Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Some days are sucky. Sometimes a span of 24 hours can be just the absolute worst and there’s nothing you can feasibly do about it.

This is something Peter Parker has learned time and time again. It turns out having superhuman spider powers doesn’t make you immune to the simple fact that life sometimes spins a wheel and you win the jackpot prize of negative luck with a bonus add on of horrible coincidence. Peter’s not a happy contestant right now.

He woke up late this morning. That was the start of it. His alarm hadn’t gone off because his phone died. Recently his dollar store 6ft long charging cord has been acting finicky. It apparently made the decision not to charge his phone last night because of a slight wrong angle.

He didn’t have breakfast either because he’s been procrastinating making a grocery run. However, this didn’t stop him from excitedly grabbing a Pop-Tarts box before realizing that he left it empty in the cupboard.

All of this made him late to his new job as a lab assistant at Horizon Labs. A wonderful development after all of his effort over the past few weeks to make a good impression. On top of this he received a barrage of aggressive messages from his boss at his Daily Bugle internship reminding him that he’s late on article revisions. He turned them in with less than stellar work (praying that he didn’t miss any typos while he skimmed it) during his lunch break. This means that he only got a few bites of his convenience store sandwich before returning to work.

After that he decided to attempt the grocery run because food is sadly necessary to human function even if detrimental to bank accounts. Three blocks before his apartment some cruel god sent a sudden downpour to the streets of Manhattan. Right on top of Peter. Along with his three bulky bags of groceries packed in paper bags (because of course he forgot his reusable ones and didn’t think it was necessary to spend money on a couple more for this one trip). You can guess how that went. It was not swimmingly, contrary to the weather.

Usually on days like this all Peter needs to do is pull on his mask and bound into the glowing skyline of New York City. If Peter Parker is having a bad day it doesn’t mean that Spider-man has to. It’s a sentiment he’s lived by for almost ten years now. Although stressful, life-threatening, and usually accompanied with borderline soul-crushing expectations and responsibilities, being Spider-man can pull Peter out of a funk pretty quick a lot of the time. It’s interesting how saving lives can make you feel like your life has purpose. Who would have thought?

Turns out that bad luck has discovered Peter Parker’s alter-ego.

Someone in the building across from him was hosting a party with all of their windows open and even a few people hanging out on the fire escape. This meant Peter couldn’t risk swinging out of his apartment in full Spider-man gear without risk being caught and instead had to walk a few blocks to a damp alleyway and change behind a dumpster. If only all of the critics that say he does it for the glory could see him now.

Once in full hero-mode, he successfully stopped a mugging (yay!) but then realized that after he gave incorrect directions to the victim (boo!) and wasn’t able to track them down again (double boo!).

All of this led him to where he is right now: a warehouse on the piers. Recently he’s been tracking a drug smuggling operation and thought well today can’t get any worse so why not throw myself into a large open building with few hiding places probably filled with criminals who probably have guns who probably would take any opportunity they could to shoot said guns at their friendly neighborhood Spider-man.

He’s seeing the fault in his logic now. The fault is there’s no logic.

“You stay put, ok?” Peter winks as he shoots a web, sticking one of the smugglers to a shipping container. Stick around , that’s what he should have said. Damn it, even his quips are lacking today.

What isn’t lacking, however, is the lackeys. The warehouse must be filled with at least 30 smugglers. It’s hard to get exact numbers when you have to constantly flip and swing around a warehouse dodging bullets.

“Who hired you guys because damn.” Peter’s vice echoes through the empty space of the building as he finds temporary solace behind one of the few stacks of shipping containers. “They must be loaded, you have a whole crew here. I hope the pay is over minimum wage because clearly whoever your employer is not strapped for cash to be able to hire this many henchmen for one warehouse.”

His hiding place is ruined as a smuggler (probably indeed getting paid minimum wage if not less) rounds the corner. Peter’s hair stands on end and his chest fills with tension as his spidey senses alert him of the danger. He swiftly webs a nearby wall and swings to safety just before the shipping container behind him is turned to swiss cheese.

“You moron!” A large, burly looking smuggler grabs the shoulder of the trigger happy one. He looms over his smaller coworker and Peter guesses that he’s getting paid a little bit more than minimum wage. “Boss said no lethal shots, he wants the bug alive.”

“Spiders are arachnids, actually!” Peter calls from his perch on the wall. This earns him a spray of bullets (aimed at his arms and legs mostly) to dodge and are those tranquilizer darts? Peter isn’t sure if these low-level guys know that a normal amount of tranquilizer won’t do the job and he instead needs an amount large enough to kill a horse to properly knock him out but he decides not to risk testing out their Spider-man trivia knowledge. Alive though, huh? That’s a development. Not your average drug smuggling operation then.

Peter swings to another spot on the wall partially obstructed by more shipping containers and pins down another two smugglers while on his journey. Walls are definitely the way to go opposed to on the ground where 30 or so people are waiting to tackle him. From this spot he has a view of one of the smugglers he just webbed, stuck to the ground by his chest.

He can hear the sound of the other lackeys shuffling to get to him. That leaves him a few more seconds of planning before another barrage of tranquilizers. His planning is interrupted when the just-webbed smuggler catches his eye. The man reaches into a pocket on his vest and pulls out a small vial of orange liquid. He unscrews the top and sprinkles it over the webbing which instantly starts to sizzle and disintegrate.

Peter leans over to watch the smuggler easily pull the disintegrating web off of him and stand up. He leans too far over however, and his spidey senses tingle to alert him of an oncoming tranq dart. He pulls back to his (relatively) safe wall spot as the dart lodges itself into the wall.

“Hey, that’s not allowed!” Spidey says to the now fully back on his feet smuggler. In response the man pulls out a gun and points it at the hero. Peter groans. This day is truly all shits and no giggles.

He swings across the roof of the warehouse, surveying the scene while dodging more attacks. All of the lackeys he had managed to immobilize were back up and running, leaving him with zero, zilch, nothing to show for since he made the dumbass decision to take on an entire smuggling operation on his own on a random Tuesday with no prior planning. He definitely has to adjust his strategy. That is, come up with one in the first place.

This isn’t even just a now problem though because whatever this dissolvant is that these nobodies are using was clearly developed specifically for his webs. Now he has to go through the trouble of getting his hands on the solution and reworking his webbing formula to be resistant to it (which will take who knows how long factoring in trial and error). On top of all of that now he has to worry about who is supplying these random drug dealers with all-in-one webbing dissolvant along with who is setting aside time to take up a hobby in anti-spider-man mad science. Is today a nightmare? It would make his life so much easier if Peter were to wake up from a stress dream covered in sweat right now. But alas, this is real and he’s stuck covered in sweat the normal way.

He webs down a few more lackeys while traversing the ceiling, more to buy himself time than anything else. He keeps his eyes peeled and then swings to the ground at just the right moment.

“Ha!” Peter deftly shoots a thin web and catches one of the small vials as a goon pulls it out to free his coworker. “Better use tonight wisely boys because next time your little potions won’t work!” He tucks the vial in the waistband of his suit for safe keeping and gets back to the fight with a newfound confidence. At least he can rework his webbing and this mess won’t happen again. Hopefully. Recently Peter’s been trying not to jinx himself. Everything is going about the same as before he started making the mental effort.

One of the men, a particularly large one (the same one that chastised his underling before, that one), literally growls and lunges at him. What have they been feeding this guy? Damn.

Peter swiftly drops to the ground and trips him, the bad guy falling face-first to the hard concrete floor of the shipping warehouse. He shoots four webs, immobilizing each of his wrists and ankles.

That’s the strategy for now: get them in positions where they have no way to dissolve the webs and hopefully fend them all off quick enough that they can’t get rid of each other’s. A lot more effort than normal but the night just needs to be over at this point.

“Oh, watch where you step big guy,” Peter says, wincing as if the trip caused him anything but satisfaction. He turns to see a group of men rushing at him.

“That really the best you got?” A voice echoes through the warehouse.

Peter tries to pinpoint it’s source but his spidey senses tingle and for obvious reasons that takes precedence. He dodges two bullets and a dart and flips a guy over his head in quick succession. Another goon readies to come at him with a taser but before Peter has the opportunity to immobilize him, a bullet impales the side of his head. It emerges from the other side along with bits of brain matter.

Peter’s breath catches in his throat for a moment. A few specs of red dot the lenses of his mask.

The rest of the henchmen are taken aback as well, most stand in frozen shock and a few even making the quick decision to bail.

Peter’s head snaps to the source of the shot.

Holding a still-smoking pistol is a man in a deep red suit. It’s lined in black and extremely beat up, various small tears reveal slivers of scarred pink skin. The man’s muscles are seemingly fighting for freedom from the leather and spandex. The top of his mask has a small extra bulb, a design mistake either intentional or not Peter can’t tell. What’s most concerning though is the entire armory he’s carrying. Along with two katanas strapped to his back, he has a frankly ridiculous amount of guns on his person and, despite just painting the floorboards red, Peter can tell the man is smiling beneath his mask. A development so perfectly terrible it could only happen today.

“Hiya!” Deadpool says in a bubbly manner. He then turns to aim at Peter’s head and pulls the trigger.

In that moment Peter expects his hairs to stand on end, for that rush of feeling that he’s accustomed to when being shot at, stabbed, electrocuted, you name it, but his spidey senses are silent.

His trained reflexes still fire though and he shoots at the rafters, safely swinging to a wall.

A million thoughts fly through his head quicker than he can comprehend. He hears it before he turns to see it: the body of another man, one who was right behind him, falls to the ground. The giant machete in his hand clatters and echoes.

What kind of drug smuggling operation supplies their goons with guns, tranquilizer darts, tasers, machetes, AND mysterious web dissolvent? Very odd decisions. No, Peter, that’s not important right now. What’s important is the murderer in the red suit who is tripping up my spidey sense. The same murderer that apparently just saved me from beheading via machete? I mean he probably didn’t save me save me considering my senses would have fired before the machete could Ned Stark me. But they didn’t warn me about the bullet aimed centimeters from my face? Weird. Not interesting weird, well, yes interesting weird, but more concerning weird. More ‘what the fuck this could actually be very dangerous’ weird.

Deadpool is looking up at him, the two staring at each other from across the warehouse for a moment as the rest of the goons scramble towards their new (easier to reach) opponent.

“Spider-man, you have no clue how BIG of a fan I am!” Deadpool puts one of his hands to his chest in a heartfelt gesture while shooting another man in the shoulder with the other. He also kicks at a different smuggler trying to sneak up behind him, all without his eyes leaving Spidey.

“I hope you know I wasn’t trying to hurt you, I wouldn’t dare. You are such an inspiration!“ Wade turns behind him and snaps the neck of the other goon all the while the rest of the men try (and succeed in) filling him with bullets. He doesn’t react to the metal tearing apart his chest.

Peter can’t tell if he’s being ironic or genuine in his praise but knows that either way, him being here is not good. On top of that he feels like he’s about to throw up. Probably a combination of seeing someone’s brains explode from their head and staring at the multitude of bullet wounds Deadpool isn’t reacting to and hearing the crunch of a neck being snapped. No, no, not the time to freak out. It’s time to move. Get out of your little corner before the mercenary kills anyone else.

“I’m so sorry, where are my manners? I’m-“ Deadpool is cut off by a web pulling the gun from his hand. It flies across the warehouse and secures itself to the wall.

“Deadpool.” Peter swings down just outside the action, a few henchmen on the perimeter between him and his ‘fan’. “I’ve heard of you.”

“Oooh, my reputation precedes me! All good things, I hope.” Deadpool blocks a few bullets with one of his katanas before cutting off one of the hands shooting at him and whipping the blade around to leave a nasty slice through another lackey’s calves. Peter webs the next goon in line to be Deadpool’s victim and pulls him back, sticking him to a shipping container with a resounding bang. He shoots another web at the wrist of the smuggler Deadpool just disarmed (dis-handed?) to stop him from bleeding out.

“I’ve heard you’re a loud-mouthed psychopath who’s killed who knows how many people,” Peter has to dodge three more bullets and save two more possible katana victims while getting through the sentence. “So resounding reviews, really.” He was already frustrated having to fight all of these men before and now he has to do so AND save them from this lunatic? It’s almost too much. He might just walk out and catch a late movie. Well… no he won’t. He would never. But he does like to contemplate it.

“Ouch!” Deadpool feigns hurt feelings. He opens his mouth to retort but as he does a bullet flies straight into the back of his neck and through his mouth (probably his tongue too judging by how he shuts up for a moment). He doubles over for a second which gives Peter the opportunity to immobilize three more men. Deadpool straightens back up, his mouth already healing from the wound.

“Motherfucker! That hurt, asshat,” Deadpool turns to the culprit in a terrifying rage. “Can’t you see I’m trying to make a good impression on Spidey?” He grunts as he sheathes his katana in the man’s rib cage and slices down through his pelvis.

Peter looks on in abject horror as the man falls to the ground. He would have tried to stop the slaughter but had to dodge another two bullets and immobilize four more men in between him and Deadpool. He was able to do all of it but not in time to stop the disemboweling.

Now it’s just the two of them. The henchmen that didn’t run away at Deadpool’s arrival are webbed down around the warehouse. Apparently they don’t see the need to use any more of the dissolvent, probably in fear of the new alternative: death by trained assassin.

“You know what would make a great impression?” Peter asks. He hates how his voice sounds slightly wobbly from the fear and adrenaline and hopes it isn’t as obvious to the man casually shaking blood off of his katana. “Not killing anybody.” Spidey puts his hands out as if trying to calm a wild animal.

Deadpool is distracted by the hole in the mouth of his mask. He sticks his tongue out slightly and wiggles it around.

“Give me one sec,” He takes both his hands and rips the hole bigger, allowing it to reveal from the bottom of his nose to just under his chin. “Ah, so much better. It’s time for a new suit anyways. What were you saying?” His smile shows through the bottom of his mask and it churns Peter’s stomach. How can he smile after gutting someone like a fish?

“They’re all taken care of. There’s no need to kill anyone else,” Peter narrows his eyes and remains in a ready position. There’s no way he’s trusting Deadpool. He could easily flick a switch and decide he’s the type of fan that wants Spider-man’s head mounted on a wall. This is especially worrying with his spidey sense on the fritz. Why- How could it be on the fritz?

Deadpool looks around the warehouse.

The smugglers are in equal parts unconscious or webbed. That is except the three lying on the ground dead. Peter is trying not to look at them. Or step on them.

“Perf!” Deadpool sheathes his katana back in its holster. “I was sent to take down this operation and it looks pretty taken down. Great job, partner!” He takes a few steps towards Peter and raises his fist. Peter flinches and guards for a second before realizing he’s being offered a fist bump.

“Woah, ok jumpy,” Deadpool pats Peter on the head and he swats his hand away. How is he doing that? If his damn senses were working he would have been able to stop the hand before it landed on his head easy. No problem. “Is that the type of spider you are? Jumping spider? That tracks with those glutes you’ve got.” Deadpool is looking him up and down now, turning behind him to get a good look at his butt during the glute comment.

“W-what? No!” Why am I stammering?

“C’mon Spidey, don’t be humble. You have a stellar ass and you should be embracing it,” Deadpool is treating this like a pep talk, fully grabbing Peter’s shoulders and talking way too close to his face.

“No, jesus, that’s not what I’m talking about,” Peter protests. He lightly pushes Deadpool off of his person but lightly with super-strength causes Pool to stumble back a bit. Peter doesn’t feel guilty. “I’m in no way your partner.”

“Ok, whatever you say buddy, want to grab some dinner after a hard day’s work of punching baddies?” Deadpool starts to saunter towards the door of the warehouse. The one he left open when he galavanted in and screwed everything up, leaving a perfect window for all of NYC to witness his crimes. “I’m feeling Mexican or maybe Thai-“

“Some dinner?” Peter is speechless. He’s never speechless. He’s famously speech-full. He can, however, feel a rage bubbling inside towards this guy. Not only does he KILL people so flippantly but his damn arrogant, assuming attitude leads him to believe Peter would want to get TACOS with him afterward?

“Whoops did I say date? It doesn’t have to be a date, I mean, unless you want it to be. I’m not opposed to the idea.” Deadpool turns around in the door and gives Peter a mischievous smile.

That’s it.

Peter fwips a web to catch Deadpool’s wrist on the doorframe.

“Kinky,” Deadpool smiles as Peter approaches him. “We can skip dinner all together and go straight to extracurriculars if you really wanna.”

Peter grabs Deadpool by a strap across his chest and pulls him close so just maybe he’ll get it into that thick skull how pissed he is.

“You just killed three people.” He narrows his eyes at the mercenary. “It isn’t funny . It isn’t quirky . You’re not making a friend, you’re making an enemy.”

Deadpool stands in silence for a moment.

Then he brings his hand up to wipe the drops of blood off of Spidey’s lenses.

“Funny,” The tone of his voice isn’t funny. It’s deeper, more threatening than the light, joking one he’s mostly maintained since appearing. “You should be more careful who you call an enemy.”

They hold like that for a moment in the tension. Peter starts mentally gearing up for a fight with the merc.

“Besides, I’m just a guy for hire. In more ways than one, hot stuff.” His voice returns to its previous grating nature as he winks and lightly smacks Spiderman’s ass, catching him off guard another time tonight. Once would have been too much. It’s getting ridiculous at this point on top of the fact that it’s already embarrassing and concerning. Peter is truly collecting the worst adjectives today. “If you’re pissed, take it up with my employer.”

Deadpool smoothly turns out of Peter’s pin to the doorframe and starts walking out of the warehouse. Spidey looks to where he webbed his hand, the few strands left clinging to the wall slowly disappearing. Peter checks the waistband of his suit, the vial of dissolvent gone. Turns out Deadpool’s joking ass slap wasn’t all that purely motivated (well, as pure as an ass slap can be motivated, that is). Not that his motivation is important at all. Focus Peter.

Deadpool is already out of sight. Peter could chase after him but thinks it better to wait until the police get to the crime scene. Prevent more smugglers from escaping and all that. Not in any way because he doesn’t want to deal with the possibility of fighting Deadpool tonight. No, his intentions are true and selfless.

Also, he can use the opportunity to try to find another vial of whatever solution the criminals got their hands on. He needs it to be able to rework the webbing or this is bound to happen again.

Peter scours the entire warehouse for a single vial (even searching the pockets of the dead bodies which makes for an awkward moment when the police arrive at the exact second Spider-man has his hand down the back jeans pocket of a corpse with a snapped neck) but comes up empty.

Fuck Deadpool. If he hadn’t had come along Peter, well, he would still be in the worst day of probably the last five years of his life, but at least he would have had a dissolvant to work off of. At least three men wouldn’t be dead. At least he wouldn’t be doubting his spidey senses.

Fuck Deadpool.

Chapter Text

People say to never meet your heroes.

Wade has determined that people are wrong. Always meet your heroes, kids, cause maybe they’ll be everything you ever thought they were plus an ass even better than the pictures.

“It’s been three days, you’re still going on about this?” Domino says in between sips of her beer.

“Three days? Come on, Dom, you know I’m going to be riding off of this high for the next five years, minimum.” Deadpool sits across from her in Sister Margaret’s Stupid Long-Ass Name Bar (Wade calls it this in his head even though he knows that by doing so he’s not shortening it in any way and, in fact, increasing its length by a syllable).

The bar is its usual dingy, run-down, violent self. Various mercenaries and other people deemed too far gone from the realm of normal society meander about and drink mediocre drinks. Wade and Domino sit in their usual spot (well, Wade’s usual spot that Domino sometimes visits whenever the universe thinks that Deadpool will be useful to her). It's a booth in the corner far enough away from the main crowded area of the bar to allow them to speak at a non-strenuous volume but not so far as to make it difficult to observe spontaneous brawls. Drinks and a show.

“You met Spider-man, Yippee .” She doesn’t sound like she’s celebrating. “You and half of New York, I don’t see how this is a big deal.”

A fight breaks out across the bar but the two are uninterested. It’s a common occurrence, about as regular as drinks being spilled, which several are.

“Don’t see? How this is a big deal?” Deadpool is being dramatic. It’s a hobby of his, really. He’s spent years honing his skills. Domino is not impressed. “My dear friend-“

“When have I ever once said I was your friend?”

“My dear dear friend, this is Spider-man we’re talking about. Web-slinging, quip-talking, best-ass-in-spandex (which I can now confirm first hand) Spider-man,” Wade continues. He’s also somehow mastered the art of including parenthesis in his speech. “He is one of the most iconic superheroes to date and he knows who I am. Fully called me a ‘loud-mouthed psychopath’ so he’s done his research too, not just heard of me in passing.” Deadpool leans forward, putting his head in his hands and his elbows on the table. “He even webbed me.”

“Ooooohh he webbed you all over, huh?” Domino chuckles, still clearly unimpressed.

“Yeah, had me pinned up against a wall and everything,” while talking Deadpool fakes getting a little breathless as if he is turned on by the memory. Well, he isn’t not turned on by it but, again, drama.

“You fucked Spider-man?” Weasel asks, stopping in his tracks with a mop. He was planning on going to pick up some of the spilled drinks and broken glasses and that one chair that just got smashed to pieces but clearly this conversation is more interesting.

“He didn’t,” Domino jumps in before Wade has the chance to spread a funny little rumor. He glares at her for it. “If he did this story would actually be interesting.“

“You never know what the future holds,” Wade says the line like a mystical old man in a movie who gives the characters much needed but also vague advice that comes to help them later. “It could hold me holding Spider-man against a rooftop: him breathlessly gasping my name while I give him the best railing he’s ever had.” That part comes out more like typical Wade.

Domino stifles a laugh and then her and Weasel look at each other. They burst out laughing together.

Wade almost always intends to be funny. He’s fucking hilarious. He could sell out Madison Square Garden or even other, larger venues (that he can’t remember the names of right now) if he were to do comedy shows but he graciously gives it out for free. That and he can’t be bothered to write any of his genius material down. He’s off the cuff, spontaneous (it’s a branding thing, you wouldn’t get it). This laughing is at Wade though. This means this laughing does not bring Wade joy. As per the KonMari Method™ popularized by one Marie Kondo, what doesn’t spark joy should be thrown out. Throwing out to Wade means hacking to pieces with a katana or setting up a destructive fireworks display or (closest to its traditional definition) throwing off of a very tall building with the result of a satisfying splat. He could do one if not more of his definitions to one if not both of the people in front of him currently not sparking joy but they actually put up with his shenanigans pretty consistently. It’s not easy finding other people that will shenanigan with you and Wade doesn’t feel like going through the effort of interviewing replacements right now. It’s September, even if he did go through the whole process he wouldn’t have time to properly get to know the new recruits before the holiday season and then his reputation of giving quality, personalized gifts is down the drain.

“Please, you’re not going to be able to fuck Spider-man,” Domino says while laughing.

“We just met. Do you really think Spidey’s the type to put out on the first date?” Deadpool leans back in his chair. It was a joke before, but honestly now he’s getting offended. Why wouldn’t he be able to fuck Spider-man? With his natural charisma he can fuck anyone. It was the getting them to fuck him again after seeing his horribly disfigured skin that was difficult. Even after he gives them the best night of their life. Ungrateful fucks.

“That’s not your problem, dude.” Weasel pulls up a chair, apparently content to leave part of his bar in ruins for a moment. “Maybe Spider-man is a little sex fiend, I’m not here to judge whatever that eight-legged freak gets up to, but you’re not going to be the one to find that out because he’s him and you’re you . He’s a paragon of virtue and you shot Dennis because he sat in your usual spot.”

Domino points her thumb at Weasel and nods along.

Deadpool looks down to Dennis’ body laying next to his chair in a bloody heap. Maybe Weasel is right (even if he has somehow been fed misinformation about the number of limbs Spider-man has and hasn’t bothered to fact check it for who knows how long). Maybe he’s right but there’s no way Wade can back down now. He’s already said the thing! Now it’s in his head and people are doubting his seduction capabilities? Wade Wilson ’s seduction capabilities? He has a reputation to maintain, damn it.

“How much are you willing to bet on that?” Deadpool looks up from the ground and smiles. Bad idea, Wade.

“How much are you willing to lose?” Domino leans forward, the most intrigued she’s been all evening.

“I can put down 300. I’m cocky but still have a business to take care of,” Weasel pulls a wad of cash out from his jacket, ready to go, and slaps it down on the table.

“You’re both on.” Wade reaches into his boot and pulls out a bigger roll of cash.

“Compensating,” Weasel comments.

“That’s for Spidey to find out,” Wade shrugs and leans back in his chair, propping one of his feet up on the edge of the table.

“Why do you guys carry giant rolls of cash?” Domino asks. “We live in New York.”

“We’re mercenaries, Dom, dirty money and such. Electronic transfers are traceable.” Deadpool responds.

“Eh,” Domino shrugs. Wade guesses she doesn’t need to worry about the logistics of any of that, having (frankly overpowered) luck powers means that the IRS system probably glitches when looking over her forms and any police officers who would gain an interest in her finances get shot in an unrelated incident. That is, of course, unless Domino would ever have the need to get into a prison because in that case she’ll be arrested on the spot. “I’ll find an ATM if I lose but I won’t need to because there’s no way you’re going to be able to get your dick into the Mr. Rogers of superheroes.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Deadpool says.

Fuck Wade. How are you going to pull this off? They’re right, Spider-man is the boy scout of the major superheroes. Even Captain America’s had a sex scandal but honestly that’s not that surprising considering what he probably gets up to with metal hand. Wasn’t there that one rumor about Spidey getting caught having sex in an alley? No, wait… that was me. That was a very truthful rumor about me. The webslinger has a spotless record. Not even a single report of popping a boner mid-swing. Now I, Wade Wilson, Deadpool, mercenary for hire, killer of terrible to mildly annoying guys, am going to seduce him? What if he’s straight ? No. He’s a little weirdo obsessed with a very specific bug. Insect? Arachnid? Whatever, point is it’s a queer obsession to have. He’s basically a furry and everyone knows how gay furries are. Oh god am I going to have to spider-roleplay? Act like a fly caught in his net or something? That would be so dumb. But could also be kind of hot. Wait, it’s definitely hot. I’ve decided it’s hot. Getting all tangled in his web like that? Buzz buzz, come eat me.

“How are you going to prove it?” Domino finishes the last sip of her beer and randomly chucks the bottle behind her, hitting a random mercenary in the face before bouncing off and landing straight into a recycling bin. “Cause I won’t believe it without proof.”

“How am I supposed to get proof that we fuck (which we most definitely will do)? I can’t make a sex tape of us for obvious reasons. Being spidey finds out and then somehow finds a way to murder me for good and then breaks down due to the guilt of having taken a life and the entire city of new york plunges into chaos without him,” Wade sucks in a breath after having forgetting that he needs to breathe in-between word vomiting.

“Just get a piece of his underwear,” Weasel says it so nonchalantly.

“He could wear any underwear, how would we know it’s Spider-man’s?” Domino asks.

“Well it would be made of webs…” Deadpool and Domino stare at Weasel in confusion, both at how he got to this wild conclusion and why he thought it would be a good idea to speak it aloud. “Y’know… He’s the spider-guy so if I was him and had webbing power stuff then why would I ever buy underwear again when I could just make it?” They both regret waiting to hear his explanation.

“Well thank god that radioactive spider landed on the guy we currently have because I would not be winning this bet if I had to have sex with you,” Deadpool jabs.

“Fuck you,” Weasel groans.

“I just said I don’t want to. No means no.”

“I think proof is a you problem.” Domino brings the conversation back to the bet. “Let’s say timeframe is a year, that work?” She looks to Weasel who nods.

“Just watch me,” Deadpool stands up. “I won’t even need the whole year.”

Wade saunters out of the bar without another word.

His mind had one: Fuck.

Wade can’t sleep.

It’s not because anything particular is on his mind, this just happens. On any other night that this happens he would usually saunter out onto the streets of New York and find some baddies to rough up ( ooh, accidental double entendre, nice ) or maybe he would take on another job to get a few quick bucks. It’s not like he needs it though, merc work has been paying good recently. So good that he’s now looking around his dingy basement apartment and wondering why he hasn’t upgraded out of his crappy living situation yet. Eh, his lease is up in a few months. He’ll deal with it then.

He’s not taking an extra job tonight or banging baddies ( not as good as the first one ) though, he’s instead sitting at his desk trying to patch up the suit he wrecked the night he met Spider-man. A necessary, mundane evil in this line of work. It’s not like he can take it to a tailor. The last time he did Rhonda fucked up the seams and blamed it on the fact that he had a gun pointed at her head. Talk about unprofessionalism.

Wade leans back in his chair and admires the work. He replaced a few panels of the suit that were too tattered and spot repaired a few lesser destroyed areas. It’s quality work. He could win Drag Race with this level of craftsmanship. Every season queens come in without a basic knowledge of sewing when they know there’s at least one design challenge. Come on girlies, the show’s on season like 58 you should at least learn the basics before auditioning. Maybe I should do that, audition for Drag Race. What else do I have going on? Well, that would mean revealing this face to the world when I’m out of drag. I won’t be voted trade of the season and there’s no way I’d be considered for miss congeniality so what’s the point? Plus they probably wouldn’t appreciate me slicing up anyone who beat me in a lip sync (if anyone could, I doubt it). Also frack RuPaul. Thought experiment over.

He picks up the mask that he tore open during the fight. It’s entirely ripped along its bottom half and there’s no way to properly repair it without a mess of seams running across its bottom half. He reaches for extra mask fabric, resigned to create another mask entirely. He can’t be seen looking that unprofessional, especially if he’s going to try to woo Spider-man.

Fuck.

How is he going to woo Spider-man?

He’s already seen me kill people, like all the way dead. If there’s one thing I know about Spider-man (besides the fact that he has a rocking body and that he’s been on the superhero grind since he was a teenager and that he got bit by a radioactive spider (I mean that’s kind of given with the name) and that he gets hard for “responsibility” or some shit, whatever his mantra is- the point is I know a lot about Spider-man but there’s no time to go over all of that, I just wanted to make sure none of you are doubting my knowledge) it’s that he hates when people go unaliving other people. Even when they’re really shitty people who deserve it. It’s fucking annoying. He probably wags his finger at jaywalkers too.

Wade runs over his finger with the sewing machine and the mice in the walls of his apartment are treated to a creative string of expletives. He sticks his finger in his mouth as if his saliva increases the effectiveness of his healing factor and looks down at his work. It doesn’t ruin the fabric of the mask. That’s why it’s a red suit after all.

Think about who you’re thinking to, Pool. You’re Wade motherfucking Wilson. If anyone’s a master of seduction, it’s you baby.

Wade stops in front of the mirror with his new mask in hand.

He hesitates.

He looks over the mangled pattern of scars that almost dance across his face. The way they curve down his lips and into his ear canal, leaving no trace of untouched skin. He breathes in but feels no solace as the cold air hits the sensitive scarring of his nostrils.

Wade pulls on the new mask, identical to the one destroyed. He’s reached an impressive level of consistency in the last three years he’s used the mask. He leans closer to the mirror, focussing on the whites of his eyes in the mask instead of his exposed, scarred lower body.

He opens his mouth to say something inspirational. Something that will lift his mood out of the gutter. Something that will get him fired up and ready to take on the world with the unabashed bombasity he displays so often.

It doesn’t come.

He closes his mouth and moves back to his work desk, defeatedly tossing his newly-repaired suit to the side. As it hits the desk an unfamiliar dull clink sounds, muffled by the folds of the fabric.

Wade reaches into the pocket of the suit and pulls out the small vial of web dissolvant. He turns it over in his fingers, watching the few drops of remaining solution slide around the bottom of the glass. After the heat of the moment (the moment being him meeting Spider-man and the heat being Spider-man pinning him to a door frame), the mysterious specially-curated-anti-spidey-web solution slipped his mind entirely.

Well, this could help further the plot.

Chapter Text

It’s been a week since Peter met Deadpool at the warehouse. A week of frantic research on this newfound threat. A week of fighting common criminals armed with anti-web solution. A week of his kitchen sink leaking and spilling water all over the kitchen floor causing him to get his socks wet and waste precious time he should be using to do the previous two things changing his socks. That last bit probably isn’t Deadpool’s fault but who knows, maybe in the alternate universe where that asshole never showed up Peter’s sink would be functioning properly.

This is what he’s found out so far:

1. Deadpool, dumb name btw, is a superpowered mercenary based out of New York City although he is also known to travel internationally to complete large hits. Started mercenary work under the moniker about 3 years ago.
2. His not-so-secret identity is Wade Wilson: 27, Canadian, former special forces officer before a dishonorable discharge. Single handedly beating the ‘all Canadians are nice’ stereotype to death with his bare hands.
3. He has an impressive healing ability that basically gives him immortality. Wonderful.
4. He has an undetermined kill count. Has definitely cracked three digits. Stupendous.
5. His powers were probably caused via some experimentation although the details are unknown (the author of the single article that posited this theory immediately resigned from his newspaper job and moved to Ireland to herd sheep, a development that Peter is fairly confident was caused by him getting an unexpected visit from a not-so-jolly man in a red suit)
6. Underneath his mask he is covered in some sort of scarring across his entire body. This is something that Peter moreso observed than found online but felt it worthy to make note of. Know your enemy and all that.

Peter sits, staring at the computer screen, his cursor blinking in and out, taunting him and his lack of information. Another movement on the screen catches his eye: a nine changing to a zero on the little block in the corner. Lunch break over.

He shoves the last two bites of his sandwich into his mouth and closes the laptop, awkwardly gathering the rest of his items together and leaving the courtyard area (where he could dine without fear of people looking over his shoulder and seeing a mercenary-for-hire website). Despite his lack of punctuality since getting the lab assistant job, Horizon Labs hasn’t fired him yet and he’s somehow on good terms with all of his coworkers (except Sarah, fuck Sarah). It would be much easier if he could tell his boss that he stopped a bank robbery on the way to work, but everyone seems to be forgiving enough if you just constantly blame lateness on the subway.

He steps into the elevator and his heart stops. It doesn’t stop completely but it feels like it for a millisecond. This could be something he might be worried about if it weren’t for the more pressing fact that he is choking on his sandwich because right there in the elevator, standing to the side and hidden from view until Peter stepped on, is Deadpool.

“Are you ok?” Deadpool’s head turns in puzzlement.

Peter bangs on his chest and manages to get the sandwich down. He turns to see the elevator doors behind him closing, trapping him with the man that he is currently trying to figure out the kill count of. He looks… calm enough at the moment. Not particularly murder-y, thankfully. Peter tries to look as not-suspicious as he can and shuffles to the side of the suddenly small metal box, facing the door and preparing for the longest elevator ride of his life.

Maybe he would feel better if he could feel the dull hum of his spidey-senses on alert, but just as the first time he met Deadpool they are completely silent.

Peter is attempting to control his breathing, but first he needs to remember how often and how heavily normal breathing is supposed to be. Why doesn’t Horizon Labs have elevator music? All Peter can hear is the sound of his unnatural breathing and the slight rustling of his clothes it's causing and, oh god, is that the sound of a leather and spandex mask turning to look at him? Shit, it definitely is. He doesn’t need his spidey senses to tell that the blank eyes of Wade’s suit are pointed straight towards his unmasked face.

He can’t know it’s me, right? There’s no way. He couldn’t have figured it out. He met me once in costume. ONCE. But then why is he here? Why else would he be at my work in the middle of a weekday instead of, I don’t know, hunting people down? Killing them? Maybe it’s better that he’s busy tracking me down and finding out my secret identity, less casualties that way? That’s a very hopeful spin on this catastrophic situation, great job Peter. Is he still staring at me? Crap, he definitely is. Did he see me glance over just now? How could he not have when he’s staring straight at me. Has he clocked me? Fuck. What’s worse: him knowing I’m trans or him knowing I’m Spider-man? Dumb question, Spider-man of course. Either wouldn’t be ideal. If he knows both I mind as well ride this elevator to the roof and go for a swing without web shooters. No. Bad thought. Get that out of here. Not the solution. Never the solution.

Wade opens his mouth and about a billion more thoughts fly through Peter’s head so fast that he can’t comprehend any of them.

“Floor?”

Peter’s head snaps to look at Deadpool. Floor? What’s wrong with the floor?

Before Peter’s eyes could make their way to the floor (which his racing mind is now scared is covered in explosives or some dangerous chemical or somehow disappeared, leaving him standing in mid-air like a Looney Tunes character) they stop at seeing Wade’s gloved hand pointing at the elevator buttons. Idiot. He’s staring at you because you walked into an elevator and didn’t press a button like a complete weirdo.

“Eleven,” Peter tries to make the word sound natural and does a passable job.

“Ooo, floor buddies!” Deadpool excitedly points to the already-lit-up button. “Same number as that kid from stranger things, the one that likes to run gay people over with her car.”

“I think that’s just a joke.” Of course it’s a joke. He knows it’s a joke. Why am I feeding into him? It’s just going to egg him on.

Wade leans over an uncomfortable amount into Peter’s personal space, adequately egged on. He grabs his ID badge pinned onto his jacket and pulls the elastic string out at least a foot.

“P. Parker,” Wade reads out the badge and then lets it go, letting it aggressively snap back to its place on Peter’s jacket. “Nice to meet ya Paul. Looks like we’re name alliteration buddies also. W. Wilson. W stands for Wade.” He holds out his hand to shake. Ok so this dumbass really does give out his real name to anyone. Unless he knows it’s me. Shit, that’s still a possibility isn’t it?

“And how did you get here without an ID?” Peter can’t help himself but investigate. It’s a normal question any normal person would be thinking of, not just superheroes stuck in their civilian clothes. He also hesitantly shakes Deadpool’s hand, mostly because it will probably make him more likely to answer his questions.

Wade gasps dramatically.

“Really, Patrick? I’ve been working on the same floor as you for three and a half years now and you haven’t cared to notice? The red suit is hard to miss, I’m shocked, truly,” Deadpool puts his hand to his head in feign dismay, his voice taking on the tone of an old moviestar actress (or, more accurately, a high school theater nerd trying to copy the voice of an old moviestar actress after watching maybe two black and white films before getting bored and switching to a Heathers the Musical slime tutorial).

Peter just stands there looking at him. He’s not sure if his face is portraying annoyance, exhaustion, or (regretfully) slight amusement. Or none of the above. Or all at once. All he knows is that he can’t afford to feed into antics anymore during this painfully long elevator ride and that there’s no way he’s going to fall into Wade’s trap of guessing P names until he gets a reaction.

“I’m joking, Peter,” Wade leans against the handrail of the elevator right next to him, again bursting his personal space bubble. Peter doesn’t react at all to this or his name, he’s quite proud of it actually. “I have a visitor’s pass.” Deadpool holds up a gun and waves it around. Peter can see that the safety is off and almost jumps to take the gun from him. If he was in his suit it would already be webbed to the floor (along with its owner). Instead his eyes widen at the weapon, a disingenuous reaction but one he thought people who don’t see guns every night on patrol might have.

“Don’t worry Pablo, safety’s on.” It’s still not. “Besides, I only use it on bad guys.” Wade shifts his hand down the railing, leaning closer to Peter. His masked face is only a few inches away. “Have you been a bad boy, Mr. Parker?”

Peter isn’t sure what to think and thankfully he doesn’t have to worry about whatever facial expression he’s inadvertently making because the elevators ding to reveal the familiar sight of the 11th floor. Wade stands back up and Peter takes the opportunity to escape.

He walks to his desk and tries to compose himself but when you’re trying to act as normal as possible you always end up looking suspicious. It’s like how they tell actors in a drunk scene to act as if they are trying to be sober. If anyone notices Peter they would definitely be able to tell something is off and if they actually go through the effort of watching him they would see his constant glances at the anti-hero across the lab. To be fair though, most of his colleges have now seen Wade and are having the same reaction.

The 11th floor of horizon labs has an open floor plan which struck Peter as an impractical decision when he first got the job, but he’s grateful for it now as he watches Deadpool casually walk around the lab like a curious prospective intern. He clicks his pen anxiously and eyes his backpack. His suit is where it always is when it’s not on: stashed in a secret pocket of his bag for easy access in case of emergency.

Does this qualify as an emergency? Deadpool hasn’t done anything wrong yet per se. I mean besides probably threatening security to gain access to the building. Is it more responsible to change now and get on top of this or wait until he actually causes trouble? Can I even get to a place and change right now without it being suspicious? This would be so much easier if my spidey-senses would just work like they normally do around Deadpool, but apparently that would be too much to ask.

Peter watches as Wade strides over to his boss’ office and knocks a little tune on the glass door (he can tell from across the floor because of the dramatic flourishes Wade includes). Underneath his desk he has his middle and ring finger positioned over his palm, ready to shoot a web in a split second.

His boss walks over to the door and lets the merc in. Peter watches their conversation while pretending to do work. Most people in the office seem to be doing the same. It’s not every day that a masked lunatic walks into your work with a loaded gun and it’s certainly weirder that there’s no alarms or guards doing anything about it. Their conversation appears to be civil so Peter relaxes a bit but is still ready to pounce at any moment, knowing Deadpool’s changeability.

After a few minutes of conversation and one attempt by Peter to walk by the office and overhear snippets of the conversation (the room is unfortunately soundproof, even taking into account his advanced hearing), Peter has to do a double-take. Deadpool’s outstretched hand holds a small vial with a few bright drops of orange liquid. Shit.

Peter almost drops a test tube in his hand but his reflexes catch the glass before it hits the table. He stands back up and straightens his non-prescription glasses in time to see his boss grab the vial and then shake Deadpool’s hand. Fuck.

Peter glances again at Wade as he exits the office and starts towards the elevator. He averts his eyes, not wanting to catch his attention again.

It’s the web dissolvant from the other night. He must be offering a boatload of money to have it examined? To have more of it made? Ugh can I even blame my boss for taking him up on it with the kind of money Deadpool has at his disposal? Plus he has a gun so that probably works in his favor during negotiations. He’s doing all of this to have a leg up on me, that asshole. Fan of mine? Yeah, right. It’s all an act.

“You’re holding that pen pretty tight, Parker,” Deadpool leans over Peter’s desk. God Damn it.

If this was a couple of years ago when he didn’t have complete control over his super strength there would be ink all over his shirt but instead the plastic just creaks slightly under his fingertips. He looks up at the mask and a jolt of scorn runs through him. He’s smirking under there.

“Oooooo,” Wade sits on Peter’s desk and crosses his legs. He picks up a nameplate on the desk and holds it out to read it. “So I was right, it’s Peter.”

“You also had three wrong guesses,” Peter tries not to glare and puts down the pen. Just be a normal dude. He has a gun. Stop talking so casually to him, idiot.

“Eh, broken clocks,” Wade shrugs and tosses the nameplate back down on the desk.

Broken clocks what? They’re right once a day, that’s the saying. Ugh, he makes no sense, it’s infuriating . Don’t feed into it. Don’t feed into it. Shut up Peter.

“I have work to do. Do you need anything?” Too confident but fine, good enough.

“Depends, do you need anything Petey?” Wade leans further over the desk, now eclipsing the work in front of Peter and slightly closing the laptop in front of him down.

“What would I need?” Peter stares at him, uninterested. What do I have to do to get him out of here?

Wade reaches into a pocket on his suit and pulls out a business card, holding it to Peter with two fingers. He reluctantly takes it and turns it over in his hand. His name is listed as Wade “Deadpool” Wilson simply followed by a phone number.

“Anything you need,” Wade’s voice shifts down a register. “Just call me.” He gives a wink and hops off the table.

Peter’s mind takes a moment to register.

His face turns red. Wade is smirking again and Peter wants to jump across the desk and strangle him. Not in that way.

Then Wade turns on his heels and walks to the elevator and doesn’t look back, much to the contentment of Peter. 

That’s why he keeps annoying me? Seriously? I was worried if he knew I was Spider-man or if he was going to hate crime me and he just wanted to get in my pants. I need to stop thinking there’s any thoughts running through that empty cavern of a head besides sex and violence. God, he’s so immature. 

Chapter Text

Eleventh floor. Why does it have to be the eleventh floor? Why couldn’t it have been the third or even the fifth? It has to be the eleventh floor and September needs to be THIS UNSEASONABLY COLD. Where’s global warming when you need it?

Wade mutters to himself as he scales the Horizon Labs tower. He’s reached floor eight. The New York City wind is threatening to rip him from the side of the building but his industrial strength climb-y suction cup thingies are surprisingly effective. (W hat does that even mean? Strong in what industry exactly? Are these suction cups reviewed by the board of professional building scalers? ) Wade isn’t sure when or where he got them or what they’re even called but was grateful to find them at the bottom of his cluttered closet. Turns out his first trip to the labs set off a few alarm bells (more metaphorically than literally considering he had the foresight to sabotage the alarm system but that’s neither here nor there) and now the building has beefed up security. Basically it went from one of those thin McDonald’s patties to some five-pound hamburger monstrosity that will get your picture on the wall of a novelty restaurant if you’re able to finish it without heaving your guts out. It’s an overreaction if you ask him.

Let’s be real, it totally is. I went in there all smiley and friendly and asked “hey dude, which floor has some chemistry genius that I can write a big check to”. The security guard said “Oh please. Oh god, I have a family, please don’t hurt me”, so your typical run-of-the-mill small talk. I cocked my gun to jog his memory and then bingo-bango he remembered it was floor eleven. Easy-peasey in and out. Not even a light maiming or anything. Surely it doesn’t call for five guards on every door and an updated alarm system and blah blah blah you don’t care. What matters is I’m on the side of this building freezing my ass off because I was cleaning out my closet and this seemed like less of a hassle. I was wrong. Are you happy now that I admitted it? I hope you’re happy. Really, actually. Stay hydrated and maybe consider getting some sleep instead of scrolling on AO3. But then come back and pay attention to me tomorrow. I deserve it for climbing up this building for your sick amusement.

The muttering helps to distract Wade while he climbs and by the time he’s done with his little rant he’s a few feet away from the desired floor. His hand reaches out to make one of the last suctions necessary but is instead webbed to the glass.

“Motherfucker!” Wade curses as the mission impossible-like device plummets to the ground, leaving him with three suction cups and a sticky hand. Aka a typical Tuesday night. He looks up at Spider-man. He’s perched on a web suspended between the Horizon Labs building and a skyscraper next door. He’s somehow kneeling down while perfectly balanced on the string like some tightrope walker in a bug-themed circus.

“You just incompleted my set!” Wade yells up at him. “You’d better hope there wasn’t a lost puppy wandering the streets of nyc that just got its head flattened by that thing. Some hero you are.”

Spidey looks unimpressed, his arms crossed. His demeanor matches that of a parent that just found their annoying kid wrist-deep in the cookie jar, face covered in chocolate. Wade would never be caught stealing from a cookie jar, however. He doesn’t leave witnesses.

“How’d you find me?” Wade asks. Boring question. He could definitely have thought of a better question. It doesn’t matter, the idea is to get Spider-man talking and distracted. “Or do you just come here often?”

Is now the time to flirt? Is there never not a time to flirt? There’s three hundred dollars on the line, I have to get this ball rolling.

“It’s hard to miss a hunk of red spandex climbing up an otherwise all-glass skyscraper. Hate to break it to you, you’re not very subtle,” Spidey stands up on the string of web.

Wade covertly lets go of the suction cup in his other hand, relying on his webbed-one to support the weight of his upper body. His free hand begins to discreetly move to a knife in his pocket.

“Subtlety is boring. I’m an attention whore if you haven’t already noticed. Along with a regular whore as well, of course. Going back to the first part of your statement though, you think I’m a hunk?” Wade wiggles his eyebrows. His fingers graze the tip of the knife.

“Only as in a worthless hunk of meat. I mainly just think you’re obvious,” Spider-man rolls his eyes.

“How’s this for obvious?”

Wade flips over the knife in his hand and plunges it into the glass window-wall behind him. He pushes his weight against it and the whole thing shatters. Glass pieces cascade into the building and down the side, crashing against the pavement below.

Wade angles his knife to stick it into the floor, hoping to use it as a handle to pull himself into the building. He forgets that he’s breaking into a top-notch lab with hard metal floors instead of a cushy office building with rugs. The knife doesn’t catch and he has to scramble to hold onto the edge of the ledge. It’s covered in bits of broken glass that cut through his gloves in a few spots. The pain shoots through his hands but it’s nothing he’s not used to.

Before he loses his grip and makes a plunge to the pavement, a web sticks to his back and he’s flung into the building with surprisingly little regard for his safety. He skids across the floor of the lab before slamming against one of the large metal desks.

“Ouchie,” Wade picks himself up to see Spidey angrily stepping over bits of broken glass from the window. “You know what? I got it covered here. You go save the city. I bet there are way bigger fish to fry then little ol’ me because really I just talked to a guy here and we came to an agreement. In fact I’m paying him handsomely so it’s a win-win. It’s actually none of your business and no one’s getting hurt so there’s no need for the spidey-signal,” Wade backs up as Spider-man continues to walk towards him.

“Yeah? So you developing more web dissolvant wouldn’t hurt me at all?” His voice is filled with bite as he webs one of Wade’s feet to the ground.

He’s never seen Spidey this angry. Granted, he’s only seen him once before but he never pictured the superhero to be this ominous. He always has a rep of being a kind-hearted goofball.

What happened to the little acrobat dude who cracks jokes all the time? Why can’t I get that guy? Is it cause he saw me killing people? Really? He’s that sensitive? Shit, I should have played my cards better when we first met. To be fair, I was kinda crossed that night so go fish was the only game on the table.

“Whaaaaaaaatttttttt?” Wade feigns confusion before promptly giving it up. “How would you even know that? Do your spider-powers include clairvoyance and if so will Trader Joe’s be out of the hash browns my next grocery run?”

“They’re always out of hash browns,” Spider-man stops being terrifying for a sec and sighs in disappointment.

“I know! Like come on guys, it’s one of your most popular items, shouldn’t it be restocked more often?” Wade concurs while taking the opportunity to use one of his katanas to unstick his foot from the floor.

Spider-man immediately webs both of his feet to the ground before Wade can dodge.

“Seriously, it’s gotten to the point where I think they’re limiting the supply so they can put up those ‘only 3 per customer’ signs and increase the demand,” Spidey mutters. He walks over to the boss’s office as if he owns the place.

“Hey, Webs, you didn’t answer my question. Not the hash browns one. The ‘how did you know my exact plan’ one,” Wade calls from his place stuck to the floor.

He crouches down to start prying himself free from the webs again while he watches Spidey enter the office and start snooping around for his perfectly-fairly-obtained-through-illegally- bartering web dissolvent.

“The name’s Spider-man,” Wade can hear Spider-man’s muffled voice through the walls of the office as he unsticks his second foot. “No cute nicknames. This is the second time we’ve met, you haven’t earned them”

“Well I tried to ask you to dinner. Not my fault you declined,” Wade crouches down and stealthily starts to make his way to the office in the middle of the open floor plan lab. He ducks behind another large metal desk and peeks his head out to see Webs through the glass walls of the office, rooting around the drawers. “Still dodging the question Spi-der-man.” He makes it a point to draw out each of the syllables.

“Not much to dodge,” Spidey pulls out a thermos from one of the drawers and opens it.

Wade watches as he inspects the contents before closing the lid. He starts to close the drawers and return the office to its previous state.

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

“Maybe you’re just more predictable than you think,” Spider-man walks to the door of the office, thermos in hand.

Once he crosses the threshold Wade jumps out from the desk. He unsheathes one of his katanas and swings at Spidey’s feet. The hero jumps out of the way and makes an attempt to kick Wade in the head. Deadpool dodges but fails to take into account his opponent’s other leg. It lands on his chest, sending him careening a couple feet backward to the ground, nearly hitting his head on another one of those damn desks.

“Case in point,” Webs lands on his feet after gracefully transitioning his kick to a backflip. He throws the thermos into the air with a little spin, catching it on its way back down.

“Show-off,” Wade narrows his eyes.

He’s always looked up to Spidey for his ability to quip and almost remain casual through fights but being on the receiving end of it in real life is proving to be annoying.

Something is wrong through. Wade isn’t sure what but he can feel it in his bones, an instinct. Something in the tone of Spider-man’s voice, the way he’s almost studying Deadpool’s movements. Wade hasn’t seen him much in person yet but something is telling him Spider-man is on guard. Maybe it’s just how he is when he’s still assessing a threat but maybe it’s something else.

Maybe he wants to fuck me? That would make the bet easier, huh? Are you done speculating? I’m in the middle of a fight here and should really be focussing. Also, I’m perfectly capable of expressing my own thoughts to the audience, thank you.

“Really, stealing some guy’s soup Spi-der-man? And I thought you were a hero,” Wade stands up just in time to jump out of the way of another web. “Ooooooohhhhh! Missed me, missed me, now you gotta-“

Deadpool has to dodge three more attempts to web him to the ground, each one a bit more obvious than the last.

Y eah, I’m right (as per usual), something’s up. He’s frustrated. Worse he’s letting it show like some amateur. Weird. I would chalk it up to my pure skills and sexual magnetism the likes of which he has probably never experienced but this is the Spider-man we’re talking about. The amazing one. The spectacular one. I’d never idolize someone this sloppy. He should’ve pinned me down easy by now. That came out… right.

“Kiss me!” Wade finishes the taunt and then sucks in a breath because maybe that wasn’t the best idea given the practically eye-twitching anger emanating from Spider-man. “Y’know, we don’t really have to do all this, do we? I’d much rather this be Spider-man vers-es Deadpool instead of Spider-man versus Deadpool.”

“What?” Confusion slightly breaks through the anger.

“It doesn’t make sense said out loud, I’m hoping the joke will land when read,” Wade shrugs.

“Huh- You know what? I don’t care,” Spider-man lets out an exasperated sigh and then throws the thermos at Wade’s head, kitting with a loud clunk.

“Y’ouch! Spidey fighting dirty?” Wade stumbles back and reaches for one of the many guns strapped on his person. “ I like it. ”

“Guns? I thought I was your hero, now you’re trying to kill me?” Spidey swings across the ceiling.

“A shot to the leg won’t kill you, will it?” Wade shrugs.

Webs manages to dodge all the bullets. It isn’t a tough task. Wade’s a professional. He plans exactly where each and every one of his bullets lands. Even if Spidey decides to take a break from swinging, the metal will find itself embedded exactly where it is now. That is in the ceiling, a pipe, a vent, decidedly anywhere that isn’t the flesh/bone/etc. of one spider-steroided twink. Webs seems unaware of his complete safety, however.

Wade pulls out another gun and throws the previous one to the side, bullets depleted. As he unloads another clip into the rafters he slowly backs up and takes a few quick glances to the ground, trying to find the thermos filled with that anti-spidey soup-y goodness. He finally spies it resting next to the leg of a desk and makes his way over. Wade crouches down and manages to blindly find it with his left hand, still shooting at the areas around Spidey to keep him occupied.

“Ah-ha!” Wade picks it up but as his head turns to admire the prize his eyes catches a glimpse of a desk across the lab.

A nameplate reading “Peter Parker” reflects the flashes of light from his gun. Wade’s mind floods with the interaction a few days ago.

That hot nerd didn’t call me!

Why not? I really flirted so hard for nothing? Wasted of my sexy energy on that guy, damn. And all I did was show up to his place of work with a few guns? I guess guns could be a turn-off if you’re boring or something. Danger is sexy, everyone knows that. Did he look me up? Did he find a picture of my face? Fuck, that’s definitely it. Of course that’s it.

That’s always fucking it isn’t it?

A flood of emotions drowns Wade’s attention. He turns toward the desk and shoots the nameplate. It flies into the air and clatters to the ground in two pieces. The bullet tears the first name apart from the last.

The distraction gives Spider-man the opening he needs to pull the gun out of Wade’s hand. He makes quick work to web the rest of Deadpool’s weapons to his suit and their holsters before Wade can grab them.

“Really? Destroying random employee’s properties?” Spidey sounds almost angrier than when he thought Wade was trying to shoot him. “You really are a giant asshole on top of a murderous psychopath, huh?”

“I gave him my number to this hot nerd and he didn’t call back so who’s the real asshole?” Wade casually leans against the desk as if they’re having a casual conversation at the water cooler instead of fighting in a way that’s threatening the structural integrity of the ceiling.

“Well- I- Can you blame him?” Spidey doesn’t seem like he knows how to respond.

He’s probably not used to his opponents talking about their romantic endeavors. Well, I guess this is more of a sexual endeavor. Still probably not used to that. Is he still stuck in a PG-13 rating? Rough.

“Honestly, I think he dodged a bullet,” Spidey says as he looks Wade up and down.

Spider-man is probably talking about his occupation as a mercenary. Or his kill count. Or his asshole-ery. Or his annoying demeanor. Or the fact his face is fucked up beyond belief. He could be referencing any number of the multitude of things that make Wade someone you wouldn’t want to bring home to your parents ( unless you purposefully wanted to cause a heart attack to get your inheritance ). Wade is aware of it all. He always is. All of the things that make him quite literally a walking red flag play on loop in his head 24/7 365 ( and 366 on leap years ). Sometimes it’s loud club music with the bass booming so deep he can feel it reverberate in his chest and sometimes it’s the distant sound of a train horn that he can almost but not quite tune out. It’s always there though. That doesn’t mean that Spidey’s comment gets lost in the noise. If anything, it raises the volume. However true Wade knows it to be, it still hurts.

Kind of like his head.

While distracted, Webs webbed Wade’s feet ( try saying that three times fast) and knocked him off balance, causing him to hit his head against a desk in the process.

“I know I said I liked fighting dirty but this feels wildly out of character,” Deadpool groans from the floor. “I would really appreciate good old-fashioned by the rulebook spidey shenanigans right about now.”

“No can-do,” Spider-man shoots more webs to pin Wade’s arms to his sides and his legs together. “Can’t risk you getting your hands on this.”

He reaches down and plucks the thermos from his hand.

God damn it. Shit. Fuck. I’m really going to end this fight empty handed? And tied up in a non-sexy position? Major disappointment. Fuck Wade, think.

“Would you believe that I’m trying to get more solution to help you?” Wade tilts his head to the side in an entirely innocent and not-artificial-at-all manner.

“Considering you just emptied an arsenal into the ceiling to keep me away from it, I’m going to go with no,” Spidey glares at him and attaches a few more webs to the borderline cocoon he has Wade in.

Fuckkkkkkkkkkk. On top of everything Spidey thinks I’m trying to kill him? Ugh, if I tell him I missed on purpose he’ll never take me seriously. Shit. And he knows I was trying to obtain anti-spider juice. Double shit. Triple shit, probably, actually, taking into account the terrible first impression. What shit are we on? It’s a whole lot of shit. Drowning in shit, really. Kinda stinks.

Spider-man drags Deadpool across the floor of the office building (not caring much for the stools in the way or the broken glass and ceiling bits on the floor which give Wade a few cuts and bruises during the journey) to the window he shattered. He gathers the webs hanging off of Wade’s cocoon and slings them over his shoulder like he’s Santa about to jump down a chimney. ( He’s a hot Santa though. Just thought I’d mention it to help your imagination conjure the correct image. You’re welcome.) Spidey slings a web to a skyscraper a few streets away and hikes Deadpool up so he’s hanging against his back.

“Woah Webs,” Wade chuckles nervously. “Are you sure this is the safest position for me to be in? I’m not sure that-“

Spider-man doesn’t listen to him. He takes a few running strides before jumping out the window.

Wade screams, his cocoon swinging just behind Spidey. It’s only after the web pulls taught and Spidey thwips another one that Deadpool’s instincts alert him that he’s not on route to become street meat.

“Are you scared of heights or something?”

Wade can’t see Spider-man’s face but senses from his tone that he’s at least a little bit enjoying Wade’s distress. Some “hero”.

“As if. I’ve jumped out of more helicopters than Bear Grylls- Wait, does he ever really jump out of the helicopters or do they just drop him off at whatever remote location he’s chosen to pretend to rough-it in? Honestly, I think he might just have a fetish for drinking piss and has decided to make it everyone else’s problem. Either way I’ve jumped out of more helicopters than him. I’m more concerned about the ten-floor plummet into some poor street vendor’s cart. He has a family, you know. Poor Winona and the kids, what would they do without the income from their father’s hot dogs and soft pretze-“

Wade is interrupted by his own screaming as Spidey lets go of the webs holding his cocoon for a second before catching them again.

“Whoops,” Webs says in a way that indicates it was not at all an accident.

“To sum it up for your Gen-Z ADHD riddled brain, I’ll heal from the fall but it’ll hurt like hell. Speaking from experience, peeling yourself off a sidewalk sucks balls. Do you know what it feels like to have your chest squished to the width of a flapjack?” Wade asks, yelling against the wind.

“You feel all of the pain when you die?” Spider-man ignores the question.

“Oh no, dying’s real fun actually. A hobby of mine, if you will. No shit it hurts when I die. It hurts when I get a paper-cut. Keeps BDSM fun though. Is that where we’re going? Your spider sex cave? You could really test my pain limits there and let me tell you I’m not opposed to it,” Wade wiggles his eyebrows even though his captor definitely can’t see it.

“I’m taking you to a police station,” Spidey doesn’t entertain him. And that sucks y’know? I love a good entertain. A jaunt. A shenanigan. Least he could do is go along with the bit. “I don’t trust you to stay put if I leave you webbed somewhere.”

“Oh, you don’t trust little ol’ me?” Wade’s voice is joking but his mind reels.

God damn it. A police station, really? I don’t have time for jail right now. New episodes of Love is Blind are dropping next week and the juice is just getting juicier. The reunion is going to be insane and I know prison wifi will keep buffering and buffering and then all the dramatic tension is just ruined.

“Honestly a better question is why you trust the police. Do you support defunding them cause if not that really calls into question the ‘hero’ part of your ‘superhero’ title,” Wade says. He stretches as much as he can against the webbing and just barely gets enough leverage to open up a pocket on his utility belt.

“Of course I do! I- It’s just it’s really- You know what? I don’t need to explain myself to you and I don’t need to trust them to turn in a wanted mercenary.” It sounds like he really struck a nerve with Web-Head.

Wade stretches down a little bit more to successfully grab the contents of the pocket: a grenade.

“Anyhoo,” Wade flicks the pin off of the bomb. It’s not ideal and it’s going to hurt even worse than the pavement pancake option but the explosion should successfully scatter his entrails across a few blocks at this height. He doubts that Spidey will be able to babysit every drop of blood until he finds the one that’ll start regenerating. “Not going to jail tonight, buddy, sorry about that, too much paperwork. But hey, at least you’ll get a demonstration to go along with your Deadpool death questionnaire!”

“What do you mean by that?” Spidey turns around and sees the grenade in his hand.

“Wade!” Webs yells it, his masked face contorting into a look of utter confusion and anger and horror all at once.

Thinking fast, he throws the Deadpool cocoon into the air, as far away from any buildings as is possible given the time constraint.

A burst of fire and pain and agony burns through every cell of Wade’s body. As he plunges into the deep nothingness of death he doesn’t think about that, however. ( It’s happened a lot, it’s inconsequential at this point.) The sound of Spider-man yelling his name is what consumes him as he dies.

So he looked me up then?

Chapter Text

“Peter?” Aunt May looks at him expectantly from across the table.

“Uh… maybe ‘persimmon’?” He shrugs.

“I don’t think the word’s ‘persimmon’, there’s only five spaces,” she takes off her reading glasses and lays them next to the newspaper crossword puzzle the two of them are supposed to be doing together. “What’s going on? You seem even more distracted than usual and that’s saying something.”

What’s got him so distracted? Well, yesterday he had to go into work and experience the destruction Deadpool caused in his office. It’s not often that a superhero gets to see the effects of their fights first-hand through the eyes of an everyday bystander. Peter wasn’t thrilled with the state their fight had left the office in. That was mostly Deadpool’s fault though. The Friday work day consisted of him walking into the building, being escorted to his floor with a few guards to grab all of the items he would need for the next week, and then returning to his apartment. Work is remote for the next week as they try to repair the bullet holes in the ceiling. One of the items he brought home was his nameplate, ripped in half. Thanks Wade, you fucking asshole. Deadpool’s act of aggression left Peter with two scraps of metal (one reading “Pete” and the other “arker”) along with a major bone to pick.

The thought has crossed his mind that Wade may come after him as Peter in an attempt at revenge for the ghosting but if he were to do that Peter has entertained the idea of breaking his arms. For him they’d grow back instantly so it isn’t even really that much of a punishment. He’s getting off easy.

Since their interaction Peter hasn’t been able to look at his boss the same way either. He had taken a bribe from the mercenary and now a scientist that Peter was escatic to work for has now shifted to someone he doesn’t feel comfortable attending a meeting with. Ugh, another thing that asshole’s ruined.

Their little fight has also managed to hit print. The property damage has caused Jameson to go on a tirade once again, printing articles questioning Spider-man’s intentions and effectiveness as a hero. Normally Peter’s more on top of minimizing the damages (if not for the general cause of not being an asshole than for this exact scenario: Jameson and every other spider-hater coming out of the woodwork with their pitchforks and torches) but Deadpool’s proving to be a specifically special kind of rage-inducing pest. Thankfully the New York public is mostly pro-Spidey (it only took about six years to gain the city’s trust) so a few minor hit pieces won’t sway any significant amount of opinions. Peter practically shutters at the idea of public opinion reverting back to what it was when he was fifteen and first started hero-ing.

The thought of Jameson and a new “spider menace” headline lead Peter back to the table with Aunt May. The newspaper crossword puzzle is not from The Daily Bugle.

May has been refusing to buy it since Peter came out as Spider-man to her. She already wasn’t fond of the paper before that. She always says that its rage bait headlines give her headaches before she even gets the chance to read the first sentence. Peter officially got his internship there a few years ago after an even longer time doing freelance photography for the publication. May would hear him constantly complain about the less-than-ideal work environment but he still celebrated when they finally gave him the reputable position of “paid intern”. Finding out that the hero the paper was committed to tearing down was her nephew was the nail in the coffin that led to her personal boycott. May still has Peter bring over any copies with photos or article edits that he’s particularly proud of but every time she makes the comment that ‘there are a lot of other papers out there he could be working for’. Which is… not wrong, but it makes sense that the paper most obsessed with Spider-man is the one that is most desperate for photos of him. Even if they pay nickels and dimes for them. So what if their glass door rating is one-star… Ok, maybe I should look for another photography gig but that’s not a priority right now.

Aunt May never really brings up the fact that Peter is Spider-man. When he talks about it she listens and gives advice. She’ll talk about the heroic endeavors or whatever with him when he brings it up but he can’t ever think of a time that she was the one to broach the topic. He’s not sure if it’s because she doesn’t approve or is worried about him or doesn’t want to have his ‘hero’ life interfere in his ‘Peter’ life when he’s not the one to talk about it first.

He told her that he’s Spider-man about three years ago now. The adjustment period may still be… adjusting. She wasn’t exactly thrilled at his hobby or that he kept it from her for the better part of a decade but she understands and supports him where she can. That’s all he can really ask of her, right? That’s why she’s the only person he’s ever told. That’s still alive, that is.

“It’s nothing. I mean, it’s not nothing nothing but it’s nothing I can’t handle,” Peter idley flips a pen around in his hand.

Aunt May looks at him expectantly, not satisfied with the answer. It’s the type of pause a teacher gives a class when no one raises their hand to answer a question. She’s willing to wait through break if she has to.

“There’s just this new villain or, I guess, mercenary guy that’s been causing me some trouble recently.” Peter says as he eyes the crossword, suddenly very interested in 8 across. “Five spaces…” He mumbles, tapping the end of the pen against his chin, clicking it a few times.

“Are you in trouble?” Aunt May is now very much not interested in 8 across which sucks because he’s figured out the answer is ‘trope’.

“Not any more than I usually am, I don’t think,” Peter chuckles a bit but May doesn’t find it funny. There’s that worry again. “He’s just being annoying is all.”

May nods. The concern doesn’t dissipate from her face, moreso just relax into its features.

“How’s everything else going? The lab? The paper?” May folds the crossword to the side and Peter itches to reach across the table and scribble five little letters for satisfaction’s sake.

“Yeah, fine. Pretty normal.” Peter sighs and puts the pen down, resigned to leave the answer bouncing around in his head, never to find its home in the little boxes. He doesn’t need to tell her about the fact that his office just got redecorated with bullet holes. It would just be more worry.

“Do you have any cute coworkers?” May says, her eyes smiling mischievously.

“I think eight across is ‘trope’!” Peter awkwardly announces as he reaches for the paper across the table.

Not this conversation again.

Since around six months ago May has gotten into the habit of asking Peter about his love life and in response Peter has gotten into the habit of changing the subject. It’s a little dance they do every time he visits and Peter desperately wants to get off the dance floor (and pull the plug on the dj station for good measure). It’s bad enough that he has to face himself as a 24 year-old who hasn’t so much as gone on a coffee date since university, nevermind talking about it with his aunt. Well, that’s not entirely true, Peter’s had a few disappointing Tinder and Grindr hook-ups post-grad but he quickly realized that type of connection isn’t really for him. Not worth the effort. Aunt May doesn’t know about those though. She can’t ever know about those. Peter isn’t sure why she keeps asking every single week like the answer is going to change. No, he‘s not seeing anyone, and for a multitude of reasons (the main one being a red and blue suit shoved in his backpack) that isn’t going to change anytime soon.

“You know, I actually ran into Mary Jane yesterday,” Aunt May is trying to sound as if she’s not implying anything but being bad at lying runs in the family. “She just got back from a year in Europe. Some big journalism project. You could always reach out.”

Peter knows Aunt May means well but his stomach churns at the thought of contacting MJ. That last coffee date he had, it was with her. It didn’t go well to say the least. Hence him not going on another one since then. He knows how much he fucked up that relationship: monumentally. They could construct a statue of Peter with a plaque that says ‘worst boyfriend’ and he wouldn’t be able to argue it. His mistakes have replayed in his head more times than he can count. Granted, it’s been years so it doesn’t occupy a lot of his headspace now but it still weighs on him from time to time, even with super strength.

“I don’t think so,” Peter lets out an exhale-laugh even though none of this is funny, it's just sad.

“Well, have you tried any of the dating apps?” May bounces back quickly and Peter resists the urge to bang his head against the table.

Parolling is always worse when it’s raining.

Spidey doesn’t hate the rain itself. In fact, he loves it when he can just be Peter. Sitting inside with a nice warm beverage and a good video game while the rain patters against the windows is the recipe for a perfect night. What isn’t is rain seeping through the patched-up parts of a Spider-man suit, making Peter’s skin feel soggy and obscuring the view through his lenses. As much as he’s itching to swing back to his apartment and boot up Baldur's Gate (he’s already bought the game but it’s been collecting digital dust for months because of the negative free time he has in his schedule), crime doesn’t take a break in the rain. According to statistics (as well as his own experience), it actually increases. Whoopee.

At least patrolling in the rain isn’t as bad as it was when he first started. His first couple of web solutions weren’t completely waterproof. It’s a miracle that he didn’t fall to his death in that first year of spider-ing. Honestly, it’s a miracle he didn’t die for a multitude of other reasons as well but those are less relevant at the moment.

It took years of experimentation, trial and error, and bruised ribs to land at the current web solution Peter has. It’s the perfect strength, tension, and stickiness. He’s been using it for three years at this point. Until now. Until some assholes decided they wanted to target Peter’s perfect web solution. Now he has to formulate a new one basically from scratch. Who knows how many criminals have access to whatever network is spreading the dissolvent. In the past two weeks he’s run into at least four petty criminals who somehow got their hands on it. And if the pattern continues it’s only going to get worse.

Peter’s been tinkering with formulating a new solution in what slivers of down time he has. It’s usually when he’s eating. The perfect time to be inhaling chemicals. Nothing has worked well enough yet. Yesterday he grew so frustrated he nearly jumped off a building without testing if a new formula could support his weight (it couldn’t). Turns out even if you’re a science genius (in the words of some of Peter’s old professors, not his own) some things still take time and effort to figure out. Creating a new web serum without a fundamental chemical he’s been using for years is one of those things. For the time being he’s stuck using his normal webbing and praying that whatever evil lair that’s manufacturing the evil orange juice spontaneously combusts. At least until he finds the lab and can make it not-so-spontaneously combust.

Peter is scribbling in a notebook: some quick thoughts that could help with web creation. They suck and he knows they probably won’t help but it feels better writing something down over doing nothing. A few drops of rain fall on the pages, smudging his already indecipherable handwriting. He’s under an awning in a rooftop garden. It has a few holes in it and, much like the garden as a whole, it’s in desperate need of some tlc. Oh, to be a New Yorker with a rooftop garden. If he had one he tells himself he’d take better care of it even though he knows that’s probably not the case with his schedule.

Peter’s daydreams of someday living anywhere that couldn’t be labeled a ‘shithole’ are interrupted by the sound of screaming from the street (not normal New York City screaming, concerning screaming). He shoves the notebook in his bag and webs it to the roof before swinging down to street level to find the commotion.

A group of women are screaming and running out of a karaoke bar down the street. It’s definitely not an escape from Becky’s tone-deaf rendition of ‘My Heart Will Go On’. His intuition is confirmed when one of the women, eyes darting, yells “There’s b-bodies!” at him before resuming her dash down the street.

Peter springs to action. He bolts through the door to the bar, bracing himself ready for action.

Instead, he’s immediately struck with the blaring instrumentals of Queen’s “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy” playing at a deafening volume. A volume that would make it hard to hear someone screaming for their life.

Stepping into the room a few more feet reveals probably the last thing Peter was hoping for. The place is a karaoke bar. It’s one of those ones with all the individual rooms in the back but there’s also a space at the front of the establishment more like a traditional bar for people who are drunk enough to want to sing in front of a room filled with strangers. Standing on top of the bar, microphone in hand, is Deadpool.

Of course. Just my luck.

The last meeting Peter had with Wade has been hard to forget. He’s seen people blown up before, sure. He’s seen people crushed and brutalized in a multitude of ways that make it hard for him to fall asleep each night. There’s something physically sickening about what Wade did, however. Moments after he talked about how he feels pain from dying he so flippantly pulled the pin of a grenade and caused a bloody rain over 5th avenue. Now here he is, standing there as if none of it happened. Peter doesn’t know what to be most terrified of: his powers, complete lack of self-preservation, or undeniably atrocious singing.

Wade belts out the last couple lines of “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy” and dramatically steps over the splayed arm of a corpse leaning against the bar. It’s not the only one. The floor is littered with dead bodies. Peter can count five from his current vantage point but there could be more behind the bar. He tries to hold in a gag that erupts from his throat when he realizes not only the state of the bar but the fact that his senses didn’t alert him of the violence, meaning that they must’ve been killed before he got anywhere close to the nearby roof. Deadpool has been karaoke-ing in a room filled with corpses for who knows how long.

Wade belts out the last line of the Queen song before clearing his throat and jumping off the bar. He casually walks to the IPad used to select songs as if Peter as well as the dead bodies aren’t there.

“Honestly, harder to sing than you’d think. Fred had those extra teeth giving him a leg up. That cheater,” He punches in some letters into the search bar, having to wipe off the screen part way through because of the blood on his glove. “You can add anything you want to the queue. I just have to do the best karaoke song of all time first, you get it.”

Wade backs up a few steps, nearly tripping on another dead body as the opening guitar to “Since U Been Gone” starts vibrating the speakers.

Damn, that psycho's kinda right, this is a top-tier karaoke song. Nope. Not important. The least important thing right now.

Peter slings a web and grabs the mic out of Deadpool’s hand, catching it in his.

“Hey!” Wade whines. “Fine. If you want to take the first couple verses I won’t stop you but there’s no way I’m not on mic for the chorus. I would grab the other one but I think I used it to break one of these guys’ nose. The batteries fell out when I was bashing it against his head and I think they rolled under the couch or something. Point is, I queued the song so I at least get the mic for the chorus- Oh- And the bridge! That’s karaoke law. And by your strict moral compass or whatever, you have to follow it.”

“Those are the laws you abide by?” Peter tilts his head to the side. He doesn’t need to (and probably shouldn’t) joke around with this menace to society but talking bides time for examination. Right now it’s not proving very helpful as Wade’s karaoke practices aren’t giving Peter any insight on his fighting methods or motivations.

“They’re the most important laws, actually,” Wade says. “The dumb legal system you follow allows for pedophile child-smuggling dipshits like these to run around the country all willy-nilly.” He kicks a body on the floor and it limply flops to the side. Peter sees that its leg is broken in what looks to be six different places (if that’s even physically possible). Deadpool took his time drawing out these people’s deaths. Now adding ‘torturer’ to this guy’s resume of villainy.

“That dumb legal system has more checks and balances than a sword-wielding maniac who thinks he’s god,” Peter responds while Deadpool starts butchering the bridge of the Kelly Clarkson song. He didn’t get the mic back. He’s just belting into thin air.

“Naw, I know I’m not god. I have a vendetta against them since they decided to let slide whatever happened in the last season of Game of Thrones. And that’s right, I said ‘they’. God’s nonbinary and has been this whole time. Bet you’re rethinking your outlook on life now, buster. And rest assured, bug boy, I did my research on these fuckwads,” Wade interrupts his own singing to make a point, now literally pointing at each of the dead bodies. “Pedophile, pedophile, child-smuggler, pedophile, child-smuggler, pedophile child-smuggler (that’s why his dick has found a special place across the room from his body), and, lastly, karaoke bar owner who hasn’t updated his system with any new songs for at least half a year which is marginally less-worse than knowingly hosting meetings between pedophiles and child-smugglers.”

“Even so, they didn’t deserve to die,” Peter clenches a fist and starts scanning Deadpool for weapons. He makes note of anything he could use against him or, as he did previously, against himself for a more final act of escape.

He knows the merc has the katanas, three guns, and probably some more concealed bombs or knives or whatever else on him. If Wade were to set off a grenade to get out of capture again there’s a chance the whole building could crumble around them. While it wouldn’t exactly be the worst thing if Wade gets crushed under a buildings-worth of rubble Peter can’t say the same for anyone who might be living in apartments above the bar. So no grenades.

“Hmm, maybe you’re right,” Wade taps his chin in thought before casually going over to the screen again to request another song. “I should’ve probably just maimed ‘um super bad and then left them to deal with the lifelong physical and financial burdens that come with healthcare in this hellscape of a country. Would have drawn out their suffering wayyyyyyy longer. That what you meant, Webs?”

“I said no nicknames. Three syllables isn’t a lot,” Peter says strictly.

He doesn’t bother to address the question. Deadpool knows he didn’t mean it that way. It’s just to get on his nerves. Everything this jackass does is to get on his nerves apparently. The worst part is that it works. Peter’s blood is boiling.

Deadpool finishes his song selection on the little karaoke touch-screen thing and tilts his head to look at Peter.

“This one goes out to you-“ Deadpool makes a show of pausing for a second before three syllables that decidedly aren’t ‘Spider-Man’ slip from his mouth.

“Baby boy”

As the words hit Peter, the speakers in the bar start playing the echoing ‘you’s in the intro to Enrique Iglesias’ “Tonight (I’m Fuckin’ You)”.

That’s it!

Peter springs to action. There’s no thought in it. Just the knee-jerk reaction to knee this jerk right in his windpipe.

He isn’t sure how he gets across the bar so quickly or if there are a few combat moves before he gets there (the swift action of unbridled rage can really do a number on your memory). All Peter knows is that his knee is exactly there, pinning Wade’s neck to the sticky beer-stained floor.

“So we’re getting straight down and dirty, huh?” Deadpool’s voice is strained, raspy from the force pressing down on his vocal chords. He’s lucky that even in a blind rage Peter has the self-control to prevent a super-strength induced decapitation.

Wade grabs Spidey’s other leg and throws him off balance, escaping from underneath him and gasping for air.

Dumb move, Pete. You were wide open. Come on, focus.

Peter dodges a katana swing and rolls to a crouch, trying to look for an opening. Fighting has become instinctual at this point. After so many years, knowing the right places to hit and dodge and timing it all has become so ingrained that he can normally do it in his sleep (Peter has even had to catch himself from nodding off a few times in low-stakes fights but that may be because of his almost non-existent sleep schedule). Fighting Deadpool is different though. His spidey senses still aren’t kicking in and Wade is a highly trained fighter with some crazy reflexes. Peter settles for webbing Wade’s head and using it as leverage to spring up and stick to the ceiling. He comes back down quickly and plants his feet on Deadpool’s back, sending Wade to the ground again.

“Jesus, are you a top cause you’re sure enjoying pinning me down today,” Wade says while turning, attempting to swing a knife at Peter’s feet.

He jumps out of the way in time but nearly lands on the head of one of the dead bodies. Peter almost loses his balance trying to make the last minute adjustment. Wade swiftly gets to his feet and reaches his hands out as if he were going to help steady Spidey. Peter glares at the motion.

What was that?

Spider-man takes the opportunity of the outstretched arms and uses them to pin Wade face-first against the giant mounted tv-screen. The lyrics to Wade’s dumbass song flash against a gradient background of reds.

“This dom energy is working for you,” Wade says, the light from the tv reflecting off of his mask.

“You’re disgusting,” Peter replies. The hold he’s got him in isn’t a particularly complicated one and it hits him that Wade can probably easily get out of it but is instead choosing not to.

“And you think saying that is going to turn me off? Au contraire mon araignée, keep telling me how dirty I am,” Deadpool turns his head away from the screen to be sure Spider-man can see him smiling beneath the mask.

Ugh, this guy’s the worst.

“Whatever, you can have your fun in prison,” Peter webs Wades’ hands behind his back and pushes him towards the door of the karaoke bar.

“I don’t think so, Webby,” Deadpool says confidently, turning to face the hero.

“Well, you’re not getting any from me and you’re not leaving my sight until you’re behind bars so I think you’re out of luck,” Peter scoffs and starts walking toward the door.

“Too bad, all those people are just going to have to die then,” Wade shrugs. Peter turns to meet his gaze. “Well, I’m not going to complain about you looking at me. Feel free to take me in all you want but that’s going to make it hard to disarm the bomb.”

No.

Peter’s head snaps back to the bar. He could have planted something anywhere. There’s too many possible hiding places and that’s not even considering the private karaoke rooms in the back.

Fuck. Fuck. No, no, no no nonono. This would be so easy if I had my spidey sense. How long until it goes off? How big is the blast radius? Deadpool could just be faking it, but is it worth it to risk that?

He looks back to Wade who’s now leaning on the bar. He’s looking at one of his now freed hands as if to examine his nails. He has gloves on though. The pose is just for the vibes. He gives Peter a nonchalant gaze.

“Your choice.”

Peter lets out an exasperated exhale. He webs Wade’s feet to the ground (knowing full-well that that probably won’t stop his escape but also considering that he can’t risk the time it would take to create a more fool-proof trap) and swings back into the main area of the bar. He begins a frantic search for a bomb he has no information about. He checks under the booths, across the ceiling, and under one of the dead bodies before a blinking light catches his eye. He bolts to the touch-screen control of the karaoke system and finds a small piece of technology. It’s only around the size of a quarter. It flashes a red light every couple of milliseconds. It’s too small to have any explosives in it, only big enough to contain whatever technology is causing the blinking. What it is is exactly the type of pain-in-the-ass trick someone would pull if they wanted someone to think they planted a bomb but didn’t want to risk actually blowing up their ‘hero’. He looks at the torn-up webbing stuck to the floor. Peter crushes the light in his hand.

That asshole. Just an annoying waste of my time like always. He needs to be locked up. Right now. Yesterday. I could be doing so many other things besides entertaining his little fanboy fantasies. I could be stopping mugging right now. I could be developing more web serum. Hell, I could be having a nice night in for once! Maybe finally get a chance to romance Karlach but no. I’m here, wasting my time yet again with this obsessed pervert.

Peter has to stop himself from kicking one of the dead bodies on the floor out of frustration.

He takes a deep breath.

Calm down. It’s fine. How were you supposed to know he was lying? You couldn’t have. You did the responsible thing and checked. That’s what matters.

Peter walks out of the bar and takes another deep breath, this time letting the cold air of the autumn night fill his lungs.

Then he does the responsible thing and waits for the police to come block off the scene. They do a whole sweep of the bar and confirm that there’s no hidden bombs anywhere on the premises. There was, however, a group of people in one of the private rooms who was absolutely horrified to find out that several people were murdered a few feet away and they couldn’t hear anything from their sound-proof Taylor Swift echo chamber.

Peter swings home exhausted and collapses on his bed, ready to attempt a few hours of unconsciousness before the sun rises and he’s beckoned to work.

Next time.

Next time I’ll get him.

Chapter Text

“Hmmmmm,” Wade presses his lips together as he opens the doors to the balcony.

The outdoor space is small but big enough for a couple pieces of patio furniture. A table and a few other chairs for sure. It overlooks the bustling streets of Midtown. The lights of apartments and smoke shops and bikes (with no regard for the traffic signals) twinkle below. The white eyes of his mask scan the horizon for a red figure swinging between the buildings. He thinks he spots Spiderman for a moment but it’s just a police drone that’s sadly too far away to throw a rock at.

Maybe bug-boy’s taking a night off. Yeah right, that goodie-two-shoes is always out taking care of his justice boner (I’m surprised his hand doesn’t get tired from all the web shooting). Must be in another borough tonight. 

Wade and the hero have fallen into a pattern in their last couple of encounters: Spidey either catches Wade during a job or Wade appears in the middle of other Spider-man business. They fight. Wade gets to enjoy getting beat up by New York’s Favorite twink and Spider-man gets pissed off about it. Wade finds a way to distract the hero or blow up or otherwise finagle his way out of getting arrested. Spider-man gets somehow even more pissed off. Rinse, repeat, and add it to the spank bank. 

He turns back around to the unfurnished high-rise apartment. The only thing sitting in the vacant space is an empty duffel bag.

Even with the breakneck pace that New York City real estate runs at, it’s not every day that you can tour an apartment and legally get butt naked in it the same night. That is to say, buy it. That being said, it’s not every day a man in superhero cosplay offers to pay double the offering price and an extremely generous broker’s fee on the spot and completely in cash (that’s only slightly covered in blood). Heh, blood money.

Wade leaves the balcony doors open and collapses on the sleek tile floor of what will probably be the living room. Or the sex room. Either way it’s the main, central room of the apartment. So probably the sex room. Maybe I can pay that lady from the Netflix show to design it!

The sex room/living room is a sizable space with large windows along one wall with a glass door that leads to the balcony. The ceilings are high enough to allow a giraffe to fully extend its neck (although Wade hasn’t seen a giraffe in probably ten years so give or take a couple of feet). The whole apartment has an open floor plan type of deal with a loft bedroom area overlooking the living room. The bedroom has an attached bathroom that Wade thinks should also overlook the common space but, alas, the architects did not consult his brilliant mind and it is fully enclosed to the side. There’s a sleek metal spiral staircase up to the loft that Wade isn’t thrilled about (he’s sure he’s going to end up passing out on the couch most nights out of laziness). Below the bedroom, tucked behind a wall that partitions it from the living room is the kitchen and dining area. Counterspace, an island, and room for, at the very least, a table for four will probably not be utilized for nuclear family meatloaf nights unless Wade’s life takes an extreme left turn very quickly, very soon. Along a side wall on the main floor, beside a few closets, is a door to a guest bedroom and bathroom. That’s what it was marketed as, anyways. Wade’s not sure when he’d ever get guests so is debating turning it into a home gym (no guests besides the occasional kidnapping job but, let’s be honest, I won’t be buying my torturees a sleep number. not unless they scream real good).

Wade reaches up and pulls off his mask. Sometimes he forgets what fresh air smells like. It’s easy to get in the habit of thinking air is always stale, warm, and smelling like sweat when you wear a full leather/spandex gimp mask 24/7. The few moments he usually has his mask off are in his musty piss-smelling apartment so that isn’t much better. Well, wasn’t much better. Now he’s in a shiny new-building-smell apartment. One with a balcony and laundry in the building and rooftop access and possibly a pool? The realtor was in a rush to sell the place so he kind of blabbered through the amenities. It was probably the katanas. Sheathed the whole time, mind you. When apartment hunting you have to keep it profesh so I didn’t even bring any guns. Ok, I lied, I brought a small gun but it’s hidden in a place where the sun don’t shine and I never took it out so it’s like I didn’t bring any guns at all.

The pool thing hardly matters. I’m not much for swimming anyways. It being body exposition central, of course. The only pool that matters to me in this building is dead. Deadpool, that is. See what I did there? I’m out of that shit-hole apartment and quite literally moving up in the world. 69th floor to be exact. Nice. Once I saw that the apartment was available I knew it was mine. Destiny. Me and these tile floors, kindred souls. I can feel it. I’ll name her Tabitha. Is Tabitha a good name for an apartment? Do people name apartments? Who cares, she’s Tabitha and I already feel right at home inside her. Ok, I see why people don’t name apartments.

-

Wade pulls the moving truck out of a parking lot. It’s not one outside of his old apartment and it’s decidedly not for his new apartment either (he has a specially reserved parking space now like your rich aunt). It is instead the parking lot of a warehouse on the piers.

He’d gotten a call about a job that morning and decided that his moving could take a pause for a quick couple of grand. Just guarding and transporting some product. Probably drugs. It’s usually drugs. He already loaded the canisters of probably drugs into the back of the U-Haul next to his stained Ikea couch and crates of guns.

Merc work sometimes comes with jobs like this. Maybe less fun than offing a scumbag but it’s easy. If anyone ever makes the mistake of hiring Deadpool to transport innocent kidnapped people or anything along those lines his target quickly changes to his would-be employer (which may not be the best for his resumé but helps him sleep at night, theoretically at least). There’s a line there and Wade doesn’t know exactly where it falls but he can feel it in his bones. No bodies could fit in the small metal tubes clanging around the back of the truck. At least not fully constructed living ones. Wade’s conscience doesn’t care nearly as much about transporting body parts.

It’s not 10 minutes into driving that Wade hears the distinct thump of a body hitting the top of the truck. Unless subway surfers have taken to riding the tops of trucks on the Hudson River Greenway he knows what that means.

Deadpool quickly jolts the steering wheel to the right, skidding the truck to its side and making a quick exit off the road.

A red and blue suited body slides off the top of the truck and grips onto the passenger side window.

“Shit,” Spider-man says through the glass, making eye contact with Wade.

Wade rolls down the window.

“What’d you say?” Deadpool asks. He jolts the wheel again for a turn, causing Spidey to grab onto the inside of the door.

“I said fuck you!” He tries to retort over the wind hitting his face. And the rest of his body. Everything, really, that spider-grippy thing he has going on is pretty crazy.

Wade hits the breaks suddenly and the truck skids to an abrupt halt in a vacant lot next to the river.

“Y’know I do uber on Tuesdays and Thursdays so I wasn’t really looking to pick someone up today but I can make an exception for you, Red,” Wade smiles at Spider-man whose body is halfway through the passenger-side window and face is radiating a now-familiar expression of rage. “That’ll be 34 bucks. I take Zelle, no Cash App or Venmo.”

Wade is, quite literally, kicked out of the driver’s seat. His upper body digs against the harsh, uneven pavement. It rips through the shoulder of his suit, bits of dirt and gravel sticking to a nasty rug burn. Pavement burn?

“Why is it that after every time we meet I have to make a new suit?” Wade relocates his jaw as Spider-man (quite sexily) sits sideways in the driver’s seat looking down at him. I mean, you should really see him. There’s no need for him to be posing in the truck doorway like that. There’s no way it isn’t on purpose.

“Why is it that every time we meet you’re doing something insanely illegal?” Spider-man hops down from the truck. Boo! Go back to stoking my truck driver fantasies. 

“Call the police! Deadpool’s moving all of his personal belongings to a new apartment he legally acquired!” Wade stands up and pats the side of the truck. He doesn’t need to know about the duffel bag filled with bloody cash. That transaction was about as legal as my purchasing history gets, ok?

“That’s all this is? You need to meet up with some shady guys on a dock to help you move? Are they from your bowling league or something?” Spidey walks past him to the back of the truck, purposely bumping into his shoulder. Hot.

“Sometimes you have to go through some shady people to get Pier 1 Imports resells, sue me! I don’t think it’s worth the time of the ‘friendly neighborhood Spider-Man’,” Wade follows him to the back of the truck. The comment earns him a glare. “Where’s the ‘friendly’ part of that title gone by the way?”

“That part’s not applicable for criminals,” Spidey breaks the lock on the back of the truck.

“There’s no need for that, I really could have opened it for you. But hey, doesn’t breaking into a truck I’m renting and sorting through my property make you a criminal too?” Wade holds the back door of the truck closed for a moment.

He gets another wordless glare.

Wade hopes by some act of god that all of the metal canisters have rolled under his junk and the hero doesn’t bother to dig through his items. God apparently doesn’t exist however as Spider-man pushes the back door up and at least ten cylinders filled with who knows what come tumbling out of the truck.

“I have odd taste in butt-plugs, ok?” Wade shrugs.

“What’s in them?” Spider-man turns to Deadpool, arms crossed in a very tell-me-or-I’m-going-to-kick-your-ass kind of way.

The prospect of another fight with Spidey makes the mercenary's hair stand on end in the best way.

Let’s go over why these interactions are always the highlight of my week, shall we?

“Nothing,” Wade’s hand itches. All of his instincts hum in anticipation, ready to grasp a katana in a moment's notice. 

Adrenaline.

“Drugs?” Spider-man webs Wade’s leg and pulls him to the ground before his reflexes can trigger. All the air escapes his lungs as his back hits the ground.

Bruises.

“Body parts?” Spidey puts a foot on Deadpool’s chest. He presses down with his super-strength on Wade’s sternum. He can practically hear the bones creak with effort to stay in place. 

Getting pinned down.

“Hey, those were my guesses too!” Wade says breathlessly.

He is able to grab the hero’s other leg and pull, sending Webs to the ground in return. He hits the pavement with a short grunt.

Noises.

Wade climbs on top of him, pinning down his arms and legs. Even with super strength the human body can be immobilized if held in the right positions and that’s just special forces 101. At least as far as he can remember that’s where Wade thinks he probably learned this. Spidey strains against his grasp.

Body heat.

Really all that’s missing is a climax at the end. And honestly Spidey could easily draw one out of me if he tried. Right, I’m supposed to be aiming for that. Stupid Wade getting caught up with homoerotic fighting, you’re supposed to be homoerotically fucking!

“Spidey, I don't want to fight you,” Wade lies. Getting on his good side would probably be a good start. Or at least off whatever equivalent of a hit list a no-kill superhero keeps. An arrest and maim list? Yeah, I need off of that. “Let me just drive away with whatever that stuff is and we can call it an early night. I’ll even forget you rejected me last time and throw in dinner, on me!”

“Fat chance,” Spidey responds.

“See, I don’t get that phase, doesn’t that mean there would be a bigger chance?” Wade asks, still holding down the hero.

Both of their heads turn as something in the back of the truck falls over. Another canister falls out the back, hitting the pavement and rolling close to where the two men have found themselves on the ground. The top of the cylinder hisses as it breaks open and a bright orange liquid starts pooling out of it.

“Oh, that’s not-“ Wade is interrupted by a skull smashing into his face.

He stumbles back, the cartilage in his nose shattered. Blood gushes from his nostrils and coats his mask. It runs down his lips and fills his mouth with the taste of iron.

“Really?” The web slinger stands over him. The intense energy and dark clouds behind him almost make him seem villainous. Well, as villainous as you could look in Spider-themed pajamas that is.

Maybe I can ask Dom and Weasel for a little extension on that bet. Two years, maybe? Five?

“Look, Webs, I didn’t know that was what was in those,” Wade stands up.

He draws one of his guns from his belt. Spider-man sees the action and adjusts his fighting stance.

The sky seems to be in on the moment and decides to open. Wade watches as drops of rain slide down the lenses of his opponent’s mask.

God, it’s moments like this that I wish fan fiction was a visual medium cause y’all should really see this shit. It’s cinematic and everything. This and the posing in the car thing so you know I’m not lying about it. There was absolutely no need for that high a level of cuntery and honestly it kind of feels threatening to my drama queen status.

“So you’re just taking jobs without even bothering to do a little research?” The hero says over the deafening sound of gunshots. He dodges three bullets that weren’t going to hit him.

“Kind of in the job description,” Wade retorts. “Criminal activity, secrecy. Fun fact: they go hand in hand.”

Spider-man webs the gun and throws it to the side. Wade unsheathes his katanas as Spidey shoots a web to glue another one of his guns to its holster. Deadpool’s reflexes kick in and he swings his blade, cutting through the webbing in thin air before it can reach his gun.

They both stand there for a moment, staring at the failed web on the ground.

Wade gasps.

“That’s not supposed to happen,” The white eyes of Deadpool’s mask widen as his opponent’s get smaller in frustration.

Spidey doesn’t respond and instead shoots three more webs to try to immobilize Wade’s movement. Wade swings his blades around and slices through each one, strands of web unraveling to the floor. Every other time they fought Wade had to saw through the webbing with considerable effort but this is just too easy.

“Y’know it’s actually quite a common condition for young men to have,” Wade casually leans on one of his katanas during a moment's rest from Webs’ shooting attempts. 

“Shut up!” The hero says as he lunges at Deadpool.

Now, as much as I adore Spider-man, I have to admit that these past couple meetings haven’t been all I’d hoped for. For one, he still hasn’t fucked me but that’s ok, we’ll give that a little more time. For two, his hand-to-hand combat skills are good, sure, but honestly not where I thought they would be. It turns out the little acrobat is great when he can use his webs but when it’s just his hands it’s kind of lackluster. To me, that is. Put him up against your average black belt and they’re down for the count in a few seconds. Still, huh, got to say I expected more. Honestly it could have to do with number three: the weird energy. I’m not one for vibes or mercury retrograding but something about his fighting has just been… Erratic? Thoughtless? I don’t have a dictionary on me right now to conjure the specific words but overall it’s just been wrong. And disappointing. Case in point: this mess.

Spider-man throws a barrage of punches and knees and kicks that Wade easily dodges without much effort at all. He’s kind of zoning out, actually.

“Oh!” Wade exclaims as he dodges a particularly misplaced kick. The misguided force sends Spidey to the ground without Wade even having to lay a finger on him. “That’s not your normal web solution, is it?”

Spider-man looks up at him from the ground, seething.

“You’re trying to make a new one! One that can withstand that radioactive orange slime!” Wade points to the canisters still piled at the back of his U-Haul. “Slime that I had no clue was in those canisters, tbh, so you can really cool it.”

“Shut up!” Spidey slings a giant web at Wade’s mid-section and flings him into the side of the truck.

Deadpool makes a giant indent in the van with a deafening bang. It slides a few spots over in the parking lot from the force. He falls to his knees, head ringing.

Have you ever heard your brain goop turn to soup and slosh around in your skull? It’s a really weird experience. I don’t recommend it.

When Wade lifts his head he sees the blurry figure of Spider-man running at him again.

He grabs a pistol off his belt.

He squints to focus and tries to stand but his foot steps on a piece of metal debris slick with rain. It slips.

The gun fires.

No.

Deadpool’s eyes try to focus.

All he can see is a blurry spurt of blood spray from Spidey’s left shoulder.

No. No.

The hero winces at the impact but doesn’t stop running.

Nonono.

Spider-man’s fist plants square in the middle of Wade’s chest.

He’s knocked back into the truck with what feels like enough force to take down an elephant. The vehicle skids across the lot. It hits the old chain railing at the edge of the lot and tips over the side.

Wade can feel every single one of his broken ribs. A lung is definitely punctured. A liver bruised (As if I don’t abuse him already, heyo! Actually never mind, this may be one of those rare instances where I shouldn’t be joking I mean I just SHOT SPIDER-MAN!?!?!!).

The truck hits the water and Wade feels the cold, dirty water of the Hudson river embrace him. It stings his chest and back. He doesn’t fight it. It’s what he deserves. The physical pain doesn’t matter, it never does. It always heals. Even if Wade doesn’t want it to, doesn’t think it should. It’s nothing compared to the other burning in his chest. The fires of guilt. A flash of red next to Spidey’s shoulder replaying behind his eyes.

Wade doesn’t even see the red and blue figure dive into the water after him. He doesn’t see him swim after him, shoulder bleeding as he reaches out, somehow making the river more of a biohazard than it already is. He doesn’t realize until Spider-Man’s arms wrap around him and he starts to swim towards the surface.

The hero dumps him on the pavement with less care than is usually given to drowning victims. Deadpool pulls up the bottom of his mask and coughs up a lungs worth of water and blood.

“Webs, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean- I never meant to-“ The words come out of Wade’s mouth broken and raspy. His lungs haven’t healed enough and each syllable hurts. He stops talking when he gets a sharp glare over the spider’s shoulder.

Spider-man slowly walks over and picks up one of the canisters of web fluid that had fallen from the truck. He grabs it with his injured arm and Wade can see how it shakes ever so slightly with the effort. Without looking back Spidey slings a web with his good arm and darts toward the city skyline.

Wade watches him go until the red dot disappears and then a little longer. He thinks about turning around. Walking into the river and allowing the water to fill his lungs but until it takes him this time. He thinks better of it. Maybe it’s what he believes he deserves but it won’t accomplish anything. He’d still have the guilt just with a horrifically waterlogged body to boot. He’s dealt with it before, it’s a nightmare. A different kind of nightmare than the one he’s in now, that is.

He stands up. He turns and glances at the truck seeping deeper into the river. All of his belongings. His couch. Tv. Bedframe. The realization that his video game discs and consoles are damaged beyond his repair hits him harder than he expects. The realization that a small box filled with photos and trinkets from his relationship with Vanessa is gone hits him as hard as he expects. It’s hard.

He walks over to the pile of canisters with anti-web serum. He picks one up and his eyes linger on a spot of blood left on the pavement. Spidey’s blood.

Shut up Wade.

He thinks it to himself. He’s either having too many thoughts all at once that drown each other out or none at all. He’s not sure which but either way it’s overwhelming.

Just fix it.

This is Spider-man. THE Spider-man and you just shot him.

He’s bounced back from worse. That doesn’t make it ok but it means he’ll probably be ok. Well, if he doesn’t get a life-threatening infection from the toxic waste water he jumped in to save you.

Fuck.

Dickhead.

Of course you would fuck this up. Idiot. Shooting centimeters away from him? When he’s clearly off his game? When you have a fucking brain injury?

He grips the canister and it indents. Not enough to break the seal but enough to pull Wade from his spiral for just a second. He looks at the reflection of his mask in the dented metal. His image warps and bends like a fun house mirror, sending red and black in every direction.

Wade stares down at the rest of the anti-web serum containers that managed to escape the fate of the truck. His reflection is fractured and wrong but this is nothing new. Every cell in his body wants to turn away from the torn suit and the dried blood tracing down the front of his chin but he doesn’t look away. He knows he’s staring at the one thing that could help him help Spider-man.

Even if it means him hating me forever. Even if it means him arresting me. I’d deserve it. I’d deserve it all and so much more. 

Chapter Text

Peter struggles with the window to his apartment. His good hand sticks to the outside frame and tries to jolt it open but the old wood creaks and rattles, mocking his weakened state. It finally unsticks and he’s able to wedge it open enough to climb through. His injured shoulder hits against the frame on his way in. He sucks in a breath as pain shoots down his arm, causing him to let go of the canister of anti-web serum he was holding. It clatters to the ground and rolls across the room and under his bed. Peter would pick it up but in his current state it isn’t worth the effort and honestly under the bed is as good of a place as any with how unorganized his place is. He makes the tedious journey of walking across his small studio apartment to turn on the lights before collapsing on the floor next to his bed. Peter pulls off his mask, throwing the soggy mass across the room in frustration. His whole body is wet with a gross film of polluted river water and the sensation makes him want to crawl out of his skin. His attention turns to the gash on his arm as it sets his nerve endings aflame. Warm blood trails down his arm to his fingers, dripping on some laundry he forgot to pick up.

“Shit,” Peter exhales.

Fuckkkkkk. Idiot. Ugh.

The pain won’t subside and Peter’s thoughts can’t muster more than short-syllable bursts of self-blame. Normally this type of injury would be something he’d handle on his own but without fully thinking it through he finds himself reaching for his phone. His thumb hovers over the “call” button for a second before another shot of pain forces him to hit it. He bites the inside of his lip to try to help distract from the more excruciating pain as the phone rings loudly in his ear.

“Hey, what’s up? It’s been a while-“ A familiar voice springs out of the speakers.

“Flash,” Peter feels bad for interrupting him but his shoulder insists that small talk is a waste of time. “Are you free right now?”

“Yup, are you ok? You don’t sound so good,” Flash’s voice immediately changes to one of concern and Peter wants to bang his head against the wall. He settles for letting it lightly fall back on the side of his bed.

I shouldn’t’ve called. This is why I never call.

“Yeah, I just- I kinda got shot,” Peter exhales.

He meant to sugarcoat the situation, downplay the injury as a minor scrape, but the words can’t form coherently in his head over the deafening pain. There’s silence on the end of the phone for a moment and Peter can picture Flash’s face as he cycles through too many emotions to list. 

“I’ll be over in fifteen,” Flash says before the call cuts off.

Peter drops his phone to the ground and buries his face in his hands, letting the hurt envelope him. The physical pain is still excruciating but it’s dulled enough for his thoughts to be able to form sentences. He’s not sure if it’s making his situation better or worse.

Idiot. Dumbass. How could I let this happen? He wasn’t even trying to fight at the beginning. Why am I even picking fights with that asshole? And why am I losing to him? I can’t be this reliant on my spidey senses. But that’s just it-

Peter thinks back on the moments right before he got shot. The rain. The rage. Wade stumbles to his feet and raises the gun, squinting. The sound of it goes off and Peter can feel it. The hum of his senses coming back to him. From nothing to screeching at him to get out of the way. It takes him by surprise and he doesn’t have time to react until the bullet tears through his shoulder.

He looks over at the wound, still a deep red as it bleeds into his suit. He’s getting lightheaded, actually. I should probably do something about that.

He snaps to his feet and the sudden movement doesn’t help his head. He manages to stay upright by leaning on his bed. Ok, Peter. Keep it together.

He shakes out his good hand and fully comprehends that he’s still in his Spider-man suit. The next fifteen or so minutes consist of him peeling the suit off, quickly rinsing some of the lake grime off in the shower, changing, makeshift bandaging his shoulder, and then attempting to hide his suit somewhere in the apartment. He changes its place three times before settling on the bottom of his hamper, doubting that Flash is going to root through his dirty laundry. It needs to be cleaned now anyways.

Flash is Peter’s oldest friend and the closest thing he has to a best friend. He’s sure if someone asked Flash to list his closest friends Peter wouldn’t crack the top 5 or maybe even 10 but he tells himself it’s for the best. Secret identity, people getting hurt, all that. He doesn’t deserve a high placement anyway. The last time they hung out properly was three months ago and that was cut short by Peter having to stop a bank robbery. He used the excuse that his cat was sick even though he doesn’t and never owned a cat. Shit, is he going to be expecting a cat?

The apartment buzzer sounds and Peter presses the button to let Flash into the building. Soon there’s a knock on the door. Peter opens it to find his friend, sweating through his work scrubs.

“You got shot? Again?” He pushes past him just enough to let Peter close the door before honing in on his wounded shoulder.

“It’s really not that bad,” Peter instinctively shifts his arm away, wincing at the movement.

“Getting shot?! I don’t have time for whatever people-pleasing protest you have planned Parker, just sit down,” Flash sighs and gestures to one of the mismatched chairs huddled around a small table in the corner.

“That’s a lot of ‘P’s,” Peter sits down in the only seat not covered in books or laundry while unsuccessfully trying to laugh-off the regret of dragging his friend into this again.

“Yeah and I’ve got another one for you: preservation instincts. You need to get them. You also need to look up some basic first aid skills, jesus,” Flash takes off the makeshift bandage and starts examining the wound. “Please tell me you were part of a mugging gone wrong or something and this isn’t more Spider-man stuff.”

Peter’s heart almost goes through another “P”: Palpitations.

“Whatever they’re paying you at The Bugle can’t be worth all these injuries. They’re not even giving you worker’s comp for this, are they?” Flash walks over to Peter’s bathroom and roots around his sad first aid kit before returning. He pushes a stack of chemistry books off a chair and scoots it next to his patient.

Peter exhales slightly in relief. His usual explanation for his concerning amount of scars and injuries escaped him for a moment. It would make sense that the closest thing Spider-man has to an official photographer would get caught in the crossfire sometimes. Not nearly as often as Peter does but he hasn’t gotten in the habit of getting close enough to someone that they’d notice.

“You should have called me sooner. It’s been what? Four, five hours since this happened?” Flash starts. 

I shouldn’t have called you at all. This is going to be all healed in like a week, max. Damn it, Peter, he’s just going to have questions.

He’s good at his job and in a few short minutes the wound is properly cleaned and dressed. Flash fits into the stereotype that the worst person you knew from high school is a nurse now but in the most positive way possible. He started studying sports medicine because it had ‘sports’ in the title but along the way he actually grew a passion and genuine care for helping people.  

“This isn’t…” Flash finishes up the first aid and stares at the white gauze before his gaze shifts to Peter. “You’re not doing this on purpose, are you?”

“Did I shoot myself in the shoulder?” Peter knows what he’s asking but he doesn’t want to talk about it, even though it isn’t on purpose. Feigning ignorance for a few moments is worth a few more breaths before tackling wherever this conversation is going.

“No, dumbass. I’m saying you shouldn’t be putting yourself in harm's way for some blurry Spider-man photos,” Flash playfully hits him on the back of the back of the head. He stands up, done with patching up his friend’s arm. “I don’t have to be concerned for you do I? I mean, more than I already am, obviously.”

Ten years ago the idea of Flash saying he’s concerned for Peter would have been a joke. Some kind of taunt in the locker room. That is for the few months that Peter dared to use the men’s locker room before opting to change in a bathroom stall for the rest of his highschool career.

Peter and Flash lived in the same school district from kindergarten to 12th grade. Elementary school was easy. Toy blocks and nap time and simple addition provided a comfortable backdrop for the two to become fast friends. They would swing across the playground as pirates and peruse playthroughs of Poptropica. The trouble started when it always starts: middle school. The classes got bigger and puberty hormones flooded the hallways, threatening to drown children in their own and each other’s emotions. What was already a turbulent time for Peter turned into magnitude five earthquake levels of devastation when one of his closest friends started to see him as some kind of outsider. It wasn’t until freshman year of high school, when Peter came out as trans, that Flash’s freezing out transformed into hot flames of ridicule. The teasing never got physical besides a few shoulder checks in the hallways and the jabs didn’t get outright threatening because most of the boys were trying to maintain a clean-enough record for college admissions. That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt though. The looks. The snickering when the teacher would split kids up for gym and Peter would be on the boy’s side. The worse reactions when he wasn’t. The alliteration. “Peter Parker picked a peck of pickled peppers” eventually morphed into “Peter Parker popped a pimple on his penis” to even more under-the-breath laughter when they reached the punchline: “oh wait- he doesn’t have one!” His entire freshman year could be summed up by a running gag from Mr. Popper’s Penguins and that was all thanks to Flash. It didn’t get better as the years went on but Peter found company in friends, well more like ‘friend’ singular, and that made it easier. Flash wouldn’t let up until senior year. Not until something else managed to shake Peter’s world in such a way that makes earthquake metaphors feel trivial. After that it was a long, tedious road back to friendship. To the strenuous relationship they have now where they’ll catch up every couple of months, maybe play a video game or two, and every six months Peter will call Flash to help patch up a particularly nasty wound because he doesn’t have good insurance. It’s not the healthiest friendship, given both its past and the transactional nature of it now, but it seems to work for the both of them. At least that’s what Peter tells himself.

“No, you don’t need to be concerned, I’m fine,” Peter tries to smile but it comes out wrong. Now his mind is rushing through… well, everything. The last thing his face wants to do is to contort into the symbol of joy.

“I just know how you can get around this time of year,” Flash tries to say it casually but he also fails, sincerity leaking through each syllable.

“Yeah, but I’m ok, really,” He doesn’t try to smile when he says it but it’s more genuine this time. He’s ok, he really is. As ok as he can be with almost seven years distance, which is sometimes not ok at all. Overall he’s ok by some metric. He’s not putting himself in any more harm’s way than a superhero usually would given their occupation.

“If you say so,” Flash’s response is more defeated than hopeful. “Mario kart?”

“Mario kart,” Peter smiles for real this time.

“I might actually win this time cause of your injured shoulder!” Flash plops down on Peter’s sad excuse of a couch. Peter makes his way over as Flash hits the power button to Peter’s Wii which whirrs to life with all the exuberance of a hundred-year-old tortoise.

“Hey, don’t you have a cat now or something?” Flash excitedly turns to Peter who immediately dreads having to burst his bubble. 

Halloween has always been Peter’s favorite holiday. From a young age it seemed as if he always knew he was destined to put on a costume and terrorize the night. It’s been weird since he’s been Spider-man considering the amount of hims he sees throughout the city, but it’s something that he’s gotten used to at this point. Most people can tell him apart from the average joe due to his swinging across buildings capabilities.

The past couple of years he’s taken up the tradition of walking around the city as if in a costume. It’s kind of odd to see the city through the masks’ lenses while just going about his day. Last year he almost casually walked into his apartment building before realizing that an onlooker could clock his suit’s specific craftsmanship and dox him.

His favorite Halloween tradition, however, is handing out candy. Not at his apartment. If you asked the kid downstairs if he gets any candy from 5B he would scowl and shake his head. It’s not a good look for Peter. But if you were to ask the kid his favorite moment of the night it would be when Spider-man swung down from a building and deposited a handful of candy into his bag. It’s a busy night for Spider-man but he also finds it to be one of the most rewarding.

Peter flips onto a building. He just finished a candy drop to a group of middle schoolers dressed as Monster High characters. He approaches a hunched-over bulk bag of candy he stashed on the roof. Peter picks it up and surveys its remaining contents. It’s almost empty and he wishes he were able to buy a few more but his budget is stretched thin (as always).

“I never would have pegged you for a sweet tooth,” The voice comes out of the shadows behind a large air conditioning unit on the roof. “And that’s crazy because I’m pegging’s number one fan.”

Adrenaline shoots through Peter’s body with a jolt, recognizing the cadence of Wade’s voice immediately. He turns around and is greeted by a jarring sight.

Wade has on a Spider-man costume over his regular Deadpool suit. Its cheap spandex stretches at the seams and bulky plastic lenses sit sloppily on his face.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“I bet you think you’re hilarious,” Peter’s posture stiffens and he drops the candy bag, ready to be on guard at any moment.

He hasn’t seen Wade for at least a week which is now considered an extended period of time given how often the anti-hero has taken to annoying him. The last time was when Peter got shot. His shoulder aches at the thought but it’s probably psychosomatic because he hasn’t felt anything else from it in the past few days.

“I’d say a good 87.52 percent of the time, yes,” Wade smiles beneath his double-masked face.

How is he even breathing through that much fabric?

“That’s not a bomb, is it?” Peter realizes that Deadpool is holding a rather large duffel bag at his side. “You’d have to be a real dick to do something like that on Halloween but your dick-ery track record isn’t exactly favorable.”

“On gay Christmas?! I would never!” Wade feigns shock and disbelief. “No, seriously though, it’s not a bomb, it’s a peace offering!”

Peter glares at the man. 

“Don’t give me that patented Spidey side-eye, have a look for yourself!” Wade throws the duffel bag to Peter’s feet. He flinches slightly when it doesn’t immediately explode in his face.

With extreme caution Peter kneels down and unzips the bag. Sitting there are a bunch of silver canisters, the same ones that had the anti-web serum in them that day on the docks.

“You didn’t put bombs in these, did you?” Peter squints at him again. “Or any kind of tracking device?”

He picks one up and turns it from side to side, feeling the slosh of liquid inside.

“No and no, although the latter is a good idea!” Wade takes a step forward and the joking tone leaves his voice. “I didn’t mean to shoot you, I’m so sorry Spider-Man. It was a mistake and this is- I guess me trying to make up for it? You don’t have to forgive me, really. I’ll just try to stay out of your hair, or I guess webs, from now on.”

Spidey is caught off guard by his tone. The utter sincerity of it. His change of posture, delivery, the whole performance almost makes Peter want to forgive him. Almost.

“What do you mean you didn’t mean to shoot me?” Spider-man asks. The initial sincerity of the moment washes over Peter as he remembers who’s in front of him. A prolific assassin and mercenary. A hired killer. Acting skills seem like they’d be a required part of his toolset. And, oh yeah, Deadpool shot him. With a gun that was outstretched and aimed straight at him. He pulled the trigger. As he always does. He pulls a gun on him practically every time they meet. What does he mean he didn’t mean to shoot me?

Wade freezes for a moment, eyes shifting like he didn’t prepare for this line of questioning.

“Ok, you got me,” Wade lets out a sigh and his posture relaxes. “Truth is I’m a big ol’ softie. Like one of those IKEA stuffed bears just with some grenades stuck to it.”

“Get to the point, Wade.” Peter drops the canister in his hand back to the duffel, fully invested in whatever is about to spew out of his opponent’s mouth.

“Fine! Fine- ok! I never meant to hurt you. I’m a marksman, professionally. Can shoot a can off a log from across a football field while driving a monster truck jumping over an olympic sized pool filled with piranhas-“

“Why does it matter what the pool is filled with if it doesn’t affect the distance or difficulty of the shot?” Peter asks.

“Do you want me to get to the point or not? What matters is I’m a perfect shot (a brag but a true one) and I never hit you… well except that last time but that was an accident. Rain. Metal. Slipping. Blurred vision. Concussion. That you caused by slamming me into that truck by the way- Not that it matters! I’m fine, all good, peachy keen. My fault for shooting towards you in that state, really,” Wade backtracks suddenly, remembering this is supposed to be an apology and peace offering.

“You were never trying to hurt me?” Peter puts the thought together the same time it exits his mouth.

“You’re Spider-man. I’m not going to try to kill Spider-man! What would that do to all the poor little snot goblins dressed as you tonight? Forget them, what would that do to me? Like I’ve said, you’re a personal hero of mine. I don’t think I could live with myself if I killed you which would be pretty hard considering the whole no-dying thing,” Wade is too busy rambling to notice Peter’s fists clench at his sides.

“What?” It’s not the most eloquent of responses but it’s all Peter can manage at the moment.

“Neither of us were ever in any real danger so if you think about it it’s kind of like we’ve just been hanging out this whole time, right?” Wade chuckles.

“Hanging out?” Every syllable that comes out of Deadpool’s mouth feels like a needle to Peter’s skin. They’re not the relaxing acupuncture kind either. It’s more like when a nurse can’t find your blood vessel so they keep poking and poking and poking until your skin is all irritated and red.

“Oof, did that gunshot affect your hearing too, Webs?” Wade says, just now fully realizing the energy radiating off of the hero. “Keep in mind that the conclusion we’re coming to here is a good one, one that means you were never in any danger.”

Peter jolts at Wade. He closes the short distance between them and throws a wild punch that the anti-hero dodges with ease.

He’s just been wasting my time? Fighting me like it’s some kind of game? Joking around while I could have been saving people? Stopping crimes?

Peter keeps flinging punches that don’t come anywhere close to landing.

“Webs, calm down!” Wade grabs one of Peter’s wrists.

He takes the opportunity to fling Deadpool across the roof.

“Fight me.” Spider-man stands over Wade. Underneath all of his emotions and reactions boiling over on the surface, Peter isn’t sure why he’s still here. He could just walk away. The night would probably be better spent giving out more candy or even getting a good night’s sleep. Instead he decides to egg Wade on as he pushes himself off the ground. “Do you think I’m too naïve? Too untrained to actually take you on?”

“Trust me, pumpkin,” The words are slightly strained as he gets to his feet. “You don’t want to fight me.”

Peter flings another fist at Deadpool. It makes contact with his face as Wade doesn’t even try to dodge. He turns back to Spider-man as if it was a light poke on the cheek. Peter feels slightly bad about it. Just slightly.

“Fine,” Wade rolls his eyes as if this whole thing is some annoying chore. He pulls the cheap stretched-out Spider-man mask off from on top of his Deadpool one, letting it fall to the ground. He reaches for his katanas. “Have it your way.”

Wade swings at Peter’s shoulder (the same shoulder he shot, of course). He dodges but the emptiness where his spider-senses should be stands out once again.

Wade swings a few more times: arm, leg, chest. Each one he escapes and none activate Peter’s senses.

That’s it. That’s why, isn’t it? Of course it is.

“You’re still missing on purpose.” Peter’s voice drips with disgust.

He stops dodging an incoming blade that skirts perfectly past his thigh.

“Want to bet on it?” Wade twirls the sword around his wrist.

He makes a quick swing at Spider-man’s neck. Peter decides to trust his instincts. He stands stock still as the sword cuts through the air. Its movement creates an almost instrumental note through its speed.

The sharp edge stops mere millimeters before making contact with the fabric of Peter’s suit.

Spider-man narrows his eyes at Deadpool. The whites of his opponent’s mask do the same as they stand there, locked in the moment, staring at each other.

“Why?” Peter doesn’t move from the spot, the katana still positioned centimeters away from a major artery. “You think I’m too unskilled to take you on? Is that it?”

“No, I don’t want to be your enemy,” Wade sighs and that infectious sincerity comes back to his voice. Peter wants to throw up at the sound of it.

“You kill people. For money. Everything you do is in direct opposition to what I stand for,” Peter says and the syllables feel wrong in his mouth. Examples flick through his mind contrary to the point. Yes, he kills people for money but they also met when he was trying to help Spider-man? In his own weird fucked-up kind of way? Peter bites his lip, fighting against his own instincts to find the best in people when most of the time it just ends badly. “And this peace offering? The jokes? You’re doing this to assuage your guilt. To get on my good side cause of some weird parasocial relationship you’ve developed toward me. I’m not buying it.”

“Yeesh, are you a psychologist or something?” One of Deadpool’s eyebrows raises as he jokes.

Peter takes a step forward. His senses buzz in the back of his head as the blade next to his neck slices through the fabric and creates a small cut on the side of his neck.

“Masochist?” Wade gulps as he takes the katana away from Peter’s neck.

Spider-man stops a foot away from Wade. He stares up at him challengingly. The whites of his mask search Peter’s, scrunching and returning to normal as he presumably thinks through what he’s going to say next. Peter assumes this to be the first time in his life he’s ever made the effort.

“Look, you’re clearly going through… something right now,” Wade breaks eye-contact and finds a new interesting spot to glance at on a billboard a few buildings away. “You’re not acting right, you’re definitely not fighting right, something off.”

Peter wants to hit him again. He wants to hit him as hard as he can because he’s right. He’s correct. The fact that he can read him so easily makes all his reasoning go out the window. 

He shouldn’t be able to read me like this. He can’t be able to do that. That means he, a murderer, has the upper hand. That he’s studying me and my pattern of behaviors. If he can do that he could find out more. He could track me down. Find out my identity. He’s already met me out of the suit once. He could know already. He could go after my friends, my family. He could use them against me. Like what happened before. Like what happened with-

“I’m not going to pretend I know what’s going on but there’s something. I just… want to help,” Wade gestures to the duffel bag peace offering. His voice is gentle and comforting like candy hiding the taste of a cyanide center.

Don’t trust him.

Everything in Peter screams it. His eyes fall to the Spider-man crest on Deadpool’s chest. It’s warped and stretched, the shape of the thick panels of Wade’s actual suit pushing out from underneath the fabric. 

“You think I can trust you?” Peter’s hand lays on the spider logo on Wade’s chest. He can feel the man jolt ever so slightly at the touch. “Why would I ever want help from a monster?”

Peter’s hand grips the Spider-man logo and rips the cheap fabric off of Wade’s chest, exposing the Deadpool suit below. The scrap floats to Peter’s feet but he doesn’t bother watching its descent. His eyes are too busy locked onto Wade’s face.

Wade is frozen in the moment, tense and rigid. Peter feels a single drop of regret ripple through the crashing waves of rage in his chest.

Maybe “monster” is a bit harsh. Not entirely inaccurate, but harsh.

“Fine. You really want to fight, bug boy?” Wade spits out the words and trips Peter.

He falls to the ground and his spidey-senses jolt to life. He rolls out of the way of a katana aimed straight at his head. He gets to a crouch and barely has time to recover before dodging another swing at his midsection. The blade’s movements again sound almost musical, but this time it’s the dramatic sting of a villain’s determination.

“Let’s fight,” Deadpool’s voice is deep and serious, sending a chill up Peter’s spine. What’s more concerning is the monotone nature of it, a deadness of emotion echoing through the words like an old church bell.

The thought flies through his head to backpedal on his previous insistence on fighting but it’s gone just as fast as it appeared once Wade lunges at Peter again.

The katanas whip around him and Peter is overwhelmed by the sudden all-consuming return of his senses. One of the blades slashes through the side of his suit, leaving a cut on his lower waist. He winces but is able to web one of the swords and fling it backwards. It impales on the air conditioner unit, which sputters to a defeated halt.

Peter has no time between turning his head back to Wade and dodging a swing from katana #2 that comes dangerously close to Van Gogh-ing him. In the dodge effort he falls right into an inescapable kick from Wade to his stomach, knocking him to his back.

His limbs buzz with adrenaline and after a few more dodged swings he is able to catch a window to web Wade’s other katana and successfully fling it to the other side of the roof. He webs Wade’s face and pulls, using the momentum to get himself back on his feet.

“That fucking move again?” Wade claws at his face to get the webbing off.

By the time he does Peter is standing there, fists up in a ready position.

He doesn’t make the first move. He can’t. He’s the one that poked the bear but now the reality of fighting Deadpool is more daunting than he thought. Because Deadpool can actually fight and at the end of the day survival instincts are survival instincts. It would be dangerous for him not to be scared. He leaves the space open, giving Wade an easy escape from the tussel. He hopes he’ll take it because his heart is beating more than he thought it would and if he were to unfurl his fists he knows his fingers would be shaking. Peter can't give up. Not after all of his insistence. It would just be humiliating and worst of all it would prove that asshole right, that he doesn’t really want to fight. What leaves Wade’s mouth isn't a plea for a truce, however.

“Fine. Hand to hand,” Wade raises his fists and bolts to close the gap between them.

Peter webs one of his feet causing him to mess up his stride and miss the blow. Peter hits him in the stomach a little harder than intended. He winces as he feels Wade’s ribs break under his fingers.

Wade lets out a grunt but his reflexes catch Spidey’s fist before he can pull it away. Peter tries to land a blow to his head with his other hand but Deadpool grabs his wrist an inch away from impact.

“I said hand to hand,” Wade digs his thumb into Peter’s web shooter. The pressure on the device crushes it, coating Peter’s wrist with webbing.

He feels Wade’s grip tightening on his other wrist and he headbuts the man before he can do the same damage. Peter frees his right wrist and tries to separate from Wade but the exploded webbing on his left hand prevents him from making it far.

His web serum isn’t perfect yet but he made sure after his last encounter with Deadpool that it’s stronger, at least enough to make it an effort to cut through. Unfortunately he didn’t have the foresight to see layers and layers of webbing entangling Wade’s hand to his wrist.

“If you wanted to hold my hand you could’ve just asked!” Wade says as he tries to punch Peter in the gut.

Peter’s senses electrocute and he dodges it but the trap of close proximity prevents him from getting very far. The hum of his senses urge him to make distance but the webs around his wrist don’t make for an easy escape. This isn’t helped by Wade purposefully keeping his arm loose, letting it swing without resistance whenever Peter tries to rip it away.

“That joke doesn’t work if you’re the one who caused this!” Peter retorts. He makes a few attacks and escape attempts in the process, all of which end him right back where he started. Glued to an assassin who he basically begged to try to kill him.

“Oh yeah, wouldn’t want to touch a monster!” Wade says as they enter into a peculiar dance of punches and dodges and kicks all while stuck together by their hands.

“What? I struck a nerve with the merc for hire?” Peter manages to land a crushing stomp to Wade’s foot. If we’re going to be stuck in this pseudo-dance I mind as well use appropriate tactics.

Wade winces but uses the closeness to grab Peter’s other arm and shove it uncomfortably behind his back.

“We all have ‘um. Want me to open yours up and prove it?” Deadpool rests his chin on Peter’s neck, letting the words mutter at almost a whisper into his ears. He pulls Peter’s arm further up his back. His arm burns and Peter can feel the tension threatening to snap his arm or at the very least dislocate it from his shoulder. Thinking quickly he bends over and flips Wade over his back at an angle, the force enough for Deadpool to let go of his arm and to rip their webbed hands apart.

Wade falls back on his elbows. Peter rolls his shoulder. Not dislocated, good. He takes a breath and gives Wade another moment to stand up, another chance to surrender that he doesn’t take.

Once he’s up Peter slings a web at his arm to try to immobilize it by sticking it to his side but Deadpool is too quick. He grabs the web and pulls it towards him, causing Peter to stumble forward more than intended. Wade lands a punch in Spidey’s stomach and Peter crumples at the impact.

“What’s that saying about tasting medicine? I actually remember it perfectly but fighting banter requires I be a bit cheeky with it,” Wade jokes but his tone is still graver than usual. Peter never thought he’d miss that annoying jilt in his voice but here he is, proven wrong again by this goddamn idiot. The thought comes to his head as he stumbles back slightly, sure he now has a few broken ribs to match his opponent. “Anyways, you’ll probably, definitely need some medicine after that.”

Peter starts at him again, hurling furious punches at the anti-hero. He keeps dodging every one just as he did before, almost gracefully as he moves backward.

“Doing this again? Fun,” Wade feigns a yawn which encourages Peter to knee his crotch.

It’s then Wade’s turn to stumble back in pain. It unfortunately doesn’t shut him up.

“Fucking David shitting Pumpkins dude- what the dick??” Wade cups his nuts in pain. “I get we’re going at it but that’s a low blow!”

“Your life is a low blow,” Peter retorts badly. He’s too consumed by whatever adrenaline-fueled anger seems to overtake him whenever Deadpool is around to come up with proper quips. 

“Eh,” Wade shrugs as if all of the pain has already retreated from his body. “And your spacial awareness is sucky.”

Peter’s eyes bolt to the katana he flung across the roof, now right next to Deadpool’s feet. Wade steps down on the edge of handle of his sword, the force shooting it in the air for Wade to catch perfectly.

“If you get your toy I get mine,” Wade slashes across Peter’s body who jumps back into a crouch position, just barely dodging. 

He tries to analyze the situation but the blade comes too quickly. He keeps dodging and trying to find a place to web Wade’s feet or hands or sword but he’s thrown off by the quick movements jutting straight in the way of where his arm would need to be positioned.

One swing aimed at his torso requires him to lean back to a limbo-winning position. Wade takes the opportunity and kicks him to the ground. It knocks the wind out of him long enough for Wade to jump on top of him.

He feels Wade’s hands trying to grab for his wrists, knowing that his next move is probably whatever crazy military pin-down position he did the last time they fought.

Peter grabs the straps to Deadpool’s suit and pulls towards him hard, moving his head to the side so Wade’s face comes crashing into the ground. Peter flinches at the crunch sound of his nose and forehead against the roof. Wade is also thrown off by the move, allowing Peter the opportunity to squeeze out from under him.

He uses the moment to gain the tactical advantage, jumping on Wade’s back and pinning him down face-first. Wade struggles to break free but the grip Peter has on him would leave bruises on a normal person for at least two weeks and that’s nothing compared to his feet digging into Wade’s back.

“Uncle… Uncle!” Deadpool’s muffled voice strains through his mask, his words gargled through what Peter assumes to be blood from whatever horrific state his nose is in. “You win. Shit, Webs. Turn me in or whatever the fuck.”

Peter attempts to regain his breath, shifting his weight to a more comfortable position while still pinning Wade down.

Thoughts return to his head like a dam breaking. The rushing waters bring conflicting ideas, all churning and melding with one another.

I have to turn him in. It’s the right thing to do. He kills people for a living. For money. Having him off the streets would do a lot of good. It would save me time. It’s not about me. Why did I fight him? He showed up with a peace offering. I practically attacked him, he never wanted to fight. How’s that heroic? How’s that fair? Does he deserve to be treated fairly? Do I get to decide who does and doesn’t?

Before he can fully make a decision, let alone a plan of action, he gets off of Deadpool.

He takes a few steps back but his eyes don’t leave the Anti-Hero. Peter isn’t sure if the subconscious choice is one made out of empathy for Wade or his own body just being too exhausted to hold him down anymore, but either way it’s the one he made and he decides to follow through with it.

Wade hesitates a moment before he pushes his upper body off of the roof.

“Do I have to follow you to a station or somethin’?” Wade looks at the hero.

“I’m not turning you in,” Peter says with a full conviction that he doesn’t possess.

Deadpool blinks

“What?” he asks.

It perplexes Peter as well. Maybe it’s because Wade didn’t attack him, that Peter was the one to provoke it. He came up to him with a peace offering and Peter decided to punch him in the face. Maybe it’s because it’s Halloween and Peter has found himself in some forgiving holiday mood. Maybe it's because at the end of the day wade is just part of a bigger problem. He’s a fucking menace and an annoying asshole but he’s always hired by someone else and maybe that makes it easier to justify? Maybe it’s a combination of it all or maybe he’s just plain tired and doesn’t want to deal with the hassle of turning him into the police tonight when he could be sleeping or giving out candy or any number of things that could prove to be enjoyable experiences.

“Do you want to go to jail?” Peter asks in response, knowing he doesn’t have the ability to articulate why he isn’t arresting him.

“No?” Wade almost questions, the monotone characteristics of his speech disappearing in a single syllable. 

The unsure tone causes part of Peter to pull against himself again but he’s already made his decision. Going back on it now would make him seem as unsure of himself as he actually is.

Peter takes a few steps and grabs the duffel bag of anti-web serum from the ground, hiking it up his shoulder. His muscles tense at the action and he has to make conscious effort not to fall over from the sudden rush of pain. He slings a web with his one good web-shooter and readies to jump from the building.

“Webs…” Wade speaks and Peter hesitates for a moment at the edge of the roof. “Thank you.” The unexpected words come out of Wade’s mouth no longer gurgling or strained, a pleasant clarity to them both auditorily and emotionally.

Peter thinks about saying something in return.He doesn’t, instead opting to jump off the roof and swing across the city skyline.

His mind is still consumed by thoughts, wondering if he made the right decision. Fighting Deadpool. Not arresting him. His ribs tell him that fighting was a bad idea but other than that he can’t seem to come to any other consensus. His inner turmoil is quelled by the sound of kids laughing and drunk adults singing on the street below. 

Spider-man smiles at a group of kids excitedly jumping and pointing at him. He raises his non-swinging hand to wave, almost dropping the duffel bag in the process. 

Peter gets a few more blocks closer to home and glances down at the bag. There’s quite a few canisters of anti-web serum in it. Definitely enough to properly test and ensure that his new webbing won’t be affected by it. Something about the number of cannisters feels off though. He was shot and remembered his thought process of only being able to carry one back, but he could’ve sworn that there weren’t as many left on the pier as there are in the bag.

He didn’t. 

Peter glanced again at the contents of the bag, having to glance back up quickly to avoid crashing into a skyscraper. 

There were too many in the bag. Maybe twenty? twenty-five? There had to be maximum ten that were left on the pier before the U-Haul got pushed into the river which means-

He dove back into the Hudson river to grab these? How deep did he have to go? Did he need to rent a dive suit or something? That water is disgusting he could have gotten dangerosly sick. Well, I guess with him it wouldn’t’ve mattered. 

Peter clenches his jaw and, after every pain-in-the-ass thing Deadpool has done, for a single second, just one, a thought crosses his mind. 

Maybe Wade isn’t that bad.

Then he promptly returns to his senses. 

Chapter Text

“I need info,” Wade shoves a merc off a stool, taking his place at the bar.

“Sharks don’t have any bones,” Weasel is a glass with a bar rag that looks to have blood on it. I could tell him. I could definitely tell him but that’s way less entertaining.

“What? They definitely do,” Wade responds while picking up the drink left by the mercenary he shoved to the ground. He raises an eyebrow at the unfamiliar liquid. It’s a murky brown with an inconsistent consistency.

“Naw, man, all cartilage. And be warned that’s an extra dirty long island iced tea with two shots of espresso. A part of my bartender soul died making it,” Weasel realizes the rag is contaminated and grabs another one that also happens to be speckled with type A positive.

Wade spits the mouthful of drink he just took back into the glass. Wait. He smacks his lips together a few times. Bitter and salty.

“Surprisingly not that bad, he may be onto something here,” Wade lifts the glass to his lips for another sip and Weasel cringes at the sight. “And potato tomato, cartilage is basically bone. It all breaks the same. This isn’t the info I’m looking for. What can you tell me about the job I did maybe two, two and a half weeks back? The timeline is a mess, it happened around mid-october and it’s, I don’t know, November 4th, 5th now probably? I can’t keep track.”

“It’s the 14th. I think this is giving you brain damage,” Weasel reaches to take the drink out of Wade’s hands as he downs more of the vile substance.

“If it can get me fucked up then this is basically poison,” Wade grips tightly to the glass so Weasel can’t pry it from his fingers. “The point is I need info on that job I did. The one with the truck and the spidey anti-webbing stuff.”

“Yeah, I know the one. You shot Spider-man and called me crying at 2am. You kept me on the phone for like three hours,” Weasel sighs, resigning to let Wade destroy his taste buds.

“And I’m secure enough in my masculinity not to be ashamed of that.”

“You should be,” Weasel grumbles.

“And that kind of toxic masculinity is why I know how sex works and you play League of Legends.”

“Hey, I’m two weeks league sober and you know how hard this journey has been for me.”

“Who sent in the job? I need a name, address, social security number, mother’s maiden name, the whole shabang!” Wade slams his hands against the table for emphasis, a few nearby glasses shake from the impact.

“How long have you been at this job? Do you know how anything illegal works? Nothing is supposed to be traceable. That’s, like, the whole deal,” Weasel narrows his eyes at Wade.

For someone who claims to be my best friend he sure cares more about this bar and its business. It’s like it gives his life purpose and enough disposable income to allow him to pursue his passions on the side or something. Talk about a fake friend.

“But there has to be something. What if they never paid me for the job? How would you get in contact with them?” Wade’s mind is on a hunt for clues. Normally he’s not one to ask questions about jobs besides ‘How much does it pay?’ and ‘It’s not a hit against Dolly Parton, right?’. He has other moral lines as well but tends to do research concerning those on his own time, the Dolly Parton one is simply the most important so he always asks up front.

“That’s not what happened. The opposite of that happened. You fucked up the job which is a big pain in my ass, actually. They’re gonna leave a bad yelp review. You’re lucky I’m not taking you off jobs, nevermind giving you clients’ personal information,” Weasel’s voice fades into the background as Wade’s mind is consumed by thoughts.

No email. No number. No way to contact. I know the faces of the men who dropped off the goods but they’re no good because clearly whoever hired me to transport the goods wanted a middle man so they probably don’t know who I was bringing it to. They probably were just in charge of transport over the river which most likely means they don’t know where it came from either. The canisters didn’t have any logos on them or markings or even any type of date which means it probably has an indefinite shelf-life, meaning it probably could have been manufactured anywhere. Best guess is somewhere close enough to New York for it to not be a hassle to get here. A whole lot of maybes and not a lot of leads. Think Wade. Think. Think. Think.

“The drop off point!” Wade slams his hand against the table, too lost in his thoughts to realize another drink was put in front of him. His hand shatters the glass. Shards stick up through his glove like bloody stalagmites.

“Worth it,” he says through a tightened inhale.

“Christ,” Dom says from next to him. Wade jumps at her sudden appearance.

“I know you’re indestructible but would it kill you to pay attention to your surroundings? Now I have to go tell someone to clean this up,” Weasel sighs as he turns around to find a bar-back.

“When did you get here?” Wade turns to Dom.

“About ten minutes ago in the midst of your zone-out mumbling session,” She takes a sip of her drink. “How’s the conquest going?”

“When you say it like that it makes me sound like a creep,” Wade absentmindedly pulls glass shards out of his hand.

“I don’t think it matters how I say it. You might want to rethink your actions if you want your creep status reviewed,” Dom retorts.

“Touché,” Wade tries to flick a glass shard at her but it imbeds in his finger instead. “There’s still plenty of time. The fic is labelled slow burn after all. He actually chose not to arrest me on Halloween so we’re making progress. That’s basically one base away from sucking his dick.”

“If you say so,” Dom downs the rest of her drink.

“I’m amending that to half a base away from dick sucking with this,” Wade scribbles down the address on a napkin, the drop off point for the canister delivery job.

Wade would say that he has a photographic memory if his mind weren’t organized like the dumpster behind a waffle house. He found the address under a failed batch of buttermilk pancakes and burnt french toast. It was actually right next to all the lyrics from Shrek: The Musical and a few repressed childhood memories.

“Is that his address?” She actually sounds impressed and Wade’s confidence in his bragging rights takes a nosedive.

“If by that you mean an address that may lead me to a clue that may gain me reputation points with Spider-man and by no means the place that he lives then yes,” Wade reaches behind the bar to grab a bottle of something, anything really.

Dom holds out her glass and Wade pours her a few fingers of what’s probably whiskey.

“Look, it’s still early. I’ll cut you a deal, I’ll let you out of the bet for half-price. I’ll even use the winnings to buy us a few rounds of whatever insanely high-proof alcohol you need to get properly fucked up,” Dom lifts her glass and clinks the bottle in Wade’s hand for a cheers.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence friend-o but I’m right where I need to be,” Wade takes a swig straight from the bottle.

“Hmm,” Dom grunts, eying him skeptically. “If you say so. Don’t come crying to me if it all goes sideways.”

“Going sideways is kind of the point, horizontal if you will. And you and Weasel need to stop talking. His men-shouldn’t-cry bullshit is rubbing off on you,” Wade punctuates his sentence by gulping down the rest of the bottle.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Dom suddenly looks disgusted at her own drink after witnessing Wade’s excessive display. “Have you even made a plan yet?”

“A plan? With my charisma modifier there’s no need for a plan. Did this turn me into a nerd?” Wade gets distracted by the bottle briefly before returning to the matter at hand. “The sexual tension is there, it’s just a matter of time before web boy won’t be able to resist.”

“He’s a superhero with a strict moral code. I’m just saying it may take more than beating each other up a few times and talking about how big your dick is. Take the advice or leave it, up to you,” Dom shrugs.

“Yee of little faith,” Deadpool shakes his head.

He tries to stand up and step away from the stool but collapses face-first on the ground.

Including that last bit before changing scenes is just rude, come on man.

Wade double checks the address scrawled on the napkin. He’s- Woah woah woah, hold up a sec.

Before we jump to the next scene let’s take a moment to breathe. A second to rest and find inner balance and figure out how I’m getting in those red and blue spandex pants.

I hate to say it but Dom’s right. Don’t tell her I said that. I need a game plan. A course of action. This isn’t some rando on Grindr. Well, he could actually be a rando on Grindr but interrogating every horny gay man in Manhattan would be extremely time-consuming and doesn’t guarantee results… I’ll hold onto it as plan b.

I’m not in the sexiest of positions with the spider right now (at least from his perspective because any position at all is fuel on the fire of my wet dreams). That could be due to the fact that I shot him. And that I’ve been a general menace. And extremely annoying. And I also unknowingly aided in transporting a substance that’s making his superhero gig go topsy-turvy. But but BUT- there are upsides! He didn’t arrest me, for one! He had every opportunity and motive to but he didn’t! And I’m not entirely sure why! And I can’t think of another upside! But that’s one!

So how would one hypothetically change the entire relationship dynamic they’ve built with someone and rewrite probably the worst first through tenth impressions in the history of mankind?

To that question I give you:

Wade’s Fool-Proof Five-Step Plan to Change the Entire Relationship Dynamic You’ve Built With Someone and Rewrite Probably the Worst First Through Tenth Impressions in the History of Mankind! (The steps are shorter than the name, I promise.)

Yeah, I’ve done my research. Tried to pick up a few psychology and self-help books but I kept falling asleep a few pages in (they should really start prescribing them to insomniacs, they’re better than melatonin! Not a single ghostly corpse of someone I killed loomed over my bed menacingly screaming for practically the whole week I tried to read them!). When that didn’t work I opted to watch all of Hasbro’s hit 2010-2019 tv series My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic and all of its accompanying Equestria Girls movies. I didn’t watch Gen 5. If Pinkie Pie’s not there there’s no point.

Ok, you can get back to it now, I’ll stop driving up the word count.

Wade double checks the address scrawled on the napkin. He’s double checked it at least five times by now. The drop off point was a relatively average townhouse in the east village (compared to the other extremely extravagant and expensive townhouses in the area, of course).

He’s been staked out on the roof across the street for the past two hours and the couple in the secret crime drop off apartment don’t seem like undercover criminal masterminds. They look like a couple that would come in last place in The Newlywed Game, hide their disappointment behind tv-ready smiles and have an explosive argument on the way home which uncovers deep seeded resentments and calls into question their Cape May vacation plans later that month.

Wade peers through his binoculars to see them settle down on the couch. He shifts positions to get a better view of the tv screen. They begin the typical ten to fifteen minute scroll-through-the-streaming-services before settling on a movie. Wade rummages in his stakeout bag for the chips he brought along. He breaks the seal, releasing the salt and preservative filled factory air from its vacuum sealed prison. He reaches in for his first handful of chips and adjusts his binoculars. He’s close to finding the perfect focus until a web pulls the binoculars out of his hands mid-blink.

Right on cue. It’s my honor to present to you:

Step 1: Show Them Their Enemies Are Your Enemies

Yes, I’m vaguely curious about this smuggling ring but I could be spending my Wednesday night doing more interesting things. Maybe making money on a job or seeing Wicked. Is Wicked supposed to be any good? Is Wicked even out yet or am I confusing the time this is published with the time this is taking place in again? Doesn’t matter. Point is this is part of the plan. The closest way to someone’s good side is a common enemy. It’s why work friendships exist. You need someone to bitch to about Marie’s complete lack of scheduling competency and why not have it be Diane. You’re cubicle neighbors after all. So what if her sweaters are always covered in Pomeranian hair? It’s Psychology 101.

“C’mon, it was just starting!” Wade turns to look at Spider-man, staring down at him from the roof of the building next door.

Deadpool pulls up the bottom of his mask to his nose and shoves the handful of chips into his mouth. He can see the way one of Spider-man’s eyes twitches from across the rooftops.

“Do I even want to ask why you’re using binoculars to look into people’s apartments?” He jumps down onto Wade’s roof.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, it’s not supposed to be there. You know what happened to the itsy bitsy spider! May he rest in peace,” Wade does the head/shoulders/heart cross but upside-down and backwards. “I was just settling in to watch Matt Damon become a man. Chips?” Wade stands up and holds out the chip bag to the hero.

“This is Matt Damon’s apartment?” Spidey raises one of his eyebrows, clearly ignoring the snack offer.

“No, it’s Good Will Hunting!” Wade gestures to the window with the tv screen.

Spider-man takes a few steps closer, leaning over to look through the window. Wade’s body tenses as he realizes this is probably the closest he’s ever been to him outside of a fighting context… or that first time they met when he was crossed out of his mind and grabbed his ass. So closest he’s been to him sober and/or not in the midst of a pummeling session. He’s still a couple of feet away. Can you please just let me have this?

“You’re camped out on a roof because your Netflix subscription got cancelled?” He briefly glances down at the bag of chips Wade hasn’t stopped holding out to him. If anything he’s the one being rude. A simple ‘no thank you’ would suffice.

“No, I pirate like any sensible person does. This is where I was supposed to drop off that evil orange-aid,” The words come out garbled through Wade’s open-mouthed chip eating.

Spider-man glances at him again and then looks back at the apartment with newfound intrigue. Score.

“That couple has something to do with the smuggling ring distributing the anti-web serum?” Spider-man absentmindedly reaches into the chip bag while examining the apartment. He then realizes what he’s doing just before pulling his mask up and he instead lets the chip fall to the ground, wiping his gloves on his suit as if Wade would’ve gone through the trouble of poisoning his own Lay’s.

“Look at them. Evil incarnate,” Deadpool glares at the couple through the window, cuddling on the couch and eating shitty microwave popcorn. “I’ve done some research during my little camping vacay up here and the apartment just sold to them. Peep the boxes.”

Spider-man uses Wade’s binoculars to see piles of moving boxes in the next room over from the tv.

“I’ve been watching them and it seems like they’re normal. Infuriatingly, boringly normal. They should pick up a few hobbies. Maybe try board game nights or BDSM or something.”

“Ok,” Spidey groans, his patience clearly reaching its limit. He shoves the binoculars into Wade’s chest.

“Whoever wanted those canisters was probably hiding out in the vacant apartment before they moved in,” Wade empties the last of the crumbs into his mouth. “Kind of risky considering how quick the Manhattan housing market moves though.”

“Hmmmm,” Spider-man responds thoughtfully.

“Exactly. I’ve been casing the joint all night. For hours. Trying to find any info. Of my own volition. Not getting paid or anything. Just because I want to. So turns out we’re both after the same guys, huh?” Wade looks over at the hero expectantly.

Spider-man seems lost in thought, eyes locked on the building. He could be looking for clues or he could very well be mesmerized by a dashing young Matt Damon. I, too, would be ensnared by his boyish charms if I wasn’t preoccupied with my 100%-satisfaction-guaranteed game plan which is being executed flawlessly.

“How’s the webbing going?” Wade makes a few motions with his hands as if he were shooting webs, an obvious ploy to try to catch his attention. “Any luck with all the canisters I risked my pristine merc reputation to give to you?”

He’s able to catch Spidey’s attention with that and is rewarded with a well-deserved side eye.

“Want to test it out?” It’s a threat that sends shivers down his spine but definitely not in the way the hero intended.

“All good, thanks. I like my limbs free and unburdened within most, but definitely not all, contexts. Also digging this new tolerance you have for my presence. That was what 2, 3 minutes before you threatened to fight or arrest me? That has to be a record!” Wade almost goes in for a shoulder punch but backs out last minute, letting his arm flail in the air awkwardly.

“Go home Wade,” it’s a demand and a sigh. The words are forceful but it’s clear the hero is tired. Tired of his jokes, tired of him, tired of his job, tired of the general state of the world’s economic systems? Wade can’t know for sure. What he can tell though is that cracks are starting to show. In the hero’s fighting, his demeanor, the way he talks. Even the fact he’s not in jail right now makes no sense. Not complaining but why the fuck am I not in jail right now?

Now, this may seem like the end of this interaction but it doesn’t have to be if you’re as smart and funny and endearing as yours truly. Whenever a door closes you have the opportunity to break that door back down again. This actually poses the perfect opportunity for:

Step 2: Make Them Laugh

Shout out Pinkie Pie.

Now that you’ve established your common enemy it’s the perfect time to start to break the ice. Laughter is the quickest way to get someone to change their opinion on you, maybe even like you a bit. Do you think John Oliver has a stunningly beautiful wife because he looks like a human suit constructed and piloted by eleven parakeets? It’s cause the man can tell a joke.

Wade stands there for a second, digging through his mind dumpster for a joke with enough umph break through an amount of ice equivalent to The Wall in Game of Thrones. He’s shooting for the type of response that’ll cause little cartoon hearts to appear around Spidey and not a text bubble that says ‘Spider-man will remember this interaction’. Usually it all comes naturally but this feels like when someone asks you to tell a joke. The timing is off, the moment is hinging on it and anything you say will feel odd. His brain short-circuits when he realizes he’s been standing there doing nothing but stare at Spidey for almost a full minute. He panics and does the first thing he can think of (the word ‘think’ being used very liberally).

“Guess what?” Wade asks.

“What?” It’s a main course of annoyance topped with a sauce of why-do-I-even-bother-asking and a garnish of genuine confusion.

“You may be Spider-man but right now I’m kind of Spy-der-man,” Wade smiles widely like this isn’t the worst joke he’s ever told. The cold air hits his teeth and he remembers the bottom half of his face has been exposed this whole time. Fuck, that’s definitely not helping.

Spider-man doesn’t dignify Wade’s sudden comedic transformation into a middle-school camp counselor with a response. Instead he simply walks past Wade and web-slings away without another word.

Ok.

That definitely could have gone better but then again it could have gone worse. He didn‘t punch me, for one. I’d count that as a major improvement.

Additionally, the plan is still on track. The good thing about step two is that you can really put it anywhere in the steps as long as it gets done at some point.

Another day another fight in a warehouse by the docks.

It’s becoming quite a habit. Whoever’s in charge really has to change their Manhattan import plan cause me and Spidey have been causing major problems in their supply chain. Well, I say that but the number of street criminals with the stuff is still rising somehow. And I also say ‘me and Spidey’ as if we’re a team but he’s been ignoring me whenever we’ve crossed paths. I still stand by what I said about improvement. The silent treatment is better than broken ribs so it’s a win in my book, I just need to find the right opportunities to implement the other three steps and then we’ll be chugging along towards bone town.

“Don’t you guys ever get tired of this?” Wade causally saunters up to a group of henchpeople as they decorate his chest with bullet holes.

He grabs one of the guns by the nozzle and uses the handle to knock out its owner. All of their coworkers keep backing up and shooting at him as if that’s made any difference thus far.

“Ugggghhhhhh, can’t any of you do something creative for once?” He yawns while shooting two of them in the head. “I’m not even getting paid for this shit the least you could do is be entertaining with it.”

Wade’s body is then taken over by an all-consuming pain. He recognizes the searing, almost electric jolt running through his body followed by the empty numbness of all sensations.

One of those fuckers shot me in the head. From behind. Like a toddler. Like a fucking wimpy baby chicken.

Wade has been through enough deaths and specifically headshots to know exactly where he’s hit, how long he’s going to be out, and how he’s going to go about making the limp-dicked coward who decided to headshot the immortal trained assassin into a previously-dicked coward who decided to headshot the immortal trained assassin. Judging by the way the floor is melding with the ceiling into a churning chess board and the penguin-red panda hybrid creature in the corner is shaking his head, Deadpool can tell that the bullet went through his left hemisphere. That penguin-red panda hybrid has a name, thank you. It’s Gregory. He’s a pal. A bit of a downer and for some reason really into NFTs but altogether harmless considering he’s only around when my left occipital lobe receives a fatal injury. He hasn’t managed to convince me to invest in crypto yet. Hard to get into the specifics of the blockchain when you’re in the excruciatingly painful process of auto-resurrecting yourself. Speaking of.

Wade lets out a groan as minimal function returns to his head. It would make sense if it was because all of his neurons are on fire again but he’s grown accustomed to being able to withstand life-ending pain without, in his words, ‘complaining like a little bitch about it’. Instead the groan is out of impatience. Not only does he still have to deal with these boring-ass criminals but he can’t do it until his body decides he’s regenerated enough brain back. Honestly, I think I could get along fine with a little less brain, body’s just being a stickler about it.

One of the criminals kicks Deadpool onto his back from the face-down position he collapsed in. At this point Wade has enough control to shift his eyes to the minion who did it and adds another person to his growing list of extra painful death receivers. As his eyes start to focus more they lock onto a red splotch darting across the ceiling.

Wade lets out another grunt. It’s maybe a laugh or happy sigh or even a moan of pleasure, he’s not sure. Bet’s on all of the above.

Step three here we come babeyyyyyy!!! 

The henchmen that kicked him goes flying into the air. Wade’s eyes return to 20/20 and are greeted with the welcome sight of the man webbed against a wall. He rolls over to get a better view of his red and blue angel incapacitating more goons across the warehouse.

“You’re doing great, honey!” Wade props his head on his palms and kicks his feet up in the air as if he were fantasising about a schoolgirl crush, because he very much is.

His voice echoes across the space but Spider-man doesn’t acknowledge it. He’s too busy flipping and kicking and webbing. Wade indulges in watching the show instead of helping, prepared to use the excuse that some of his brain bits are out and exposed to the musty warehouse air. That is until more grunts rush in through a side door and start trying to shoot Spidey with tranquilizer guns. He flips up onto the walls and webs across the ceiling to dodge them.

“Good enough,” Wade sighs to himself as he feels the left side of his head and is met with a newly reformed skull. He grunts and stretches as he gets to his feet. “Let’s do this.”

Step 3: Prove You Can Be Useful to Them

If there’s one thing that can get someone to change their mind about you it’s showing them that you can help. That you’re not only on the same side as them but that you can be used as an asset to achieve their goals.

Wade pulls out one of the many guns on his person and starts shooting at the new crowds of henchmen. He gets three of them in the legs and another in the shoulder. It’s enough to redirect all of their attention back at him, the more immediate threat, instead of the gymnast who would only go so far as to inflict temporary bondage.

This would be wayyyyy easier if I could just- BAM headshot BAM heart BAM secret place in the lower abdomen only known by the most proficient of mercenaries (AKA me) that immediately kills you. But sadly I think Webs wouldn’t be too fond of that. Paragon of virtue or something yadda yadda yadda. Bigggggg yawn.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Deadpool yells across the large space.

The henchmen apparently think he’s addressing them because he’s greeted with a slew of bullets in response. He ducks behind a shipping container just so he doesn’t have to have another meeting with Gregory tonight.

Some of these guys must be double fisting (heh) tranq guns and real guns. Whoever is in charge must be a real Spidey fan but they don’t seem to be buying tickets to the old ‘Pool show. Shame, probably did a few things to rub them the wrong way (as I do) but if they really got to know me I’m sure I could rub them in all the right places.

“You know we’re fighting the same guys! We’re really on the same team if you think about it,” Wade yells up at the hero. One of the lackies tries to round the corner of his hiding place and Wade bashes his head against the shipping container. His nose explodes with blood and his body crumples to the ground. Wade looks down at him for a moment before going back to Spider-man. “He’s taking a nap, don’t worry.”

Spider-man continues to ignore him, instead webbing a couple of tranq guns out of reach on the ceiling and then webbing the henchmen Wade shot in the shoulder against the ground, being sure to encase his gushing wound in webs to stop the bleeding.

“Wowwww, helping the enemy before saying hi to your ally. Real classy move,” Wade addresses Spidey as he continues to web across the warehouse.

Deadpool catches a glimpse of one of the goons approaching a lever on the wall, he shoots him in the leg but not before he pulls it.

The pipes of the building rattle. The whole warehouse shakes and murmurs along with them. An orange drop falls from the ceiling and traces its way down the top of Wade’s gun to his fingers.

His head snaps to Spider-man as orange rain erupts from the sprinkler system.

“I got you!” Wade bolts towards Spidey who’s mid-swing as the anti-webbing solution hits his web, dissolving it immediately.

Wade’s outstretched arms reach for the hero as he falls. Instead of the picturesque bridal-style catch Wade had envisioned, Spider-man lands in a perfect superhero landing a couple of feet in front of him.

“My arms are still open for you if you’d like,” Deadpool says, not putting his arms down from their spider-catching ready position.

Spider-man doesn’t bother to turn around at the comment but Wade thinks he can see a slight reaction in the tensing of his shoulders.

“Hmmm, citrus-y or maybe I’m confusing the taste with some sort of carcinogenic acid. I don’t have to worry ‘bout it but you might want to be concerned,” Wade comments on the anti-webbing now soaking through his mask. Orange is still spraying from the ceiling, dissolving all of the webbing and therefore all of the progress that Spidey had made at incapacitating the lackeys.

Spider-man slings another web to grab a tranquilizer gun off of one of the henchmen coming at them but it sizzles and evaporates before it can make it.

“Look out!” Wade jumps in front of the weapon before it can shoot at Spidey. The gesture is entirely hollow as Spider-man jumps out of the way well before the shot was ever a threat. The dart punctures Wade’s shoulder.

“Dropped something!” He pulls it out immediately, dashing and stabbing it back in the arm of the guy who shot it. “Anyone else want to dance?”

A few heads in the crowd flinch but unfortunately, yes, the majority of them do want to dance. Wade is bombarded with the crowd coming at him, all trying to hit him or use tranquilizer guns because at this point everyone is at a close enough proximity to make guns more annoying and dangerous to their own teammates than anything else. He pulls out his katanas and tries to swing them in non-lethal productive ways (which his instincts and muscle memory are not tuned to do) while hench-people jump on him from all angles. It’s proving harder than he anticipated. What’s also not helping is Wade’s head. Fuck you, my head is stellar. It gets a bit woozy as the sleeping agent makes its way into his system. Oh yeah, that. I could still give life-changing head right now though. It’s over almost as quick as it comes and he’s back at full clarity to witness himself skewering someone’s foot to the pavement.

While throwing people off of himself in ways that he’s hoping won’t accidentally cause them to break their necks (why are humans so fragile? Not killing people is really inconvenient and time consuming), Wade glances over at Spidey who is having his own troubles dealing with the hoards of people coming at him. In the scuffle they’d ended up back to back for pure convenience’s sake of not having one side of your body getting bodies thrown at it. He’s using his super strength to push as many of them away as he can and Wade watches him try to flip or dodge out of the crowd but it’s too dense. If Wade were to guess he’s a bit discombobulated from not having his normal web-to-the-ceiling escape route. This is correct, I would definitely use the word ‘discombobulated’.

“Ok. Don’t know about you but I’m done with this,” Wade sheathes one of his swords and grabs a tranq gun pointed at his head. He spins around. He can see the shock in Spidey’s face of his senses going off but he’s too preoccupied on all other sides by the minions. He doesn’t have time to dodge as Wade shoots the tranq gun three times in quick succession into his back.

“What the fuck?” Spidey grunts as he pushes the people on him away.

“Nice of you to finally acknowledge my presence,” Wade throat-punches a man with the tranq gun and then fires it at two others.

“You’re such an asshole,” the words come out of Spider-man more and more slurred until ‘hole’ is just a muddy exhale as consciousness escapes him. Wade drops the tranq gun and catches the hero in his arm. He uses his other arm to swing his katana mercilessly into the crowd.

What hero boy doesn’t know doesn’t hurt him. It will hurt these other guys though.

Through this almost tornado-like katana tactic and the tried and true method of just running head-first like a roided-up football player, Wade is able to break through the crowd. He books it out of the warehouse with Spider-man over his shoulder and doesn’t stop running until he’s at least eight blocks away and up the fire escape of an overpriced apartment building.

He dumps Spidey’s body down on a particularly comfy bit of gravel of the roof and is finally able to catch his breath. Webs wastes no time, slowly opening his eyes and then bolting upright.

“I didn’t think you’d be out long but that’s still pretty impressive,” Wade whistles, standing upright and adjusting his back after he’s finished his brief desperation for air.

“Wade!” Spider-man’s hands go immediately to his face, feeling that his mask is still completely in place. They then go to his chest as if Wade would have taken the opportunity to leave a fun little knife impaled there or something.

“That’s my name. I would say don’t wear it out but I think that’s impossible. I like the way you say it,” Wade leans against an imaginary wall.

“You knocked me out!” Webs jumps to his feet.

“I did. Are we just stating facts now? I recently learned that sharks have no bones.”

“You knocked me out,” Spidey grabs the front strap of Wade’s suit and pulls his upper body down so their faces are mere inches apart.

“And you think this homoerotic positioning is a threat?” Wade tilts his head. He can feel each breath exit Spidey’s nose and prays to someone, anyone, that it isn’t an empty threat.

Spider-man pushes him to the ground

“I should’ve arrested you twenty times over at this point,” Webs stands over him, very much making it clear that this threat (sadly not the one Wade had hoped for) isn’t empty. Alarms sound in Wade’s head.

ALERT ALERT ALERT!!!! All progress is in danger of being undone!!! FUCK!! GOD DAMN IT!!! SHIT!! DO SOMETHING!!!!

“Woah woah woah, slow down there Spidey,” Wade chuckles as Spider-man puts a foot on his chest, keeping him pinned to the roof. He tries (and fails) to not get distracted by how hot this positioning is. “You saw what it was like there. Guys. Too many guys. A borderline impossible number of guys. And you were soaked it web-be-gone so what did I do? I got us out of a sticky (or I guess distinctly anti-sticky) situation!”

“You drugged me-,” Spider-man increases the weight on his foot and Wade really hopes that the other man doesn’t decide to look down at his crotch area right about now.

“I mean when you say it like that-“

“It doesn’t matter how I say it, you did it!” Spider-man’s face is looking dangerously close to its fighting scrunch.

“People keep saying that to me recently,” Wade scratches his chin.

“You transported me without my knowledge god knows where,” Webs flings his arms up in frustration.

“It’s a rooftop in manhattan you practically live on ‘um,” Wade mumbles but Spidey continues talking over him.

“And claim that you ‘rescued’ me from a tricky situation? A situation that I could have handled easily on my own. Not only that but I could’ve interrogated some of them, maybe gained some intel on their operation but you fucked all of that up.”

Wade can hear his ribs creak and he sucks in as much of an inhale as he can muster. Spider-man realizes the extent of the pressure he’s applying on Wade’s chest and removes his foot. He takes a few steps back, turning away and pinching the bridge of his nose. Wade sits up slightly using his elbows, taking in the view of the hero.

“You’re right,” Wade says. Spidey looks back at him. “You probably could have handled it but with the Spider-man-repellent raining from the ceiling it would have taken an annoyingly long time, even with me there. And I could have just bloodbathed the place but I’m guessing you wouldn’t have wanted me to kill them.”

Wade stands off and brushes off the gravel bits stuck to his suit.

“Why do you care what I think? It’s too late to change my opinion of you.”

“So you would’ve rather me killed them?”

“What? No, that’s not the point,” Webs crosses his arms, guarded but casual.

“Look, I saw an opportunity and I took it. It was a lot back there and the fact I was even able to tranq you convinces me that maybe you didn’t have it as under control as you thought. Not saying you couldn’t have handled it, just that you didn’t have to,” Wade makes every effort to fight his unserious, joke-y nature.

That’s right, I gave ya no warning but we’ve moved on to the penultimate step of Wade’s Fool-Proof Five-Step Plan to Change the Entire Relationship Dynamic You’ve Built With Someone and Rewrite Probably the Worst First Through Tenth Impressions in the History of Mankind!

Step 4: Show Them You Care About Them

Pretty straightforward. I’ve heard people like that.

“I don’t know you, really, but I know something is going on. You’re acting reckless and sloppy and I’d rather not wake up to a headline announcing that New York’s favorite spider has been taken down by random bums in a shipping warehouse. You’ll have the opportunity to track these guys down but, I don’t know, maybe you should be a bit smarter about it. Work on fortifying that sticky stuff you got there so they can’t mess with it anymore,” Wade uses a finger gun to point at his web shooters. “Also I know the last time I said something like this you beat the crap out of me so putting in a request that you maybe don’t do that this time.”

“What do you want?” Spidey narrows his eyes.

“That’s all you have to say to that?”

“Cut the crap. What do you want?”

“I just don’t want you to go splat, how about that?”

“You’re wasting all this time fighting these guys trying to get closer to me. I ignore you to try to get you off my ass but you can’t seem to get the hint that I want nothing to do with you. You’ve been an annoying dick every time I’ve run into you and my patience is wearing thin. What do you want?” He’s not budging.

Ok, maybe step 4 could have gone more smoothly and I wasn’t planning on transitioning as quickly to step 5 but here we are!

Step 5: Straight-Up Ask If You Can Change Your Relationship Dynamic With Them

“I want you to mentor me,” Wade tries to say it as sincerely as he can.

Because “I bet 300 bucks I could get into your pants” doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as smoothly.

Spider-man looks at him. His eyes widen from the skeptic, narrow position they’ve grown accustomed to assuming around Wade.

Wade tries to read him. Normally he’s able to get a pretty good picture due to the hero’s almost theater kid levels of exaggerated eye and body movements but he’s just standing there. All things considered, Spidey’s mostly just been extremely pissed whenever he’s interacted with him so maybe his Spider-man reading capabilities are limited to a small, hostile scope of emotions. Either way, he can’t get a read on his reaction until a damn breaks in the man’s composure.

A coughed exhale escapes his mouth.

He then bursts into laughter, folding over and placing his hands on his knees as if this is the funniest thing he’s heard all year.

“Wow, you can actually be funny,” Spider-man says once he’s able to calm down enough, he wipes a nonexistent tear off of his masked face.

Cross off step number 2, I guess.

Wade stands there, staring at him as he returns to his usual cold demeanor.

“No chance in hell.”

“Good thing I’ve died and can tell you it doesn’t exist!”

“Then I guess there’s no chance in hell or anywhere else. It’s not going to happen.”

“Pretty please? With a cherry on top?”

“You think the problem is that you didn’t ask nice enough?” Spidey spits the words at him. “After every interaction we’ve had, what makes you think I’d say yes to that? Better question: do you think I’d believe you’re being genuine? Because I think you’re full of shit.”

Ok, ok, this is still salvageable. I didn’t mention the secret sixth step. This one’s the clincher, the one that truly makes it all fool-proof!

(Secret) Step 6: Beg and Manipulate Their Sympathy For You

“Because I can’t!” The words come out more aggressive than Wade was aiming for but it manages to make Spider-man shut his mouth for a second.

Wade reaches his hand up to his face. His fingers graze the top of his mask and he hesitates as he grips the fabric. It’s not part of the act but he convinces himself it is. The mask slides off of his face as smoothly as it can, which isn’t smoothly at all. The leather and spandex always sticks to him uncomfortably and peeling it off of his face, especially slowly and with no distractions, is an unwelcome sensory experience. The cold late November air hits his bare face, the sweat that had accumulated there from running away from the warehouse now becoming a cold film over his already sensitive skin.

Deadpool looks at Spider-man. The hero flinches at the sight of his face, the first time he’s seen it completely unmasked. Wade thinks that at some point since they’d met he probably tried to look up pictures of him but the few photos online of him sans Deadpool mask are blurry and distant. Wade may not give a fuck if people know his real name or, hell, even his home address (he lives by the idea that anyone who wants to fuck him up is welcome to try and be met with a whole new definition of the word ‘pain’), but he’s paid a few underground tech nerds good money to wipe any images of his face from the web. When they ask him why he always responds with something along the lines of ‘it’s not like the internet needs more disturbing content’. Even through the mask Wade can see Spidey try to adjust his reaction, a physical attempt to backpedal his initial disgust by turning his inner eyebrows up and softening his eyes. It’s a reaction he’s used to, come to expect even. Some hero.

Wade isn’t sure what face he was making when he initially took off his mask but now it wants to fold in on itself. Express his disappointment at the hero for not living up to the version he had in his head. The one who’d be unphased and keep looking at him with the same visceral hate he does with the mask on. It itches to demonstrate his frustration at himself for expecting anything different in the first place. He fights the instinct, instead redirecting his facade to one of tragic exhaustion. The performance of some poor man fed up with his situation, begging for an exit. It’s a part Wade can play well, the emotions proving themselves easier to access than he would ever admit to himself.

“I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to,” he feels the heat rising in his throat. Tears threaten their arrival. Hot drops of rage directed at his hero and his dashed expectations. Wade tries to quell them but not because they would hinder his performance, quite the opposite. He heard somewhere once that the most believable crying in movies is when actors pretend to stifle their sobs, hide their crying because that’s what real people do when they cry. So Wade chokes it down, hoping it serves to tug at the hero’s heartstrings. “This job, this life I’ve created. Killing people for money. It haunts me. I see all of their faces at night. They won’t leave me alone.”

Pause for effect.

Spider-man stands stunned at the display before shifting slightly. This time Wade hopes it’s out of sympathy and he hasn’t become grotesquely mesmerized by his face, tuning out all of the words as he watches the scars bend and stretch. Wade knows it can happen. It’s why he tries not to sit at a few specific barstools in Sister Mary’s, the ones with a direct view of the mirror behind the bar. It’s hard to pay attention to work talk when you have a front row seat to your own personal freak show, a funhouse mirror simply because it holds your reflection.

“I want to change. I want to… be good,” Wade wants to crack. He wants to burst out laughing at the thought of it.

‘Good’. As if the world were that simple. Easily definable, black and white. He knows it’s not, it never will be. The world is a fucked up splatter painting of every color under the sun and beyond. You can’t sort it like that, it’ll never work. At the end of the day so-called heroes like him make moral judgements and world keeps spinning, still as fucked up as ever just with one more high-and-mighty thinker added to the mix. Wade’s not under the impression that he’s any better, just that maybe killing a few criminals can help out society a bit more than stuffing them in an already overcrowded system that doesn’t bother pretending it’s reformational or really anything other than forced labor. He’d never call himself something so uppity as ‘good guy’ and sure as hell doesn’t think changing to Spidey’s hall-monitor levels of adherence to the law would make him any closer to the nonsensical title.

“Please,” he surprises himself with how sincere it sounds. The way his voice cracks ever so slightly while changing syllables, the tone of it all affected by him holding back the tears. God damn I should have been an actor. Note to self: look up auditions for Doug Jones-esque parts requiring heavy prosthetics.

Spider-man takes a step back. His eyes fall to the floor and shift back and forth as if the instructions on how to proceed are hidden in the gravel of the weathered rooftop.

“No,” the word comes crashing through Wade’s composure like a wrecking ball, leaving just enough brick and cement to keep him from grabbing Spider-man by the shoulders and yelling ‘what do you mean no?!’ in his face.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” Spidey meets his eyes. He’s seen that look before, all too often. That sympathy-laced stare is burned into his retinas. When people can bear to look at him with his mask off, it‘s always this. His blood boils under it. It bubbles up and burns because if this is what he’s going to be greeted with every time people see his face why can’t he manage to at least get something out of it. Is that too much to ask?

“I-… I really think that that’s a good step, realizing you want to change. I still think you’re an obnoxious asshole but I hope you’re able to do it. I just- I can’t mentor you. I can’t, I’m sorry,” Spider-man’s hands go to his side, he sounds stern in the statement.

Wade expects him to turn around, web his way into the night as he always does but he doesn’t. He stands there, waiting for him to respond.

“Heh,” Wade sniffles an inhale, trying to quell the suddenly very real and incoming possibility of tears. He pulls his mask back on. He stretches his hand, muscles tight from accidentally holding the mask in a death grip the entire time.

“Whatever, I get it.” He tries to resume his normal demeanor, the casual jokester tone a mangled mirror image of its usual self.

Spidey steps forward, mouth opening to say more. Fling more excuses and denial as if that’ll help. Wade puts up his hand.

“It’s fine, no biggie Webs. I wouldn’t want to mentor me either. I’m a terrible student, actually. Would have been a giant pain in your ass,” he laughs. Wade’s waffle house dumpster mind is too preoccupied to spice up the words with dramatics or jokes. His head feels like it’s shaking from the yelling, all of it in his voice and all of it frustrated, angry, sad. ‘Should’ve stuck with the fighting and telling him how big your dick is plan’ one of them says. Wade thinks it’s probably right, now acutely aware of how his face is brushing against the harsh fabric of his mask.

“See you around, Spidey,” Deadpool turns around to the fire escape of the building, the same one he scaled with Spidey slug over his shoulder mere minutes before. He’s had time to catch his breath but he feels monumentally more exhausted than he did running the eight blocks to get here.

By the time he turns around to climb down he expects the hero to be gone, not even a speck in the distance. He’s still there though. Standing. Staring.

“Don’t ‘cha have better things to do with your time right now than stand there bug boy?” Wade swings on the ladder, feet a couple of rungs down as he begins his descent.

Spider-man turns around to see the Manhattan skyline.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, like he forgot the city was still there.

Wade descends a few more rungs and ducks below the view of the roof before Spidey can turn back around to face him. He stays there, clinging to the flimsy rust-covered bars of the fire escape. He’s frozen, not entirely sure why he made the decision to stay like that. His mind is too loud for cohesive decisions at the moment. He’s not sure if he did it to hear Spider-man say anything after he had thought he’d left but the gravel on the rooftop scuffles and he’s already committed to disappearing into the night like a ghost so he keeps the position. He hears a heavy inhale from the rooftop.

“God damn it,” Spidey says. It’s exhausted, regretful. Said in a way Wade recognizes all too well: he’s beating himself up.

The words are followed by more displaced gravel, a running start. Then the sound of a web-shooter. Then silence. A New York City silence, which isn’t ever really silence at all. It’s the distant sound of sirens and honks. The rumble of subway cars on the streets below. The ever-present imperceptible hum of apartment lights and plumbing from all sides. Wade sits in it. Steeps in it. He lets himself marinate in it because the foggy sound of it all is easier to deal with than the screaming in his head. He can pretend that it can drown it out.

He’s not sure how long he stays like that, perched on the fire escape. He only notices that time has continued passing when an ache starts in his hands from gripping the old, thin bars too tight. He readjusts them and starts his descent.

The voices have quieted enough now. They’re still arguing but in inside voices now.

They ask too many questions, throw too much blame. Wade can’t bear to comprehend it all at once. He pretends it’s an audiobook he can get distracted from on his walk home. A dull murmuring as he stops by a food truck. He gets a free side of chips with the chimichangas cause Andy knows he’s a regular. He tips 200 percent and pretends not to hear the voice in his head telling him he’s just doing it out of guilt, to try to get a smile out of someone and not feel like a worthless asshole sack of shit. He still feels like a worthless asshole sack of shit and berates himself for thinking he deserves otherwise.

He makes it back to his apartment and searches his cabinets for any drop of alcohol. He finds only empty bottles piled among various bits of trash in what should be the recycling bin. He forgot that he downed the last bit of everything the night before while watching the My Little Pony finale. Instead of going out to get more he crawls into bed, greasy bag of takeout and all. He takes a bite and contemplates contemplating if he should think about it: the whole predicament. The situation. The unmasking. The rejection. The reaction. Wade comes to the conclusion to not. Just not. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. Well, probably at some point. For all he can tell he’s immortal in some sense of the word and unfortunately that means that things can stick with you for quite a long time. Maybe he can put off thinking about it until at least after Spider-man dies. What’s that? 50, 60 years? Considering how reckless he’s acting now maybe it’s actually more like 10, 5, even 1 if he can’t get this webbing thing under control. Wade shakes his head, trying to redirect this train of thought off a cliff.

He hugs the greasy paper bag like it's a stuffed animal and closes his eyes, trying to force sleep onto himself. Consciousness is too much right now. Too heavy a burden when Spider-man’s eyes, their reaction to his face, won’t stop staring at him. When he can hear his voice on repeat, a definitive ‘no’ echoing like it was said in a vast cavern.

Sleep doesn’t come easy, it never does.

Chapter Text

The chipped paint on the apartment door mocks Peter. Its missing flakes reveal aging wood in shapes of devious smiles, discontent frowns. It knows that he promised Aunt May he’d paint it months ago. Not because she’s incapable of going to her local convenience store and picking up a roller for the eggshell paint can shoved in the bottom of the hallway closet, but because he promised her. Because she insisted that she could do it and he said that he could do it for her. Because they promised each other they weren’t doing holiday gifts so it’s the least he could do. Now it’s Christmas Eve and those paint chips have only widened their mocking smiles.

“Peter?”

No.

Peter jumps at the voice. He nearly drops the lamp he’s carrying, his senses kicking in to save it. He’s not breaking their no Christmas gift policy: it’s an ‘I’m sorry’ gift for not painting the door yet. A guilt gift, if he’s being honest. Once he’s sure he has a handle on the lamp he dares to turn to the voice, willing it to be anybody but who he knows it is.

“Hey MJ,” he tries to sound friendly but it comes out scared. Like someone who just got caught breaking and entering. He’s heard it enough in his line of work to recognize it in his own voice.

She looks the same. Well, she looks about the same. She looks like the same person but three years and change older with all of the personal style changes that accompany that. So basically how normal aging has worked since the beginning of humankind.

“Hey,” she greets him like it’s a question. “Are you ok?”

Ok? Am I ok? What does she mean by that? Is she just being friendly and checking in? But why not say ‘How are you doing, Peter? it’s been years, what’s up?’ instead? ‘Are you ok’ means something’s wrong, concern. Does she know I’m Spider-man? She can’t know. If she didn’t know when we were dating, she probably doesn’t know now. Or, worse, did May call her? Convince her to say hi out of pity cause my life is going terribly right now?

“I was going to walk by and save us the awkward interaction but you were just staring at the door for at least half a minute. I felt like I needed to make sure you weren’t having a stroke or something,” she laughs. Oh, that explains the question then.

Her voice is comforting. The sound of it makes him feel like he’s being wrapped in a quilted blanket and given a hot chocolate. It’s something baked into him from years of knowing her, being her friend, being more than her friend, and it all comes rushing back like it never left. The blanket is weighted though. Not the kind of weighted that wraps around you like a hug from a grandparent but a weighted that pins you to the bed and forces all the air out of your lungs. It holds you down and you wonder if you’ll be able to get out from under it or if its warm embrace will be your final resting place. His mistakes and regrets suffocate him and it’s like he never left that god damn coffee shop. He’s sitting there with the worst cider latte he’s ever tasted. He hears the bell above the door ring as MJ leaves. She’s probably crying. Just before she got up her eyes looked glassy and reflective, filled with too much liquid. He can’t bear turning to watch her go so he listens to the bell jingle cheerfully as it announces the end of their relationship.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just… inspecting the door,” Peter leans a hand on the door in an attempt to look casual but he feels like an action figure with limited articulation. A few specs of paint float to the ground as he leans on it, the subtle sound of them hitting the ground is teasing laughter to his ears. “Have to make sure Aunt May is all safe. Nothing to worry about here though, everything seems up to the door code! That classic code they use to inspect doors, you know the one.”

“Sure,” she says. “Your… face, is that-?”

His free hand comes up to his face, brushing against a busted lip.

“Oh, minor car accident thing, nothing to worry about,” he laughs it off. The truth is that earlier that day some villain in a mechanized suit threw a car at him. That still counts as a car accident, right?

“Okay then,” she nods. Peter can tell that she wants to ask more but is holding herself back. She takes a few more steps up the stairwell.

“What are you doing here? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I started renting an apartment upstairs.”

“Wow, seems like we’re always destined to be neighbors,” Peter winces at himself after he says it. It sounds like a line, some kind of romantic destiny ‘I want to get back together’ line instead of a ‘hey, just letting you know we’re all good, like there’s no bad blood between us eventhough you’re the one who gets to make that call cause we both know I’m the one who fucked up’ line.

“Well, destined to be neighbors with your aunt at least,” she continues up the steps, clearly wanting out of this conversation. “Happy holidays.”

“You too,” he says to the bannister of the stairwell because she’s already disappeared to the next floor.

He sighs and lets his head fall on the door. He then does it two more times to turn it into a knock. Aunt May opens it.

“Peter!” She smiles at him. “Have any interesting conversations in the hallway?”

“You were listening.”

“It’s not my fault the walls are thin,” she shrugs. “What’s wrong with your lip, are you ok?”

The holidays are always a tough time for Peter. Despite the usual (the cold and the family stress of it all) this transition time into winter has always been the time in Peter’s life where everything goes to shit. Even if by some miracle it doesn’t, it’s the time that all of the shit from previous years comes flooding back into his system once the first freezing breeze hits his face. November’s rough, it always is. The time around his Spider-versary (a name he uses only in his head to refer to the anniversary of the day he got bitten by the spider 1. because of the whole secret identity thing and 2. because it’s probably the dumbest name to ever name) forever sullied by the worst November of his life two years later. December’s not fun either. Holiday joy is abundant but there also tends to be a minor spike in crime around Christmas time that can leave Peter exhausted and feeling less than stellar about humanity during ‘the most wonderful time of the year’. It also means that he’s steadily approaching that dreaded time slot in between Christmas and New Years that marks the anniversary of Uncle Ben’s death. It’s why he makes it a point to always come home for the holidays, no matter what villains are at large or what world-destroying event is on the horizon he’s never missed those few days with Aunt May to drink hot chocolate and play repetitive card games while Rankin/Bass specials play in the background. This year is proving to be a slight departure from their holiday traditions, however.

The Muppet Christmas Carol plays in the background while Peter chews on the cap of a pen like it’s expired taffy. He stares down at his notes and then back up at the vials of liquid in front of him. The sound of Gonzo’s narration is momentarily interrupted by the clanging of dish-ware as Aunt May cooks Christmas dinner for the two of them in the kitchen. She wasn’t exactly enthused by the lab kit making its way into her apartment but she was more understanding than Peter thought she would be. It turns out the news that criminals have anti-web solution has made it mainstream and she’s willing to put up with some chemical engineering in her living room if it means her nephew won’t die in a Spider-man related incident and, more importantly, they can resume their card game promptly after he’s finished.

He was going to save the experiments until after his two-day vacation at his aunt’s place but then he found himself packing his web solution experimentation kit in a backpack with Deadpool’s voice echoing in his head, telling him he needs to focus. He then proceeded to unpack his bag out of disgust that Wade’s voice had found a way to weasel itself into his head and then repack it because even if the idea was being said in a grating lilt, it still has a point.

Peter leans down, squinting his eyes as he uses a pipette to drop some anti-webbing agent onto a prospective new solution. The webs sizzle and crumble, dissolving somehow more violently than his normal webs do.

“Ugh,” he drops the pipette down on the coffee table and leans back against the seat of the couch. His legs are starting to cramp from their folded position practically intertwined with the legs of the table. His eyes float to the tv screen where Scrooge is about to get visited by the Marley brothers. He can feel the pull of the screen, the muppet whimsy enticing him to give up on the webs for a simple hour and twenty-five minutes.

‘You’re acting reckless and sloppy and I’d rather not wake up to a headline announcing that New York’s favorite spider has been taken down by random bums in a shipping warehouse.’ Wade’s words replay in his mind. He folds his knees up to his chests and lets his head plop down on them. Would fixing my webs prove him right or wrong? Ugh, letting Deadpool define my actions either way is criminal.

He peeks back up at the tv screen, two muppet ghosts sing to Scrooge about their guilt and reluctance to help the needy. Wade’s face flashes in his head, his plea for help has been randomly apparating in his head since it happened. At the grocery store. In the middle of stopping a robbery. When he’s running to catch a subway on time.

With great power comes great responsibility, but he’s not my responsibility… right?

I can’t ‘mentor’ him. He’s un-mentor-able, it would be a waste of my time and energy, not to mention extremely annoying. It’s best not to give him an inch of space to get close to me. He’s a killer, a murderer for fucks sake and it’s not my responsibility to try to fix someone who’s probably, scratch that, definitely unfixable. It would be better to turn him into the police. Why haven’t I turned him into the police? Because I was the one to attack him first? Once? That doesn’t make up for all the people he’s killed, he’ll continue to kill. That’s it, I need to turn him in. Next time I see him, that’s it. Behind bars. No hesitation.

He sees Wade’s face again. Unmasked, pleading. His mind hesitates.

“How’s it going?” Aunt May leans in the doorway to the living room, her voice pulling Peter out of his thoughts.

“It’s… not,” Peter flicks at the pipette, which rolls a few inches away from him before hitting the edge of a plate of cookies Peter completely forgot about and losing its momentum.

“Hmm,” May walks further into the room and takes a seat on the couch, her legs settling next to where Peter’s back is propped up. “Well, make it go again.”

“It’s not that simple,” Peter sighs.

“I think it is,” May continues. “I may not understand any of this in the slightest but I know that you’ll be able to figure it out. You have to keep trying.”

She pats him on the shoulder and he smiles. The advice is simple, sure, ‘ The Little Engine That Could’ stuff, but at the end of the day she’s right. The only way out is through. Peter knows how hard it is to wrap her head around any of this hero stuff and how much it worries her to think about him swinging and fighting and anything Spider-man related, so it means a lot for her to encourage him in this way. He has to be able to figure this out because he needs to be able to come home safe, for her.

“You just need to keep trying after dinner,” May stands up. “I cooked a life-changing feast in there so you better respect that. Then you’re welcome to come back here to ignore your movies and sort it all out.”

“You got it,” Peter salutes her.

Wind whips around Peter as he stands on the rooftop. He’s staring down through a large skylight into a packed event hall. Sometimes he wonders why venues like this have giant skylights. The maintenance can’t be worth the trouble for a view of New York’s abysmally star-less sky but at the end of the day it makes his job easier so he can’t complain. At the moment his mind isn’t fixated on the logistics of the architecture, though.

His eyes dart to all of the high-profile guests milling about the space. Businessmen, entrepreneurs, actors, celebrities, and rich people who don’t do much of anything besides have wealth all talk and mingle against a backdrop of glittering lights and a small orchestra’s renditions of classic Christmas songs. Peter’s been around the block enough times to know this type of holiday event is the perfect target for villains, hence his surveillance. He’s been watching the party for about an hour. Out of boredom he’s IMDB-ed a few people he vaguely recognized and set up his phone to take a couple of blurry mid-swing photos of himself for The Bugle that he knows Jameson will immediately throw in the trash. It’s getting late and he’s starting to wonder if normal patrolling would be a better use of his time until a flash of red catches his eye. He almost audibly groans in annoyance as Deadpool saunters through the main doors of the hall.

“Happy New Year to me, I guess,” Peter mumbles as he props open one of the windows of the skylight, positive that Wade isn’t here to sample the hors d’oeuvres.

He stands there, for some reason with a suit and tie on over his normal red attire, just past the almost comically large doors. They’re propped open, standing before a small raised section of the floor with a railing. Two staircases are on either side, each descending into the main part of the room with the bar and the dancefloor and the small orchestra. When Peter was examining the party he realized that besides two emergency exits hidden behind bespoke red drapery, it’s the only way into and out of the space (a bigger design flaw than the skylight, he thinks). A few bystanders notice Deadpool and either murmur quizzically or begin shuffling out the door. The vast majority don’t spot him yet, though. Peter squats, ready to swing into the room at the precise moment Wade decides the ambiance needs a couple more flashing lights and booming sound effects. He watches the other man scan the room until Wade’s eyes go wide as if a cartoon light bulb turned on above his head. That can’t be good.

Someone screams as Wade pulls out a gun, aiming it into the crowd. With that, Peter dives into the room and webs the gun out of his hand.

“Happy holidays sweetums,” Wade only glances at him for a moment before returning his gaze to the crowd, scanning for his target in the mess of people. “Daddy’s busy, can we play later?”

He finds his mark again and pulls out another gun, closing one of his eyes to aim, something that must be a difficult feat with the crowds of heads all bobbing and weaving together. If there’s one thing that Peter’s grateful for it’s that Wade tends to leave innocent bystanders out of his hits (it’s not a high bar but it’s at least something). Before he can take the shot Peter swings down, kicking his wrist and sending the second gun careening across the room. This manages to get Wade’s attention more permanently.

“How many guns do you owe me now?” Wade cocks his head to the side as he looks up at Peter, who’s now standing on the railing in front of him.

“It’s a negative number,” Peter crosses his arms, content to put up with his annoyance for a bit if it means the guests have more time to rush out the exits.

“How’d you snag an invite to the party of the year?” Wade asks him, seemingly completely distracted from the task that brought him here. He casually leans one arm on the bannister as guests crowd behind him to the large doors, leaving a few feet's breadth from the assassin for safety.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Peter raises an eyebrow. His pupils flick behind Wade as the crowd continues to funnel outside. He hopes that maybe a brief descent to his level of ‘comedy’ (if you can call it that) will keep him distracted long enough for the civilians to clear out.

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask!” Wade says excitedly. He moves his hand into one of the pockets of his utility belt and then pulls it back out to display a raised middle finger.

It’s not far off from a typical Deadpool response but there’s an unfamiliar bite to the action. A lingering of the offending finger and a narrowing of the eyes. An underpinning of resentment that hasn’t been present in any of the other interactions he’s had with the anti-hero thus far. Peter is shocked by his own quick analysis of the action, an embarrassing indication of how accustomed he’s grown to Wade’s constant, exasperating presence, but he’s more concerned by the sudden spark of emotion it lights in him: disappointment. It fills him with unease that he’s… disappointed by the idea that Wade’s historic excitement at encountering the hero may be waning.

Before he has time to analyze his thought process further, Wade turns around with breathtaking speed. He grabs an escaping party-goer by the neck and pins him down by it to the edge of the railing.

Peter’s instincts fire and he shifts to save the man but his senses hum and he stops himself.

“Think you can free him before I can snap his neck?” Wade challenges.

Peter’s senses yell at him that the answer is ‘no’. His heart races as his eyes dart between Wade and the man he’s about to kill. Peter recognizes him as the same one Wade had the gun aimed at earlier. Idiot. Of course he didn’t give up on his target that easily.

“Out of the two of us I may have drawn the shorter straw when it comes to powers but I’m betting your little tinglies are telling you my reflexes aren’t something to mess with,” Deadpool smiles beneath the mask, eyes trained on the man in front of him that’s currently clawing at his arms in an attempt to escape his death grip.

“I thought you said you wanted to stop killing,” Peter tries to focus on Wade instead of the guest who’s starting to be deprived of oxygen. Talk Deadpool down. That’s how to save him. Fuck, how do I do that? Is that even possible?

“Oh, Spidey, killing millionaires is all the rage now, doncha know?” Wade laughs as the man makes his final feeble attempts at pushing Deadpool away before his arms give out and he loses consciousness.

“Wade,” Peter looks to the man and then back to Wade. His body pulses with adrenaline, fingers trembling. It itches to jump in even though he knows it could mean immediate death for the man.

“Well, it’s hard to just stop killing when I don’t have, hmmmm I don’t know, a mentor,” Wade finally turns to look up at Spider-man since grabbing his victim. His hands remain grasped around the man’s neck and Peter tries to remember the specific amount of time and force needed to apply to someone's neck until they fully die. Think. Anything to get him to let go.

“If you really wanted to stop you’d do it on your own,” Peter retorts, the words straight from his mind to his mouth. Ok, I guess we’re going with the egg-him-on-so-he-hopefully-lets-go-to-punch-me-instead route.

“Why do you think they have sponsors in AA?” Wade asks.

“Please, you’re not addicted to killing,” Peter jumps down from the railing and takes a step closer to Wade, hoping that getting further in his business will convince him to let go.

“For all you know I could be getting my rocks off every night to killing fuckwads like this,” Wade uses his forehead to gesture to the man in his hands who’s probably getting dangerously close to brain death via lack of oxygen.

“You don’t.” Peter says it with a confidence he wasn’t sure he had until the words escape his mouth. Then he knows that he’s correct.

Their last meeting comes back to him. He remembers the look in Wade’s eyes as he asked for Peter to mentor him. The way their blue color churned with a deep sadness as he confessed that he’s haunted by the people he kills. There was truth there. Even if the sentiment was disingenuine, there was something in Wade’s eyes that convinced Peter that he wants to change, whether he fully knows it yet or not. In the moment Peter told himself he was projecting. Extending empathy and hope towards a man who’s done nothing genuine to show he wants to change, never mind demonstrating that he’s capable of it. Wade’s eyes keep coming back to him though, their depth and their emotion. A raw human-ness to them instead of the blank white stare of the Deadpool mask that’s now searching his face.

Wade doesn’t respond save for a small huff. He instead turns back to the man in front of him. Peter can see his hands shaking ever so slightly as he tightens his grip on the guest’s neck.

Spidey opens his mouth to say anything to try to get him to stop but before the unknown words escape him the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He lunges forward as the far wall of the room explodes. Wade is blown back and Peter grabs the man he was strangling, falling to the ground and shielding him from explosion debris.

He looks down at the man, who’s thankfully still breathing, and then stands up at the same time as Wade. Both of their attentions are directed to the source of the explosion. Standing on the dance floor in the middle of piles of glass and concrete is someone in their late 20s, maybe early 30s. He’s dressed up in a costume taking inspiration from a mix of emo and mall goth fashion. It’s an ensemble thrown together from a brief peruse of Pinterest, one that screams that whoever is under that dyed-black head of hair is using this as a disguise and has probably never earnestly participated in alternative subcultures. Various impractical chains hang from his clothes and his short straightened hair hangs over one eye. He steps over some broken glass in giant combat boots and looks up at Peter and Wade.

“Hey, Gerard Way, do you mind? We’re kind of in the middle of something,” Wade gestures to Peter and back at himself.

“Isn’t there a Hot Topic across town you can break into?” Peter asks.

“What?” The villain asks. “I just blew up the side of this building!”

“Yeah, we noticed. Kind of rude,” Deadpool shakes his head. “I already crashed this party. It’s common etiquette to move along and find another target.”

“Seriously, is this your first day or something?” Peter says while noticing out of the corner of his eye that one of Wade’s hands is slowly shifting towards a knife on his utility belt.

“I-…” The villain’s face goes slightly red. Really is their first day, wow. Rookie move to crash a shindig like this one, he’s practically begging to get arrested.

“You don’t know my power,” he says, voice deepening as he tries to regain his composure.

“Please, show us your power,” Wade laughs and mockingly lowers his voice. His hands go to his hips, one subtlety gripping the handle of the knife.

“I think they practiced that in the mirror,” Peter laughs along with him. His eyes scan the bomber, looking for any type of weapon or indication of super abilities, senses drawing a blank.

“I- I didn’t!” He protests.

His hand reaches in a small bag at his side and Peter springs to action. He slings a web across the room that attaches to the person’s feet as he presses a remote control button. The sprinkler system erupts and, as it did in the warehouse a few weeks ago, bright orange liquid starts raining down. Peter pulls the web, knocking him supine and causing him to lose grip of the remote which flies out of his hand. Spidey mentally pats himself on the back as the web remains intact through the anti-webbing spray. Wade reacts at the same time as Peter, bolting across the room and landing on top of the villain just as he gets knocked down. He presses the knife against his neck. It draws a sliver of blood as Hot Topic gulps in fear. Peter swings next to them, thankful that Deadpool hasn’t decided yet that his interruption is worth a death sentence. Spidey crushes the remote under his foot for good measure and the sprinklers stop.

“Nice, you listened to my advice,” Wade’s eyes are trained on the bargain bin baddie but Peter can tell he’s talking to him.

“I was already working on fixing it,” Peter responds. Admitting that Wade’s previous statements may have influenced him to bear down and find a solution quicker isn’t something Peter is ever planning on doing.

“Is it so hard to say ‘yes’? Maybe a ‘thanks for the push in the right direction Pool’?” Wade turns his head to glare at him.

The villain takes that opportunity to pull a card out of his sleeve and tap it. It glows briefly before a large metal disc with geometric patterns manifests above it, shooting up and sending Wade flying off of him.

On instinct Peter runs and catches him in his arms, only remembering that Deadpool probably deserves a few broken bones after he’s safely cradling his back and knees in his hands. Wade stares at him wide-eyed.

“Do you have a knife?” Wade asks.

“What?” Peter’s sure that out of the two of them Deadpool is definitely the one with a knife handy.

“Cause someone needs to cut this tension between us,” Wade rests one of his hands on Peter’s chest suggestively.

“Did you steal that from The Lego Batman Movie?” Peter’s more offended by the theft than the hand.

“I think I love you?” Deadpool says as a question.

Peter drops him straight on his ass in response.

“Ow, sorry, momentary lapse in judgement. I forgot you’re a dick,” Wade stands back up and brushes himself off.

“What’s with the change in attitude?” Spider-man asks and immediately regrets it because he knows what’s coming next.

“What’s with the you caring about my change in attitude?” Wade snaps back, clearly losing the wording he was planning on going for halfway through the sentence.

“S-stay back!” The villain (that Peter had almost forgotten was still here) says, taking a few steps back and holding out a deck of cards in front of him as if it’s a cross and the two of them are vampires.

Peter slings a web and easily grabs the deck of cards out of his hand

“Or you’ll use this?” He turns it over in his palm a few times, examining the hard case holding the cards. “Sorry, I only really know go fish. Do you have Uno?”

“Give it back,” He takes out another card that was hidden in his sleeve and holds it out.

Peter squints to see that it’s a tarot card: the six of pentacles. He takes another step back and falters on an uneven piece of ground, slipping and brushing their fingers over the front of the card in the process which sets it off. Six smaller sheets of metal erupt from the card, violently flying in all directions.

Peter’s senses hum to jump out of the way but before he can do so his vision is obscured by a shoulder. Wade lunges in front of him, tackling him to the ground and shielding his body from the discs cutting through the air like deadly frisbees. His back hits the ground and while it’s not comfortable to be laying on a bed of uneven rocks and glass shards, Peter is more focussed on the hulking presence of Deadpool on top of him. At first he’s scared that the other man is using the opportunity to attack him but he quickly realizes that he’s done it to protect him. He probably surmised that the discs can cut through webbing and made the split second choice to dive onto him.

“Fuck,” Deadpool hisses as one of the discs slices through his back in some capacity, Peter can’t really tell from this angle. All he can see is the way his mask folds up in a wince and how his body tenses around him.

Peter blinks, otherwise his body is completely stock still.

His mind leaves him and he has to take a few breaths in order to return to the moment at hand, reminding his brain and body that he’s here and now. He remembers who’s on top of him and any fleeting thoughts that came to his mind disappear immediately and completely, never to happen or be thought about again. It’s like it never happened at all, really. It’s like he thought nothing and nothing of it and he never has to dwell on it again or examine what it means that he thought about Deadpool of all people in a sexual manner… because he didn’t.

“Are you ok?” Wade looks down at him, realizing how still he’s gotten. “Nevermind, I really don’t give a shit.”

Wade grunts as he gets up and Peter mentally kicks himself again before following suit.

“Oh, that’s a whoopsie,” Deadpool looks over at the villain.

Once Peter sees the state of him he dashes to his side. The bomber’s neck is torn open, presumably from one of the discs flying out of the card wrong as he slipped. He gasps and chokes on blood, the liquid pooling out of his wound at an alarming rate. Peter webs his neck, hoping the webbing may help stop the bleeding. He presses his hands to the gash in a shaky attempt to keep the blood inside his body without choking him.

Fuck, fuck fuck. This is not good.

“Can you breathe?” It’s the only thing Peter can think to say.

He realizes it’s an idiotic question as it comes out of his mouth and he looks down at the blood seeping through the webs. He sputters in response, blood gurgling in his throat.

“Better question: who are you working for?” Wade asks as he finishes his casual stroll over to the scene.

“Deadpool, he’s dying,” Peter says through gritted teeth, searching his mind for any way to help the flow of oxygen and concluding that there’s no hospital close enough to swing to before he bleeds out or blood fills his lungs.

“You’re right, better speed this up before he croaks,” Wade puts his foot down on the man’s hand, pressing down hard enough for Peter’s advanced hearing to pick up the sound of his bones creaking and cracking under the pressure.

The villain lets out a strained yell, an incomprehensible jumble of sounds that Peter guesses is supposed to be ‘fuck’. Spidey webs Wade’s leg and pulls, knocking him to the ground to stop him from torturing the dying man. He turns back to the villain who makes a few more unsuccessful attempts at breathing before his chest stops lifting and his eyes go still. He releases his shaking hands from the man’s neck and watches as a few drops of blood fall to the ground from his gloves.

There is a burst of noise outside and Peter perks up, adrenaline coursing through his veins, before realizing that they’re a few blocks away from Times Square and the clock must’ve stricken midnight.

“Death must’ve wanted one more for 2024,” Deadpool tsks. Peter isn’t sure when but Wade stood back up at some point during the man’s last moments. “They’re real petty like that. We used to date y’know.”

“Jesus, do you have a heart in there or do your powers make it so you can function without one?” Peter spits at the anti-hero as he stands up, mostly because he can’t bear to look at the body anymore.

“You’re welcome for trying to help you get some information out of this shit show? Isn’t that why you were putting yourself in mortal danger last time we met? And the dude was already dying, he was practically begging for death from the start with his sheer incompetence. He knew the risks of getting into this profession. Too bad, so sad, whatever,” Deadpool shrugs.

“He didn’t try to kill anyone, which is more than I can say for you tonight,” Spidey challenges.

“Hello, is anybody up there?” Wade cups his hand to speak more directly to Peter’s forehead “Does flooding the room with spider-be-gone and wielding deadly frisbees not read as an attempt at your life? And on that note about my plans-”

Wade’s head swivels to the side to see a blank plot of ground where his target was laying passed out after the explosion. He must’ve woken up and made a getaway during the commotion.

“Oh well, it’ll be easier to get him next time. Did you know that every time someone passes out they get brain damage?”

“I don’t think that’s true but it would explain why you’re like this,” Peter retorts.

Wade doesn’t take the bait, instead walking over to the deck of cards that was left on the ground in the scuffle. Spidey doesn’t want to risk Deadpool getting his hands on whatever else is contained in there so he webs them again.

“Tarot cards?” Peter inspects the box and then takes out a few cards, being careful to only touch the edges so as to not unleash any more disks of death. The previous metal cylinders have disappeared, evaporating after losing their momentum or embedding themselves in the walls. Peter thinks back on the patterns etched into them, the geometric shapes forming a star in a circle.

“The deck isn’t big enough for all 78 so there’s probably more out there,” Wade stretches and walks over to the fancy buffet in the corner, flicking some rocks off of a few premade sandwiches.

“It seems to only be the pentacle cards,” Peter gingerly puts them back in the case and webs them to his hip like a makeshift belt. He has a few secret pockets in his suit (one of which containing his dangerously cracked phone) but the deck probably wouldn’t fit in any of them comfortably and, more importantly, giving Deadpool any secret pocket knowledge is not high on his list of priorities. “How do you know so much about tarot?”

“You’d be surprised how often it’s used as pseudo-foreplay for queers,” Wade shrugs and pulls out a foldable grocery bag from his utility belt.

“I really wouldn’t,” Peter mumbles and Wade glances at him for a moment. Fuck, tell me he didn’t hear that. No even remotely personal information in front of this guy Peter, come on!

“Are you shoving sandwiches in your bag right now?” Spider-man asks as he tilts his head to the side. Wade pauses the shoving of sandwiches into his bag.

“They’re gonna go to waste if I don’t. What does it matter to you?” Deadpool seems overly offended about the nitpick. Peter can tell the energy isn’t entirely about the criticizing question so he does the logical thing in this situation: press Wade’s buttons further. He does it to me all the time so what’s a little payback?

“Aren’t you loaded?” Peter isn’t actually offended by the action, if anything he’s disappointed he didn’t think of the idea himself. He’d probably join in if not for the fact that some guilt-addled section of his brain would call him a dirty thief like it does when he takes complimentary food from street vendors adamantly insisting he deserves a free hot dog. “They’re covered in anti-webbing solution. And you’re not even wrapping them up or anything, you’re throwing them straight into your bag? Gross.”

Wade drops his bag at the word and storms up to Peter. He tries to stand his ground but the giant figure stomping towards him can’t help but evoke a sense of intimidation in him and he takes a step back when the anti-hero gets uncomfortably close into his personal space.

“Gross?” Wade leans towards him and Peter leans back, stumbling into another step backwards before Wade again closes the gap. “Tell me Mr. Friendly Neighborhood, are you really calling the food thing gross or is this about something else?”

Wade pulls off his mask for the last part of the question and Peter is stuck looking straight into those sad blue eyes. Their depth of emotion surprises him. How can they be behind a mask so often covered in blood? How can they be used to pinpoint the precise angle needed to sever a major artery? Maybe that’s why they look like this, so tired and genuine, because they’re used this way. It makes sense why Wade covers them up with his mask (it’s not like he needs to for either physical or identity protection) but because he wouldn’t be nearly as threatening if people could see the honest vulnerability reflected in them.

“So you’re just going to stare, huh?” Wade snarls, his eyebrows jutting further down and obscuring some of his irises.

Peter’s lost for a second before it clicks. His own eyes go wide with realization.

His face. Of course this is about his face.

This is closer than Peter had seen it last time. Not across a dark roof but instead mere inches in front of him, illuminated by the surprisingly-still-intact overhead lighting. Scars cover the entire thing, a winding flowing visage that reminds him of the patterns of foam that form after a wave hits the beach.

“I was talking about the sandwiches,” Peter gulps.

“Sure,” Deadpool says, disbelieving. He takes a step back but only one. “Your reactions tell a different story, Webs.”

Peter grimaces. He knows his first reaction to Wade pulling off his mask wasn’t the best. In fact, it was pretty shitty. He’s been feeling guilty about it. Even though it’s Deadpool, Peter knows he didn’t deserve that.

It snaps into place. His (more than usual) hostile behavior was some kind of acting out. A defense mechanism against Peter who he thinks is disgusted by the way he looks. No doubt because he’s dealt with it before. No doubt because Peter hasn’t given him any reason to think otherwise.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It… took me by surprise. I guess I saw your face and I couldn’t help but wonder if it hurts.”

“Not any more than I’m used to,” Wade sighs and pulls his mask back on.

He walks over to the edge of the blown up wall and sits down on the ledge, letting his feet dangle over the side. For a split second Peter thinks he might push himself over the edge but he continues to just sit there. Peter walks over next to him and takes a seat.

The city is distantly loud with excitement for the new year, the energy in the air infected with hope and drunken celebration and promises of new beginnings that are sure to be broken before February.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Wade picks up a small piece of rock from what used to be the wall and turns it over in his hand. “Looking like this. Living like this. Every time I step outside without the mask it’s a fucking odyssey. Homer’s my bitch.”

“No, I don’t,” Peter grips the edge of the ground.

He wants to say that he gets it. That some days leaving his apartment feels suffocating. That sometimes walking down the street he feels as if everyone’s eyes are glued on him, dissecting his every movement and quality. He spends too much energy thinking about if a barista is analyzing the way his voice sounds as he orders his coffee or if a man who holds the door open did so because he could see some kind of defined shape in his hips. Sometimes it doesn’t even cross his mind and sometimes it’s all he can think about, even if at the end of the day he logically knows that the way people perceive him won’t ever change the fact that he’s a man. He wants to say all of this but then he remembers that he can’t go telling Deadpool he’s trans. He wants to use it as a means to comfort him but then he thinks though how even with all of that he still has no clue what Wade’s going through. Peter passes most of the time and even if he didn’t, his experience isn’t in any way comparable to Wade’s full-body scars. He can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like for him. The looks. The pain. It’s not the same. He can’t get it.

Wade throws the rock over the ledge and Peter wants to berate him, tell him that there’s a busy avenue below them and a hit from that height could easily have landed someone in the hospital. He doesn’t hear any screams so he swallows the words instead.

“Why won’t you mentor me?” Wade’s still masked and looking out at the city but Peter can picture the way his eyes look beneath it all.

Peter presses his lips together. A billion valid reasons flood his mind but they’re all almost overshadowed by the scene in front of him. His ability to see the good in others is all-encompassing. He wants to give Wade a chance but everything else in him screams that it’s a terrible idea, that it won’t lead to anything good because he’s Deadpool. He literally just tried to strangle a guy, tortured another one who was on the brink of death, and said he’d go find and kill the first guy later. He’s turning in a 1.2 GPA and an essay that’s only the word ‘please’ written 500 times to a college that doesn’t exist. The worst part is that despite it all Peter wants to let him in.

“It’s… complicated,” Peter picks up his own rock and almost throws it but his spidey senses tingle so he opts to rolls it over in his fingers instead. “If I’m being completely honest, I don’t trust you. You understand you’re like the least trustworthy person I’ve ever met, right? And even if I did, I work alone so it’s really never going to happen for more than the obvious reasons.”

It’s true. Peter’s made it a point to work alone. He keeps everyone at a distance because he’s tried the whole assistant thing and he’ll never be able to forgive himself for how that ended. He can’t bring people into Spider-man’s world for their own safety and he can’t bring Wade into his for others’.

“Ah, the old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ excuse,” Wade chuckles slightly, a little sweet cutting into his bitter.

“No, it’s also very much you. Did you not hear the whole first part of what I said?” Webs can’t help but smile a little bit. How can he manage to be such a dick and kind of amusing?

“I tend to block it out when people blame me for stuff, does wonders for my mental health,” Deadpool jokes. “If I say it’s abelist you’re not mentoring me will that change your mind?”

“Do you want me to treat you like I always do or do you want me to have sympathy for you?” Peter raises an eyebrow.

“Whatever is personally best for me at that moment, duh!” Wade smiles.

The two of them look out over the city for a moment, the lights twinkling brighter than they usually do at this hour of the night. It’s not how Peter expected to be spending his first moments of the year: sitting on the side of a freshly exploded building next to Wade Wilson, dressed in a now insanely ragged suit and tie barely hanging on over his Deadpool costume.

“For the record, I don’t think you’re gross,” Peter looks at Wade and smiles. Deadpool returns his gaze, his eyes widening in a way that tells Peter all of the spidey-hate has been flushed out of his system with a few simple words. “Well, let me rephrase, I don’t think you look gross. I still think you act gross and your personality is undeniably gross.”

“Ha!” Wade laughs. “But you have to admit, we made a pretty good team back there.”

“Yeah, until you decided to torture the guy.”

“Come on, it was good cop, bad cop! A classic dynamic except we’re way cooler cause we’re not pigs!” Wade elbows him playfully and then winces, expecting Peter to react negatively. He glances down at the action but doesn’t retaliate.

“You’ve switched back to not hating my guts pretty quickly,” Peter observes.

“What can I say? I’m a forgiving guy except for when I ain’t,” Wade leans in a little closer, his voice deepening slightly. “What d'ya say about a kiss for the new year?”

Peter knows he’s joking, his eyebrows wiggle dramatically and he purses his lips through his mask like a child going in for their first kiss on the playground, but he webs his face for good measure. He stands up as Wade yanks the webs off of his mask.

“Maybe I should’ve let you go on hating me,” Spidey stretches his arms above his head and glances down at the flashing lights of the cop cars pulling up to the building on the street below them.

“Aw, that would’ve been no fun,” Deadpool props one of his knees up and rests an elbow on it, casually addressing the hero as if they were hanging out.

Peter’s gaze returns to the squad cars for a moment. He has the fleeting thought to turn the merc in. How it would probably be the smart thing to do, for the people of New York and for his own benefit. He thinks about the people that may be saved by the simple action and all of the people between now and halloween that might still be living had he made the decision to arrest Wade those months ago or really any of the times between then and now. He thinks about how all those times he wasn’t sure why he didn’t just turn the criminal in and he realizes that now he knows.

“See you around, Pool,” Peter nods and thwips a web to a nearby building. Wade gives him a slight wave before Spider-man jumps from the building.

He swings through the air, fully allowing himself to embrace the sensation of falling and catching himself. He takes in how the wind hits his face through the mask and the stretch in his limbs as he reaches the bottom of a swing. He takes a long route home, opting to swing by Times Square and overlook the crowds of people who waited there for hours to celebrate a single sliver of time. He waves to a few fans and then resumes the journey home. Maybe it’s the palpable hope in the air that comes with a new year but despite everything that went wrong tonight Peter feels… okay. Saying he feels ‘good’ would be stretching it but he doesn’t have that gnawing regret or frustration that’s accompanied his previous run-ins with Deadpool. It’s an almost peaceful feeling.

He wrestles open his janky apartment window and climbs in, pulling off his mask and throwing it on the desk. He lays back on his bed and looks at the familiar yet mysterious water stains on his ceiling.

He’s not sure if he made the right decision, again. He let Deadpool go free when he had another perfect opportunity to put him behind bars. At least now he knows why he made that decision: for some reason, some part of him thinks Wade can be better. It’s not founded on anything which probably means it’s not the right call to make but after more than nine years of being Spider-man he’s learned to trust his gut. Now he has to hope that by some miracle the mercenary proves him right.

Peter presses his palms to his eyes, vision obscured by gloves covered in dried blood.

“What am I doing?” he sighs.

It’s the beginning of January and it’s snowing. For once in the past couple of years the weather is actually around what it should be for this time of year and Peter hates it.

He has one Spider-man suit which is specially lined with more fabric to take into account days like this but it’s in desperate need of a wash after getting covered with anti-web solution and a bit of blood from New Years. Normally he’d be more on top of washing the suit considering it’s the only insulated one he has (making it was even more time-consuming and expensive than his regular suits so he’s put off investing in another for the last few winters) but the salad spinner TikTok convinced him to use as a makeshift mini-washer broke last week and he hasn’t found the time or the energy to go to the laundromat.

So here he is, in a regular not-built-for-freezing-temperatures suit trying will his teeth to stop chattering while chasing down a mugger in Midtown.

He catches up with the felon and webs them upside-down to a light post, a multitude of wallets falling out of their jacket in the process.

“Ugh, brain not functioning in the cold. Pretend I said something witty about the number of wallets you managed to collect. It’s actually quite impressive, kudos to you I guess. Too bad you got caught,” Peter says as he gathers the fallen wallets and webs them together in a ball, sticking them next to the mugger on the light pole so the police can gather them all and hopefully return them to their rightful owners. He grabs another wallet from their hand and then makes the successful journey back to where he witnessed the crime, returning the item to its rightful owner.

He then swings himself onto a nearby roof and peeks under an air conditioning vent.

“Looking for this?” An all-too-familiar voice comes from behind him. Peter shivers, unable to tell if it’s because of Wade or the cold. He turns around to see the man across the roof, holding up the down jacket he stashed here.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” A gust of wind hits him with all the grace of a freight train and Peter can’t help but grab his elbows as a violent shiver quakes his system.

“That’s odd considering a few minutes ago I saw you sitting up here scrolling through TikTok bundled up in this old thing,” Wade shakes Peter’s jacket. “Nice secret phone pocket in the suit by the way. I have to look into that, mine keeps falling out of the ol’ utility belt.”

Great. Wonderful. Perfect. What other secrets can I give away to him real quick? Hey Wade, wanna let the world know Spider-man is bisexual too? God, I dread to think about what would happen if he found that out.

“Yeah, you caught me, I need to keep my body warm like every other human being on this planet. Can you give it back now?” Peter extends his hand impatiently.

“I can show you a better method of keeping warm if you know what I mean,” Wade juts his eyebrows up a few times.

Peter webs his jacket into his hands and pulls it over himself. Sighing into the comforting warmth of the beat-up coat. He’s had it since the beginning of college and its better days are definitely behind it. It’s been thrown on dirty rooftops and alley sidewalks and even accidentally brought into fights a few times so at this point the fur on its hood makes it look like a diseased ferret climbed on Peter’s shoulders and died.

“That was a test of basic human decency. Congratulations, you failed with flying colors!” Peter says as he nestles his chin under the neckline of the coat. “Are you stalking me now or are you going to lie about not stalking me?”

“Oh you’d know if I was stalking you, Spidey! Unless I didn’t want you knowing but I don’t think I could invalidate your trust like that at this point in our relationship,” Wade leans forward dramatically as he extends the word ‘trust’ beyond it’s single syllable. “I was just chilling in Tabitha and happened to see your little rooftop doom-scroll sesh.”

“What?” Peter exhales, 100% sure he doesn’t want to know what he means by that statement.

“Tabitha, my apartment,” Wade points up at the top of the building next door.

“Why- You know what? I don’t care. Sure, Tabitha, yeah, why not?” Peter concludes he doesn’t have the patience nor the body heat to entertain Wade’s shenanigans at the moment.

“You know, you’re welcome in Tabitha anytime. I feel like I can extend that level of trust to you,” Wade nods with all the subtlety of a first grade teacher trying to introduce vocab words right before recess. “I even left a note in your jacket pocket with her address on it!”

Peter pats down his pocket and finds a slip of paper. He’s first greeted with a grocery list: ammo, boxed mac and cheese, eggs, milk, condoms, like extra large condoms specifically, i’m not joking spidey i mean i need the biggest size they sell - Peter stops reading and glares at Wade who’s finding his commitment to reading through the fake list extremely hilarious. He turns the sheet over. Wade has indeed written out his full address, apartment number, the fact that he keeps a spare key under the mat, and a quick doodle of how to identify his balcony in case he wants to use that entrance instead. Below all of that is a phone number and Wade’s name followed by at least twenty xs and os. He crumples up the paper and shoves it back in his pocket and then proceeds to check the rest of his coat for any other little surprises Wade may have left for him like a bomb or a tracking device. He comes up empty. Mental note: toss the coat just in case.

“Awwww, are you keeping my address because you trust me so much!” Wade interlaces his fingers together and leans towards the hero, batting his eyes as if he were a Looney Tunes character.

“I’m keeping it because I don’t,” Peter flicks him in the forehead. “Is this going to be a thing now? I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish, I’m not going to magically trust you because you manage to shove the word into every sentence.”

“It’s not magic, it’s called conditioning,” Wade replies.

“Oh, yeah? Pro-tip: if you’re trying to brainwash someone, don’t admit it to them,” Peter says. “Did you show up just to annoy me or…?”

Spider-man raises an eyebrow, waiting for Wade to give an explanation for his presence. He stands there for a second before jumping in realization.

“Right! I wanted to let you know your protegè is going to be gone for a month. Doing some out of town mercenary gigs,” Wade casually slings an arm around his shoulder.

“I don’t care what you do. Existing in this city will actually be easier without you in it. And for what it’s worth, you’re not my protegè,” Peter ducks under his arm, taking a few steps back to be out of reach.

“You’re so right, we are besties now, aren’t we?”

“Just because I’ve stopped trying to arrest you, it doesn’t mean we’re friends,” Peter crosses his arms.

“Yeah, not complaining but I’ve been meaning to ask: why’ve you stopped?” A finger and thumb come to Wade’s chin as if he were an old-timey detective stroking a beard.

Peter hesitates. The last thing he wants to do is let Wade know that some part of him thinks he’s capable of change, maybe even good. If he’s already being this annoying about the mentoring thing, he’ll never hear the end of it after that.

“Night, Wade,” He opts for a non-answer, turning to the edge of the roof.

“Is it because some part of you kind of, maybe, trusts me? Just spitballing here!” Wade yells from behind him, his voice barely audible over a particularly strong gust of wind.

“Have fun on your trip far, far away from me. Maybe consider moving! I hear anywhere outside of the tri-state area is wonderful this time of year,” Peter slings a web and jumps from the roof.

Peter exhales, grateful that this is possibly the last time he has to interact with Deadpool for a bit.

Yeah, this new idea Wade’s gotten into his head might prove to be a problem. At least it’ll be a problem for future Peter.

Chapter Text

“I’m backkkk!” Wade yells it into the New York City sky. The people applaud below. Young and old, rich and poor, another dichotomy to fulfill the rule of thirds, everyone has gathered in the streets to celebrate the man of honor returning home. Wade nods his head, a proper welcome back indeed. One befitting his splendor. It’s almost perfect, just missing one thing-

“Wade!” The voice he’s been waiting for echoes in his ears.

“Spidey!” He says, turning around.

The hero is there in all his glory. Double-cheeked to the gods and back. I’m talking a god-damn bakery’s worth of cake.

Spider-man closes the distance between them, jogging across the roof until he’s right in front of Wade.

Then he hugs him. His strong arms wrap around Wade’s figure in the most comforting embrace he’s ever felt.

“Wow, this is new!” Wade says in that patented silky smooth, orgasmic to the ears voice.

“Well they say absence makes the heart grow stronger,” Spidey pulls back from the hug but stays close, his hands resting on Wade’s shoulders. The touch sends electricity through the merc’s body.

“And, as I like to say, absence makes the dick grow harder!” Wade wiggles his eyebrows. It’s silly but also intensely erotic.

“You’re right,” Spider-man says, his voice deepening.

“Of course!” Wade says. He puts his hand on the man’s waist.

“I want you to fuck me Wade,” the hero looks into his eyes.

“Of course!” Wade immediately goes to unzip the front of his suit.

“But first-“ Spider-man reaches up to his head. He grabs his mask and pulls it off of his face.

“Gasp!” Wade gasps while saying the word gasp.

“Yes, it is me. A-list celebrity actor Andrew Garfield. Known for Hacksaw Ridge and The Social Network and that one episode of Doctor Who,” Andrew Garfield says.

“It was actually a two-parter but I can forgive that if we’re about to fuck,” Wade waves it off.

“Yes, let’s fuck,” Andrew Garfield says.

They kiss. It’s wet and sloppy and good. Their hands start to explore each others’ bodies. Hot sticky pleasure draws them into one another.

The typewriter dings and Wade narrows his eyes.

“Hmmm,” he mutters before pulling the sheet of paper out from the machine.

He walks away from the old wood desk and up to the man who owns it, currently gagged and tied to a chair in the middle of his own office. He whimpers and struggles against the restraints as he has been doing for the past hour. It’s been a slog. A really boring slog of a job that he only took because he was already in this neck of the woods for much more exciting and well-paying gigs. He should probably be considering it easy money. It’s not all that difficult to hold someone hostage in their own home, but the people who hired him neglected to mention that they were planning on holding him for ransom for six straight hours.

Wade leans the man’s chair back and shoves the page in front of him. The gesture could indicate that he wants the man to read it but it’s probably more for show considering the fact that he’s been narrating his work aloud as he’s been typing it out.

“What do you think?” Wade sounds sincere. The man’s eyes dart between the page and Wade’s face. “Do you think it’s too horny? I’m leaning towards not horny enough.”

He pulls the gag out of the man’s mouth.

“P-please, I’ll give you money! Anything!” The man sputters.

“It’s that good?! You’re willing to fork over cash already? At the first draft of the first page? I’m honored!” Wade brings the paper to his chest, clutching it over his heart.

“I’m not talking about your shit writing, you fa-“ The man’s begging quickly morphs to anger which is promptly silenced by the barrel of a gun being shoved in his mouth.

Wade yawns and pulls the trigger, decorating the office with a shade of red that truly reflects its owner.

He rolls his head to stretch his neck out and then reaches for his phone, lazily scrolling to his recent calls.

“Yeah, he’s dead,” Wade doesn’t bother with the formalities of a ‘hello’, feeling that these dickheads have already wasted enough of his time. He’s greeted with a frankly uninspired string of expletives and a couple of threats before interrupting. “Yeah, yeah, toodle-oo!”

He hangs up the phone and promptly blocks the number.

Well, now that that’s done I can finally head back. Good ol’ New York. Concrete jungle where dreams are made of amiright?

Wade just landed in New York. Well, if by ‘just’ you mean three hours ago and by ‘New York’ you mean ‘New Jersey’. So really Wade landed at Newark airport a while ago. He then left the airport (against the wishes of the many TSA agents who were extremely concerned with how he was able to board a commercial flight in the first place with a small armory on his person). After that he caught the northeastern corridor NJ transit line to Manhattan (he could have just called a ride service but taking the train seemed fun and no one really bats an eye at him on NJ transit because there’s usually much weirder things going on than a mercenary dressed in what most people assume to be kink wear). And now he’s officially back in the city, meandering around and taking it all in like a starry-eyed tourist because he has no better plans for the evening. This led him to walking along the piers where a certain red costume catches his eye.

Low and behold, I get back to NYC and the first thing I see is Mr. Garfield himself. Are we sure this isn’t still the Christmas special? Cause merry fucking Xmas to me.

Spider-man is perched on the top of the Manhattan bridge. At least Wade thinks that’s him. Either that or someone stuck a cardboard cutout of him up there (which would actually make a great addition to my living room) so either way Wade’s climbing to the top of that bridge.

“Sexy,” Wade says as he makes the final push to hoist himself up to the tallest landing. He’s greeted with real, living breathing Spider-man (I’m actually semi-disappointed it wasn’t the cardboard cutout. Oh, the dastardly things I would’ve done to it. How much do lifesize cardboard cutouts cost?) Spiey is crouched down, facing the city and holding a digital camera. Ooohh lore drop! Spidey likes photography?

“Why don’t you photograph me like one of your french girls?” Wade nonchalantly splays out on the ground. He earns a delectable glare for it.

“Great, you’re back,” Spidey rolls his eyes and stands up, apparently done with his little hobby now that Wade’s made his presence known.

“What? Spidey senses didn’t catch me coming?” Wade asks.

“They actually didn’t need to. You made such a racket climbing up here I heard you from halfway down,” Spider-man starts packing his camera away in a small bag-slung around his shoulder. “Just thought I’d have you waste your energy climbing all the way up here before bolting. Might save a few lives.”

“Seems like you just wanted to see me,” Deadpool cocks his head to the side. “Have you given any more thought to me becoming your protegé? apprentice? trainee? I’ll even settle for unpaid intern.”

“Wow, you’re going to be super annoying about this mentor thing aren’t you?”

“Only until you accept my offer, sempai,” Wade bats his eyelashes.

“Congrats, it’s been a minute and it’s already coming back to me how much of a dick you are. Do you have any more out-of-state jobs coming up?”

“I’m offended you ever forgot! I don’t have any on the books right now so I get to revel in being a pain in New York City’s best ass.”

“Bye Wade,” Spidey turns to jump off the bridge.

“Wait-“ Wade reaches out his hand dramatically, infusing his voice with an urgency normally reserved for first-time-parents.

Webs turns around, narrowing his eyes at Wade’s interjection.

“Awwww, I honestly don’t have anything else to say. I just wanted to see if you would react. Seems like you care about what I have to say or something! Kind of embarrassing for you!” Deadpool giggles.

“Ugh,” Spider-man throws his head back and jumps from the bridge.He slings a web towards the city and Wade gets to watch that sweet sweet ass make it’s farewell.

“Night webs!!” Wade waves after the hero. He then surveys his position, indeed stranded on top of the Manhattan Bridge in a way that’s going to make any avenue of getting down a bitch and a half.

Well, shit.

Wade’s in a coffee shop when the alarm goes off. He squints through the despirately-needing-to-be-windexed windows to across the street. A few hooligans are holding up a bank, halloween masks and all. He shifts in his seat, beginning to get up, before his brain catches up with him.

Wait. 1:30 pm-ish. Wednesday. A brisk 36 degrees. Chances of Spidey: 74%. Pack an umbrella cause I’m about to get extremely wet.

He slowly leans back in his chair, leather and spandex creaking at the movement. He takes another sip of his overpriced coffee and watches as the criminals yell at the hostages.

A minute later a police car skids around the corner and parks. Wade can see the officer radio for backup. Any minute now.

A moment later, right on cue, a red suit swings and sticks against the side of the bank building. Wade downs the rest of his coffee, pulls his mask back down, slams a few bills down on the table (mostly for effect because he already tipped at one of those register IPad things when he ordered) and runs out the door.

Spider-man has already found his way inside the building. He probably snuck in through some vent or ducked in the door when the robbers’ backs were turned, something to maintain the element of surprise. Deadpool takes a more inelegant approach: running straight through the glass of the front doors (with the help of a knife to shatter them completely).

“Hi! I’d like to make a withdrawal!” Wade says exuberantly, brushing some glass shards off of his suit.

The robbers hesitate for a moment out of shock before pulling out their guns and open firing at the mercenary. Spidey, who indeed snuck in and from the looks of it had positioned himself in a corner of the ceiling, takes advantage of the distraction and leaps to action. He webs one of the robber’s guns and pounces on another that had a gun pointed at a hostage. He tackles the other man to the ground, disarming him before webbing him down on his back. God, I wish that was me.

Deadpool snaps out of his momentary distraction to realize that he’s getting filled with bullets. He unsheathes his katanas and starts running at the closest criminal, disarming him with ease. Before he can go for another, a web shoots out and takes one of the katanas out of his hands.

“What gives? I’m helping!” He turns to Spider-man, who’s currently stringing another robber upside-down from the ceiling.

“You chopped someone’s arm off?!” Spidey yells like it was an obvious answer.

Wade glances back over at the man he disarmed. He is indeed dis-armed, yelling and bleeding all over the smooth tile floors. The hostages look on in horror as he drops to his knees. Spider-man finishes tying up the suspended man and shoots a web at the shoulder of the criminal Wade maimed to try to help stop the bleeding.

“I guess I can make it by with good ol’ lefty,” Wade turns his other katana over in his hand.

He looks up to see who else is left but is greeted with Spider-man webbing the last criminal in the room (excluding Wade) to a wall.

“Slay!” Wade exclaims happily. Webs glares at him.

“Are people still saying that? Am I behind on the trends? Fuck, is this what being almost thirty is?” Wade asks one of the hostages, still with their hands behind their head and on the ground. They look up at him and shake in fear.

“T-there’s more of them- the vault,” one of the hostages says to Spider-man.

“Thank you,” Spider-man says gently to them, leaning down and placing a comforting hand on their shoulder. “Everyone get out as quick as you can, I’ll handle this.” He announces to the room. The hostages get up and scramble towards the exit.

“You too, Deadpool,” he turns to Wade, saying less gently than he did to the hostages, before bolting behind the teller’s desks to a flight of stairs that leads to the vault.

Wade doesn’t follow the order because he’s hard-wired not to. I’m just a brat, what can I say? Being brat is definitely out now though, right? I think I know that much. Are we still holding space for the lyrics of defying gravity? These trends move at a break-neck pace you’d have to be The Flash to keep up. 

Wade gets to the vault right after Spidey. It’s a large one, probably bigger than the majority of cheap studio apartments in Manhattan. The walls are lined with lockboxes and there’s stacks of money organized in the middle of the room like they’re in a cartoon.

Spider-man is surveying the room, on the lookout for the rest of the criminals the hostage warned about.

“I don’t think they’re hiding in any of those little boxes. Not unless we’ve lost Ant Man to the dark side,” Wade comments. “I wouldn’t be surprised, Paul Rudd seems too nice. Like he’s hiding a deep darkness and could snap at any moment.”

Spider-man pauses his examination of the vault to shoot some daggers at Wade. His face transforms suddenly, though, and the lenses on his mask go wide as his body tenses up. Wade’s been around him long enough to be able to recognize the way his demeanor changes when his Spidey sense goes off.

He’s too busy reveling in the familiarity of it all to notice or care about the vault door behind him swinging shut. Spider-man darts across the small room but not quick enough to make it before the door lets out a deafening clunk.

Spidey’s fist hits the metal and creates an imprint, shaking the door but not budging it in any meaningful way. Hot. Spider-man braces his hands on the door and tries to push next, letting out a few strained grunts but not making any progress with that either. Cute.

“Are you going to help me or just stand there?” Spider-man says exasperated.

“I thought you didn’t want my help,” Wade gives a mischievous smirk that he knows shows through his mask.

“Ugh!” Spidey groans and resumes his pushing to no avail.

After a few more seconds of nothing he throws his hands up in the air out of frustration and starts pacing around the room, eyes trained on the floor.

“I think we just gotta wait,” Wade stretches his arms above his head. It shouldn’t be long, considering the police are right outside but god I hope we’re trapped in here for hours.

Spider-man looks at him as if he just told him his goldfish got run over by a sixteen-wheeler.

“Yeesh, is the prospect of spending a few minutes trapped here with me that devastating?”

“Yes,” He replies simply. This kind of response two months ago would have been biting, a syllable of contempt comparable to a stab in the eye. This time the word comes out dull, a stab in the abdomen with a foam sword at a LARP meet-up. It’s still annoyed but in a fun way. Wade’s heart does a backflip.

“What? Do you have a 9-to-5 or a photography deadline or somethin’?” Wade plops on the ground of the vault, his legs outstretched and his back against the large vault door. Spidey isn’t thrilled about his positioning, as if leaning on the door is making it more immoveable than it has already proven to be. He doesn’t seem stoked about Deadpool remembering his photography sesh either.

“Or somethin’,” Spider-man sighs, he rests his hands on his hips and starts to tap his foot at an annoyingly fast pace.

They sit in silence for a moment outside the sound of Spidey’s foot echoing in the metal cave.

You know what?

“Wanna fuck?” Wade asks, tilting his head at the hero. Spider-man turns to face him, the words knocked out of him for a moment. Good signs, good signs.

“Hello?! Someone open this goddamn door!” Spidey turns back around and slams his fists against the metal in aggressive knocks to no avail. He tries to stick his fingers in the crack of the door and pull but there’s not enough space. Well, worth a shot.

“Just thinking of ways to pass the time,” Wade shrugs.

“Yeah and I’m thinking of all the ways I could break your bones,” Spidey gives up on the knocking and lets his head fall on the door in defeat.

“It’s funny you think that would be a turn-off for me,” Wade replies.

“You’re disgusting,” Spider-man gives a light kick to one of his legs and then sinks to sit down on the floor next to him. Well, with a good two feet in between them but next to him all the same.

Was that… almost playful?

“Dogs or cats?” Wade brings his legs up to his chests and folds his arms over them. He leans his head on his arms so he’s staring at the other man.

“What?” Spidey’s eyes narrow.

“Dogs or cats?” Wade repeats.

“Is this some kind of trick?”

“Oh for sure. From your answer I’ll be able to deduce the last digit of your social security number, I already have the rest. Come on, dogs or cats?”

“Both,” Spider-man replies as if he’s warry that Wade’s somehow not joking.

“Boo,” Wade groans, rolling his head against the door behind him. “Boring non-answer. You have to choose. Also your social security def ends in eight.”

Spidey scoffs. Was that a laugh disguised as a scoff? That sure sounded like at least a semi-laugh.

“Fine,” Spider-man looks down at the floor for a second as if determining his answer will decide the fate of dogs and cats everywhere. “Dogs.”

“Of course you’re a dog person,” Wade rolls his eyes for the show of it.

“What does that mean?” Spider-man lets out a few exhales that Wade concludes are more suppressed laughs. He turns to Wade, loosening up his posture slightly. Score!

“It means you’re boringly predictable. The superhero picks the loyal, useful, ball of energy. Yawn.”

“And I’m guessing you’re a cat person? Real original choice from the unpredictably volatile my-way-or-the-highway anti-hero,” Spidey jabs.

“That’s cat slander!” Deadpool points his finger at Webs as if he’s extremely offended. “There’s an entire ecosystem of cat videos that’s undeniably the most entertaining media humankind has produced. Also, my-way-or-the-highway? I’m extremely gracious when it comes to you, I didn’t kill anyone up there! Only a light maiming!”

“Uh-huh,” Spidey sounds unimpressed.

“Chocolate or vanilla?”

“What’s the point of this?”

“We're stuck here so it’s either sit in silence or answer either-or questions. or fucking is honestly still on the table too,” Wade leans in a little closer.

“Vanilla.” Spider-man responds curtly and pushes Wade’s head away from him.

“Wow, you’re shockingly boring,” Deadpool replies. “Sci-fi or fantasy?”

“Sci-fi.”

Wow. Immediate response with that one. He’s definitely a nerd. I mean, either answer is nerdy but to no-hesitation locked-and-loaded have an answer to that is another level.

“Top or bottom?” Wade fires back quickly.

Spidey opens his mouth to respond before fully processing the question.

“I’m not telling you that,” he opts for.

“Bottom, got it,” Wade nods as if to take mental note of the conclusion. Spidey seethes at him, Wade can tell he’s itching to retort but holding himself back cause he knows Wade will leap on any kind of information he gives him.

“Fuck or marry?” Wade asks.

“Who?” Spidey is taken aback by the uncommon question.

“Yours truly!”

“Kill,” Webs decides.

“See that goes against your precious moral code so killing is off the limits. It’s either fuck or marry,” Wade points at him.

“Kill,” Spidey repeats again. “And you’re supposed to give me two other people to categorize as well.”

“Wade Wilson, Deadpool, and Me,” Wade smiles. Getting on his nerves is so much fun.

“Kill, kill, kill,” Spider-man sighs, clearly bored. “What’s the point of these questions, Wade?”

“Well, you seem a lot calmer now than you did a few minutes ago,” Wade tilts his head.

Before you go thinking I’m some saint helping the poor little spider calm his nerves, know that I mainly did it for information’s sake. Each little tid-bit helps with understanding him. Also it gets us more familiar and such, maybe then he’ll be convinced to mentor me.

Spider-man looks him up and down, squinting his eyes slightly as if re-examining the man. He opens his mouth to say something and Wade hangs on the inhale. It’s interrupted by a loud clang, the vault door behind them unlocks and the two of them scramble to their feet.

A cop pushes the door open and Spidey briefs him on what happened upstairs. The rest of the criminals that locked them in the vault apparently slipped away but all of the immobilized robbers have been taken into custody. Wade takes the opportunity to slip out of the bank before some cop has the bright idea to try to arrest him and then he has to deal with a dead pig.

Yipee! Progress!

“Spidey! Hey! Web-boy!!” Wade has been chasing the hero for three long city blocks. He knows he must’ve heard him by now and is choosing to ignore him. Until he acknowledges him though Wade has a free pass to operate under the assumption that he hasn’t heard him yet.

Luckily (for Wade) there’s a cat stuck in a tree. Thank you but, I mean, come on, cliché much? The cats should know better by now.

Spider-man retrieves the cat from the tree and returns it to the manic that decided to put their cat on a leash for a walk and then turns around to see Wade standing right behind him. And by right behind him, he’s right behind him, fully almost touching the hero and bursting any personal space bubble that may have existed before he got there.

“What is it now?” his friendly demeanor immediately shifts as his eyes narrow and his arms cross.

“I saw ya and just wanted to say hi!” Wade waves enthusiastically.

Spidey rolls his eyes and webs to a nearby building, pulling himself onto it’s roof.

“Wait!” Wade yells after him before bounding up the fire escape in pursuit. Surprisingly, when he gets to the top Spidey is still there, actually having waited for him.

“I- I just,” Wade pants for a moment, bracing himself on his knees. “Damn, you’re fast with those things.”

“Do you have anything of use to say or are you just going to make another sex joke?” Spidey jabs.

“Pervert. I haven’t said anything sexual in the past couple of minutes, you’re projecting that stuff onto me!” Wade regains his breath and pulls a bag off of his back.

“You have a backpack?” Spider-man raises an eyebrow.

“A utility bag,” Wade rummages in its contents

“That’s a backpack,” Spidey lets out a short laugh and it’s music to Wade’s ears. I could listen to that all day. Play it on loop. My Spotify Wrapped #1 song of the year with no competition at all.

“Whatever, I just have it to carry this!” Wade triumphantly pulls out a small stuffed bear.

“What is that?” Spider-man narrows his eyes at the object.

Wade looks back and forth between Spidey and the bear, turning the bear’s head so they can both gawk at the hero.

“You’ve never seen a miniature stuffed bear before?”

“No. I know what a stuffed animal is Wade, I mean what are you doing with it? Is it a secret bomb or tracking device or something?” Spider-man takes the bear out of his hand, examining its plush white fur and embroidered smile. Its arms are outstretched and holding a little red heart.

“Why do you always think I’m trying to give you bombs?” Wade smiles as the hero examines the plushie like it’s a new form of technology he’s never come across before.

“Because for a good chunk of time after I first met you, you were planting bombs all over the place.”

“Come onnnn,” Wade rolls his eyes and also his entire head. “We’ve been through this, they were fake bombs! We’re wayyyy past that now!” Wade slings an arm over Spidey’s shoulders which he promptly uses to flip wade over onto his back.

“Yeouch,” Wade groans before comfortably putting his hands behind his head and crossing his legs like he purposely got in this position to relax.

“Why the bear?” Spidey stands over him and looks down, holding the bear by its little red heart with his pointer and thumb as if there's a possibility it’s armed and dangerous.

“Mid-February celebrations babe,” Wade smiles.

Spider-man cocks his head to the side.

“You’ve never heard of Valentine’s day either? Were you raised Amish or something? Do the Amish celebrate Valentine’s day?” Wade runs a finger along Spider-man’s boot (maybe shoe? what the hell is the footwear at the bottom of his suit?) which is placed just above his head. “It’s February 14th in case you haven’t checked a calendar yet today. Sure hope you don’t have a girlfriend or boyfriend or partner or discord kitten or whatever cause they’ll be pissed that you forgot.”

Spider-man actually looks taken aback by the statement, seemingly having completely forgotten about the holiday.

“Note to self: Spidey is single or soon-to-be,” Wade sings-songs and earns a glare from the other man.

“Take your bear back,” Spider-man holds on a little too tight to the plush heart.

The audio speaker in the bear triggers. Wade’s voice comes out: ‘Spider-man, Spider-man does whatever a spider can! Da da daa da da daa honestly I forget the rest of the words but you get the po-‘ the recording cuts off as real-life Wade gets to his feet.

“Take it back,” Spidey juts out the hand holding the plush towards Wade. The bear swings in his hand, smiling at his proposed return to Deadpool’s grimey backpack.

“Nope!” Wade gives him two thumbs up and starts backing away.

“Wade!” Spidey increases his pace towards Wade which the anti-hero matches in his backward motion.

“No way! Yours now!” Wade bolts for the fire escape.

He gives up halfway, jumping down a few stories to the wonderful sound of broken ankles. It’s not any pain he isn’t used to and takes the opportunity to bolt away from Spidey as quickly as he can, hobbling down the street at only slightly-above-average human running speed. The hero can definitely catch up with him, quite easily in fact, but surprisingly he makes it a few blocks away and turns around to see no trace of the web-slinger anywhere.

Fuck yes.

Chapter Text

Peter hates being “Future Peter”. That version of himself when karma chases him around like a persistent chiwawa hell bent on biting his ankles. All of the things he’s put off have piled up and now he has no choice but to do them. Usually it culminates in a few all-nighters and a multipack-of-energy-drinks shaped hole in his wallet. He eventually gets his life back on track for a few days (maybe a week if he’s lucky) until he feels comfortable enough to start ignoring responsibilities again and the cycle starts again. Great power not only comes with great responsibilities but normal life responsibilities hidden under the greater ones that are much easier to brush under the rug when convenient.

What’s particularly sucky about being “Future Peter” right now isn’t laundry or cleaning or a full email inbox though. All of his stress can be attributed to one source: Deadpool.

Wade has been a particularly large and abrasive thorn in Peter’s side for the past three months. Ever since New Years the mercenary won’t leave him alone. He keeps popping up almost every time Peter’s on patrol. Almost every time. Although he’s started refraining from killing anyone in front of Spider-man he hasn’t been particularly helpful either. He’s able to strike the particularly grating balance of being only a minor-inconvenience yet a majorly-annoyance simultaneously.

“Where are you even keeping all of these?” Peter asks as Wade pulls out another gun. He’s already webbed at least five of them off of his person in the last few minutes.

“If I said ‘where the sun don’t shine’ could I interest you in a tour?” Deadpool verbally and physically fires at Spidey who flips and dodges out of instinct.

This is one of the few times in the past months Peter has crashed Wade’s party instead of the other way around. Sometimes the ol’ spidey senses lead him to one of Wade’s jobs and everything more or less comenses how it’s gone tonight: Peter interrupts Deadpool’s killing or maiming or whatever illegal activity he was hired to do and then the two of them “fight” until the hostage is able to get away or Peter can successfully immobilize Wade or some other combination of factors that result in Deadpool’s job failing. That’s “fight” in quotations because they both know that Wade’s not aiming at Spider-man and Peter hasn’t been making any effort to get the merc arrested. It’s more of a game at this point. Sometimes it’s exhausting and Peter sees it as a waste of time but some part of him knows it’s a welcome reprieve from his normal hero-ing. He’d never admit it aloud but whenever he swings into a crime scene and sees that red and black mask, there’s a sigh of relief that escapes him. He knows that just by being there whatever criminal action Wade was in the middle of is going to be stopped and he doesn’t have to worry about getting injured in the process. It’s an odd dynamic and he’s not entirely sure what Deadpool is getting out of it considering he’s probably losing a bit of money on these jobs but there’s a saying about gift horses that Peter doesn’t really understand but also abides by (What even is a gift horse? Does it carry presents on its back or is the horse itself the gift? How would looking it in its mouth mean you‘re ungrateful?).

“You’re not hiding guns in your ass,” Peter responds flatly.

“Only one way to find out!” Wade jokes as Peter disarms him yet again.

Peter swings wide and sticks to the side of a truck in the otherwise uncharacteristically vacant parking lot in the financial district.

“What’ve you got in here anyway? More anti-webbing? Going to try that excuse that you’re moving apartments again?” Peter asks, knowing full well that that probably wasn’t a lie but deciding to be purposefully annoying. A little taste of his own medicine won’t hurt him.

“I was moving apartments! Did you think all that furniture was for show?” Wade doesn’t even bother reaching for another weapon. Peter lets the sound of his voice drone on like white noise as he examines how to open the container part of the vehicle. “I commit to the bit but not that hard. All my shit got drowned in the Hudson! Did you know how much I had to spend at Ikea after that? It was more than just furniture replacement costs, mind you, cause it’s Ikea. I had to get the meatball dinner and a Djungelskog after I stepped past the threshold, that’s just Ikea law. I also walked out with some orb-like wall art and egg holders? Honestly couldn’t tell you why but it’s your fault cause I never would’ve been sucked into that all-consuming-comforting-hellscape of a store again if all my furniture didn’t get drowned.”

Peter finds the latch to the trunk and hauls the heavy door open. His stomach drops when his eyes adjust to see a few frightened people huddling in the corner of the cavernous metal space.

“Human trafficking?” He whips back around to Deadpool.

All of the burning rage that used to consume him during his interactions with the mercenary comes back in an instant with the force of a wildfire. He bounds across the lot. In an instant he trips Wade with his webs and jumps on top of him, grabbing him by the front of his suit because if he doesn’t occupy his hands this way he would already be punching him in the face. He pulls on the straps, lifting his upper body slightly from the ground and closer to his own.

“Webs, calm down,” Wade responds casually.

“Calm down? I was starting to think you weren’t so bad and then you take a paycheck for trafficking people?” He spits in disgust.

“Can you give me a sec to explain?” Wade asks, entirely unbothered by the fact he’s currently pinned to the ground by someone with super strength who’s on the verge of turning his brains into mashed potatoes.

Peter wants to punch him. He wants to punch him so badly. How could he do this? How could he think this is in any way ok and get fucking paid for it? He wants to punch that damn smug nonchalance off of his face and then hit it again for good measure. Instead he waits for whatever inconsequential excuse Wade has for something unforgivable.

“Thank you,” Wade says once the hero doesn’t interrupt him. It makes Peter want to punch him harder. “If you took a moment to actually ask what I was doing here before you swung in webs-blazing to stop my dastardly mercenary plans you’d’ve realized that I’m here to stop the poor people in the truck from being kidnapped.”

Wade’s words penetrate his anger and snuff it out as quickly as it started. It’s instead replaced with a flood of embarrassment as Peter remembers how this whole fight started because he saw Deadpool pull a man out of the driver’s seat of the truck and start beating the shit out of him. By the time he fully comprehends his mistake he’s positive that his face is the same shade of red as his mask. He’s thankful Wade can’t see it because he’d never hear the end of it.

“But, please, continue,” Wade teases, leaning into Peter’s grasp which is now considerably less hostile. “You were just saying how you’re starting to think I’m- I believe the words were- ‘not so bad’.”

Peter lightly pushes Wade’s upper body to the ground and stands up, opting to reroute his energy into helping the people out of the back of the truck instead of whatever confusing emotion Wade can manage to poke and prod out of him next.

“Human trafficking that’s quite literally people stuffed in the back of a truck. It’s funny, this is how it’s always portrayed in media as if in real life it doesn’t tend to be more complex circumstances. Kinda cute you think I’d stoop to such cartoonish levels of villainy,” Wade casually makes conversation as Peter helps people out of the truck. “Y’know I do follow some kind of moral code… sometimes… for the most part... if the weather’s right... And I’ve had a good lunch.”

“Oh, yeah? Care to break the code down for me cause I’ve yet to see any proof of it,” Peter helps the last person out of the back of the truck.

“Sure, it’s all written out on the back of the Declaration of Independence but I have to warn you: you may be sent on a wild treasure-hunting goose-chase to find it!” From Wade’s voice it’s evident that his face is contorted into a smirk. 

“Go home Wade!” Peter replies cheerily as he counts all the people and makes sure they all look well enough to travel to the nearest police station. Thankfully it’s only a few block’s trek, a short walk in exchange for hopefully getting these people to safety.

“Sure, see you tomorrow!” Wade responds jovially, skipping away.

Peter goes to tell him that he really hopes he doesn’t see the other man tomorrow but by the time he opens his mouth the other man is already too far away to make the statement worthwhile.

“Hi Spidey!” Wade’s voice echoes against the towering glass buildings. He’s yelling from across the street. Peter has found that the man has a specific talent for being able to get on his nerves from any distance.

Peter inadvertently lets out a groan, it vibrates in his cheek which is currently pressed up against a window. The villain of the week (who looks offended by the distraction) has Spider-man pinned against the side of a skyscraper. 

“This guy bothering you or somethin’?” Wade asks. He’s casually leaning against the metal beams of construction scaffolding on the building opposite to Peter.

“Nope! All good,” Spidey manages to exhale out under the tightening grip of the villain. This guy’s costume is monkey-themed for some reason and he has a mechanized tail currently wrapped around Peter’s neck. He’s also invested in gloves that allow him to climb up buildings.

Why do I always get animal-themed villains? Yeah, I’m a Spider but this is just ridiculous. I’m starting to think this guy wasn’t even bitten by a radioactive monkey.

“Nothing to worry about here folks!” Peter looks in the window that’s pressed against his face. The people in the office space inside step back and stare in horror at the scene.

The pressure on his neck is suddenly relieved and Peter’s senses are overcome with a loud yowling of pain. As fresh oxygen floods back into his system he blinks and all he can see is red.

Did I really get done in by dollar store villain monkey man of all people?

After a few more breaths he realizes he can feel his body. The screaming is echoing in his ears but his vocal chords are still. He reaches up to wipe the blood off of his lenses. He blinks a few more times to see that the monkey has been impaled in the shoulder by a katana. It’s skewered through and sticking in the window next to Peter’s head. He crawls up out of the villain’s grasp and swings across the street to the scaffolding where Deadpool is looking on and eating from a bucket of popcorn.

“Did I interrupt a little rendezvous you two were having? Some kind of new spidermonkey ship you two got going on?” Wade asks. “Which is totally unfair bee-tee-dubs cause I called dibs!”

He throws a handful of popcorn into his mouth, a few kernels miss and fall down a couple of stories to the ground. A business man gets showered with crumbs and looks up, very confused.

“Not a rendezvous,” Spidey wipes the remaining blood off of his lenses and glances back across the street where the monkey is struggling to get the katana out of his shoulder.

“So that means I helped out, right?” Wade looks at him excitedly.

“I could have gotten out of there fine on my own,” Peter replies. He’s not lying. He could have and would have gotten out of there ok if he was just given a few more minutes. Telling himself that is easier than admitting that Wade helped out. “Did you just get out of a movie or something?”

“Oh, yes! But also no! Sometimes I go to AMC just to grab some popcorn and watch the Nicole Kidman ad. I leave before the actual movie. This is a lot more entertaining than anything playing right now anyways,“ Wade gestures across the street.

Peter’s senses blare just before he’s tackled again by the monkey man who’s now wielding the kanana previously lodged in his shoulder.

“I didn’t know monkeys had jetpacks,” Wade comments as Peter struggles against the katana now pressed to his throat.

“Yeah, I don’t think he fully thought through the cohesion of the concept,” Peter gets some leverage against the villain and disarms the katana. He wrestles the man (with a bit of difficulty considering the extra mechanical tail) until he’s able to pin him down on the scaffolding.

“Want any help?” Wade asks as Peter starts to web the villain down.

“Nope!” He says just as the man’s jetpack sputters to life again.

The man rips away from the webs and starts flying away to make his escape.

“You sure about that baby boy?” Wade tilts his head to the side.

Spidey glowers at him before slinging a web to the man’s foot. He braces his feet against the wooden planks of the scaffolding and tries to pull him back. He skids a few inches as the jetpack jolts forward with more strength.

“Cause I’m right here,” Wade says.

Peter doesn’t make eye contact. Damn it, a little bit of extra strength could be helpful right now but he’ll never let me live it down.

The scaffolding creaks under his feet and he can feel the webbing in his hands tense.

Ughhhh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

“Fine!” Peter says.

Before he finishes the syllable Wade’s right behind him, arms on either side and grabbing over his hands, pulling at the webbing to keep the villain from flying away.

“This is like the Ghost pottery scene but even more erotic, huh?” Wade says from right behind him. He leans his head over Peter’s shoulder so they are almost cheek to cheek.

This was a mistake. Fuck this pervert.

As Spider-man kicks himself internally, the villain turns his jet pack up to the highest setting. Then there’s a sudden lack of scaffolding under Peter’s feet. He’s met with the familiar feeling of swinging but this time without a steady anchor for his web and a couple extra hundred pounds of muscle hugging tightly around his stomach. The jetpacked villain is flying wildly, probably partially to get his extra passengers to let go and partially because it’s hard to maneuver a jetpack with a giant pendulum of people throwing off the steering.

“I think I’m gonna hurl,” Wade grips tighter to Peter’s stomach, which he didn’t think was possible.

“Not on the suit!” Spidey replies.

The villain shifts to a new tactic: trying to careen his unwanted passengers into the side of every building he gets close to. Spidey is able to adjust their swing and quickly thwip out a few webs to prevent them from the collisions but the positioning is hard with the disorienting movements and extra weight. He can’t ever get a good enough angle to sling a web that can get both him and Wade safely off of this increasingly lethal murder swing. He makes an attempt but the web falls short when the jetpack jolts upward suddenly.

Peter’s eyes go wide as they swing towards the side of a concrete building, senses blaring as he tries to figure out a way to avoid the giant obstacle. Just before making contact with the building, Wade throws his weight to the side, turning their bodies so the brunt of the impact falls on him. Peter’s side takes a blow thankfully just short of arm dislocation but he can tell from the forceful, grating impact that Wade wasn’t nearly as lucky.

“Fuck, your legs,” Peter sputters out after what’s left of Wade peels from the building. Now Peter’s the one trying not to puke.

“I mean I can think of at least four other body parts it would be more pleasurable to fuck but we can try it,” Wade lets out a few breaths that almost sound like laughs, his head swaying slightly due to some obvious light-headedness. The entire bottom half of his body is flying behind him like gruesomely lumpy jam stuffed in his costume.

“Are you ok?” Spidey asks, just narrowly managing to sling a web to adjust their swing away from another collision.

I’ll let the sexual comment go just this once cause that could have easily been my pulverized guts instead of his.

“Pfftt, I break more bones in my sleep,” Wade chuckles against the wind.

“That’s concerning, I think you should look into that.”

He directs his attention to the villain above them, now struggling to maintain a good height above the city with the weight of the extra passengers.

“I think I can sling a web to block the vents of the jetpack. Without the airflow he won’t be able to stay airborne,” Peter thinks aloud.

“Great, so you’re going to break the thing that’s keeping us from falling?” Wade asks.

“Yup!” Peter doesn’t bother reminding Deadpool of the fact that his web shooters are perfectly capable of saving them before they hit the ground. Maybe a little terror will do him some good.

He squints at the jetpack and then fires. The machine sputters and then decreases its lift, slowly losing its ability to keep airborne.

Peter slings a web to a nearby roof and transfers him and Wade safely to its ledge. He turns and slings one at the monkey man, catching him just before his face high-fives the pavement. Spidey lets out a breath of relief and secures the web to a nearby light post.

“Wow, my knight in shining spandex!” Wade proclaims from his sprawled out state on the ground of the roof. His legs twitch as they recover from their jam-like state.

“Sure,” Peter rolls his eyes and takes a seat next to Wade, letting his legs dangle off the side of the roof as he watches the red and blue lights of squad cars screech to a halt next to the villain.

“Dinner?” Wade asks, sitting up so he and Peter are on the same level.

“What?”

“I know a great taco place a few blocks away,” Wade continues.

“Ok?” Peter isn’t entirely sure what Wade’s saying, his attention focussed on the arrest.

“Great! Give me five,” Wade jumps onto the fire escape on the side of the building and tumbles down the rest of it, clearly not having estimated the speediness of his healing factor properly. He gets to the ground in a lump and then straightens himself out, giving a thumbs-up to the hero before limpingly dashing around the corner.

It takes Peter a full minute to put together that Wade was asking if he wanted to get tacos with him for dinner and that Wade probably thought of his ‘ok’ as an agreement and not a confused acknowledgement of his statement.

Peter, come on. That was obvious. Now you’re going to eat tacos with the guy you’ve been trying to distance yourself from? Ugh, tacos do sound really good right now though.

Peter’s internal debate between tacos with the most annoying man on the planet or swinging back to his apartment for a very sad meal of cup noodles is interrupted by a takeout bag falling in his lap.

“George?” Peter reads the name on the DoorDash receipt stapled to the bag.

“I grabbed a random order off the table, was afraid you’d run off if I took too long,” Wade sits back down next to him. “Ha, idiots!” He points and laughs at the cops trying to get the villain down from his suspended position. They look strikingly incompetent, almost tetherballing the villain around in an attempt to get him down.

“I’m not eating stolen food,” Peter pushes the bag back towards Deadpool. So much for tacos.

“Cool your ethics jets a sec, bud. I let the employees at the restaurant know which bag I was taking-“ Wade starts opening the take-out bag.

“Stealing.” Peter interrupts.

“Fine, which bag I was stealing. So they know which tacos to remake for George-y boy. I also paid them at least three times the cost of George’s order here so their nights are going better than if I didn’t steal a delicious meal that’s calling your name,” Wade reaches in the bag and holds out a plastic to-go box with tacos out to Spider-man.

He shakes it enticingly when Peter only stares at it.

I’m going to regret this. Of course I will… but damn it those are definitely al pastor.

Peter gives in and grabs the container. He pries it open and looks at the contents hungrily, his stomach twisting at even the faint smell breaching his mask. Then he realizes that he’ll have to pull up the bottom of it to eat.

“They taste better when you eat them, you know,” Wade says through an already overflowing mouth.

Peter’s hand goes up to the bottom of his mask before hesitating again.

Wade sighs.

What right does he have to be irritated about my reluctance to do something that could reveal details about my identity? Asshole. Why do I keep acting surprised when he has only ever been a dick?

“Well I already know your social security number so what are you really worried about? Do ‘ya have some kind of crazy identifiable freaky scars covering the bottom half of your face? Oh right, that’s me, not you.” Wade chuckles and shoves another taco down his gullet.

The smell of the food permeates the mask yet again and Peter gets over the fear. He reminds himself that he doesn’t have any discernible marks on the bottom of his face and there’s no way that Wade will be able to figure out his identity from that alone.

Are these tacos reallyyyyyy worth this much anxiety? That cup of noodles is still sitting at home, waiting for me. I can easily dip right now. No risk, no worry… no tacos.

Peter’s stomach rumbles and he gives in, pulling his mask just above his nostrils.

Wade gasps, staring at him. Panic floods Peter’s system. He remembers that Wade actually did have up-close-personal time with Peter’s face when he decided to make that little trip to Horizon Labs.

He can’t recognize me from that alone, can he? Has he already figured it out? Peter feels like he’s having heart palpitations.

“You have a chin!” Wade exclaims like it’s some revelation before bursting out laughing. “You should see the look on your face (well the bottom half of your face), priceless!”

The panic drains out of Peter’s system as he takes a bite of one of the tacos. Damn it, yeah, these are definitely worth the risk.

“Wow Webs, you eat like you’ve been on a hunger strike for a week,” Wade leans back, seemingly losing all interest in his own food.

Peter has eaten every day this week. He makes it a point to stick to the standard three-meals a day. It makes it hard to appreciate those meals though when you have bills to pay and all you can afford is cheap ramen and frozen lasagna. It would probably be cheaper and healthier to meal prep but many things would have to change in Peter’s life to allow him the time and energy to do so. And even if he did somehow find the time he wouldn’t know where to start. It would be monumentally less embarrassing if he could explain to people that he can’t cook because he’s out every night saving lives but that’s not an option. It’s not like anybody bothers to ask him anyway so he eats his prepackaged sandwiches that taste like the most scrumptious mat in the yoga studio alone and in peace during his lunch breaks. All that to say that biting into one of the best tacos Peter has had in his life almost brings him to tears.

He gets lost in the meal, forgetting about his company or conversation or really anything else besides the all-consuming flavors of the food. He finishes the box of tacos and turns to Wade who has a dumbfounded expression on his face.

“Did George order anything else?” The cravings in Peter’s stomach outweigh the growing pit of embarrassment.

“Heh, help yourself cowboy,” Wade shoves the bag closer to Peter.

To his delight there’s three more containers of food. Peter thinks for a second about how Wade had every opportunity to poison or drug the food and then his attention is brought back to the lingering taste of the taco still on his tongue. These are worth the chance of being poisoned.

Peter cracks open another takeout container and begins eating its contents with unmatched fervor.

“I feel like if I had a conscience I would be concerned about whatever the fuck you’re displaying right now,” Wade is still slowly making his way through the first box in front of him. “Y’know the food actually has to stay in your mouth for more than a second if you want to taste it.”

“Do you want me to sit here and eat with you or not?” Peter says while coming up for air in between bites.

“You call that eating?” Wade jabs back and Peter doesn’t bother with a response.

The two sit there in silence for a moment outside of the sounds of their chewing and hum of the lively city below them. It’s almost like the city never never sleeps or something, crazy.

“So, given any more thought to my mentee offer? Me being the mentee, of course. Although I’m sure there’s a few things I could teach you too,” Wade says after shifting his positioning a few times. And I thought I had a bad attention span.

“Yeah I have. The answer is no and you can stop checking in because the answer isn’t going to change,” Peter takes the last box out of the to-go bag and puts it to the side. Wade doesn’t seem to notice or care very much.

“Come on! I’ll be your Wilbur!” Wade’s voice lilts into begging.

“Is that a Charlotte’s Web reference?” Peter replies. “Makes sense that that’s where your reading level is. Did you do the summer reading this year or just SparkNotes a summary?”

“Charlotte’s Web is timeless and ageless. I’m a man of culture,” Wade puts his hand to his chest, leaving his pinky out as if that was ever an indication of poise and sophistication.

“No, you’re Templeton,” Peter jabs back at him. Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire and sometimes fire is knowledge of E.B. White’s classic children’s novel Charlotte’s Web.

“YOU TAKE THAT BACK!” Wade gasps and angrily points his finger at the other man. It actually seems as if he’s offended by the comparison and Peter has to stifle a laugh at the performance.

“Really I should be offended that you cast me as Charlotte. There’s no way in hell I’m getting pregnant and dying to teach you a lesson about mortality,” Peter responds.

“Spoilers!” Wade covers his ears.

“So you did just read the SparkNotes, huh?”

“Not for me, for them!” Wade gestures out into the city.

“Them?” Peter’s patience is starting to wear thin again now that his hunger has been satiated.

“For all the audience knows this could turn into an omegaverse mpreg fic at the drop of a hat! Or maybe, more accurately, at the drop of retroactive exposition and world-building,” Wade’s pointer and thumb run over his chin as if any of his nonsense words are worth contemplating.

“I won’t even want to ask,” Peter stands up, the last take out box in hand. Wade most definitely sees it this time if he didn’t previously but he doesn’t say anything.

“All you need to know is that I’m the person to call if you ever want to get pregnant,” Wade’s eyebrows do that Wade eyebrow thing.

Peter shoots Wade a death glare for that one. Wade probably doesn’t know that he could actually get Peter pregnant. The idea of it is viscerally sickening to Peter. 

“Have fun talking nonsense to yourself up here!” Peter waves slightly and, to-go box in tow, makes a running start to swing off the rooftop.

“Thanks, I WILL!”

Peter can hear Wade’s response pushing against the wind in his ears. He bites back a small smile and tries to convince himself that it never tugged on his lips to begin with.

“Spidey!”

Peter almost jumps out of his skin.

CAN HE JUST LEAVE ME ALONE??!

“What do you want this time?” Peter sighs and rubs his fingers over his temples.

It’s too late for this. Almost 4 am on a Wednesday night. He has work the next day and really shouldn’t’ve been out paroling this late in the first place. He was on his way back to his apartment when Wade’s voice came out of the shadows and now he’s hoping he can will himself back in time by a few hours to avoid any of this. Because worst of all, not only is it late (or, I guess, early) and also somehow the fifth time he’s run into Deadpool in the last week, but the building they’re currently standing on happens to be the one housing Peter’s apartment. The one he lives in. Sleeps in. Has all of his personal items and information in. That one. And now Wade Wilson is talking to him on the roof of that apartment and all he wants to do is collapse into bed and sleep for a month. Now it’s going to be at least a half hour until he can pass out. He’s going to have to be the one to leave this interaction because Wade never shuts up. Then he’s going to have to do a few more laps in the nearby neighborhoods before returning to make sure Wade’s long gone. Wonderful.

“A warm welcome to you as well!” Wade replies.

“Sorry, I just- should not be apologizing to you,” Peter starts before he mumbles, correcting himself mid-sentence.

“What’s got your knickers in a twist?” Deadpool asks.

“You,” Peter hits back.

“Nice to know I’m down there in spirit. Now I just have to figure out how to physically get in your pants,” Wade jokes.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Peter asks, fed up with it all. Him being everywhere, all the time. He doesn’t have the bandwidth for it. The energy. The god damn patience. Because of him these past weeks have been twice as exhausting as Peter’s already borderline inhuman levels of demanding routine.

“Oof and here I thought we were starting to bond,” Wade chuckles a bit but he looks away at the end of the sentence. Peter’s been reluctantly around him long enough to know that indicates the sentiment is genuine.

Fuckkkkkkkkk.

Peter admits to himself that he’s being a dick right now. That he actually hurt Wade and feels… guilty about it. That for some reason Wade’s right and in some weird, roundabout way they have been bonding. That this is getting closer to… maybe not a friendship but a friendly dynamic between coworkers? classmates? rivals? Any way you phrase it, Peter hates the idea. He doesn’t want to get closer to Deadpool. But he hasn’t been… less than atrocious recently? He’s been downright pleasant apart from the usual Wade-isms of extreme violence and crass sex jokes.

Did I just think up the phrase Wade-isms? Not what matters here. I just need him gone. I need to collapse as soon as possible with Wade nowhere in my vicinity.

“Well you know what they say happens when you assume,” Peter mutters as his brain rushes to find an out.

Wade silently cocks his head to the side.

“It makes an ass out of you and me,” he sighs, too tired for any of whatever this is.

“Oh, yeah, I know. I just wanted to hear you say the word ‘ass’,” Wade smiles deviously.

Peter takes a long inhale to calm his frustration.

“What. What is it? Why have you chased me down this time?” Peter asks, defeated.

“I just wanted to say hi!” Wade waves cheerfully and Peter’s blood boils.

Peter lets out another annoyed sigh. He could leave and swing around for a few minutes until Wade’s probably made his way elsewhere but his body is ready to quit at this point and finding a way for him to be the one to leave would be a blessing right now.

“And wanted to check up on the whole mentee thing!” Wade adds on as if that’s going to help the situation in any way.

Wait-

An idea crosses Peter’s mind.

No.

No.

That’s a terrible idea. It’ll just make everything worse. It would egg him on and I’ll never be able to get him off my back. Dumb, dumb, sleep-addled brain. no nono nononono.

…

But it could let me have just a little more control over the situation…

If I set boundaries- No, there’s no way in hell Deadpool is going to follow them. If I agree to mentor him it’s just going to be everything that’s happening now but worse. He won’t ever leave me alone. He’ll follow me to the grave and then dig his way out and sit there like that dog at the train station. But… on the off-chance he actually agrees I can return to whatever fucked up normalcy I had before he popped up. And what if he takes it seriously? What if- I can actually help him change? That’s insane, he’s- there’s no way. He’ll just use it to weasel further into my life and somehow burn down what little I have left. But- is it insane to say that maybe he could be tolerable in a smaller dose… maybe even funny at points? Broken clock twice a day and all that. Would it really be so terrible to try to help him?

Peter stands there and bites his lip for a minute, his thoughts devolving into a sleepless ramble he loses track of. Wade looks around, waiting for something to happen.

“Fine,” Peter’s exhausted brain makes the decision for him and he can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “I’ll mentor you.”

“Really?!” Deadpool’s eyes widen more than Peter thought was physically possible. “Last time you said you’d sooner swim in piranha infested water, but, hey, I’m not complaining! What the hell did I do to get him to agree?” Wade whispers that last part to himself very much loud enough for it to get on Peter’s nerves.

“Only if this keeps you out of my hair,” Peter jabs a finger in Wade’s direction.

“Ooh! You have hair?! What color? Can I touch it,” Wade excitedly runs closer to Peter who takes a step back.

Mistake.

Big mistake.

Already regretting this.

Fuck.

“I only want to see you for planned mentorship meetings. Not anytime outside of that. If you see me swinging you turn around and walk in the other direction, got it?” His voice is strict, to-the-point, a declaration with no wiggle room. Peter narrows his eyes at Wade.

“That’s no fun! What if you crash one of my merc missions?” Deadpool tries to wiggle.

“You turn and leave,” Peter punctuates.

“Even if you butt in on one of my semi-heroic ones?” Wade pushes.

“Turn. Leave. Got it?” Spider-man says.

“Fine. Copy that,” Wade salutes him in joking sternness. “How often do you want to have these meetings? Thrice daily?”

Peter stares at the other man.

You knew this was a mistake from the moment it popped into your head. Peter god damn it why did you say anything this is exactly him. Why’d you expect anything different?

“Forget it,” Peter turns to leave.

“No, nonono! I wasn’t being serious! You’re supposed to try to talk me down, negotiate to something reasonable,” Wade gently lays his hands on Spider-man’s shoulders, trying to get him to turn back around again.

“Ugh, once a month,” Peter groans, brushing him off but turning back to him.

“Once a day,” Wade counters.

“First and third Wednesdays,” Spidey sighs, too exhausted for any of this.

“Once a week! Final offer!” Wade bangs his hand against some metal ventilation on the roof. It rattles in excitement almost as much as Deadpool does.

“I don’t think you understand, I’m calling the shots here,” Peter says.

Dealing with this dick once a week sounds like a nightmare. Most people at least get paid for their babysitting gigs, right?

“Once a week! I’ll buy dinner,” Wade points a finger at Peter challengingly and his eyebrows jut up in a way that says I-got-you.

…

He’s fucking got me.

“Fine,” Peter accepts while slapping the offending finger out of his face.

What can I say? A free meal a week would help out. However incrementally small it’s less money leaving my wallet. I could probably order large portions and have leftovers, stretch it to two, maybe three meals each.

Peter holds out his hand to seal the deal.

Wade excitedly reaches out to take it but Peter snaps it away from him at the last moment.

“I have another condition!” Peter blurts out, almost forgetting about the most important part of this whole ordeal.

“Did you really just too-slow me?” Wade’s head turns to him, the words come out slowly and menacingly as if too-slowing him is a crime that breaks the geneva convention.

“No killing people,” Peter says.

“Pftttt, easy! If killing triggers your gag reflex or something consider it done!” Wade wags his hand out in front of him, waiting to shake on the deal that Peter is finding to be annoyingly stilted in the other man’s favor. “No, I mean generally. No killing. Full stop. Not just when we meet up. Not just when I’m there. All the time. No killing. No exceptions or deal’s off. The moment after we shake on it if you kill someone I’m turning you into the police. Immediately,” Peter challenges.

Wade looks down at his hand and takes a moment longer than Peter feels comfortable with. “I mean it issssss kind of my main source of income,” Wade takes his hand back and scratches the back of his head in contemplation. “Wade, you said this was the main reason you wanted my help,” Peter’s eyebrows come together in the middle of his forehead.

He wanted my help not to kill and now he’s hesitating? Can he remain consistent for two seconds, damn. Do you even want my mentorship or not? I shouldn’t be asking that question. I shouldn’t even be offering my help.

“Yes, yeah, yes, you’re right. Old habits. No killing, got it,” Wade puts his hand back out in front of him, fingers wiggling slightly in anticipation.

This won’t be good. There’s no way this is a good idea.

Peter reaches out and takes Wade’s hand. He grips firmly in the handshake and Deadpool does the same.

“Wanna have our first meeting now?” Wade pulls him closer while their hands are still linked and slings his other arm around Peter’s shoulder.

Peter replies with a punch in his stomach, sending him stumbling back a few feet.

“Fridays. Meet me in midtown at eight,” Spidey says firmly.

“Just- anywhere in midtown?”

Peter gives him another glare to indicate that that was not the correct response.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Wade amends.

“Great.” Spidey sounds anything but pleased. “Bye.”

“Got it! Leaving you alone now!” Wade starts backing towards the fire escape of the roof, unable to keep his trap shut for the short distance. “You won’t regret this Webs I promise! I’m going to be a great student, nothing but A’s! Scratch that, you’ll have to invent a whole new letter for my level of achievement!”

Peter sighs and runs his hands over his face and head. He peers over the side of the building and once he’s sure Wade has made his way elsewhere and off to probably ruin someone else’s night he climbs down the other side of the building and ducks into his window.

Fuck.

What’ve I done?