements, and let everyone know it. That I earned them, through my skills and nothing else. No ties, no connections.”

Harry hummed, accepting his point and conceding in silence. Peter appreciated this side of Harry, and smiled inwardly. Harry understood him in many ways, their closeness developed even before their first year spent in grade school was over. He didn't need to tiptoe around him when it came to personal subjects. Harry, in turn, never belittled Peter for his experiences growing up, or lack thereof. He always tried to be down-to-earth to the bespectacled boy who helped him stash bugs into the butler's shoes, or race with to the playground at school, dress shoes and clothes be damned.

It was a silent agreement to the both of them, that although they were different people, they'd always understand each other. Peter appreciated Harry for who he was and how he placed himself in his life. He only ever hoped that Harry felt the same.

“Let’s get out of here. I’ll show you my apartment.” He had offered, planning to show Harry just how dedicated he was to making ends meet, but on his own terms and on his own pace.

However, the state of the apartment was, on a 1-to-5 scale with 5 being pristine, a 2 at best. Hurricane Wilson came and blew around whatever he could find in his path. There were holes made from fists in the drywall, dried blood on the corner post, a half-opened medical kit with pink Hello Kitty plasters inside. The holes in the drywall were actually covered up... horribly, by duct tape. And the plasters were half-opened. He imagined Wade trying to put tiny little band-aids on his wounds, then realizing belatedly that there was too much wound to plaster ratio, and it was better to wrap gauze around the area. 

Peter didn't need to fully see Harry's face because as soon as they crossed the threshold, he saw Harry's face flit from confused to disgust to pity.

“You said you have a roommate?” He asked, picking up a grey t-shirt hanging from the back of the couch. It had a cheese stain on the front, no doubt from Wade failing yet again to wait for his quesadillas to cool, the contents of his food scalding his tongue and dropping onto his shirt. Peter shook his head to try and dismiss the thought. Why does Wade’s antics keep weaseling into his head?

“Y-Yeah, one.” He said, then thought of how to introduce him that won’t cast him in an already bad light for Harry. He was still his roommate after all, and if he made it seem to Harry as if he was living with a coked-up bum from Queens, he might just get forcibly removed and forced to live in Harry's mansion of a house, which is a humiliating thought all on its own. “His name is De… Wade. Wade Wilson.”

“Wade Wilson?” Harry looked up at him, a bit confused, as if he were trying to reach for something he can't quite grasp. “Where have I heard that name before…”

Shit. Peter didn’t mean to, had honestly forgotten. He didn't want to bring up memories from the past. As far as he remembered, Green Goblin never met Deadpool, but those personas were in the same field. Harry just got out of the supers game, and finally able to live life like a normal human being (or at least, as normal as “billionaire and CEO under 30’ goes).

So he did the best thing he could think of - he back-pedalled, hard. “Y-You probably heard about him from the news, he, uh… won a taco eating contest recently. 50 tacos in 5 minutes.”

Harry blinked, dumbfounded. “That’s… a lot.” He mumbled softly, but he looked like he believed him.

Laughing in relief, Peter agreed. “Yeah. He likes Mexican food. And, uh…”

“Peter, you’re a terrible hypeman.” A disembodied voice admonished, and Peter felt cold. He didn't know Wade was in. He would have heard him. The door was closed, the hook on the lock not hung so he thought Wade had been out - on a killing spree, a recon mission, a food run, whatever he does in his time. He slowly turned around, trying to relax, when he saw Wade, arms crossed nonchalantly across his wide chest and leaning against the doorframe to the dark bedroom.

Mercifully, Wade wasn't wearing his Merc suit, and was wearing his civvies -- a grey shirt, a red hoodie, a baseball cap, and jeans, corroborating his details to Harry. Peter couldn't help but give him an approving once-over, but his eyes took a little longer when he saw the dips and curves of Wade's hips that the surprisingly low-riding jeans sinfully clung to. His senses went into overdrive when he realized that the whole ensemble looked… illegally good on him.

Peter had to admit, he had wanked once or twice (okay, perhaps maybe more) to the thought of doing some hot and heavy petting and necking while clad in their spandexed suits. He never really thought of a specific partner, until a month ago. It was Wade's voice that was in his ear, his dirty talk and matching raspy voice sending shivers down his spine. His strong hands pinning him against a brick wall, knee between his thighs. Mask rolled up to his nose, the familiar scene of callous and scarred skin, before it disappeared and he felt chapped lips and sharp teeth marking him up and down.

Peter's fantasies went wild everytime he thought about Wade in his Merc suit, but this? This was uncharted ground, and Peter had just struck gold. How did clothes fit him so well?

And what surprised Peter was that the Wade Wilson, insecure of his own scars to the point that he'd cover them up as much as he could when out and about, to the point that he wouldn't face Peter for a full week before Peter had literally yelled at him that he didn't care about his scars, is now showing them off. His mask was off, revealing sharp, bright blue eyes, and sported an easy-going smile. As if he had no insecurities hiding behind those pearly whites, or how he would break the bathroom mirror with his fist if Wade woke up from a nightmare again.

Peter only realized too late that that smile was just a pleasantry, and was mostly directed to Harry. He had, so far, only gotten talked to, not at. It made him deflate a little. “Why don’t you introduce us properly?”

“Oh… uh.” Peter gulped and waved his hand in the middle of both of them. “Harry, this is my roommate, Wade. Uh, Wade, this is my childhood friend, Harry."

"Pleasure to meet you." Harry smiled politely, his head dipping in acknowledgement. "Harry Osborn.”

“Osborn?” Peter saw Wade’s ears visibly perk up in interest at the mention of his last name. “Sounds like a popular family name. The old-rich kind. Like your family portrait would be on the front page of a magazine. Sort of like a Kardashian, but I'm kind of getting from your vibe that you aren't a celebrity."

Peter was mortified as Wade just rambled on, but Harry seemed to think it all amusing. Thank God. “Well, I guess you could say so. I'm the CEO of OsCorp.” Harry laughed shyly and offered his hand for Wade to shake. “But just Harry will do. I’m still living up to the Osborn legacy my father left, so it’d be childish to introduce myself as anything but.”

"OsCorp, the company Peter works for?" Wade looked at him in awe and impressed. But when he saw Harry's hand extended towards him, he minutely shrank on himself. “You… want to shake my hand?”

“Of course. Is it not polite to do so after meeting someone for the first time?”

“No, no. I mean, yes. Fuck. I… just… my scars…”

“Scars are from battles, Wade. And I think you’ve been fighting a war for a very long time.” Harry tilted his head. He was always very good at reading people, Peter thought, remembering how he could pick up signs of Peter's distress even their other friends could not. “I come from a long line of diseases, and trust me, I know how it feels. To be alien in your own skin, to not being able to look at yourself in the mirror. I’m not disgusted in the least, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Hearing those words made Wade break out into a grin, and he shook his hand eagerly, firmly sealing the deal that Harry was under the list of "respected people he was not allowed to kill (unless the price is, like, really really high)". Satisfied with their introductions, Peter tuned out their voices as they chatted about mundane things, and settled on depositing his duffel bag onto his bed, fully planning to unpack after Harry had left. He saw splatters of blood from the windowsill to the door, and a loaded gun by the bedside table, but thankfully no brains. 

“Peter?” Harry called out, and he shook his head to keep himself grounded. Was he expecting any on the wall? He needed to get a grip. Peter turned around and went back into the living room, making sure to close the door. Harry didn't need to see the assortment of weapons and file cases Wade had on a lot of people. 

“Oh, are you leaving?” He asked when he saw Harry putting on his coat and hat, and reaching for his umbrella. Peter felt a bit afraid and awkward, and it carried through his voice. He didn’t want to be alone with Wade, so fresh from a fight that Peter himself had started. He didn't know what to do, what to say. How would Wade react. Then he felt shitty, because really, Peter didn't want to invite Harry to his apartment. He only realized, with a sick pang in his gut, that he only wanted Harry there to act as a socializing buffer. And that wasn't a very nice thing to do. Toxic Peter, toxic.

“The investors meeting is tomorrow, and the Japanese people are very punctual.” He grimaced. Harry was never good at early morning schedules. He was ritualistic, and always took his time. But he knew that it was an important deal -- it had been the talk of the company for the last month -- and so giving the best first impression to foreign investors was tantamount to a young CEO fighting to keep his father's ship afloat. “Unfortunately, they are also early birds, and insisted that I meet them at 7 in the morning.”

“Right.” He nodded, smiling weakly at that. He didn't know what he could even say to make him stay, if at all, and resigned himself to a fate of awkward social interactions with his flatmate. “Stay safe, Harry. Thank you for this evening. Have a good night.”

“You too, Parker.” He smiled and waved politely at both of them before leaving.

Almost immediately after the door closed, the atmosphere changed. It felt... charged, somehow. Not awkward, but heavy with possibility. Of what, Peter wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything, at that point. What would Wade ask? What would he do? Should he apologize? Will they go back to ignoring each other again? Anxiety was gnawing on Peter's stomach, turning the chasm into a vortex of shame and doubt.

Just as his mind continued racing, Wade sighed audibly. “Peter… can we talk?”

“Wow.” He snapped, too surprised to reel in his sass. “Are we doing talking today?”

“I’m not putting up with sass tonight.” Wade sighed and crossed his arms. His face was inscrutable, but his body language was deflated. He was giving up. Or was about to. Fuck, Peter can't read him like this. “You seem close with Harry.”

He blinked. What’s this now? “Yeah, I told you. He’s a childhood friend, he’s been through a lot lately, he’s got no one—“

“Do you like him?”

“What?” Peter couldn’t believe his ears. He laughed, thinking Wade was just joking. How absurd, the thought of actually being with Harry romantically. He had a small crush on him when they were little, but that turned out to be just admiration. Harry had all the things child Peter wanted but never could have, and his feelings have changed. Wade didn’t join in on the laughter, however, and he slowly stopped, the noise dissolving into silence. “…Are you serious?!”

“Of course I’m serious!” He grumbled, pouting like a child. “You have a history, you have chemistry, and you’re both huge nerds." 

“Wade.”

“Fine. Your ass is nerdy enough for the both of you.”

“Wade!”

“Plus he’s got money.” Wade was huffing and pouting now, like a school kid who wasn't allowed an extra five minutes on the swing. “I’ve got money too.”

“Are you jealous of Harry?”

“Of course I am, you ass. Earth to Parker, hello.” He rolled his eyes, as if Peter was the one who was speaking impossibilities in the room. “He’s handsome, he’s funny, he’s rich, he’s spoken for. Who wouldn’t love him?”

“I – “

“Honestly, if I were you, I’d jump him on his desk at work.”

“Oh God, Wade!” He yelped, his face turning red at the thought.

“Of course, author’s muse wouldn’t like that,” Wade continued rambling, pouting.

“That’s it.” Peter had had enough of not being listened to, and he finally cupped Wade’s face and leaned closer. Both of them stiffened at the same time, wondering what the hell Peter was doing. He could literally feel Wade’s breath hitch a little in surprise, and it made his heart race and his head spin. What was he planning? Was he even planning anything in the first place? What did he expect to do?

Focus, Parker, focus. He saw a bright red light flash in between Wade's pyramid stack of beer cans, and he remembered. Right. The place was bugged by Agent Coulson. Was this why Wade was acting so jealous and weird? Peter suppressed the butterflies in his stomach long enough to whisper. “Is this still part of the façade?”

He must’ve looked a bit desperate for the answer, hoping that it wasn't but facing the reality that it probably was just that. But the next thing he knew, Wade had pushed him against the wall, hands on his wrists, holding Peter’s arms above his head.  

“How… dare… you.” Wade growled, forcing him to look him in the eyes. “Is this why we fought today? You think I kissed you because of S.H.I.E.L.D.?” 

Peter blinked, too surprised to think. “Was… was it not?”

“To hell with Coulson! And to hell with S.H.I.E.L.D.!”

“I… I guess.”

“You guess?!” Wade barked out a laugh. “I like you. And I want you. No Agent can make me pretend about it. Façade, my ass. Oh I’ll prove it to you that I’m not fucking around, Parker. Unless.” He blinked, as if the thought just suddenly occurred, and he looked at him straight in the eye. “Unless I’ve gotten it completely backwards and you don’t want me.”

Peter didn’t even need to think. He cupped Wade's face and kissed him forcefully, pushing his body against his. Whatever he had in his mind that he couldn’t process in words, he let his lips and tongue and teeth do the expressing. His worries and anxieties melted as his body turned into butter in Wade’s arms. He belatedly realized that Wade was kissing back, too, his hands snaking down to his waist, squeezing it and making him moan a little. Something heated and urgent was welling up in Peter's gut, and he was too bust acting and not thinking. He must’ve been too in the moment, because he also didn’t realize until it was too late that he had bitten Wade’s bottom lip hard enough to bleed.

“Oh shit.” Peter panicked, leaning back as Wade wiped the blood off of his lip. “Shit, Wade, I’m sorry.”

“You know I don’t let people who make me bleed off the hook, Peteypie?” Wade smirked. Before Peter could ask what in the ever living hell he meant, Wade had already scooped him up by his waist and threw him bodily over his shoulder, marching into the bedroom. “We’re gonna have a loooooong night.”

Chapter Text

 When Agent Coulson asked for a status update on Peter Parker and Wade Wilson, this was not what he meant.

He pursed his lips, which formed a straight line out of annoyance, as he read the thin file on his desk that his agents presented. He had expected more, and, dare he talk like an elderly gossiper during Sunday brunch, juicier information with the likes of the unpredictable Wade Wilson and the growing enigma that was Peter Parker. He had almost sent the agent back out to get more information, because three pages of intel was not intel. He sighed and looked up at the stone-faced agent who had given him the report in the first place standing still on the other side of his desk. “Is this all from a week’s worth of surveillance, Garroway?”

There was a flash of sheepishness in the agent’s face as mild disappointment coloured Coulson's tone. “Well, sir, Wilson has been alone in the flat until Friday. Parker only arrived on that day, but they had what looked like a lovers’ spat, and the whole flat was left alone for a while.”

Coulson had to pause at that, and he blinked up at him for a few seconds before repeating the words. “A lovers’ spat.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They’re...dating?”

“If you would look at the uh, recent surveillance, sir…”

“Hmm, yes.” Coulson looked back down at the file, interest renewed. Apparently the two had engaged in some bedtime affairs for majority of the weekend. The agents assigned to gather information on both of them had the decency to actually turn off the microphone and cameras all around their apartment so as to give them privacy. Also, everyone else did not want privy to such personal affairs. It was like watching pornography at work, only this time it was legally sanctioned and approved by the boss.

One thing did catch his attention though, and that was the appearance of a visitor. Harry Osborn, formidable businessman that was on the rise to climb to the ranks the likes of his late father, had visited the apartment. Introducing himself as Parker’s childhood best friend, he could see from the tapes that they shared a deep connection. Parker had interesting friends, and in Coulson’s line of work, interesting friends meant interesting person. 

Garroway shifted his footing, feeling a little awkward that Coulson was taking too long to decide on things. “Shall we continue surveillance, sir? Wilson had called for help with replacing the drywall. If we could have agents there, we can plant more bugs.”

“No, no. That won't be necessary, Agent Garroway, thank you.” Coulson stood up and buttoned his suit up, then checked his computer screen as the sound of a small ping came through it. An email from an undisclosed source had just got in, and the subject header only said, in big, bold letters, ‘FOUND IT’. “Remove the bugs from Wilson’s place. I’m pursuing a different source.”

"R-Remove the...?"

"Yes, Agent Garroway, did you not hear me the first time I said it?"

"Does this mean the hit on Wilson is dead, sir?"

Coulson's head was pounding. He had been stretched thin for way too long, and was on the verge of snapping. He tapped his fingers on the table to calm him down. When he finally did, he spoke evenly. "As I've said, I'm pursuing a different source, not canning the target. Keep an eye and ear out on Wilson still; check his movements, case him if he wanders off to one of his safehouses or local haunts -- La Cucaracha, Sister Margaret's, Wendy's, et cetera. Reports will still be given weekly unless a drastic change of behavioral pattern is observed. Am I clear, Agent?"

"I - "

"Am I making myself clear?" he repeated, impatient now. His mouse cursor had been hovering over the email. Coulson was just waiting for the Agent to leave before opening it.

To his relief, Garroway finally shut up, bowed, and left the room in a hurry. Coulson sighed, making a mental note to himself that he had to ask for the weekend off for a much-needed vacation. He finally opened the e-mail he had been sent. He didn't want to open it in the presence of other people, even with Garroway on the other side of the monitor, because this method of gleaning information wasn't... exactly... S.H.I.E.L.D. approved. Coulson had to weigh his chances, and sacrifice a little of his dignity, but so far the agency's database on Peter Parker was dismal, suspiciously so. And so he had turned to pursue other routes.

When he checked the e-mail's contents, it was blank save for an attachment, which he hurriedly opened. It was only 1 page, but it confirmed his suspicions. The picture of Spider-Man and a picture of Peter Parker, with the words “Connection Found” between them made him feel equal parts giddy and dread.

The text under it confirms that there were tell-tale signs of strong connections between the ideologies of the two. However, Parker's data was almost three years old, from his last psychiatric evaluation which was needed for his college admission requirements, whereas Spider-Man's place in the moral compass were all only highly suggestive, based on his personal policies, vendettas, and the short experiences with him working with the Avengers. 

It was a lead, sure, and it could be a dead one at that. But Coulson had an itch under his skin looking at the two profiles of Spider-Man and Peter Parker on his screen. 

In short, Coulson had his work cut out for him. 

“What secrets are you hiding from me, Mr. Parker?” he asked in a low voice, squinting at the monitor as if the answer was just too small to see, hiding in plain sight.

“Wade.”

“Mmh.”

“Wade, I’ll kick your dick.”

“You had no problem sucking on it last night.”

Peter had to scowl at that, what with his attempt at blackmail blowing up rather spectacularly at his face, and he hit Wade’s chest full force, inducing a cough. “Get off, I need to take a shower. I have work and I can't go in smelling like sex and semen.”

Wade relented, exaggerating untangling his limbs from Peter's with a loud groan that made the other man roll his eyes. But he sneaked a cheeky, appreciative pat on Peter's bare ass, making him blush furiously. “What's wrong with sex and semen?"

"It's not particularly work-friendly."

"Nonsense, it's the most natural musk of all." Wade argued, rolling over onto his stomach and hugging a pillow, resting his chin on it. Peter's senses were tingling, knowing he was being watched as he looked for his boxers at the mess of clothes they had left in wild abandon on the floor. "You know, I’d tie you to the bed and have my way with you again if it meant you get to call in sick for work.”

“I’m sore.” Peter bemoaned, but admitted that the fantasy wiggled into his brain and had made itself home in the recesses of his mind. He liked the attention that Wade was giving him, though, eyes snaking hungrily up and down his body, so he shook his hips a little at him before racing out to the bathroom, much to Wade’s chagrin. Harry had texted him to come to work early, since it was his last day as intern for OsCorp. He took one good look at his reflection in the mirror and he couldn’t help but gasp.

His skin was flushed, but he had a kind of after-sex glow on his face. He turned his head side-to-side to see the damage Wade had done the whole weekend. He had peppered his neck, shoulder, and even his nipples with bruises and bite marks. He felt his legs and his ass were sore, and his lips were swollen from all the kissing. Hair tousled, eyes blown wide, a relaxed gait making his shoulders sag. Wade had succeeded at making him looked…

“Claimed.” He finished out loud, caressing Wade’s marks on his body almost in veneration.

He didn’t hear Wade following him from the bedroom to the bathroom, didn't hear his soft chuckle under his breath, but he saw him appear in the mirror’s reflection. Leaning casually against the door frame to the bathroom, sweatpants riding dangerously low on his hips and an easy smirk plastered on his face. Peter wanted to drink the image of the man in, burn it behind his eyelids so he could see it everytime he closed his eyes. “You look ravishing.”

“I look particularly ravished, Wade.” He snorted, but was still in awe at all the marks. Two steps were all it took for the larger man to close the gap between them, kissing him languidly and arms snaking around his waist to pull him closer. Peter playfully nipped at his lips, making Wade growl in response.

“Shall I join you in the shower? I could help you wash up.” Wade offered, his hands kneading Peter's ass. The skin was still flushed from a particularly satisfying spanking session. Wade must've known it was sensitive when Peter's shivers of pleasure gave it away.

“It’s a yes as long as my nether regions are a hands-off area," he forced himself to say, expertly peeling himself off of the other man. 

Peter almost laughed out loud when Wade pouted exaggeratedly. “You’re taking the fun out of showers.” 

{Oh man.} 

[Oh, man.]

“Holy shit,” Wade mumbled to himself as he put on his leather jacket. He couldn't deny it - he was head over heels in love with Peter, and for him to feel the same way was exhilarating at the very least. Cutesie, nerdy Peter Parker, with the biggest brain and the biggest heart and the baddest body. Wade felt like he had won the lottery that he didn't even know he put bets on, but was happy anyway. The past weekend had been a sweaty, lustful, outright pornographic blur. Wade marveled at both of their endurance, as whatever they could not verbally express with each other, they did so with their bodies.

Peter, with his slim, toned figure, had surprised him especially when he had a streak of dominance. Grinning impishly at Wade, he flipped them around on the bed, making good work of his hips and fingers, expertly turning Wade’s body and mind into mush in his hands. The kinks had been surprising, but not unwelcome and jarring. Wade played along, relishing him and being relished in return.

[Peter Parker is the downfall of PornHub.]

(What if we recorded ourselves and sent it? Easy money.}

[Are you sure you’d want Wade’s scarred ass in the internet?]

{Oof, you’re right. That would cause mayhem.}

[World War III.]

{Deletion of internet.}

[Worldwide martial law.]

{1984, but in 2018.}

[Orwellian style.]

{Orwellian style.}

Wade would normally be put off by the derision in his own mind, but today he let the boxes ridicule him; he was too high on cloud nine to care. He was planning to surprise Peter with a grand gesture at the end of the day. Wade had bought a motorcycle and two helmets with him, plus a congratulatory bouquet. Planning to wait for his beloved baby-boy by the entrance at OsCorp, praise him for a job well done on the internship, and help assure their ground and kiss him senseless.

But before he could go on further, and before his mind wandered off to impractical things like buying a ring and proposing right there and then, there was a beep on his phone, dragging him out of his romantic fantasies. He frowned when he checked it and saw on the caller ID that it was saved as "Noobie69 Spidey". It was the contractor to kill Spider-Man. The noise distracted everything, even the boxes, who shut up mid-sentence.

{Why does he want to talk to us?}

[Probably to ask why the fuck it's taking so long.]

{Are we really going to kill him? Spidey, I mean?}

“I already said yes.” Wade snapped in annoyance, but he hesitated. He didn't want to answer it, but he knew what would happen if he didn't. “If I back out of this deal, my reputation could be besmirched.”

{As if we actually cared about what other people think when we can just shoot at a bullet through their head.}

[Exactly. We've had our fair share of stepbacks and withdrew from deals loads of times.]

{We can do the same thing here.}

"Why are you guys trying to make me back down from this?" Wade asked harshly, his foot tapping around to try and get rid of some of his pent-up energy that was making him antsy. "We're a gun-for-hire, we do what we're told, claim the money, live our lives like dastardly bastards and die of old age after a particularly enthusiastic handjob."

[Not even gonna touch that image.]

{Why are you trying to complete this damned kill order?}

"Why? Oh, because I want to."

{Do you, though?}

"What is that supposed to mean?!"

[Do you really want to kill him?]

“Yes!”

{Then why are you hesitating?}

“Fuck off, Jiminy Cricket.” He growled in exasperation, then threw his cellphone on the couch. It bounced off once and hit the ground, making Wade groan in frustration. The boxes had formed a sort of truce and actually supported each other to stop Wade from killing Spider-Man. As if his foundation in killing Spider-Man wasn’t already shaky enough on his own, both White and Yellow voiced out vehemently against the act.

[Spidey’s a friend of ours!]

“No, he isn’t.”

{He said he’d help you with Peter.}

“I didn’t need his help, anyway.”

[Weren’t we all in love with Spidey in the first place?]

{That spandexed ass is to die for.}

“That was a long time ago.” Wade grumbled, feeling his face heat up in embarrassment. It wasn't, not really; it had only been a couple of months, but ever since Spidey went AWOL, so many things had happened.  “And besides, do you really think a superhero like Arachne-Boy would sink to the levels of a walking, killing tumor of a man?”

[Didn't we also think Peter would be the same and go screaming the other way after seeing the equivalent of a sea sponge for a dick?]

{Tbh I’m still counting the Sexcapade with Peter was a fluke.}

“Don’t. Call it. The Sexcapade.”

{Caaalling iiiit~}

“Ugh, whatever.” Wade had had enough banter at this point. He bent over to get his phone, which had become blissfully silent, only to frown as another call came through again from the same caller. This guy was incessant as ever, and it was honestly grating how much of a control freak this guy is. A little more and Wade would have had enough, and he could legally tender the contract null and void. 

In retrospect, he could cancel the contract as the result was a dead-end. The target had been AWOL for a while, gone off the grid, basically dropped off from the face of the Earth. Wade had to hand it to the guy, because in this day and age, almost everyone was connected to one social media platform or another. Even just by creating an account already puts at risk a lot of personal information and connection, enough to establish a social footprint of sorts. Wade knows this as a beginner, but would usually stake out the other locals that haunt Sister Margaret's to track a man through his bank transactions, his Big Data, his Google searches, the ads he watches, his location pings, et cetera.

Spider-Man had evaporated like a ghost. One minute he was there, and the next he wasn't. Wade couldn't really have anything to do with that, not without so much as a damn clue as to who he may be. Damn his secretive nature, because Spidey was frustratingly good at hiding his identity and current location. But again, with the target practically being a super-ghost, and the contract between him and his client not stating specifically that this was a long-term project that would mean he'd get a constant stream of financial resources to help track the guy, he figured it would be okay for him to not honor the contract anyway.

[That would probably be the best.]

{Maybe, when this all blows over, we can have a sandwich between him and Peter?}

[Ohhh, now that’s a visual I’d want to see.]

Ignoring the boxes, he answered the phone and did nothing to correct himself when he heard his voice was frosty and annoyed as ever. “Wilson.”

“Have you made any progress, Mister Deadpool?” The synthesized voice comically said in a monotone from across the call.

Wade rolled his eyes. “Seeing as the target is an enigma and has not been seen anywhere in months, what do you think?”

“I think that sarcasm is a pathetic attempt at explanations of incompetence. The only thing more pathetic is your efforts to find and actually kill him.”

Wade bristled over the words. “Don’t you call me incompetent,” he snarled.

“I need a body, Mr. Deadpool. Spider-Man’s body.”

“And you’ll get it when I actually see him.” He snapped. “Or do you just want me to kill a rando in the streets and dress him up in a knock-off Spider-Man costume from a Halloween rental store? Shut the fuck up and let the merc handle this. You go and count your money, because I sure as hell am not wasting it.”

He ended the call and pinched his nose. When his phone started ringing again, he snarled as he answered. “WHAT?!”

“Wade?” Peter yelped through the call, caught off-guard by the other man’s sudden hostility.

{Brilliant.}

Wade had to dial back his anger to try and appease him. “Oh! Petey, hey. Sorry, some uh… jerk telemarketer was getting on my nerves,” he lied easily. He didn’t want Peter to know he had accepted the call to kill Spider-Man in a flurry of emotion when he thought that he had shunned him. He was chewing his own words, felt like he dug his own grave. And if he rocked the boat with this news, he know that not only would he sink, but Peter would swim away from him and never return. He couldn’t bear the thought.

“Wade, are you still there?” Worry tinged Peter’s voice.

“Yeah, baby-boy, what’s up?”

“I have good news.” Wade could practically feel the pride from his phone. “I’m quitting the Bugle. Harry offered me a position on his Research & Development team. I said yes.”

Chapter Text

[What are you on about?]

“What?” Wade snapped against the cold, biting wind of New York whipped around him. He was starting to regret buying the damned motorcycle, and only wearing a leather jacket for aesthetic purposes. Fall in New York was giving way to winter early, and the day itself had been getting colder and windier, with the weather app on Wade's busted phone signalling an impending thunderstorm in the evening. He quite quickly forgot about the weather, however, with his head up in the clouds because of a certain roommate. 

{You’re nervous to see Peter.}

[Yeah, what’s with that?]

“Shut up, you two,” he warned, words lost at a blaring of horns. He was forced to stop as a crowd of rowdy teenagers were slamming their hands angrily at a yellow taxi cab that had an inch of its wheel on the crosswalk. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to check himself.

Was he nervous? He didn’t get why. His heartbeat was thundering, but that could be just from the motorcycle ride. Although he knew it to be a lie. His stomach was in knots, and his head kept replaying the same words that Peter had said that fully registered with him.

“I’m quitting the Bugle…”

[He really should have, even without Jameson.]

{Yeah, without Spides around, what the hell was he doing?}

[Oh God, did you think he was forced to write like Buzzfeed writers?]

{‘Top 10 quesadilla places in Queens’, yikes!}

[‘I ordered Deadpool merchandise at 3 different price points’ would be YouTube Gold.]

‘Harry offered me a position on his Research & Development team.’

[So he’s, like, permanently in the Osborn Army?]

{Weird, we’ve been banking on him getting on at Stark Industries.}

[We’ve read so many fics of him going there. I mean, it would make sense with the whole #SuperFamily trope --]

‘I said yes.’

“Well that’s not really bad news,” Wade grumbled to himself, getting back on the road as the light turned green. He could see OsCorp at the end of the road, the high building of all-glass shimmering in the sunlight. “But why do I feel so bad about it?”

He expected the boxes to answer, but he felt something that he hadn’t felt with them before. Hesitation. It unnerved him that his boxes were nervous – but he had no time to play mind games, especially with two constructs of his own mind that were too in tune with himself more than he was. “Out with it.”

{Well… Petey-Pie’s successful now.}

“You think he’ll cheat on me? Leave me for someone else?” Wade said, his stomach lurching. He could feel himself throwing up just with the horrendous idea.

[Well, sure, eventually.]

“Wow, thanks.”

{I mean, who would actually stay with that ugly mug of yours?}

[But that aside… you know… with a good-paying job, he’ll – ]

{ - have more money than before, and - }

“ – He’ll want to move out,” he finished, paling at the consequences. He couldn’t bear that to happen, couldn’t bear waking up without Peter on the other bed. Would their relationship survive?

[Well, hang on, it’s not even official yet.]

{For all you know this is just a friends with benefits thing.}

“Fuck.” Wade ground his teeth together, knowing they were right. He parked on the outside of OsCorp, and leaned back to look up at the sky for a little. He let the boxes bicker for a while, let his thoughts wash away to the white noise of the city. He could feel stares from the employees that went out of OsCorp – a muscled an in a leather jacket, with a bouquet of flowers in a showy motorcycle, but he didn’t care.

He didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to give a concrete idea to the niggling thought that he had unconsciously buried in the back of his brain. But Peter – beautiful, smart, heroic, heart-of-gold Peter – had the one thing that he could never have.

In all honesty, Peter had choices. 

And who did Wade think he was to tie the man down?

[Ugly ass idiots like you shouldn’t even be around him.]

{He doesn’t even ask about your merc business.}

Wade tried to shake his head, tried to cast the boxes aside. Fuck. The next time the boxes actually touch a nerve, it's with him, in public, where it’s socially frowned upon to just click, click, boom one’s brains onto the pavement.

[Go on then.]

{What’s stopping you?}

“Nothing,” Wade mumbled, swinging his legs over his motorcycle, holding the bouquet he wanted to give Pete. He belatedly noticed that the flowers he bought had missing petals, no doubt blown away from how it was kept behind him. He went to the front desk of OsCorp, made a herculean effort of plastering a smile on his face as he asked the concierge to deliver this to a certain Mr. Peter Parker, along with a handwritten note.

And in another minute, he was racing back to the apartment they both shared. 

When, at long last, Wade arrived, he took a good look around. The carpet, originally a rich maroon, had now been frayed, majority of it faded with dirt and dust. The apartment was small, cramped even more with the abundance of objects that were there. He couldn’t bear to think of how much Pete had sacrificed, had taken in without a fuss, just to have a roof above his head, a warm bed, and a guaranteed share of costs.

Wade cringed as he saw all the little details that would make any sane person abhor the living place he was in – food stains, wood dents, duct-taped pipes to keep the water and the heat in, several holes in the drywall that had mismatched colors due to constant repair. Almost all of the harm to the apartment had been of Wade’s doing.

{It’s all your fault.}

“No.” However much Wade wanted it to not be true, his denial of the fact came out weak from his lips. His knees trembled, trying to think of the implications.

[He’s gonna leave.]

“No.”

{He’s gonna leave you.}

“No.”

[Pfff, bet! He’s got much better prospects than to live in a shithole like this.]

{Peter deserves better.}

[And he knows it.]

{You do, too. Don’t you, Wade?}

He hadn’t noticed that he had fully sat on the floor, curled up in a ball. Hugging his knees to his chest as best as he could, as if he could defend himself from all the allegations that the boxes could think up, as though it wasn’t in his own head. It went on, his thoughts and his boxes spiraling. At some point he shut his eyes and clapped his hands over his ears, as though the very acts could staunch the assault on one’s psyche that was most certainly coming from internally.

“Wade?” 

At the sound of his name, he looked up to see Peter, his form backlit from the light in the hallway. He didn’t know how much time had passed, and he was disoriented with the sudden darkness that greeted him. “Wha…?”

The lights flickered on as Peter flipped a switch, and he saw the distress and worry on his face, clear and plain as day. “God, you look like a mess,” he mumbled, placing his bag, the bouquet he bought, and a dripping umbrella down on the floor.

“Yeah, I definitely feel like shit,” Wade mumbled, getting up. Thankfully, the boxes’ bickering had lulled to white noise, and he couldn’t help but check up on Peter. Glasses fogged up and with raindrops on them, hair tousled by the wind, his coat wet with rainwater on his shoulders, as well as the bottom cuff of his pants. “But shit, baby-boy, you look like…”

[Like a sex god?]

{Like the man of our dreams?}

“…like a fucking nerd.”

Peter rolled his eyes and scoffed, taking off his glasses to clean them with the hem of his shirt. “Gee, thanks.”

{For fuck’s sake, Wade.}

“I-I wasn’t – I was going to – “ Wade tried to make amends, stepping forward to help him, but Peter swayed dangerously. He held his arm fast, steadying him. “Wait, hold on one diddly-dang minute.”

[Real smooth.]

“Are you okay?”

Peter looked up at him and smiled weakly. “Yeah. Yeah, yeah, just… I think I got a bit overworked. And there’s a storm coming.”

“And you got wet,” Wade stated simply, mouth curling up in a knowing smirk. “Not the good kind, though.”

“Wade!”

“I kid, I kid.” In one fluid motion, Wade hooked his arm behind Peter’s legs, his other supporting his back, and carried his full body weight bridal style. “Oopsie-daisie, there we go. I gotta admit, pretty boy, I thought you’d be lighter.”

“What the hell are you doing?!” The shorter man squeaked, squirming in his arms. “Wade, put me down, this is embarrassing!”

“Wilson, wilnoco,” he said playfully, marching on to the bathroom. “You need to take a shower. A long, hot one. Preferably with me, you know.” He waggled his eyebrows at him and finally planted Peter down on the tiled floor. “But also preferably, we’d have a damn bathtub, one big enough for the two of us. Ah, well, don’t worry, once we get a better apar—“

{SHUT UP.}

[SHUT. UP.]

“Wade? You alright?” Peter asked, snapping him out of his reverie. He was looking up at him, cheeks red and eyes doubtful. “You… you were talking about something, and then suddenly lost your train of thought. And, well, speech.”

“Huh.” Wade smiled weakly and turned away, taking Peter’s bath towel off the heated rack and all but dumping it onto his arms. “Yeah, well, it was probably a brainfart. Silly ol’ Wade, you know. Not thinking things through before talking, and getting into really bad shit as always.”

{Always.}

“Always,” he echoed, voice soft. He looked down, embarrassed and sad, shuffling his feet. “I better… I better go.”

He turned away, but before he could close the bathroom door behind him, Peter held his hand, and held it fast. “Wait.”

Wade turned to look back, and Peter’s face was an interesting shade of red. It honestly reminded him of someone, but he quickly brushed the thought of Spider-Man out of his mind as the other man’s fingers laced around his own.

“I got you wet, too,” Peter mumbled, smiling cheekily. “Because of my wet clothes. How about let’s shower together?” 

Wade couldn’t believe his ears, and the stunned expression plastered on his face most likely made Peter even bolder. “Call it a favor to the environment, y’know? I mean, technically, we’d be saving water –“

“Thank-you-dear-mother-earth,” Wade huffed out in a single breath. The laughter that broke out of Peter’s lips made Wade’s ears perk up, and they happily undressed and got into the shower, which was admittedly small enough to cram them both together. Wade had another mental note to have reparations done in the apartment, and expanding the bathroom would be top priority.

As Peter started to turn the nozzles to get the water heated at just the right temperature, Wade gazed at his body. He couldn’t really fully appreciate it during The Sexcapade weekend of his dreams – well, appreciate with a sex-sober mind, that is – but he couldn’t help but admire that the other man kept himself in shape. His back muscles were toned and defined, shoulders broad and his torso was trimmed down to his waist. Peter’s arms didn’t have overly-large muscles like Cable, but they did not look the least bit weak at all. Wade tried his damn hardest to avert his gaze from his ass, as well, but he knew it almost by feel that it was not just perfect, but criminally so. His legs looked like a gymnast’s, toned and shapely. 

Wade could practically kiss every inch of Peter Parker’s body in adoration every night and he’d be happy just giving service.

“Are you checking me out, Mister Wilson?” Peter asked, looking back over his shoulder with a coquettish smile. Wade could see water droplets caught on his flushed skin and eyelashes.

“You,” he breathed, snaking his arms around Peter’s slim waist to pull him close. “You will be the absolute death of me.” 

Peter turned around in his arms pulled his head down for a kiss, letting the warm water wash over them. Pressed together under the small and sputtering showerhead, their slow kiss didn’t turn urgent, nor did they want it to be. Wade would nudge it to open-mouthed kisses, a slow exploration and tongue-wrestling, sure. Peter would alternate between butterfly-light kisses on his chin to playful biting, which both of them seem to enjoy if they were going by the small noises of pleasure that they drew out from each other.

After what seemed like a long while, it was Peter who drew back for a quick breath. “Wade, can I ask you something?”

Pouting a little at the loss of body contact, Wade nodded. “As long as I get another kiss after, sure.”

The younger man laughed lightly, smacking his chest lightly in amusement. “What did you want to tell me?”

“What?” Wade blinked owlishly, then remembered about the handwritten note that he had asked to be given to Peter at OsCorp with the flower bouquet. “Oh, that.”

“Yeah.” Peter squirmed and cupped his face with one hand. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no, it’s just…” He bit his lip, at a loss for words. He was feeling different, lately; Peter had the rare ability to render him speechless. The only other person to do that was Spider-Man himself, and that super had been out of commission for months now. “I wanted to tell you congratulations on the new job.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He laughed shyly, but he was unable to look him in the eyes. Inwardly, he cursed those beautiful doe brown eyes; it was as if Peter could look at Wade’s bare soul with them, and he didn’t want him to see him like that. He was too scared he’d pull away the minute he knew everything about him. “I just… it’s been a great few months, Pete. Really, it was. Even though you ruined my suit –“

“That was one time!” Peter squeaked indignantly, what with Wade bringing back to the surface the time that Peter had burned a hole through one of Wade’s suits after a little laundry-day fight. 

Wade laughed and smiled, then leaned closer to kiss his forehead. “I’m just gonna miss this, is all.”

There was silence, lines appearing on Peter’s forehead as he frowned, his brows furrowing together in thought. His face was open, Wade could practically see him piecing the information he heard together. “Wait. You thought I’d be moving out?”

Wade rubbed the back of his neck, feeling an awkward blush creeping down his neck. “Well, aren’t you?”

“No!” Peter huffed, hands on his hips. “What made you think that I would?”

“Well, first of all, you’d be making major bank.” Wade blinked, then tilted his head. “Oh. I only had one reason.”

Peter just shook his head, laughing at him. “I’m not moving out. I… I like it here.” He smiled widely and looked up at him through his eyelashes. “I like it here with you.”

[Christ, we hit the lottery.]

“Do you really?” He laughed, not believing his luck. “Our small-ass apartment with food stains everywhere? Punch holes in the drywall? A small, rickety bed?”

“We have two beds, Wade.” Peter grumbled. “You just keep hopping over to mine to sleep with me.”

“Not my fault you’re adorable in your sleep. Especially when you call out to me in your dreams,” he teased, making Peter blush again and laughing.

“But yes, Wade. I’d rather stay here.” He smiled widely.

Wade couldn’t say anything, and just kissed him to try and convey all his jumbled up, mixed emotions fighting their way out from his stomach. “That’s it, I’ll call up the guys.”

“The what now?”

“Well, we can’t have a member of Oscorp’s R&D team living in poverty.” He chuckled, waving his hand around. “We’ll improve everything, replace all the furniture, repaint the walls.” He could feel himself rambling, but when he saw that Peter’s smile widened and grew fonder, he found that he didn’t care. “We’re gonna TARDIS the whole bathroom, throw-out the single beds and get a king-sized frame, a memory-foam mattress, some fancy-ass lights, a better desk for you –“

“Wade,” Peter laughed, trying to interrupt him. 

“No, no, shh, I’m gonna Marie Kondo this bitch,” he said proudly. Peter just shook his head at his nonsense, shutting him up with one of the most radiant smiles he had the fortune to ever see. 

“This is our home,” he said quietly, and that word alone made Wade’s heart do somersaults. Peter moved to step out of the stall, calling out behind him, “I’ll help out with picking some pieces of furniture.”

After a few hours of playful squabbling over an online IKEA catalog, Peter felt tuckered out, spent but happy. There was steady downpour outside, the rain drumming on the windows in a steady rhythm. There were the occasional rumbles of thunder, and Wade had to urge down his fight-or-flight instincts hearing the irregular sound. He tried his best to look alive and alert, even when Peter started teasing him relentlessly when he fished out his wallet from the day’s jeans and took out a black Amex card, but his pauses and aversion every time the sky seemed to grumble didn’t go unnoticed.

“Wade, you good?” Peter asked, taking away his laptop and placing two warm cups of hot Mexican hot chocolate on the table. The scent alone made him want to curl up in a ball under a fleece blanket. “You look pretty shit.”

“Just something idiotic,” He replied and hurriedly took the cup with a mumbled ‘thanks’. He sipped it, slightly scalding his tongue in the process, but visibly winced as a crack of lightning interrupted the gloomy outdoors. “It’s just…”

Peter looked at him, surprised. “Are you scared of lightning and thunder?” 

“I told you, it’s idiotic.” He huffed indignantly. His hand fiddled with the handle of his mug. “It just reminds me of…”

“Of what?”

“Some bad stuff,” Wade whispered, his mind reeling back to his childhood home, his loud and abusive father, and his weak and frail mother. He shook his head to try and get the images out of his system. “I’ve had some fair share of loud nights and thunderstorms.”

The silence stretched between them, Wade almost downing the steaming cup of hot chocolate in one go, and Peter contemplatively stirring his own drink. Thankfully, the thunder slowly subsided, and the wind that had howled for the last half-hour had died. Wade could handle the rain; it lulled him to sleep. Anything else was just tantamount to a night of bad sleep.

Slowly, Peter’s hand inched on top of Wade’s resting on his lap. The gentle squeeze reassured him, and he couldn’t help but lean his head on Peter’s shoulders, thankful for the presence. 

“Storms pass, Wade,” he said slowly, rubbing small circles on the back of his hand. “No matter what, they always do. Let’s just weather it out together, yeah? One meteorological anomaly at a time.”

“I can’t believe I’m getting turned on by you saying ‘meteorological’,” Wade teased, which earned him another playful smack at his arm by a laughing, embarrassed Peter. He pulled him close and let Peter top straddle him to the couch, his worries ebbing away with each and every press of the other man’s lips to his skin.

Long after they had settled down in each other’s arms, buried under comfortable, weighted blankets, Peter had woken up in the middle of the night. He extracted himself from Wade’s ‘koala grip’, smiling as the bigger man grumbled his displeasure and rolling on his other side. He went to the bathroom to relieve himself, and went to get his phone to check the time.

3:05 AM, and his phone had been pinging like crazy.

Waking from his sleepy stupor, he quickly checked his notifications. They were all from a local news app, which had been livestreaming and live-updating a developing story for the past 10 minutes. So far there have been 7 updates, with each one being more serious than the last.

Lightning had apparently struck a tree in a small park five blocks over. It had toppled, ablaze, and landed right in front of a building that was surmised to be at least 20-something years old. New updates suggested it was an old tenement-style building, resided in by families. An initial group of firefighters have already arrived, but the blaze had eaten through flammable material quickly and was growing to be too overwhelming. Their best course of action was, of course, immediate evacuation, but they can't do that as the tree that started everything was blocking the only viable exit known at present.

Peter didn’t even think of the possible implications. He didn’t even have time to think about what he would say if Wade were to wake up and find him gone. He didn’t, couldn’t let any stray personal thought come into his mind and cost him a few extra seconds. Those families need help, and Peter Parker was no sitting duck.

He tiptoed to his closet and got a square-shaped dry-fit pouch from his gym bag. He took a black film canister from his desk and put it into his pocket, then stepped outside to quickly change. 

He had always brought his suit wherever he went, having developed the technology to keep it in a small, non-descript package that he can slip into whichever bag he was using. He had already downgraded his webfluid canisters into smaller containers, which he had modelled after plain silver cufflinks and had stored them in an empty Kodak film canister. Hidden in plain sight from Wade, among his odd collection of analog cameras and undeveloped film, his roommate was none the wiser.

Peter couldn’t bear to think that he left New York in the hands of criminals. Spider-Man was always around, alert, and ready to jump back into action. He would always try to step back unless there were other supers around.

But this one shocked him. This one was just around the corner.

And God fucking knows that the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man is sure as hell to step up and save the damn day, personal life be damned.

“Here we go,” he whispered to himself, donning the mask and suit like it was second skin. He pranced a little in place, loosening up his muscles, before opening the window and hurtling himself toward the pavement. 

A few seconds passed, and a few faint thwips later, Spider-Man swung along the streets of New York once more after months of official noted absence, attracted to the red flashing lights of emergency. 

Chapter Text

By the time Peter had arrived at the scene, there were more respondents in front of the blazing building.

There were a total of three firetrucks, their lights bathing the everything in a red glow as it glared past. There were a number of firemen who were trying to put out the fire, hoses at the ready, trying to feed water into the gaping maw of flames at the front of the building that seemed impervious from dying down even with the torrential rain. Other firefighters were either cordoning off the whole area, which had attracted nosey neighbors and rowdy upstarts, while the others studied a crude map they had drawn on a piece of paper. Bleary-eyed news reporters, wearing ponchos drenched from the rain, faced cameras, their backs to the fire.

Peter landed in the relative darkness of a nearby alley, listening in on the reporter nearest him.

“ – has already been ten minutes before their recent attempt to try and quell the flames,” the reporter was saying, her hand gesturing to the fire behind her. “The fire marshalls present are now trying to at least clear a pathway from the front, and then send the others in to evacuate the tenants, but – “

“They won’t make it to them in time,” Peter finished, his mind overworking at the scenario, a sick feeling settling in his gut.

He’s had his fair share of fires in New York, and he knew that old buildings like these usually used gas for heating and cooking. He peeked through the corner to see the fire marshalls debating over the paper they had. No doubt they were thinking the same thing as he was. No doubt they were debating to go in with the flames as big as they are to get to the survivors before the gas pipes explode and would wreak more damage to the building and to the people surrounding them.

Peter swung to the top of the nearby building, crouching by the rooftop to check out any other access points. He found one – on the fourth floor of the building, a lone window that had clear access.

“Alright, Parker, keep on your toes,” He whispered to himself, poised on the edge of the rooftop.

“Look! LOOK! It’s Spider-Man!”

“Spider-Man? Where?! He’s been gone for a while!”

“There! On the roof, look!”

He knew he’d be back on the radar as soon as he was out with his trademark red-and-blue spandex, was sticking his ass out to the dangers of the world, to the danger that Deadpool himself posed, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Not when there were innocent people whose lives were in danger. He did a little salute to the cameras that had diverted the focus of the story from the flames to him, then shot a string of web to the side of the building before launching himself to the building.

Peter smashed through the window feet-first, raining broken glass shards everywhere, then rolled to a stop on the hallway of the topmost floor.

He was in.

Wade had woken up in the middle of the night, needing a drink. He blearily reached over the other side of the bed, seeking the reassuring warmth from Peter’s body and wanting to snuggle into it until he fell back to sleep. The only thing that greeted him was a blank space where Peter should have been, the sheets and pillows that Peter usually occupied only giving little of the residual warmth from the man.

“Sweet cheeks?” he asked in the dark, checking if he was in the room. He frowned when he didn’t find him, then sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. By instinct, his eyes swept the whole room to take inventory. Aside from Peter not in the room, almost everything seemed to be in place – the windows to the bedroom were closed shut, the windowsill dry and protected from the torrential rain outside; there was a faint light emanating from the street lamps outside, illuminating the dorky posters Peter had, as well as the assorted knick-knacks on his desk.

“Wait a minute.”

In an instant, Wade was up from their beds that they had pushed together. He hovered above Peter’s desk, squinting at the contents spilled over the wooden surface.

One, two, three, four.

There were only four of those mismatched film canisters Peter arranged meticulously into a diamond on his desk. Wade always took notice of them, but never really gotten around to ask anything about them. Peter would slip into a pensive mood every now and then for the past months, and he would always fiddle with a fifth film canister, which he usually placed in the middle. Wade wasn’t the prying type; he didn’t really want to be snooping around Peter’s stuff, and he would always come back to reality by dinnertime, so he never really bothered to find out what was in his head, or what was in that small container.

Right now, with that specific fifth container missing from its usual place, these questions were burning in his mind. It might be nothing, but Wade’s instinct were on fire.

“Peter? Peter, where are you, hon?” He called out, a bubble of panic rising in his chest as he strode out to the darkness of the living room. Wade knew that something was very off. No Peter in the kitchen, no Peter in the bathroom. No lights were on, and no furniture was out of place. It looked like his apartment in the darkness before Peter moved in – only much cleaner, more organized, and incredibly lonely. A sinking feeling settled deep in his gut at the implications, and the boxes were online again to voice them out.

{He’s done it.}

[He’s left us.]

Wade shook his head, in denial. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, believe it. “No, no, that can’t be." 

{What, you think he wouldn’t do it?}

[God, you thought he would stay?]

{Well, to be honest, we did, too.}

[Yeah, we were hoping our Petey-pie wouldn’t turn tail and leave so soon.] 

{We were kinda hoping for more, action, yknow?}

[We never really let him top us.]

{God, I could just imagine how good that could have been.}

[Oh well, no turning back now.]

{No more perfect ass.}

[No more perfect body.]

{No more perfect face.}

[No mor perfect... everything.]

{Good-bye, dork --}

“SHUT UP!” He yelled, and as if taken by surprise, both of his boxes had suddenly fallen silent. He didn’t like how final they made everything sound. Surely… surely Peter hadn’t broken his promise mere hours after literally sealing it with a kiss?

Suddenly the intimate moments they shared in the shower seemed so far away, as if it happened years ago. Had Wade known this was the last night he'd ever spend with Peter, he would've made it more memorable. He wouldn't be an idiot to ramble and spill his heart out to the man, to share his future plans with him. Peter called the place home. He had named it so, because Wade was there. He said so. And then he just upped and left like a one-night-stand in the middle of the night.

No, he shook his head. This wasn’t the time to sulk and mope around. Wade grit his teeth and paced the length of the living room, trying to get any more clues, to try and make some sense with a puzzle that he had far too few pieces to even start solving. There was nothing else in the whole apartment that could give him any more indication on Peter’s whereabouts.

 Squish.

{Ew, what the fuck?}

[Did we shit on the floor again while we were sleeping?]

{…Did we ever do that?}

[Well, I mean, I guess so. I think. I wouldn’t know at this point.] 

“Motherfuck…” Wade turned on the light, feeling annoyance seep into his already pounding head when he felt his socked foot go soggy. He glared at the puddle of water on the floor and took off his soaked sock and its dry pair, throwing it on the floor to soak the liquid up. Great, just fucking great. Now he was barefoot on the cold floor after stepping onto a puddle in his favorite pair of wooly socks.

Now that he realized it, the room was cold. Wade went to the far wall, checking their meter if the gas heating was working as he had hoped. The numbers were still rolling, so that wasn’t the problem. He was shivering now, in nothing but his boxers and the thin t-shirt he slept in. An icy cold breeze swept in, making him cross his arms across his chest for warmth.

Wait. A breeze?

He turned to see the source of the cold draft coming into the apartment. The living room window was wide open, letting air and water from outdoors in. He stuck his neck out, checking the dark and narrow back-alley three floors down. All he saw was the usual overflowing garbage bins below.

[No Peter.]

{Did he climb out the window?}

[That would be fucking insane. He doesn’t even know our footholds. Hell, even Spidey didn’t know when he came by.]

Wade hummed, deep in thought. “Even if he did, rain would make the holds slippery.”

{He’d 100% slip and fall to his death.}

[Not death, specifically. Might've been saved by those trash bags.]

{That would mean he'd fallen at a ridiculous angle, possible head-first.}

[Wind?]

"I highly doubt."

{You’re right. Er, light concussion, broken limbs…}

[Paralyzation is a big possibility at that point.]

“There’s no sign of him downstairs. If he did slip, we’d see a body.” Wade grumbled, voicing aloud his worst suspicions. He didn’t know what was worse – expecting Peter’s body crumpled in a heap in the rain, or the thought of him risking serious injury just to leave him and his apartment. He went to check the door and, sure enough, the front door was still locked from the inside.

{Which means Peter definitely left through the window.}

[Defying logic and physics.]

{And reality.}

“Where the fuck is he?”

He heard a litany of sirens, and Wade craned his neck out the window once more. One after another, firetrucks with flashing red lights blared past their building. He frowned, having an odd feeling in his stomach. Call it instinct, but whatever it was, it told him that wherever the fire was – it was where he needed to be. He was around 75 percent sure that Peter was there as well.

“Suit up,” he whispered, running back to the bedroom to get his suit out from the closet.

Peter had found the survivors, families jampacked together like sardines in three adjacent flats at the far end of the hall on the top floor. He had opened all the doors to the apartments and went through them as quick as he could with being thorough, his voice echoing in the sweltering hot mess. The flames had not yet reached their floor physically, but the heat was starting to get worse. Time could only tell when the flames would consume through more flammable material and decide to take the last floor to itself.

A boy that Peter guessed was around ten or eleven years old answered the door when he knocked on it. He thanked his lucky stars that he finally found the families. He grinned as the young boy’s eyes widened when he realized who was on the other side of the door.

“MA!” He called, shaking where he stood. “MA,COME QUICK! IT’S SPIDER-MAN!”

“Kid, I know this is a lot, but I need you to focus.” He said quietly, kneeling down to be at eye-level with him. “I need you to tell everyone that Spider-Man is here, okay? I’ll help you get out, this building is gonna burn out and it might explode any minute.”

That made the boy pale, and his shivering turned from excitement to fear. “W-will we be okay?”

Peter smiled sympathetically and ruffled his hair. “I promise.” He crossed his chest with a finger. “Cross my heart. Okay? Where is everybody?”

The boy led him inside, calling out to his family and everyone else. They were all sitting down on the floor, especially the women, children and the elderly. The men were by the walls, looking for viable escape routes like the windows. Peter assured everyone as quickly as possible and made his way to the where the men were standing guard.

He craned his neck out of a window, feeling heat sear through his mask. He was already sweating underneath all that spandex, and the heat was just getting more and more uncomfortable. He had to think of something, and fast, or else their already limited options might be reduced even more.

He turned to one of the men beside him. “You.”

“Yes!”

“What’s your name?”

The man blinked owlishly at him. “G-George, sir.”

“Alright, George. I need you to keep calm and have a level head, okay?” The man nodded eagerly, and Peter smiled. “Good. Now, do you know any other exit aside from the front door of the building where we can escape?" 

“No, sir, I don’t.” George bit his lower lip before continuing. “I mean, there are other exits, for sure. I mean, we do have a fire exit staircase. But by the time everyone knew what was going on, the fire almost ate through the first floor already. The families staying in the bottom floor barely made it up here; they were the ones who actually woke the whole building up. We’ve been stuck here ever since.”

“What about the rooftop? Do you not have access to that?”

“We don’t, sir; strictly management only. Keys are with the manager who stays outside of the building.” George frowned. “I saw him locking it before, though. Nothing but a chain and a padlock."

“Alright, that’s good enough for now. Lead me to the rooftops and I’ll see what I can do from there.” Peter’s mind was racing, already formulating a plan. He turned back to the mass of people, eyes trained on him. “Alright, gang, I know this is gonna be tough, but we have to move. Upstairs, let’s buy some more time. This floor’s gonna be in flames soon enough, let’s move. Follow me!”

 George ran past as fast as he could heading to the door accessing the rooftop. Peter followed, then put his shoulder against the door, started pushing. There was a small creak, rusted metal against rusted metal, but nothing more.

George looked at him, a bit panicky. “It won’t budge – “

“Help me, then,” Peter hissed. “All of the men, get your shoulders in here and push!”

Five more burly men jostled themselves to the front and heaved, their bodies crashing into the door in unison with a loud metal bang. It didn’t open, but Peter heard a small involuntary screech of metal.

His heart was racing in his chest. “It’s working! Again!” They all stepped back and rammed against the door, their combined body weight slamming into the metal door. He could hear it, could feel it budging bit by bit.

The fourth time their shoulders hit the door, it finally gave way enough that the door finally came out of the doorframe. It was held fast, the opening narrow, however, with the chain and padlock George had told him about earlier. The men pushed it to the extreme and Peter stepped back before running toward the door, kicking it open. The chain and padlock broke free and landed with a satisfying clang to the floor.

The dark and narrow stairwell was thankfully separated from the main fire exit stairwell on the other side of the hall, so this exit was safe. “Go, go, up to the roof!” He called to everyone. Peter had to direct everyone to take the steps carefully so as not to cause a stampede, before following them up on the rooftop themselves.

Everyone spilled over on the rooftop, craning their heads. They called out to the people downstairs, waving their arms to gain their attention. The cameras finally turned to them, and there was relieved cheers and applause from the crowd below.

Peter turned back to George, who was carrying his daughter, wide-eyed and quiet and clinging to his shirt. His heart broke a little, before giving her a small wave to reassure her. “I’ll be right back, alright? I need to tell the marshalls and plan with them. I can’t save you all alone.”

George nodded, face set seriously, then his eyes looked back. “Oh, hey, you’re not alone now.”

“What?”

There was a heavy thump behind him, followed by a pained groan. Peter turned to see who it was. His body grew hot from relief, then cold with dread as he recognized the familiar red-and-black leather suit he saw everyday in his closet.

“Deadpool?”

Wade looked up at him, and there was a moment when Peter realized he hadn’t seen that mask on his face for weeks. It felt weird seeing it again on the man’s face, especially with the mask material stretch cartoonishly. Peter knew that he was grinning like a lovesick puppy underneath that mask. He had seen it way too many times - both as Spider-Man, as Peter.

“Long time, no see, Spidey-babe.”

Chapter Text

Peter couldn't think, couldn't move from his position on the rooftop. The man in the red-and-black suit was waving to the little kids, high-fiving them and cooing at the babies in their respective mothers' arms as though he didn't have guns strapped to his thighs, katanas lodged in his back, and a literal firestorm under their feet.

"Are you another Spider-Man?" One of the little kids asked, smiling for the first time ever since the fire broke out.

Deadpool laughed at that, ruffling his hair. "That's real flattering, but naw, kid. I sure wish I was. But I'm just De -" he paused for a beat, then continued. "I mean, I'm just 'Pool. Mister Pool."

The little kid made a face. "Like a swimming pool?"

"Exactamente, la piscina," He replied, the Spanish rolling off his tongue quite easily. Peter fought the urge to shiver in delight at hearing it. This was not the right fucking time to get horny! Before he could add more, though, he ruffled the kid's hair and stood up. "Now be a good little boy for your mama and papa and behave, okay? I'll help Mister Spidey to get you back down to safety."

That sentence finally got into Peter's head, shaking him from his stunned stupor.

"R-Right," he stammered out. He realized that Deadpool must've thought everything was exactly the same, only it was three or four months ago that they last saw each other. They'd go on patrols together, eat together, banter, bring down bad guys. That must've been the norm. And Peter couldn't really blame him for thinking everything was still the same. He had gone completely off the grid and left him hanging without any details - no who, no where, no why. 

Did Peter even want this? He looked up Deadpool, his wide array of weapons strapped to his body proudly on display. A few months ago, Peter would have turned a blind eye on them as long as the merc didn't use them (or, at least, used them only for show). But now? Peter felt like he was going to be dead any second if he so much as breathed wrong around the guy. 

No, Peter thought, shaking his head. He didn't want this, that was certain. Peter wanted desperately to run away, because the thought of being around Wade made him want to melt in a puddle on his lap, kiss his frowns away and maybe do some hard petting and necking. He was now having a hard time compartmentalizing -- Wade was Wade, his flatmate (and definitely something else, but he didn't know how to broach the subject of labels; he just knew they were exclusive), and Deadpool as Deadpool, the Merc With a Mouth, the man in the suit in front of him, the man who would eagerly sell his secret identity to the devil. He didn't want to end up a casualty, not tonight, not ever. Not in the hands of Wade. 

But the little kid looked up at them both, hope and happiness radiating from his little chubby face, his cheeks glowing at the light of the firetrucks. There were tear tracks that have long since dried, and Peter felt so bad at the thought of potentially letting him down.

He sighed inwardly, wanting the urge to scream into his arm to let his frustrations out. This was not the time for personal problems. He crouched down and ruffled the kids' hair. "Okay, kiddo, you gotta listen to me. I need you to take care of your family, alright? Be a big boy, that's it. Just for tonight."

"But I am a big boy!" He huffed, puffing his chest out and scrunching his face to look serious. Deadpool just aww'ed beside him in a high-pitched voice; not derisive, but ultimately charmed. " I'm seven-and-a-half!"

"That's a good age," Deadpool said helpfully.

Peter ignored his quip and just tilted his head. "So, little man, ready to receive your orders?"

His whole heart just about exploded when the adorable little child had the strength to make a salute. "Yes, sir!"

"Brilliant." He found himself smiling under the mask, because this little baby boy was someone he could see saving lives when he grew up. He could see the tell-tale twinkle in his eyes. "Okay, so what I need you to do is to round up everyone and bring them to that corner of the rooftop." He pointed to a far corner. "Okay? Just for a little while. Mister Pool and I need to talk and come up with a plan."

"In the meantime, bub, have this." Deadpool produced a star sticker from one of the many bags hooked onto his utility belt. He took off the adhesive and plastered it onto the child's chest. Peter nearly giggled at the text, which read "Great Work, Officer!" because, really, it was so, so typically Wade for him to save a sticker from what he guessed was an educational tour in a police precinct. "Go on then."

"Yes, sir!" The little boy squeaked and waddled off to do his mission.

"Kids, am I right?" Deadpool said in such a charmed voice as Peter stood up and went to the opposite corner of the rooftop. The merc followed suit, arms and hands waving around animatedly as he continued talking. "They're so cute and all, you'd just wanna hug 'em and never let go. Wind 'em up and watch 'em go, look at that little man ordering everyone around. In single-file, no less! I-"

"Deadpool, focus." He said sternly, turning around to face him. He didn't have time for any distractions, not even for the quips and banter they would usually throw at each other, back and forth. He pinched the bridge of his nose to abate the impending headache blooming in his head. "Look, I get it, I've been away for a while, we should catch up, yadda yadda yadda, but there's literally a ticking time bomb under our feet, there are 30 people counting on us to live another day. The fire marshalls are useless unless they can put the fire out, which, news flash, they can't. And they're worried that the whole building's gonna blow because of the gas lines. Now will you shut you piehole for the next 2 minutes and think of a plan?"

"Damn, Spidey, alright." Deadpool mumbled, raising his hands high as if to concede. That made Peter smart with embarrassment, because seeing Deadpool concede made him feel bad. He never wanted to tell Wade to shut up, not even in his most annoying moments, but he swallowed down his instinct to immediately apologize. "You didn't have to go that far, I understand what we're going against."

"Do you?"

"YES!" The mercenary huffed indignantly. "I'm a trained assassin, and even a damn caveman knows what fire is. Fire brings food."

"Deadpool!"

"And warmth."

"For fuck's sake."

"And is dangerous." Deadpool scoffed, his expressive mask showing that he was rolling his eyes. God, how does he even make it do that?! "Now what do you have in mind?"

"I-I don't know." Peter bit his lip, checking out the side of the building. "I don't have any clue, I'm lost on this."

"Then let little ol' Wadeykins help." He hummed and jumped, his feet landing squarely on the precipice of the building. He almost fell forward too, and Peter was hit with a wave of nausea seeing him lean so far before righting himself. "Phew! That was close."

Peter could hear someone screaming from below, a high, shrill sound that made him wince and his migraine grow steadily worse. A light was shone on Deadpool's profile, and he raised his arms to calm them down. But the fire marshalls were thinking he was either a jumper that could influence other families to jump, or that he was there to make things more complicated than it already is. "Stop!" He yelled, waving his arms. "He's with me, he's helping!"

"I can handle this, sweet cheeks," Wade hummed, sounding amused. He rolled his mask up to his nose and gave a loud smack right on top of Peter's masked head which gave him pause. "That's for being such a cutiepie spider. But find a safe place, preferably at the back. You've got this."

He cleared his throat and looked up at Wade's smiling face. "Right." He said, jogging to the other side of the building. Wade was right. There was no time to be distracted, and Peter wasn't doing anyone a favor blushing and fanning himself over Wade being all hot and responsible and dependable. "Think, think, think..." He mumbled to himself, checking the back of the building. His mind kept racing, trying to find an escape route. 

And finally, he got one. "Deadpool, here!!" He yelled,  already trying to work up a plan. In a few seconds the merc was beside him, leaning over his shoulder to look at what he's been pointing at. "It's a little cramped, but maybe we can get them down here one at a time. There's got to be those metal stairs for the external fire escape - "

"I already checked that, and they're bogus." Wade mumbled, shaking his head to stop the train of thought before it became a solid basis for everything else Peter had planned. "Couldn't get up to the roof that way. I had to parkour from the building nearby, hurt like a right bitch in the knees when I tried that superhero landing."

"Fuck." He growled in frustration, hitting the edge of the building's half-wall. Peter looked down at his hands, feeling helpless, then saw his micro-web shooters gleaming in the moonlight. Suddenly, the gears in his mind started cranking. "Deadpool."

"Hm?"

"Do you fit in that cramped space?"

"Uh." Deadpool said brightly, then looked down to check. "It's a tight squeeze, but I'll manage."

"Great." Peter was already adjusting the web-shooters, checking out the best possible angle. "I need you down there."

"Alright. Wait, doing what?!"

"I'm gonna make a slide using my webs." He said, but already he was seeing holes in his plans. "But my web-shooters might not have a lot of fluid left. Plus with that sharp descent, there's so little room for error, and we don't have much time to think. But I'm gonna try and get everyone to safety -- "

"Webs, look at the space. That's a near-vertical incline - "

"Which is why I need you down there." He looked up at Deadpool seriously, turning his shoulders so he would face him. "You'll be the one to catch them."

"Spidey, I don't know --"

"Please," Peter finally begged, squeezing his shoulders tightly. He hated feeling so helpless. So many things could go wrong, but Peter was afraid that the more they were delaying, the more likely the building was about to either cave in or blow up. "Please... I don't know what else to do."

The red-and-black mask was unhelpfully unexpressive, making Peter itch with tension and inaction. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Deadpool relented. "Fine, but you best get your math right."

"Don't worry." He smiled weakly as Deadpool started scaling the building to land on his feet and already working out the angles he'd need to shoot his webs to get a functioning slide that would hold everyone's weight and not break with the heat emanating from the open windows on various floors.

[...]

{...}

"Out with it."

[Something's definitely off with Spidey.]

Deadpool sighed, tapping his foot a little impatiently to give an outlet to some nervous energy he had pent up in his body. He didn't want to think it, but the boxes were right. Something about Spider-Man was definitely off. One minute he was all up in his element, but the very second Wade dropped in beside him, he went all still and defensive, his answers clipped. Whether the decision was conscious or not, it still hurt the man's feelings that Spider-Man needed to be on guard. 

{Well hang on, we're not really sure if it's because of us.}

[Right? I mean, he said he'd be going away for a while. That means he must've been up to something shady.]

{Or someone's been threatening him.}

[That could be it!]

"Weren't we the ones contracted to actually kill him?" Wade mumbled under his breath, trying not to be so loud as to give away anything.

[To be fair, we tried talking you out of it.]

{And you basically signed the contract out of spite.}

[You're the shittiest person, DP.]

"Oh yeah, well, tell me something I don't know." He sighed and rubbed his masked face with his hand. God, he didn't know it was all going to be so tiring. The lying, the deceit. Here he was, trying to cover Peter and Spidey from the shitstorm that he himself summoned on all of them while trying to not give away anything that there was, in fact, a shitstorm heading their way in the first place. 

"How is it down there?" Spidey called from the roof, waving his arm to get his attention. "Is it sturdy?"

"Plenty!" He said, plucking the webs on the makeshift slide that Spider-Man already established. It was a dangerous risk, what with the close distance between the buildings, the sharp incline from the roof to the small alleyway that he was waiting in. If the residents weren't careful enough, they'd catch air at the middle of the slide and possibly hurt themselves while going down. If they waited for too long, the webs might break. Even though he knew about the webs' tensile strength - something about redesigning his webs' organic matter right down to its genetic structure, blah, blah, blah, some science-y stuff that Wade knew Peter was more perceptive to than he - no doubt Spidey already thought that it would still be a risk what with the fire not dying down inside the building. One thing was sure -- they don't have much time, and they needed to get going. "Go on and tell them to slide down, I'll catch them!"

And he did. One by one, except for mothers with young children, they slid down the web-slide of dreams (or nightmares; depending on who you're asking) and right into the arms of a mercenary. It was comical, but he didn't want to overthink it. "Over there, to your right," Wade directed, telling them to go around the building to be assessed and accounted for by the fire marshalls and the safety officials already on the scene. Wade had notified them of their plan while Spidey was busy making the slide, and so were already expecting them.

"That's the last of them!" Spidey called as George slid down and Wade directed him to the throngs of people already cheering at the front of the building.

A wave of relief washed over Wade's body. Their plan had worked!

"Then get down from there already, it's dangerous!" Wade yelled. When Spidey still didn't resurface, he started getting worried. "Webs?"

"Hang on, I...! I got caught!"

"You what?!"

"What's going on down there?" One of the fire marshalls went in, shining a light in Deadpool's face. "Where's Spider-Man?"

"He's still up there, I don't know!" Deadpool was starting to get worried. They don't have much time, and what did he mean by getting caught? "Webs, talk to me!"

"My suit, I-It got caught on a piece of metal --"

"Motherfucker!" He swore under his breath, already checking out if there were any footholds he could use at the side of the building. This has got to be the worst timing for a fashion emergency. He turned to the fire marshall, who was still standing there, the confusion and helplessness in the current situation written plainly on his face. "Look, get out of here and take care of those families. We've got this. Hang on, Webs, I'm coming to get yo-"

But there was a whistling that Wade only caught mid-sentence, something that was like gas escaping an enclosed area. Wade only had time to take cover and use himself basically as a meat shield to cover the fire marshall standing beside him before a wave of heat and loose shrapnel overwhelmed his whole body. But he couldn't do anything, no, he couldn't move until all of it was over, and it went on for almost an eternity before finally subsiding.

When the initial explosion had died down, Wade unwrapped his limbs around the marshall pinned to the ground underneath him. He felt satisfied that the man, quivering like a leaf, only got some minor scratches and burns. The smell of burnt flesh and singed hair, plus the pain on his back and legs and arms, only confirmed that he had taken most of the attack. 

"H-Hey..." The marshall finally said, coming out of his mum phase as Wade groaned and tested out his body, trying to assess just how much damage he had taken. "T-thanks, but you're --"

"I'll heal." He mumbled, swearing up and down all the gods he could think of at the top of his head. He knew he did the right thing, but he had the right to complain, because every damn limb in his body fucking hurt. "Look, get back out there. The important thing is everyone's safe --"

"I know, but --"

"Look, you're a fire marshall, I get it, but I'm fine. I've got this healing factor --"

"No, there's still -- "

"What do you want?!" Wade demanded, spitting the words harshly. But the three words that the fire marshall sent back sent him reeling.

"Where's Spider-Man?!"