Unicorns and Bunnies: End of the World B*tches

by Oopsynini

Summary:

Wade Wilson finds himself at the end of the world, facing hordes of zombies and struggling to survive. Life ain't good. In fact, life is fucking him in the ass wholesale every day of the week.

He's alone, completely and utterly by himself. At the beginning of the end, he'd lost Peter Parker to the bombs. They rained down from the sky, and the last thing Wade remembers before burning up in the aftermath is Peter's screams as the flames overtook them.

Peter is dead. That's what he had always assumed. Only if Peter is dead, who's standing before him now?

Wade Wilson discovers Peter Parker at the end of the world. Together, they have to face down zombie attacks, human threats, and, worst of all, Zombie Hulk. All of that, while struggling to survive, hoping for a future beyond their tiny, insignificant existence, and discovering that they are not the only ones lost to the zombie apocalypse.

Chapter 1: Old Grave

Notes:

Warnings: Canon typical suicide.

Please note I am a dyslexic author. I tend to mix up my words. I try to catch them, but I don't always succeed, and I don't want my issues to hold me back from writing. If you see any glaring errors, please let me know.

PART ONE: UNICORNS AND BUNNIES

Deadpool barrels down the hazardous, litter-strewn street of Old Grave New York, racing past the gridlike structures of broken asphalt and rusty street signs. He needs a hiding spot, a place to drop down and lie down while things blow over, but he knows from experience that trying to find shelter inside one of the various buildings around him is one bad fucking idea. Too many shadows and tight spaces—too little elbow room and way too fucking risky.

So, options limited as they are, the alley on the right will have to do. Scrambling between dusty, broken-down vehicles, he makes his way across the street in a mad, desperate dash. His eyes flicker up to the windows above him. No Shriekers. At least he's got that going for him. His feet skid across the debris of decaying newspaper and cardboard, and he grunts as he crashes into a dumpster full of years-old trash. The loud thud of two hundred-plus pounds of pure muscle barreling into rusty aluminum is deafening as it ricochets down the alley.

"Oh, fuck me in the-" Deadpool hisses, his voice barely a whisper in the gut-wrenching silence that comes after. Snarling under the thin red fabric of his mask, he peers down the alleyway, a dead end, just his luck.

Though really, it is pretty on par with his whole day so far. Luck, it seems, has soured recently. And it all started with his apartment getting overrun by the undead monsters of the apocalypse. Unable to stop the horde, he'd been forced to run from the neighborhood he'd deemed as his safe zone. To top it off, racing from certain death led to him running right into a fucking rancid trash bin. Which culminated in this moment right here, him trapped in unknown territory, cursing out a dumpster under his breath in Spanish.

With no other option, taking up a defensive position is the only advantage. Hoping for some sort of higher ground, he eyes the garbage bin. It's no hill to die on, but it will have to do. The metal of the trash bin grits against his palms as he grasps onto the edge of it and heaves himself upward onto the lid. His katanas sing through the air as he unsheathes them and jumps a couple of times on the plastic beneath him to test his footing. It creaks ominously but holds.

"Heads and arms. Heads and arms." He chants, bouncing in place until the keening sound of hungry voices reaches him. The noise is followed by the earth-shuddering sound of dozens of feet on hot asphalt. The smell comes next, death and decay, and the sickly sweet scent of infection. Opening his mouth, he sucks in a shallow inhale through the fabric of his mask, his ragged breath suffocating and humid against his face.

The stumbling mass of bodies that makes its way into the front of the alley is a common sight. Sick, broken bodies with rotting limbs and black bite marks littering their skin. These are the unlucky ones. The people who "survived." The infected. Zombies.

The whole group of them is in varying states of decay. One woman with a broken leg stumbles and collapses, quickly overwhelmed by her co-zombies, or whatever a group of zombies is called. He thought he remembered the word "horde." Good word— it pretty much summed up the stumbling mass. The really old, decrepit ones look almost skeletal and move slowly. While the newer ones, which have only recently been turned, are much faster. If not for their sickly pallor, he might have thought them alive still.

If he didn't have a problem shedding blood before the zombie apocalypse, he most definitely doesn't now. His katanas sing through the air, a keening trill so familiar it lightens his mood.

"Alright, ladies, time to step up and cut up…." He croons in a voice barely above a whisper. Sucking in a deep breath, he sends Bae sliding through the head of a sixty-something librarian. He imagines she had a nice job once upon a time. A white picket fence, maybe a dog that shit on her green grass every morning. His blade catches on a neck bone, and he grunts, powering through solid bones as he curses himself for not sharpening her more thoroughly. He follows through with the swing, managing to gut a teen girl. Bea snags as she chops the hands of a rather grabby grandpa. That one had probably been a perv back in the day, hitting on all the ladies and getting slapped on the regular.

His other katana, Arthur, follows up, twirling in the air with a flick of his wrist like a windmill of terror. She delves into the skull of some chick wearing a wig. Prostitute, he knows that for a fact, they'd hooked up once. Blood splatters through the air in dark black swaths, splashing the ground with rotting viscera and the stink of death, and he thinks to himself that it is such a waste. She had such nice...nibbly bits.

He doesn't gag at the smell. He's too used to it to notice anymore. There's no time to think about the little girl he chops down with a brutal blow across the spine. He barely flinches at the mop of brunette hair on a 20-something kid that sparks painful, deeply buried memories, slicing through the poor kid's skull with a clinical detachment.

Skull, spine, arm, hand, arm, spine, skull, gut, skull. He chants his hits over and over again in the back of his head. Until even his almost inexhaustible strength starts to wane, and he can't breathe through the stitch in his side.

He's standing on a pile of corpses that expands around the dumpster in an ever-widening circle. His boots slip against the blood-slick surface beneath him. He snarls as he drops perilously close to gaping teeth and grabbing hands. Scrambling back out of their reach, the only thing he can hear is the shrieking wail of the dead. When he looks up, it's only to see the growing wall of bodies surrounding him, more of them drawn to the sound of the fight.

"Well, shit's looking fucking bleak!" He barks at the closest zombie, unable to bring his voice above a whisper despite his perilous situation. Taking the man's severed arm, he uses it to backhand another zombie sneaking up behind him. It's sent reeling backward into the mass of the dead.

His foot slips against the metal lid, and he has enough presence of mind to sheath Bea before he crashes to his ass. Arthur delves deep into the depths of the corpses beneath his feet. With a squelch of moldy lungs, his arm follows through, bursting into the depths of a chest cavity.

That's fucking nasty, and he only has a second to dwell on the fact that he's holding someone's heart before his legs are yanked hard towards the open maws of the undead horde in front of him.

An awkward kick sends some dentures flying and caves in a rotting skull. Choking back a shout, Deadpool struggles with his holster, unclipping the thing with practiced ease before bringing his Desert Eagle pistol up and slamming the trigger down. His aim is accurate as fuck, because he's a trained mercenary, and once upon a time, he did this shit for fun. Brain matter splashes outward as the bullet slams into its new home. The hands grasping his leg go limp.

The sound of shots firing is shockingly loud and rings in his ears. He flinches from the overbearing sound of it but uses the momentary lapse to struggle to his feet.

Around him, the zombies react to the sound just as expected, starting up an excited shrieking that drowns out even the gasps of his frantic breathing. Their movements become aggressive, and they start fighting each other to get to the source of the noise, tearing each other apart in a seething mass of limbs and rotten skin.

Chest heaving for much-needed oxygen, he only has a second to decide on a course of action.

There's no getting away. The fuckers have blockaded the alley end to end, crushing each other against the brick walls and old asphalt. He can see more coming, drawn to the sound of the gunshots.

"Looks like today is my lucky fucking day." The sense of dread he always feels these days doubles inside, making it hard to think. There's no way out. No lucky fire escape to climb or door to break through.

The boxes in his head are silent - their normal state now that the world has ended. They offer no nasty rhetoric or snappy remarks to help him out. It is pretty damn remarkable that he is at his most sane now that the world has ended and nobody is left.

It makes his situation all the bleaker. End of the line, three years of fucking hell, and this is the end. He shoots off another round at a zombie that manages to climb the pile of corpses. The bullet flies through its skull and the dome of the one following behind it. Three more take their place, climbing up over the fallen corpses. There are way too many. He's probably got half the city heading towards him at this very moment.

"Jesus in a fucking tutu." His chest heaves with every breath, and he feels like he's suffocating in his mask, the air harder and harder to inhale through the fabric. Yanking the damn thing off his head, he tucks it in a pocket before palming his pistol tighter and reaching for an extra clip.

"Right, okay, that's how it's going to fucking be." Taking a deep breath, he raises the familiar weight and slams home three more bullets from the barrel. "Three, four, five." The bodies fall before him. Turning in place, he does the same in a broad swath around him. It's instinct to eject the clip at round seven and slam home another. The familiar sound of bullets biting through flesh is comforting as he takes down as many of the bastards as he can get.

"Twelve, thirteen-" His breath hitches as the final round enters the chamber, heart picking up its pace until it's racing against his ribcage. "Right, Wade, nothing but unicorns and bunnies." He gasps, bringing the gun up under his scarred chin and turning his gaze up to the pure blue sky.

He has no way of knowing if this will work. He's blown his brains out plenty of times before and always comes back . He can only hope not to feel himself being ripped to pieces. He's going to regenerate; he doesn't have that out, and when he does, he'll probably be a mindless killing machine.

"Shit, I'm going to be a fucking terrifying zombie." He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing against the sight of his gun. That's what he fears the most, the monster that will be set free once the virus takes over.

There's a flash of red above him, but he hardly notices, not when he feels cold fingers yank on his arm, jerking him back towards the horde. "Unicorns and bun-" The pull of his finger sends the hammer home, and he has time to grunt out a sound of pain before everything goes into a shocking red light of pain and then blissful darkness.

Chapter 2: Death's Answering Machine

“Lady Death?”

Wade drifts in emptiness, staring upwards or downwards (there is no sense of space here) to where he thinks she’ll arrive. This is pretty on par for his usual death experiences. He has done this often enough that he’s almost comforted by just existing in this space. Besides, he and Lady Death kinda have a thing. These shared moments get hot sometimes, and he’s been long enough without human contact that he wouldn’t mind a little physical time if he's honest.

He’s greeted instead by the static drone of an answering machine.

“We’re sorry, Death is unavailable at the moment.” A loud mechanical voice rings into the darkness, emanating from everywhere and nowhere all at once. It reverberates through the base of his skull. Deep tissue massage. Nice. “Incoming message box is full. Please call back at another time.”

“Well, that’s fucking gre—” Wade doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence before gravity takes over, smashing his soul down, down, down—back to reality.

Notes:

This is just a snippet of a chapter and is the only chapter like this for the fic; the rest ranged from 2k-3k words. I know, it's a bit disappointing as far as updates go, but there will be more to come!

Chapter 3: And There He Was

Notes:

Warnings for: Graphic Depictions of wounds. Attempted Suicide Recovery

Head trauma sucks. Yup, head trauma sucks monkey balls. Coming back always starts the same way. First, there's the tingling sensation of nerve endings coming back online, of brain matter growing. Sometimes he feels it in his toes. Other times it's in his fingers. Either way, it starts with a stinging sensation like ants biting the skin. Shocks of sensation as senses come back online after being cut short.

The first things he sees are bright, painful electric bursts of light. They flicker and flash hot orange and deep red behind his eyes. He can tell when his heart starts beating again when that red tone starts to thrum against his eyelids in time with his heartbeat. Hearing is the next sense to return.

Yet, it’s the distinct lack of noise that is confusing. The wailing of the dead that he's grown used to is mercifully silent for the first time in years. There are no sounds of teeth-gnashing, feet shuffling, and deeply painful moans. Only the hiss of his lungs sucking in air lets him in on this latest development. Silence is a rare commodity these days. He can't remember the last time he heard silence. Not that he can remember much of anything at the moment.

All of this means one single, glorious thing. Dawning realization worms its way into his destroyed mind like an ant in molasses. By some crazed coincidence, he has survived being cat food for the zombie masses. He's alive. As in not undead. As in not a living, breathing, killing machine with a hunger for human flesh.

Alive. Deadpool struggles to open his eyes, but grit and blood stick the lids together. Groaning under his breath, he tries to get his hand up to wipe at them. The nerves don't seem to have connected quite yet, so he ends up slapping himself in the face with a limp hand. His fingers are twisted and pinched from spinal damage, making dexterity an issue. Fisting at his face, he manages to get one eye open.

Being able to see isn't much help, mostly because he's nowhere near where he was when he tried to play dead man. He is in a bedroom, lying on a mattress, based on the comfortable give of foam beneath his ass. Above him is a dirty beige ceiling.

It seems to be covered by cardboard, and…pillows? Yep, pillows have somehow been glued or possibly taped to the corners of the walls, butting up against the layers and layers of cardboard and newspaper covering the room from ceiling to floor. Not a single hard surface is left uncovered. He thinks there's probably a good reason for that, but his brain is maybe at sixty-five percent functionality, so he forgives himself for not knowing why exactly.

Squinting, he switches to rubbing at the other eye. It doesn't seem to want to cooperate and open like the first one. When his fingers sink into the empty socket, he gets why. Oh, the gift that keeps on giving, his trip with the bullet has popped his left eye out. Those things are pesky and hard to grow back.

Deadpool stops to take stock of himself. His thoughts are foggy, probably brain damage . The blinding headache in his head is reminiscent of his previous run-ins with head injuries. His jaw hurts like a mother fucker, but that's to be expected. His front is crusty and itching from dried blood. Torso and shoulders are in good shape, but there's a distinct absence of feeling in his right hand. Turning his head, he can see a mostly healed stump of flesh where it used to be. His hand is gone. He doesn't remember that happening or anything really—just the flash of light that usually accompanied death.

He can't recall if Lady Death paid him a visit this time.

Probably not. She's got a full-time job now. Deadpool thinks, leveraging himself up into a sitting position with slow, swaying movements. It hurts, it hurts like a motherfucker, but he's used to pain, so he ignores it. Gritting his teeth and breathing through his nose until he wins against gravity and ends up in a semi-upright position.

He's in a dimly lit room, the sun shining through breaks in the cardboard covering the windows. There's a door on the wall in front of him. It's slightly open with an inch-wide gap that doesn't let him see out into the room beyond.

There is a muffled clatter of sound from the room beyond, followed by quiet, almost inaudible cursing outside the door. Deadpool blinks. His breath hitches at the sound of someone . Not a zombie or a figment of his overactive imagination, but an actual human voice. A voice other than his own, broken, ragged whispers. His brain sticks on that thought, sending his heart hammering into overdrive.

There's someone else, someone alive, a living human , just beyond that door. A human who has, apparently, rescued him. A human alive enough to curse and has a fetish for newspapers. Not that he’s judging. He hasn't seen a living human being in over a year, and even then, it'd only been for a moment as they rushed past each other, tangent lines never to cross, followed by furtive, suspicious glances.

Taking in the small room, he catches sight of Bea lying on the newspaper-covered bed stand, just within reach. He does a double-take because who the fuck arms an unknown dude they'd just rescued?

An idiot with a death wish. That's who. Wade thinks. Although he has to admit that neither hand is particularly functional at the moment. So maybe his mysterious rescuer is smarter than they seem.

Bea will have to sit this one out as backup for the time being. He leaves her there, comfortable and at rest, trying to ignore the part of his brain that thinks of her sister blade. Arthur is still trapped in the chest cavity of some nameless zombie, possibly gone for good.

It takes a few moments of swaying in place for the blood to get pumping to the proper areas again, but he manages to get his legs under him and in relative working order. Weaponless, he makes his way over to the door, clutching at the door frame when his legs refuse to cooperate and threaten to give way.

Reaching for the doorknob, Deadpool catches it with numb fingers and eases the door open.

The doorway opens out into the small exterior of an upper Manhattan apartment. The floor plan is relatively open. He can see most of the living room and out into the kitchen, though that's somewhat hidden by a wall that separates most of it from view. At one point, the place had probably had a nice price tag, despite its small square footage. The previous owners no doubt had an underpaid cleaning lady and an overpaid accountant. Classy shit.

Under his feet are layers and layers of rugs, which muffle the sound of his steps to a barely audible whisper. The walls have been given much the same treatment as those in the bedroom. Covered floor to ceiling with old newspapers and cardboard, pillows glued into the corners. This time, he realizes what purpose all the heavy redecorating has served.

Pretty damn smart. Whoever this is, they've made themselves a quiet room. The zombies can't hear through all the insulation. Stepping over to a wall, he examines a headline from a newspaper glued onto the wall.

'End of the World: Hope is Lost.' Dated from over three years ago, the paper is yellowing with age and has already faded from the sun. Deadpool brushes his fingers over the words, closing his eyes as the memories flood his mind.

Three days later, the bomb had gone off.

Even after all this time, it's Peter's screams he remembers the most. Peter's sobbing breath in his ears as the other man raced with him through the blood-stained city. Peter, in his Spiderman uniform, his fingers locked in Wade's as they ran like their lives depended on it, because they absolutely did. The synthetic material of his gloves meant that Wade couldn't feel the touch of Peter's skin in his hand. He wishes he’d ripped his gloves off, reached out, and held on to Peter for dear life. Cherishing those last moments together. If they'd had a choice, they would have webbed out of there in an instant, but Peter had run out of webbing hours before. His refusal to leave Wade's side had been what got him killed that day.

Neither one of them heard the bomb coming. There was no warning, no high-wailing alarm like in the movies that declared, "Bomb coming this way, duck and kiss your ass goodbye." No rushing keen of metal through the air as the bomb descended. Wade had been too busy trying to make a path for them through the expanding horde, and Peter's spider-senses had been overwhelmed weeks ago. It was hard to pinpoint danger when it was all around him.

Then there was a bright flash of light. A deep, resounding boom was followed by life-altering, incinerating heat that lit up every fiber of his being with white-hot pain. Then darkness. All-encompassing darkness. When he'd come to, he was surrounded by the ashes of a thousand zombies. It sifted off of him in droves as he sat up, warm and black, like some demented form of snow. He'd sat up, looked out over the wreckage of the street, and saw nothing. Nothing but gusts of wind lifting flurries of ash, making it move in the air like some macabre form of dance. Everyone was gone.

Peter was gone…the love of his life, taken in an instant.

Deadpool doesn't cry now at the memories of that horrible moment. He'd done that enough for both of them at the beginning. He'd rethought those final moments over and over again. What if he had taken a left rather than a right? If they had hidden in a building instead of making a run for it? That's how most of the zombies survived. That's how other people survived—hiding in the dark, damp basements. None of that matters now, though. He doesn't think about it anymore. He knows that he can do nothing to change that final outcome.

Suck it up, buttercup.

A flash of something pulls his attention away from the newspaper and across the room. From where he's standing, he can see into the kitchen. That's where he sees them, his mysterious rescuer, a brief flash of light and movement hidden in the shadows of the kitchen. The lighting inside is dim, with the light coming from the only exposed window. He can't make out details, but it doesn't matter.

He watches in open fascination, captured by the first person he's seen in a long time. They are standing at the kitchen counter, their back facing Deadpool so that all he can see is a hint of biceps and the glint of shoulder muscles as hands hover over the sink, flickering from shadow to light, glistening and wet. Drips of watered-down red blood plop onto the pillows lining the floor at their feet, staining the fabric vermilion where sunlight hits it. Deadpool can't help but stare at the peaceful domesticity behind the movement. It's been so long since he has seen another human just…being, not screaming, not fighting, just…alive.

Christ, you're such a fucking creeper. Deadpool thinks he is probably still a little brain-dead. He can't help but study the sinewy shoulders as they roll, muscles flashing in and out of the shadows as the man (he had to be a man with those shoulders) stretches his arm slowly. There's a soft grunt of pain and then a flash of fingers as they dig into the joint of his shoulder. Probably some kind of muscle strain, no doubt from dragging Deadpool's dead ass across town.

Swallowing, Deadpool clears his throat, the sound barely there but audible enough that the man in the other room flinches, turning around with a hiss of breath. The bowl of water he'd been using comes dangerously close to slipping off the counter, but with surprising reflexes, the unknown man manages to catch it before it hits the ground.

"Oh, thank fuck, you're alive." He catches the note of relief in the other man's voice. A painfully familiar voice, though he can't quite think where from. It hurts his ears and makes emotion swell up in his throat, choking him.

Deadpool clears his throat again.

"Apparently." Then after a moment of thought, because god, does that voice sound familiar? "Have we met before?" Deadpool's voice is a grating gurgle of what it should be, and the act of speaking makes pain radiate into his head from the ache in his jaw. He feels the vision in his good eye double for a moment, but oh, that's just the other one turning back on. He blinks rapidly to get his eyes to focus as a set and ends up getting his shit together just in time to see his rescuer step into the light shining from the window.

Familiar brown locks glint in the golden glow coming from the window, a warm shade of honey brown that always makes him uncomfortable nowadays. The face that looks back at him is so shocking in its very existence that Deadpool has to do a double-take.

He looks like a muppet, strings cut and vacant, standing there with his mouth open as he stares at the last person he expects to see at the end of the world.

"Peter?" Wade chokes, his voice breaking into jagged shards at the sound of the name he hasn't uttered since this mess started.

Notes:

Ack! The end of this chapter makes my heart do things. Poor Wade. He's been alone for so long, and he's finally let go of the memory of Peter, and then...well...then he is back.

Thank you all for your wonderful support, as I continue to repost old chapters of this series. I am in awe of your kindness. I've had a beautiful user even come out of the shadows to offer me a copy of Unicorns and Bunnies. They had all the chapters downloaded! It makes me so happy to have that sort of impression on another. Others have offered kind words, and even others have commented on chapters that they've no doubt already read. It's heartwarming, is all. You all make me happy!

Chapter 4: The Silence Between Two Lovers

They stand in stunned silence, like neither of them is certain the other is actually real. Wade sways in place, watching the way Peter’s throat bobs as he swallows, the way his vanilla brown eyes search over Wade’s face like he’s just as perplexed by Wade’s existence as Wade is at his. The way his features twist into an expression that has to be something close to hope. His fingers wrench together in the only outward display of how utterly terrified the other man is. It’s like finding the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, messy and sloppy on the floor. Wade never expected to see any of those little pieces of Peter ever again.

“Say something.” Peter’s voice breaks through Wade’s deer-in-the-headlights act. Nervous and stuttering.

It takes six long strides to reach the younger man, where he stands by the window. Six steps to get his head on straight and realize this just might not be a dream. Wade blinks rapidly and shakes his head to remove the haze because, shit-balls, this is fucking Peter. Peter is choking back a laughing sob because apparently, he’d said that last part out loud.

“Shit-balls?” Peter questions just as Wade steps into Peter’s space. It takes only a second to drag thin, sharp-angled hips hard against him with his one good hand and the stump of his other. Peter sobs at the first touch of skin on skin, his head lifting just in time to greet the downward pressure of Wade’s lips with his own. Wade’s throat is clogged with pained emotions, and yes, he cries. He cries like a baby with jaundice, ugly and thick tears spilling down his cheeks and onto Pete’s.

Their lips touch, rough and dehydrated and perfect in every possible, fucking way. Peter’s arms wrap around Wade’s shoulders. He uses his strength to yank Wade down to his level. His hands around Wade’s neck hurt. Peter grips so tight that Wade can hear his neck cracking, and glittering sparks dance through his vision. He loves it. They give his Baby Boy an angelic quality while having the added benefit of placing him in the here and now.

“How is this possible? How-” Wade asks against the rough stubble of Peter’s chin. It feels like the floor is falling out from under him, his worldview of the last three years shifting precariously on its axis. “Where have you been?” Peter shakes his head, cutting him off.

“Doesn’t matter—” He mumbles against Wade’s lips, unwilling or unable to give up the contact, and breathing in short, whimpering, gasps of air. His breath smells like cinnamon. It’s been three years since the end of the world, and he still smells like cinnamon toothpaste. “God, Wade - you’re here.” Peter’s trembling hands flutter over his rough face, brushing against familiar scars and broken skin. His thumbs wipe at the tears trailing from Wade’s eyes before abandoning that effort in favor of doing the same to his own.

Peter smiles a wobbly ghost of a smile that barely pushes back the shadows in his eyes. Wade looks into those sad eyes and thinks that a lot has changed since they last saw each other.

“I had to cut off your hand,” Peter admits, dropping his hands to press his face into the crook of Wade’s neck.

“Oh, is that where it went?” Wade jokes weakly, trying to ease Pete’s guilt. The reminder has an aching throb of pain running up the stump of his hand. It hurts with new nerve and bone growth, but it doesn’t matter. He would let Pete cut up his whole body just to get this chance again. After a moment, Wade mimics Peter’s movement, turning his scarred face into the soft hollow of Peter’s neck and just…breathing. This is a lot of shit to process. This is so damn big. Bigger than the Hulk. Bigger than Zombie Hulk on steroids.

“You were bit, and I was scared…so damn scared that you would turn,” Peter admits, his breath damp and warm against Wade’s skin. Wade groans at the reminder of the precarious situation he’d put himself into.

“Shit. I’m sorry you had to do that, babe.” His voice is hoarse from overwhelming emotions, and he can’t help but drag Peter closer. The idea that he was just moments away from losing this, this shocking, terrifying moment that he had never expected to happen.

“Damn—this isn’t a dream, sweet-cheeks? If you’re another fucking figment— if you're not real— you gotta let me know—” Peter’s fingers flutter over his lips, stopping Wade from continuing. They are warm and calloused and stick against his skin from whatever spider juju shit is running in his veins.

“Shhh…does this feel like a dream?” Peter questions, and Wade finds himself with his arms full of late America's favorite arachnid, muscular legs encircling his waist in a smooth motion. He takes the extra weight like a champ. Peter’s never been heavy, something he always imagined was due to the radioactive spider DNA he’d been exposed to. Now, though, he’s nothing but knobby bones and hard, wiry muscles, molded down to the bare minimum by years of hunting for that one can of food that will tide him over until he finds the next.

“Mmm…that does feel pretty damn real.” Wade hisses, groaning at the feel of strong hips grinding against his own. Neither of them is hard, but he gets the feeling it wouldn’t take much to get them that way. They’d always been the couple that was down to pound. He chuckles at that thought. It had been a different life back then. Swallowing hard, he drops his head against Peter’s shoulder. Peter lets out a grunt of pain.

“Careful, I pulled it deadlifting your ten-ton ass out of a horde of zombies.” Peter rolls the sore appendage with care, then drops himself forward into a full-body hug, arms and legs snuggling in tight. Wade can feel the clinging grip of Peter’s powers as their skin touches, familiar and grounding. He’d forgotten about that. How could he forget about something that is just so damn Peter? No denying it. This is real, this is so, so, real. Wade sways in place, feeling the desperate edge to their meeting slowly coalesce into something much calmer. If he has to name it, he’d say it is hope, maybe relief.

“You got any water or wipes around here, princess?” He finally breaks the silence, “Pretty sure I look like the background character in a Quentin Tarantino movie right about now.” He explains when all he gets is another grunt from the arachnid gallery.

“Mmm…you do have brains on your head, and you smell like death.” Peter finally responds after a contented moment. “Go in the bedroom. Back where you came from.” He finally says into the hollow of Wade's neck, breath sniffling and hitching, though he seems content to be carried as they head back into the bedroom and through into the adjoining bathroom suite.

It’s dark inside. There’s almost no light except for what shines through the holes in the cardboard from the bedroom’s boarded-up windows. When Wade’s eyes adjust, he can see that this room is just as covered with pillows and sound-muffling rugs as everywhere else. There are even some pillows lining the bottom of the tub. And there’s a shower. A real shower. In all his savvy ways, Peter has rigged up a rain-catching system. There’s a little lever that stops a pipe punched through the ceiling.

“Hmm…my man’s an engineer,” Wade says. Peter looks up to see what he’s looking at and grunts.

“Took me a week to dig through the roof without drawing their attention,” Peter explains with a sniff before he turns back to Wade and starts divesting him of his stained suit. Wade lets him. Easing Peter’s feet to the ground. If only because he has just the one functioning hand, and it’s currently occupied with the swell of Peter’s ass.

Warm hands unzip and peel him from the bloody fabric, working each bit of spandex and leather off blood-mottled skin. Peter moves through the motions with ease, working off of memory. He knows where each clasp hides, how each buckle undoes. By the end of it, Peter has a cute little blush on his cheeks, and his eyes are flickering everywhere but Wade’s nude body. Wade chuckles, scruffing a hand through Peter’s hair and shaking his head.

“Nothing you haven’t seen before, princess.” Wade chides, Peter just glowers at him from under mused hair for a moment.

“Just nothin’ I thought I’d ever see again.” He explains, breaking away for long enough to light a few candles and set them on the sink. Careful of the flammable material around them. He comes back to glue himself to Wade’s side once more. Neither of them has the will to let the other go for very long.

The candlelight makes everything glow with warm, yellowing light, casting their limbs in and out of shadow as Wade slowly slides the long-sleeved shirt Peter is wearing up and off. He can see the long-ago familiar lines of muscle and skin, catches sight of freckles and moles that he’d memorized the position of years ago.

The scars are new, though.

Wade runs a hand along the left-hand side of Peter’s body, lips thinning as he caresses down the thick, marred lines of twisting tissues that never had the chance to heal properly. The scars blaze a path along Peter’s left arm and across his side and hip, angry and red even in the barely-there candlelight.

“They’re a lot better now. I think my healing factor’s just taking a long time, you know?” Peter lays a hand over Wade’s questing fingers, pressing scarred skin to scarred skin. It still looks painful, even though the injury must be years old.

“Oh, Pete…” Wade sighs softly, turning his head to look into the other man’s eyes. Peter doesn’t flinch from his gaze, but looks sad, eyes glossy with unshed tears. They told a story that Wade knew he didn’t want to hear. “Is this from-”

Breaking eye contact, Peter gives a sharp nod, running a hand along the scars.

“Yeah-yeah, it’s from then.”

Wade closes his eyes, his memory flashing back to that blinding, painful light.

“Sweetheart, how did you even survive? Fuck, I didn’t survive it!” Wade questions, drawing Peter’s nude body close so he could see the other man’s features in the dim light.

Peter stares up at Wade for a moment, features confused and mournful.

“You don’t remember?” Wade felt the scarred skin of his brow furrow and shook his head, reaching out to brush a hand along Peter’s jaw by way of apology.

“No, babe, I just remember-” Pain, bright, horrible fucking pain. He leaves it unsaid, though. Peter has to know. Pete nods his understanding and sniffs, wiping at his eyes with sharp movements. Yeah, he knows.

“It all happened so fucking fast," Peter explained, his expression turning distant. "They never say how quick it is. I mean, it was over before we even had a chance. You saved me, Wade. Well, you and the suit. You pressed me against the ground and shielded me. Fuck, your skin just kept burning and regenerating and burning off again."

Wade did remember that part. Though he had tried his best to forget about it. That had definitely made the top ten list of shittiest ways to die, which was saying something, since he had died plenty.

"And then, you were…gone," Peter's voice breaks, and he sobs, covering his face with his hands. Grief, horribly, overwhelming grief, and Wade knew this was what Peter had been living with for the last three years. His final moments, burnt to dust. Wade drags Peter in close, rests his chin on the top of Peter's, and lets him cry.

I never saw him die. I never had to see the pain on his face as he was burned away to ash. It had hurt, not really knowing what had happened to Pete. It would have hurt so much worse to see the agony on his face as he disappeared in a dusting of ash. Wade would have offed himself in a second if he had to live through that. He still would have regenerated, but that would have stuck in his brain worse than the cancer that already riddled it.

Finally, Peter seems to gather himself enough to speak again.

"After that, my suit kicked in. Apparently, it has some sort of shielding tech. I can thank Tony for that.” Peter laughed, and the sound was almost manic. Tony. Wade hadn't thought about that man in a long time, but he should probably be grateful, too. The man was an ass and a half, but he'd thought of everything. Without him, they wouldn't be sharing this moment.

“Come on." Peter orders, moving towards the tub. "We have 15 minutes. It should kinda be warm from the sun.” He explains over his scarred shoulder. His brown eyes are red from crying. Wade knows a change in subject when he hears one. Dropping the topic like the hot potato it is, he follows in after Peter.

Without thinking about it, he moves in close, tucking himself against Peter’s back, draping his arms around the smaller man’s frame, and sighing as naked skin meets naked skin. His limp cock is pressing against the crease of Peter’s ass. On any other occasion, he might be a bit pissed at its lack of get-up-and-go. Not now, though. Everything is too new, or maybe too old. Either way, it was just too much to even think about sex at the moment. Peter doesn’t seem to mind, leaning back into him and reaching up to carefully pull the lever to the cistern above.

A warm burst of water rains down on them, and Wade groans, turning his head up to greet the comforting feel of it. The sound of falling water is muffled by the pillows under their feet. The trickle is light enough that the water barely makes a sound as it falls. It’s lukewarm at best and smells slightly stale, stagnant by the standards of three years ago. Now, though, it is so fucking fantastic that Wade loses himself to it for a moment, turning his head up to the spray and just letting the water drown him.

He cannot recall when he last had a warm shower. He had been forced to make do with standing in the rain and using baby wipes for months now. Peter shifts in his arms, and long, sudsy fingers are burrowing onto his scalp, scrubbing away zombie filth and his own blood. Wade closes his eyes as the scent of bubblegum and cherries overwhelms his senses.

“W.T.F. is this baby shampoo?” Wade questions, sniffing at the suds as they land on his fingers.

“It’s for teen girls.” Comes the answer. He can hear the grin in Peter’s voice, but when he opens his eyes, Peter’s features are set in a stony mask of concentration. He flicks a piece of viscera off Wade’s pec and pours more shampoo on Wade to give him a second rinsing. He’s extra careful around the stump of Wade’s hand, seemingly hyper-aware of why exactly the stump was put there. Wade can see the beginnings of a new limb forming, but he won’t bring attention to that. It always freaked Peter out in the past.

Taking some of the shampoo into his hand, Wade sets to work on Peter, carefully rubbing suds into his hair and chasing them with his good hand down Peter’s bruised and strained shoulder, doing the same thing with the other arm and then stepping in close so he can get Peter’s back.

Wade still has soap suds on his skin when the water finally runs out, but he does not complain. Peter reaches up and closes off the water supply before shaking his fingers dry. He’s also been a secondary victim of the bubblegum shampoo. The suds of it trail down his chest, where Wade has not had a chance to rinse them away. The now blood-stained pillows under their feet squelch softly as they step out onto the rugs. They both flinch from the sound.

“Don’t worry, the whole apartment is soundproofed pretty well,” Peter whispers, voice quiet despite his reassurances. He cocks his head to the side and seems to listen for a moment. The motion is familiar. It is what Peter does whenever he really needs to focus on his spider-sense. Everything seems to check out. “Come on, there are sheets in the room.” His words barely make a sound at the reminder of their situation. Bending down, he blows out the candles, snuffing them one by one.

By mutual agreement, they settle down in the center of the bed, face to face, shrouded in damp sheets, goosebumps budding upon their skin. Peter clenches his knees to his chest, the knobby protrusions of them making mounds beneath the sheet he’s wrapped in. Wade clutches his aching hand to his chest and arches forward until their foreheads touch. Peter’s breath hitches at the contact, and he swallows back a soft sob.

“It’s been so damn long, DP.” He whispers. “I waited for you. I waited for you for days to come back.” Wade swallows and nods his head, closing his eyes.

“Me too, kid. I looked at that whole damn block, trying to find a piece of something, anything.” He’d dug through ashes for days, looking for a scrap of red spandex, a web-shooter, some sort of clue to coincide with what his eyes were seeing.

Whatever bomb had detonated had destroyed only body matter. He had found his katanas a block away from their location. His suit had been in a tree. The same should have been true for Peter. He should have found something, yet he hadn’t. Looking back, that should have been the first clue.

“I don’t even know how long it took me to regenerate. I don’t know how long I was gone.” Wade sought out Pete’s brown eyes with his own, wishing he’d been there to be able to do something for the other man. Peter nods, sighing at his own memories of those days, probably. It’s quiet for a moment.

“Today…I heard the gunshots,” Peter finally says. “I knew - just knew - whose gun it was. Fuck, it was like you were yelling my name. You and those stupid pistols.”

Wade grins. He can’t find it in himself to feel too bad.

“Then I saw you were bit, and I didn’t know what to do, so I took your katana and—” Peter stutters over that, unable to repeat the memory. Poor thing, he had always been so fucking tenderhearted. “I webbed you out, but you already shot yourself.” His story came out garbled and distressed. Wade hums out a comforting sound.

“Shhh…baby, don’t think about it,” Wade whispers, shifting forward the inch it took to press their lips together. That seems to help, and Peter swallows down any further words.

“Yeah…yeah…god, I’m so tired.”

“Me too, princess, let’s sleep. We’ll figure this out later.” Wade offers, brushing damp hair off Pete’s forehead. "God, I love you." Wade sighs, closing his eyes. He'd never thought he'd say those words out loud again.

Peter sobs, closes his eyes, and nods. He doesn't say the words back. Wade thinks he can't. This is too new, too fresh, and unreal. How can you say 'I love you' to something that feels like a figment of the imagination? Peter shuffles out of bed, the sheet swathing across his shoulders like a ghost.

“I’m just gonna block the door,” He whispers by way of explanation. Wade watches him lock the bedroom door manually. He then lifts a wooden two-by-four, padded and wrapped just like everything else, and slides it into a couple of brackets he’d attached to the sides of the door. Wade follows the other man’s work with pride.

“Pretty and smart.” Wade croons under his breath, earning himself an eye roll. Lifting his sheet, he makes room for Peter to curl up against him once he’s done. They settle into each other, bodies still damp and cold from the shower. Icy feet press against his shins as the other man makes himself comfortable. Wade has the thought that he’s never felt something so damn good before. His eyes are heavy and getting heavier by the moment. Beside him, Peter shifts and settles down. The quiet is new, comfortable, and unbroken by the sound of the undead.

“Wade?” Pete's voice breaks the quiet.

“Yeah?” Wade questions, raising his head to look at the small mound beside him.

“Just checking,” Peter whispers.

Notes:

Thank you for reading.

Chapter 5: Different

Notes:

Warnings for: Past suicide attempts. Sex.

The next day, Wade wakes up to the feel of Peter’s fingers lingering over his face, caressing the skin and exploring the curves and scars with deft fingers. In times gone by, he might have felt self-conscious about it. That was then, and this is now. So, instead, Wade sighs and presses his face into the palm of Peter’s hand. He hums his approval as those fingers brush against his lips. When he opens his eyes, he’s greeted with red-rimmed eyes and eager kisses that are stained with salty tears. Wade whispers reassurances against moist lips.

“It’s alright.” He murmurs.

“Don’t cry. I’m here now.” He says. All meaningless platitudes that feel good to say out loud in the deadened air of their quiet apartment building. Where the cardboard and the pillows dim out the world beyond their door and make it seem so much better than what it is.

“Shh…princess, everything is good now.” He whispers against hair that’s gone damp from salty tears, running his lips down Peter’s temples. None of it means anything. The world is still just as royally screwed as it had been the day before. There are still zombies roaming the streets, endless dangers, hunger, and pain to look forward to. Yet his words calm Peter’s tears into hiccuping hitches of breath. And somehow, it all feels so much less daunting than it used to be. Nothing matters when compared to one Peter Parker.

---

Peter is different. They both are. Wade supposes the end of the world will do that to a person. For one, he’s quieter. Again, not exactly a surprise, given the noise-seeking zombies that haunt their every waking moment. A lot of that sass and confidence from before has been stripped from him by the hardships he has experienced since. More often than not, he sits in silence as if the only way Peter had learned to survive was to disassociate from the world completely.

At first, Peter seems startled at the existence of another human being occupying the same space as him. He is constantly surprised whenever Wade enters the room. He jumps every time Wade makes too loud a sound or moves too fast. His head jerks to look at Wade, eyes doe wide, lips parting into a blazing smile as he registers who exactly he’s looking at. It’s nice, being looked at like that. Wade thinks that must be what love is. Those startling little moments, where your lover is no more aware of their reactions than they are the fingers on their hands or the hair on their head. It’s natural to love Peter and to be loved by him.

Wade likes that Peter. The Peter who comes up behind him and clings. Who whispers sweet nothings in his ear, and smiles when he puts down his water bottle. That Peter is better than seeing the faraway, distant look that overtakes the younger man’s eyes whenever Wade leaves the room for too long.

So Wade comes to the conclusion that he’ll never leave the other man’s side again. He takes to sticking ridiculously close, always visible out of the corner of Peter’s eye, never more than a few feet away. If Peter gets up to go to the kitchen, Wade follows, lingering just out of reach, keeping some space, but never enough to let Peter fade away, to have that distant look appear again.

Old Peter would have railed against the smothering. Would have snarled and snapped and kicked at being coddled. Old Peter would have punched Wade in the throat and told him to back the fuck off before he lost a toe.

New Peter thrives on it. He turns into Wade’s arms eagerly for support and comfort. He whispers words of endearment and curls up against Wade’s side. When they go on their first food run, Peter keeps looking behind him, but the predictability of having Wade at his six makes it easier to step out from their tiny sanctuary and seek sustenance. Even if it is just to the apartment down the hall, he is constantly brushing body to body, never more than an arm's length or two away.

Wade thinks that maybe they are becoming what his therapists would call ‘co-dependent.’ The joke’s on them, though. Those therapists were all dead, and, as it turns out, at the end of the world, the people left alive are worth being woefully, wholly dependent upon.

---

“You’re different,” Peter whispers from his place in the living room of their shared apartment. It’s been a week since they found each other. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of rugs and pillows. In his hands, he holds a bag of gummy fruit snacks. He’s carefully divvying them up into two separate piles onto a pillow. Wade’s stack consists mostly of the yellow ones. Wade doesn’t really like them, but when they found the box of prepackaged snacks, he said he did (so Pete could have the good flavors because he’s a schmuck like that), and since then, Wade always gets the yellow. Wade thinks it’s sweet. One of the little ways they think about each other. Wade gets the yellows because Peter wants to give him a treat, and the same goes for the other way around.

Wade grunts from his position by the window. In the distance, he can see a puff of dust and smoke bursting up from some buildings. He watches those violent plumes of dust as they explode from the rusted skeleton of a skyscraper, keeping an eye out to see if the disruption moves closer, but it never does. If he squints, he knows he’ll catch sight of a slight figure, leaping and bounding in the distance.

Hawkeye. Wade hasn’t seen the other superhero up close in years, but he knows one thing. The day that man went down, they are all going to suffer.

“What do you mean?” Wade questions, turning away from the window to see Peter put aside the empty bag and reach for a package of pastry tarts. It looks like it’s gonna be a sugar and carbs day. Peter shrugs, a crooked smile lifting one side of his lips.

“Don’t know… you’re more…stable, I guess,” Peter explains, nervously peering at Wade from under dark lashes, his eyes flicker out the window as well. He can probably sense whatever is going on in the distance, but he doesn’t seem alarmed. Wade trusts Peter’s spider-sense more than anything, so he relaxes too.

“If you say so.” Wade shrugs.

“I never hear you talking to them anymore.” Pete finally explains, ducking under the flop of his golden-brown bangs. Wade flinches at the reminder. By ‘them,’ Peter probably means Wade’s Boxes. Those nasty little internal monologs that had driven him crazy back in the day. Shit—he didn’t like thinking about them. They hadn’t been his best friends, but he still felt like something important had been amputated from him.

“Yeah, baby boy…” Wade clears his throat, “They don’t really come around anymore.” Plopping down onto the ground, he takes half of the meal. Wade inhales the gummies in one mouthful. The pastry tart doesn’t last too long after. The half-chewed remnants of gelatin and stale crust stick somewhere in his lower esophagus, barely easing the ache of hunger.

“Why?” Peter asks, head tilted in the questioning way of his. Dammit. Wade should have eaten more slowly so he'd have something to occupy himself with. It was such a simple question on the surface, but Peter didn’t know how many nights Wade had sat, thinking that exact same question. Alone. In the dark, without anyone to answer back. He thinks about those first few months in the beginning, when everything had been chaos and fear and running, trying to see where he fit in a world that was literally out to eat him.

Yellow had been the first to go. Wade hadn’t even noticed at first. It’d just been him and White for days, weeks, even. And then White had gone too, growing quieter and quieter until one day it never spoke again. Wade never realized how silent it could be in his own head without the personifications of his self-doubt and self-hatred. He had offed himself one winter evening with a knife to the wrists in an attempt to get the voices back, but they were as good as gone. He’d never even made it to Death’s door, waking up to a feral dog chewing on his ankle. Now that had been a good meal. Sure, it sucked munching on poor Fido, but meat was near impossible to come by after the apocalypse.

It had taken him a while to get comfortable with the Boxes’ absence, even longer to understand why they had left in the first place. He had plenty of time to evaluate it, lost in deep thoughts, wandering alone for so many years with only himself for company.

“I think somewhere between then and now, I stopped being so scared of myself, sweetcheeks.” Wade finally settles on explaining, picking at the threads on the pillow that sits between them. Peter nods in understanding, sucking on a gummy with delicate rolls of his tongue. “I’m not the worst thing out there anymore. Not even close. No one is left to judge me anymore, and maybe, fuck…” Wade rolls his eyes. He hates when he and Peter go deep. Emotions aren’t his strong suit, though he’s getting better at it now than he used to be. “I dunno, maybe they didn’t need to be here anymore or something.” Wade scratches at his chin, brushing a stray crumb from it and exhaling sharply.

Peter stares at him for a moment in silence, his eyes flickering over Wade. He is surprised, probably. He knows how much Wade hates touchy-feely moments. Then he grins a slow, half-smile around the gummy in his mouth.

“Jesus, that was deep.” Peter finally says, “Wade Wilson, are you in touch with your emotions right now?” He questions, voice taking on a tone of mock concern as he reaches out to lay a comforting hand on Wade’s shoulder. Wade rolls his eyes, shoving at Peter’s hand where it settles on his shoulder.

“Well, I was. Then you had to go open that stupid mouth.” Wade answers, smiling back. He’s not an idiot. He knows what Peter is doing, and he appreciates the diversion. In response, Peter snorts, dropping his snacks to rise on his knees and get into Wade’s space, kneeling above Wade with a haughty expression.

“Stupid? Me? I thought I was your genius engineer?” Peter’s eyes are warm and bright, the smile that breaks out on his cheeks eager. Wade smirks up at those rich, earthy eyes and drops any pretenses of annoyance. Reaching out, he cups the back of Peter’s head and yanks Peter close, his grip maybe a little too tight, his hands possibly too rough as he uses his unoccupied arm to wrap around Peter’s waist and ease his warm body in close.

“Stupid Genius Engineer. I forgot to add the first part.” Wade amends, chuckling as Peter gets the hint, straddling Wade, legs spreading to wrap around Wade’s thick, muscular waist. His bare feet tickle the small of Wade’s back.

A hard push sends Wade falling back against the layers of rugs on the floor, and he murmurs his approval as Pete settles onto his lap. Peter’s hands slide underneath Wade’s shirt and push it up so he can use Wade’s abs to scoot himself back until their cocks bump together like eager best friends.

“Friends with benefits.” Wade bites his lower lip, sitting up on one forearm to see where their bodies pressed together in a tight show of cotton on cotton. Above him, Peter raises an eyebrow. He’s too used to Wade and his half-formed words and garbled sentences to even mind.

“Did you just call our cocks friends with benefits?”

Wade bucks his hips upward, thighs tensing to grind his slowly hardening sex against Peter.

“Best friends.” Wade nods. “Look, yours wants to come out and play.” He teases, pointing out the eager tenting of Peter’s jogging shorts. He reaches out to palm the thick expanse of it. Peter groans at the contact and his hips move to meet Wade’s with a rolling grind that makes sparks of heat and pleasure tighten down Wade’s belly and thighs.

It takes only a moment to ease the elastic waistband of Peter’s shorts down and hook it back behind Peter’s balls, exposing the other man to the stale apartment air and Wade’s leering gaze. Peter groans, a throaty, low in the stomach sound that hits Wade right in the solar plexus. Peter follows his example, physically lifting Wade’s hips off the floor to shift his joggers down below his ass cheeks, giving them an eager squeeze before he drops Wade’s hips back to the rugs that line the floor.

Their cocks slide together, skin on skin, Wade’s larger cock eagerly snuggling up to Peter’s perfectly proportionate one. “Fuck, sweetheart, look at you.” There’s no time for finesse, or lube, or anything but the two of them at that moment. It takes only a moment to snag Peter’s palm and drag his tongue across the skin, tasting the lingering artificial sweeteners from their meal on his palm. Peter watches him with heat-hooded eyes. His mouth parting in panting breaths as Wade sucks each finger into his mouth, releasing them with a wet pop and a nibble of teeth.

All the while, he can’t help but wonder if this is a dream. Yet, Peter feels real against his tongue, tastes, and smells, and is just so...real. This isn't a dream. It can't be. He doesn't have that good of an imagination.

When Wade is done, Peter takes them both in hand, squeezing their lengths together and working his fist up in a slow pull, from root to tip. It feels like fucking heaven! Wade groans low in appreciation. Taking Peter’s hips in hand, he starts rutting them together with a roll of his hips, urging Peter to move faster. The rugs beneath him drag and scrape on the scarred skin of his ass. Above him, Peter rocks eagerly back.

A blush dances across Peter’s round cheeks, staining them a lovely shade of red as he ducks his head down, chin against his chest, lips, and brow twisting in a look of concentration. His eyes are closed, and Wade imagines he’s focusing on the feeling of their two bodies pressing together. Peter is so damn tactile. He’s all about the feel. Wade is more of a visual man. He keeps his eyes open, soaking up the sight of Peter rocking on top of him, eager and relaxed and so damn gorgeous it could make a man want to stab his eyes out.

There’s no doubt about it. This is real. As real as it gets.

It’s over hard and fast. Neither of them has the stamina to build this up into anything more than a quick handy on the living-room floor. Not after years of being alone, with nothing but their own hands to keep them company. Not with the only thing they’d eaten in days being a handful of sugar and processed wheat. Wade could give a fuck, though. It is perfect. They’d known each other’s bodies for years. This is just a quick re-acquaintance, a coming together of two lost souls. If he had his way, he and Peter would get to do this, and so much more, all of the time.

With a muffled moan and whimper, the two of them came together, still mostly clothed, seed spilling across the dips and lines of Wade’s belly, staining his shirt where Peter failed to push it up high enough. Peter pants in gasping breaths above him, eyes still closed, lips parting as he comes down from the high. His hand releases its grip on their softening cocks, sticky and damp. In the aftermath, Wade feels the aching scrap of rug burn across his ass and lower back. He loves it, that lingering memory, for all that it only lasts a few moments. He thinks the rug burn on Peter’s knees will last a couple of days, though, and that’s even better.

Peter slides off him with a boneless sigh, all sloppy limbs and drowsy eyes. They don’t need to speak. The look they share is more than enough to express how they both feel. The smile on Peter's lips lingers, and Wade grins, meeting brown eyes and watching as the other man takes to finishing his lunch, eating his gummies from his position on the floor, examining each one for a moment before he takes it into his mouth. He doesn’t seem to care about his rucked-down shorts, leaving his naked cock exposed to the open air.

Wade groans from where he lies, rolling over so he can crawl along the floor to Peter’s side. He yanks off the offending garment with eager hands, ignoring Peter’s token protests.

“That isn’t fair. You’re the only one who has after sex snacks.” Wade grumbles, pouting before he buries his face against the hard press of Pete’s abs. The other man’s soft cock presses to his cheek, a damp, salacious kiss that makes Wade want to sing.

So he does. “Never gonna give you up—”

Above his head, Peter chokes on his gummy. “God, no!”

“Never let you down—”

“Are you seriously Rick Rolling me right now?”

“Never gonna run around and desert you!”

Peter groans in disgust, shoving at Wade’s head.

“DP, if you don’t do something with that mouth other than sing, I will destroy you.” Wade pauses midverse. Who can say no to a request like that? He grins a wicked, satisfied smirk, burying his face into Peter’s crotch. Peter lets out a yelp of protest. “Not that!”

“Too late! No takesy backsies.” Wade argues around the swell of Peter’s flaccid cock. It doesn’t take much more than that for Peter to give in, and if Wade happens to hum his way through the last few lyrics of the song, Peter is a little too busy to complain.

Notes:

These two are so ridiculous. They make my heart hurt. Thanks for reading my little bunnies! Hope you enjoyed this little get together

Chapter 6: Beans and Rice

With one sharp extension of Deadpool's bicep, a length of aluminum pipe slams into the eye socket of a zombie wearing mechanic's overalls. Deadpool watches it pierce through flesh and brain gleefully, jumping in place when black brain matter spews from the open end of the pipe, followed by the rolling wobble of a disconnected eyeball.

“Peteypie, did you see that?” Deadpool stage whispers, dancing in place for a moment before spinning and hunting down Peter with his eyes. “Fucking money-shot!”

Peter glances up from where he is crouched, examining a disorganized grocery shelf. He grins a wide smile of appreciation as Wade takes his dancing steps closer. Peter’s mask is off, currently tucked into the pocket of Wade’s uniform. So Wade gets to see his pretty face when he snorts under his breath and shoves at Wade’s hips as Wade makes to grind them against Pete’s face.

“Will you focus? You ass!” Peter growls, his voice muffled by the swell of Wade’s crotch. With a mock growl, he snaps his teeth at red leather, and Wade holds back a squawk of indignation when teeth bite against his tender bits.

“Not nice.” Pouting behind his mask, Wade drops his shenanigans and turns around. Facing the aisle opening with his katana at the ready, his free hand clutches the front of his pants as he whispers words of comfort to his bruised anatomy. Pete’s right, he should stay focused, but the smile on his spider’s face as he turns away is so worth it.

They are in a run-down grocery store that has probably been thoroughly picked through by previous raiders, but it is worth a shot. It's nothing more than a pile of rubble at this point. The whole back end is open to the afternoon sun, blown out by some long-ago blast that has removed both the back walls and part of the roof. The front is still surprisingly intact if you ignore all the dead bodies and bloodstains. Which he did, because he liked to keep his sanity, thank you very much.

It’s been hours since they left the apartment. The sun is shining brightly overhead, and the dude in the overalls is the first free-range zombie they've seen in this section of the city. The nearest horde is five blocks over and kinda busy mauling a squeaky swing-set in the park. Wade knows this because Peter did some quick recon over the area with his homemade spider-webbing, honing down this section of town as “safe” before they moved in. If Peter also happened to be the one who set that swing to squeaking, no one was around to notice.

While his spidey boy was doing that, Wade had taken to the nearby apartment buildings and storefronts. His job had been to quickly and quietly dispatch any Shriekers or loner zombies that might give away their position. Normally, neither one would have felt confident enough to enter a location like this alone. It had taken some convincing on Peter's end, but with each other as an assist, they felt confident they could do it.

Life is so much easier now that he has Peter Parker.

“Peter fuckin’ Parker!” Wade sings, his voice still barely above a whisper despite the relative safety he feels at the moment. He hears Pete rummaging through the shelf behind him and glances over his shoulder. The other man is muttering under his breath as he shoves aside discarded boxes and packages, kicking away the unwanted debris to get to the stuff on the bottom.

“Wade fuckin’ Wilson!” Peter croons back at him mockingly, bending so his tight ass is on show in his blue and red spandex. It's not intentional, but Wade appreciated the view. “Ah!” He stands up triumphantly, a travel-size deodorant clutched in one hand. Even from this distance, Wade can see it is mostly melted from the heat.

Peter tosses it to Wade, and he pops it into the bag he has slung over one shoulder. Keeping an eye out for both other roaming dead things and his Princess, Wade sets to work, also looking for items that might be of use. Anything is fair game. Neither of them is picky enough to discard something that might prove useful. Under a shelf, less than ten feet from Peter, he finds an individually packaged pickle and some black licorice.

“OMG, gross.” He tucks those in his bag, despite his protests, and continues the search. His stomach is a hollow mess of hunger, aching painfully thanks to their breakfast of water and a handful of Scooty Ohs. When he finds a whole bag of beef jerky wedged between a drink kiosk and an empty shelf, it is difficult not to just dig in right there and wreck the damn thing.

Peter rounds the corner empty-handed, shrugging his shoulders at Wade’s look of disappointment.

“Let’s go to the back. Maybe there’s stuff hidden under the rubble?” Peter whispers. Wade follows behind, skirting around trash and debris. Somehow, this area is darker than all the rest. The sun shining in from the back wall makes the shadows all the starker. It barely reaches past the hills of rubble and the skeletal silhouettes of stocking shelves. Peter hesitates as they step into a darkened section of the store, glancing back at Wade for reassurance before slipping into the shadowed area. Wade follows behind, not too worried. If there is something worth fearing, Peter’s spider-sense will go off and warn them. Then he'd kill it, and everything would be fine.

Reaching for the flashlight on his utility belt, Wade clicks it on. They are in a bread aisle. He can see loaves that never even had a chance of making it off the shelves, green and solid with mold.

“Holy penicillin, Batman.” Wade hisses, pausing to peer inside one of the bags. He moves the beam of his flashlight up and down the aisle, stepping back to take a peek at the topmost shelves. There at the top, Wade spots a box of something. It’s too high up for him to easily get to, and the label has faded with age.

“Hey, Princess?” Wade whispers, his voice loud in the otherwise sinking silence. Peter pauses in what he’s doing, turning to look at what Wade’s flashlight is pointing to.

“Oh!” Without any further encouragement, the younger man scales the shelving unit. His fingers and toes grip the rickety shelves with ease. Wade reaches out to put a steadying hand on the shelf. The last thing they need is for the whole thing to fall down. He makes sure to keep the flashlight beam on their goal. There’s a sound of disappointment from the Peter-shaped lump above him, but the younger man doesn’t come down right away. Instead, his head pops up over the top of the shelf.

“Pass me the light?” Peter questions, his voice a quiet whisper. He reaches one hand down, palm up. Wade gives up the flashlight without a second thought, blinking into the darkness so his eyes can adjust. Peter disappears, and the shelf squeaks precariously as he shifts and moves around on top of it. Wade winces, heart jumping in his throat at the loud sound as it echoes down the aisle. Bea is heavy in his hand, and he squeezes her hilt, testing her balance in his arm. He keeps an eye and ear out for any danger. Moments later. A sound of triumph from above breaks the silence.

“Here,” Pete calls down and drops a heavy sack of something. Wade catches it. He doesn’t get a chance to read what it is before a couple of other bags and a box follow behind. Snatching them from the air, Wade shoves them onto a lower shelf. A moment later, Peter kicks his feet over the edge of the shelf, and Wade reaches out, grabbing his thin hips and easing him down to the cracked tile floor. Peter’s front slides down his in a slow glide. Wade hums his appreciation at the friction, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Peter’s oily hair before they part. Wade’s mask is an annoying barrier between the two of them.

Neither one says anything as they load up the backpack with their haul. He still can’t see what Pete has grabbed, but the bag feels heavier than it did before, the sharp edge of a cardboard box digging into the small of his back.

A loud clanging sound at the front of the store has Peter’s spine stiffening beside him, and both of them jerk around to the source of the sound.

Wade’s heartbeat kicks into overdrive. It’s too damn dark, and he can’t see a fucking thing. It only worsens when Peter turns off the flashlight beside him, tossing them into further darkness. The sound of scuffling feet, followed by a high, grating moan, has Wade stepping forward. If it’s just a couple, he can handle it, and they can keep on hunting. But a light touch to his arm has him stopping in place and turning to eye his companion.

The only thing he can see is Peter’s eyes as they glint in the dim light, glimmering and wet. They scan the surrounding area as Wade's vision adjusts to the darkness, allowing him to see when Peter cocks his head to feel . God, Wade loves the kid’s spider-senses, seriously, A+ superpower. Wade doesn’t move. Instead, he watches Pete, waiting for a signal if it’s safe to continue. They don’t speak, barely even breathing past a shallow inhale of dusty layered air. Finally, Peter shakes his head, jerking it in a sharp gesture towards the back of the store and the rubble pile just behind them.

‘Let’s get out of here.’ In the dim light, his hands flash into rapid-fire American Sign Language. Peter doesn’t even seem to notice himself doing it. If Wade didn't know it himself, he would have thought them just meaningless gestures. But he does. So he does as he is told. Casting one more glance toward the front of the store before following the younger man, all the while wondering how Peter had learned this new skill of his.

They manage to scale the rubble at the back of the grocery store. Peter moves with much more finesse than Wade, balancing delicate and strong from one section of cinder blocks to the next. Wade moves slower, ensuring that each section can hold his heavier weight before stepping on it. Whatever is in the store, he does not want to draw their attention by dislodging any rumble.

The bottoms of Pete’s feet are stained black with soot by the time he gets to the top. The moment he reaches the summit, Peter is off, one wrist extending and shooting his web out in front of him. Wade watches his slim body twist into the air and disappear around the corner, wondering if Peter was doing a quick patrol, or if the other man had left him...again. Peter did that sometimes, especially when shit got heavy. Therapist Wade thought it was some sort of defense mechanism, one of those fight or flight things, maybe. Then again, Therapist Wade isn’t really all that qualified in matters of the mind. Some would say he was disqualified from giving advice on shit like that.

Regular Wade doesn’t dwell on it too long. He will either catch up to his Spidey at the apartment, or the other man will remember and come back to him. Sure, Wade doesn’t like the thought of Peter going anywhere on his own, but the kid has survived this long by himself. He isn’t the one who needed rescuing after all. That had been Wade’s dumb ass. So Wade couldn’t complain. Those same instincts that had Peter dashing away at a moment’s notice were what kept him alive up to now. Pete had never been a crash-and-bash killer. That wasn’t going to change now that the world was a bag full of Cocoa Puffs.

Bea in hand, Wade takes a quick look about the dull, ruined streets as he crests the top of the destroyed wall. They are on the southern side of the city, far enough away from the dangers of Old Grave and its larger population of the undead. This far out, the ruined wreckage of the city isn’t half as bad. With the exception of the grocery store, most of the damage is from flying debris and pieces of the much larger skyscrapers going down. The grocery store had been taken out by a hand grenade. Wade could see the flashpoint of it along the undestroyed section of the wall.

Stepping through drifting piles of black ash (Human Snow, as he likes to call it), Wade makes his way down the street, keeping an eye out for Shriekers. Though he is still in the division of the city that they sectioned out earlier, he’d rather be safe than zombie. He can hear moaning from the other side of the grocery store, so he breaks into a run to get around the corner and out of sight before they see him. Judging by the sound of feet on the pavement, there are at least half a dozen of them; Peter was right to avoid the fight and take off.

He makes it one block before his ears catch the familiar swish of Peter flying through the air. Glancing up to the source of the noise, he gets a perfect view of the other man flying past on a ribbon of white web. Peter twists in midair and drops his web, landing with a soft plume of dust by Wade’s side. His hair is mussed and tangled from flying through the air without his mask on. The look of pained shame on Peter's face is enough to confirm Wade's earlier suspicions.

Yup, he forgot.

“Sorry…forgot,” Peter admits under his breath, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck as he glares daggers at the ground by Wade’s shoes. The smile on his cheeks is self-deprecating and frustrated.

“You keep ditching me like this, and I’mma think you don’t like me, Princess.” Wade just chuckles, switching his katana into his other hand so he can throw one arm about Peter’s shoulders and drag him in close. “Don’t worry about it. Point is, you remembered this time, right?” Peter’s breath huffs against the fabric of his neck in annoyance, but he finally nods in agreement.

“My fucking brain DP.” He mumbles, his skinny body sagging against Wade for a moment, and Wade sighs, squeezing him tight. He keeps an eye out down the street because while he wants to give Peter a moment to think, neither one of them needs to get bit on the ass by some nosy zombie with the munchies. “I should be better than this. I was an intern for Tony Stark!” His arms pinch desperately where they wrap around Wade’s ribs. Wade grunts into the ache of it, ignoring the way his bones protest.

“Think of it this way, he’s probably dead, and you aren’t,” Wade offers, trying to find some sort of bright side. Peter flinches at that, scowling up at him.

"That's fucked up." He grumbles, poking Wade in the belly button.

“What?! It’s the truth! Book smarts don’t mean much now. You’re just used to being alone. That's all.” Dammit. He’s supposed to sound reassuring. Who isn’t this working?

“You’re such a dick, Wade.” Peter pushes to get away from Wade, but Wade just holds on tighter.

“Hey, I don't remember you complaining about my dick the other day.” Wade chuckles at the blush that bites at Peter’s cheeks, using his grip on Peter’s shoulders to start dragging him down the street. Peter stumbles, almost dropping to his knees, but manages to upright himself.

“Come on, let’s get home. I have questions.”

Back at the apartment, Wade dumps his backpack down on the rug-draped floor and turns to help Peter lock up the door, easing the barriers into place with careful movements, following that up by shoving fabric under the crack of the door between the floor tiles.

Together, they examine their finds, which are pretty damn good if he’s honest. His beef jerky is the top-tier prize of the lot, but it’s a close second to Peter’s bag of rice. There is also a bag of beans, only slightly dusty, a roll of rice cakes, and a box of chicken ramen noodle packages. Twelve, to be exact. The deodorant and pickle are just toppers to the pile. The licorice is an afterthought. They eye the bag with a certain amount of disdain. How hungry is too hungry?

“I think it was somebody’s stash spot,” Peter admits from where he stands at the counter, pouring rice to soak in a bowl filled with water. Wade watches him from the other side of the counter, leaning on the padded countertop, lazy and content. The two of them are not very good at cooking. Thanks to the little portable gas range Wade carries around, they have fire, but neither one of them wants to waste the propane. So the best solution they can think of is to soak the crap out of the stuff. A bowl of beans is following a similar fate. It sits in the center of the counter, well out of the way. Wade’s of the opinion that those won’t work too well, he’ll break out the fire top if it comes down to it. Hopefully, the rice will be ready by later that evening, and the beans will probably take a while if the soaking works at all.

“So, sweet cheeks.” Taking the bottle of water they’d opened up to soak the beans, Wade swigs a small mouthful. It tastes like minerals and plastic, but soothes his thirst some. Wade waits for Peter to stop what he’s doing and look up at him.

‘How do you know sign language?’ Wade questions, his hands flickering between each sign. He moves easily, curving his hand and bringing it up to his cheek in the familiar gesture for ‘know.’ Peter stills in front of him, watching him with curious eyes that slowly light up into a grin.

‘We’re going to have so much fun with this.’ Peter signs back.

Chapter 7: Before DP

PETER PARKER

BEFORE DP

The air rushed out of Peter’s lungs as his body slammed into the hard concrete of a building wall with a thud that sent his brain shivering inside his skull. For a moment, he was free-falling through the sky one story after the next, too dazed to know which way was up and which was down. His spider-senses were a fire in his head, a live wire of information he had no way of understanding because there was so much going on. For a moment, Peter couldn’t breathe, lungs struggling to expand until the wind whipped up his nostrils and forced his lungs to draw a breath. Gasping in hot gusts of oxygen, Peter had no time to take action as he saw the ground flying up to greet his face.

Peter collided with a second moving object, his forehead connecting with angular shoulders and a quiver full of arrows. Groaning in protest at the sudden stop, he clung to the other man. Hawkeye’s arm wrapped around his waist, a hard band of muscle and creaking leather. Peter caught sight of him shooting off a grappling hook from the piece of equipment in his free hand, followed by the familiar sensation of swinging with gravity, a pendulum of movement over the desolate ruins of New York City. Below them, hordes of zombies frantically raced down the car-laden streets, drawn to the chaos like mosquitoes to blood.

Hawkeye dropped them at the lowest part of their swing, and Peter had the presence of mind to push off the other man and take the final twenty feet down by himself. He landed in a crouch, ribs aching and speckles of light dancing in his eyes. Hawkeye’s feet pounded the pavement in front of him as he came to a similar landing, muscular legs bending to smooth the transition from air to earth.

Looking up, Peter frantically sought out a glimpse of their target, searching the broken skyline for movement. Fear and anxiety made his stomach sour, and his heart pummeled the inside of his chest with every gasping inhale. Shit, they were so fucked, so fucking fucked. He could see it in the way Clint’s features were twisted and grim. His eyes were glossy and stained red with unshed tears. Peter had never seen Clint cry before. Clint was the strongest of them all. He was a stoic wall in the apocalypse. As undiminished now, close to a year after the end of the world, as he had been that first day when he’d picked Peter up from the ashes and dragged his burnt, injured body to safety. It had been Clint who helped him shoulder the horrible grief of losing Wade. Clint, who had changed and wrapped his bandages, cleaned his burns and hunted for antibiotics to try and keep Peter alive.

‘Where is he at?’ Peter signed, if only to get Clint to focus on something else. He didn't know what he would do if the other man broke down now. The closest Clint had ever come to tears had been the day he’d put a bullet between Natasha’s eyes. That had been a bad day. That had been the day Clint stopped talking.

This was worse. The look in Clint’s eyes now said that maybe this wasn’t survivable, that possibly this would be the last tragedy he could withstand.

‘I don’t know where he went. We need to find him. If he gets to the Compound...’ Hawkeye signed back, the rest going unsaid. Peter nodded his head. There was more at stake than the two of them. The Compound was too imperative to lose. The soles of Hawkeye’s black boots bounced in place before he took off, racing down the streets.

‘Stay safe, kid, or I will kick your ass.’ He commanded, spinning on a heel to give the order. His bow slipped from his shoulders, and Peter was observant enough to see him notch in one of his explosive tip arrows. It hurt that this was what they had come to, hunting down their own family to protect the last survivors.

Above a deep howling wail shook broken glass from the towering skyscrapers, sending it tinkling down like hazardous confetti. Peter looked up in time to see a massive green shape slam into the downed remains of a building. The sound was deafening. And it drew the undead like flies to honey. Behind him, the thud of thousands of feet rose, the cries of the dead growing into an unending cacophony as the devastation drew them in.

His spider-sense was on high alert, screaming in the back of his mind. Danger! It yelled. But danger was all around. Pursing his lips under the fabric of his mask, Peter shot off a thread of webbing. He lifted himself off the ground with a running start before taking to the sky and aiming himself towards that green mass. This close, he could see that Zombie Hulk wasn’t all that green anymore, his skin turning a deathly gray instead. The bite that had taken Bruce down two days ago showed in the split skin of his forearm, still oozing and juicy from infection. Bruce was nowhere to be found, any lingering sentience stripped by the fever the virus had produced. Another brilliant mind lost to the end of the world.

In his place was a mindless killing machine, hungry and angry and indestructible. They had tried to stop this. The bullet that Clint had put to Bruce’s skull before he turned was nothing but a bloody smudge on its forehead. It hadn’t worked. Instead, it awakened the Zombie Hulk within.

To his left, he heard Hawkeye’s piercing whistle. The sound warned him as an arrow struck into the building beside Zombie Hulk. The following explosion was concussive and sent out a billowing swell of heat through the air. Zombie Hulk’s enormous body was sent flying. Peter used that moment to his advantage. With rapid snaps and twists of his wrists, he sent jets of webbing at the Zombie Hulks’ massive figure, aiming for arms and legs, hoping to tangle the beast up in the strands.

If we can just get him trapped! He thought, landing on the side of a building and clinging to its surface so he could better focus.

Hawkeye followed his webbing with more arrows. They slammed against graying flesh and exploded in white light. Zombie Hulk broke through Peter’s webs with a grunt, howling at the explosion of the arrow on its skin, even though no visible injuries showed. Peter dodged wide, swung blows, dancing in the sky above an ever-amassing stream of the undead. The smell, as the crowd grew, was enough to have Peter choking, unending waves of odor seeping into his skin and hair.

They did this for hours, an endless game of give and take as they struggled to keep the Zombie Hulk in the city limits. There was no telling what his presence would do if he were allowed to go elsewhere. He’d bring with him a horde of the undead; they flocked like groupies to his roars. He was too loud, too visible in a world where the invisible survived. It felt like there was no end in sight, no stopping the beast until they managed to get the mindless creature running.

“The subway! Get him to the subway,” Clint’s voice shouted over the groaning of the undead. The sound of it was a shock, and Peter almost missed his web before he caught it, reeling in the air. Peter had not heard Clint’s voice in months. It’s gruff and hoarse from disuse, but so human that his mind was confused by it.

Recovering, Peter looked around and spotted one of the underground entrances that Clint had indicated. Understanding dawned on him. They needed to drive the Hulk underground. If they couldn’t stop him here, that was the only alternative. Whistling his agreement, he launched himself ahead of the Zombie Hulk’s lumbering form.

Dropping down to street level, Peter moved to shoot out complicated webs across side streets and exits, blocking them temporarily. It worked, steering Hulk towards their goal. Hawkeye caught on, and with a warning whistle, a percussive boom sent a building crashing down to block the last exit of the avenue. The masses of animated dead went flying. Limbs and body parts blasting upwards like gory shrapnel. Peter had to jerk himself up high and out of range of the debris, hissing under his breath as he strained against the weight of his own mass.

Zombie Hulk made for the subway without further protest. Disappearing into the broken entrance to the underground tunnel. Peter heaved a sigh of relief. It worked! A quick look around, and he caught sight of Clint as Peter leaped from one rooftop to another. Turning in mid-air, he directed himself to the other man’s side, landing on the hot rooftop and running the last few steps until he was standing beside the taller man at the edge of the roof.

Clint was breathing hard, his chest heaving. It was hard sometimes to remember that he was just human. Things that were easy for Peter, Clint had to work a lifetime to achieve. His skin gleamed with sweat, and blood dripped from a cut on his bicep. Taking in a gasping inhale for air, Clint briefly glanced at Peter, seemingly reassured by his presence. Peter watched as his breath dropped to a slow, centering exhale that was barely visible in the tightness of his chest.

There was a moment of hesitation where Peter wasn’t sure if he would be able to take that last shot. He did, though, taking aim and firing. The arrow flew deep into the entrance of the subway. It only takes moments for it to go off, the explosion rocking the foundation beneath their feet. Rubble crumbled inward, filling the entrance with broken concrete and asphalt.

And like that, it was over.

Beside him, Clint swayed, staring down at the ruin they had created with those haunted, red eyes. It seemed too much for him, and he dropped to one knee, shoulders bowed, shaking with broken grief. The sound of Clint’s sobs was silent over the eager cries of the undead. Looking back, Peter thought Clint probably preferred it that way. The only person he had ever shared his feelings with had been Bruce. Bruce had been his rock, and now, Bruce was gone.

What was there to say to a man who just lost the love of his life? The last ray of sunshine in a darkening world? There was nothing to make it better. Peter knew from firsthand experience.

So he did what Clint had done for him all those months ago and just offered the other man a shoulder to cry on. He ran his hands through Clint’s greasy hair to comfort him, fingers skipping over his cochlear implant. After some time, Peter joined in, shoulders shaking with grief for the man they had lost. Bruce had been his friend, their leader, and one of the last true beacons of hope left. He’d deserved so much more than what they had given him. Deserved so much more than getting bit on the fucking arm while doing some stupid experiment. All he’d ever wanted was to find a cure. It should never have led to this moment.

Finally, Clint pulled away, wiping tears from his eyes with his palms and signing a small thank you, his hands shaking with emotion. Peter nodded his head, squeezing one muscular shoulder.

‘You should go.’ Clint signed.

‘Not a chance.’ Peter scowled, his eyes narrowing at the other man. Clint was family, too, and he needed protection. Especially now.

Later that day, Peter would blanket the rumble below with webbing, sealing the entrance closed. He and Clint would do this dozens, then hundreds, more times. Until whole tunnel systems were blocked, and they ran out of explosives, stopping the monster below from coming back.

The ground swelled with the roars of Hulk’s aggression, but by the time the sunset, he didn’t resurface.

Long after that, they rested. The two of them, sitting on the highest building left standing. Exhausted, both mentally and physically. The night air was cold with the first bite of winter and heavy with the smell of death, even as high up as they were. Their hideout was in ruins, destroyed by Bruce’s final transition into a zombie. Central New York was overrun by Hulk’s horde. The sheer mass was so overwhelming that the dead looked like nothing but ants from this height.

The tall skyscraper had been the best they could get in the form of shelter. Peter hauled the two of them up it; there weren’t any ladders or stairs to get this high. Which meant there was no way for the zombies to reach them, either.

For once, they were safe from everything but the buffeting wind. It twisted and pulled at Peter’s hair, eagerly knotting the lank strands. Peter scowled down at the world below them, his fingers clenching and wrapping around the spandex of his mask where it hung on his fingertips, brushing along hidden wires and nanotechnology.

Clint signed beside him, but Peter ignored it, closing his eyes to block out the sight.

‘Not listening.’ He signed back at the ex-agent, anger making the gestures sharp.

“Peter,” Clint’s voice interrupted the silence. Still gruff from disuse, Peter flinched at the sound of his name. It was unwanted, but at this point, there was no reason to be quiet. The dead below were making enough noise to block out their words. Besides, the worst had already happened. The streets were filled now, brimming with the undead.

If they’d wanted to get back to the Compound, it would be near impossible; the way was too clogged to be passable. Not that Clint was even thinking in those terms. No, he had much worse things on his mind.

“I’m not leaving him, Peter, not now, not when he could destroy what he’s managed to build. I have to protect the Compound. It’s what he would want.”

“Fuck you.” Peter jerked his arm away from Clint’s touch as the other man reached for him. He could feel the tears spilling down his cheeks, first Bruce, now this? “We can’t split up. You’re all I’ve got!”

Clint sighed beside him, dropping his hand to stare into the distance, to where dust was still settling over the last entrance they’d blown. “I’m not leaving him. Those barriers aren’t going to last, and when they fail, someone is going to have to send him back down.”

It made an ugly amount of sense.

Peter didn’t have to like it, though. They had all sacrificed so much, fought so hard. How could the world be so cruel?

“You’re saying you’re okay with just...sacrificing the rest of your life, keeping him at bay?” Peter questioned, his eyes narrowing into the deepening night as the realization settled in. “Fine, whatever, but I can help, I can stay and help!” Clint shook his head, turning his face into the wind and sighing.

“Nah, kid, you’ve got something else out there for you, I don’t know what, but this isn’t where you’re supposed to be.”

---

PETER PARKER

AFTER DP

Peter stares down into the bowl of damp rice, swirling a finger through the starchy water, picking at the half-solid rice kernels to test their readiness. That had been the last time he had heard Clint speak. They’d parted ways the next day when the sun rose.

After that, Peter had been alone, roaming the edges of the city until he settled in his little apartment. He had managed to make a safe haven for himself, but it had been so damn lonely—until now.

Looking up from the bowl of rice, Peter’s eyes latch on to eager brown ones. Wade’s ugly mug was a face he had never expected to see, ever again, would never have seen if he and Clint had continued on their same course. Peter smiles, despite the memories, because it’s still so surprising that he gets this back after all this time. Love swells in Peter’s heart when Wade’s lips turn up back at him, uncertain why Peter is smiling but happy just to see a smile and return it. Reaching out, he hooks a finger into the collar of Wade’s uniform and drags his upper body across the counter.

“Looks like Clint was right. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

“Oh my god, that is so fucking sappy.”

Their lips connect, and it’s like warmth and light and happiness all in one. Peter kisses Wade, and nothing matters anymore. Not the past, not the now, not the dark, ugly future. All he needs, all he wants, is the man right in front of him: scarred lips and white teeth that nip and bite and sting. Wade’s warm tongue urges his mouth open, and Peter moans into the open heat of it, turning the kiss sloppy and eager.

The sound of the rice bowl tipping over, followed by lukewarm dampness dripping down Peter’s front, has them both splitting apart with a curse and soft laughter.

“Dammit.” Wade scrambles to scoop up the displaced rice, dumping it into the bowl with the palms of his dirty hands. “I can’t believe Clint Barton taught you to sign. Legendary!” Wade is such a fanboy. It’s hard to remember that, back in the day, most of the Avengers found him to be annoying trash. They had only tolerated his presence because Peter forced them to. Wade chuckles as he tosses the last of the rice into the bowl. “Now, come here!”

“Ngh!” Peter lets out an indignant squawk as rice-damp hands latch onto the swell of his cheeks and yank him back in to finish what they started. “That’s disgusting, Wade!” Peter mumbles, his voice distorted by the pressure of Wade’s hands as they squeeze his cheeks and mouth into ducky lips.

“Is this attractive to you?” Peter questions, raising an eyebrow to glare up at him. Wade’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and Peter thinks he’s looking at the most handsome man in the world.

“Hell, yes, I’ve always wanted to make out with a duck.”

Well, he’s also an idiot, but he’s Peter’s idiot.

Later that night, they eat their cold rice together, snuggling on the couch hip to hip. Wade finally seems to remember the extent of what Peter had told him.

“Wait, so there’s a compound somewhere?” He asks.

Peter nods his head, sucking on individual grains of rice until they disintegrate in his mouth. It’s tasteless mush with disgusting hard bits, but he savors it anyway. Eating slow helps soothe some of the hunger pains.

“Or there used to be. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it. Though I don’t see how we can get there anyway. It’s a week's walk, if not more, from here. But who knows if they’ve picked up and moved since then.” He stared into his bowl, flashes of that small little paradise Bruce had created flickering through his head. It’d been good back then. They’d been family. “There’s no way to get there anymore, not with Old Grave to get through.” Peter had taken to using Wade’s terms weeks ago. “I tried. The zombies were so dense you could walk on them. When it hit the suburbs and low buildings, I was shit out of luck. Nowhere to web onto.” He explains.

“Hmm, just curious,” Wade admits, dropping the subject easily as he gets busy inhaling his soggy rice with a slurp. “God, this is disgusting. Do you think this is what bird shit tastes like?”

Peter stares into his bowl. “Eh, bird shit probably tastes better.”

Their laughter is soft and warm in the stagnant air of the apartment. It helps chase away the memories and the worry he always feels when he thinks about the others.

Chapter 8: Voices in the Rain

It's late in the day. Clouds sit heavy in the sky, dark with a threatening storm. It has been that way for two days now, gradually building and building, the rain never making good on its promise. Wade craves the rain. When the storm breaks, it will be a reset for the city, washing away the scent of decay and rot.

The rain has other advantages, too. It will give them a chance to refill their water bottles and wash their clothes—something the two of them have already set their hearts on. Man, he's looking forward to wearing a shirt that doesn’t smell like sweat.

In preparation for the oncoming storm, they'd spent the morning on the rooftop of their apartment building with dozens of empty bottles, the bottoms filled with rocks to weigh them down. Their water cistern could use a refill, too. This is why they are out and about this late in the day. Peter wants a tarp to help collect the rain. Something about a wider surface area or some sciency mumbo-jumbo: Wade could give a shit, what his Peteypie wants, Daddypool gets.

Spidey is up ahead, crawling along the edge of a building facade and peering inside the window. Deadpool leaves his man be, keeping to a sedated walk that brings him towards the storefront. His eyes are always on the lookout, seeking any signs of danger or something to scavenge. Black dust billows in the wind, twirling in elegant bursts in front of his feet before blowing away.

The sign on the front of the building is crackled and bleached with age, but still legible. It reads "Smith's Hardware Store" in a bold, boring font that is just bad fucking design, in his opinion. Deadpool thinks Spidey is probably checking for possible points of entry, maybe sizing up the interior for any threats that might be lurking inside.

Lifting up the hem of his mask, he takes the time to pop a string of black licorice in his mouth, sucking on the old people flavor with a wrinkled nose. It is minimally better than morning breath and occupies his belly with something other than hunger. They'd split up the pack between the two of them as a morning meal— munch at will and all that. Peter hadn't complained about the flavor, but he hadn't been exactly happy. Biting into one of the stale sticks with a grimace.

Up ahead, Deadpool watches as Spiderman drops from his position on the brick wall of the hardware store. His feet point into cute little crooks as he lands on the dusty concrete without a sound and makes his way into the store. From this angle, Pool has a nice view of the curve of Spidey's ass, so he has nothing to complain about. Damn, his ass is a gift to society, even if society is mostly dead at this point. Many thanks to whatever ghost of a man who designed those tights.

Fuck, I'm horny.

"Help!" A sobbing scream breaks Deadpool's studious thoughts, and he jerks his head in the direction of the sound. So does Spiderman.

"Aww, fuck…" Deadpool huffs under his breath, bouncing on his feet and breaking into a run just as Spiderman lifts off into the sky, zipping around the corner of the hardware store in pursuit of whoever is calling for assistance.

Why do I always have to fall for the heroes? Deadpool grouses. Life would be so much simpler if he could just start boinking someone who didn't have a conscience or a moral code. Then again, watching Spiderman's little booty skippity-do around the corner, he can't complain. He'd chase that ass to the end of the world. Oh, wait, too late!

"Help!"

Grinning under his mask, Deadpool draws his katana and gives chase, following the path of Spiderman's webs through the decrepit streets. When he finally catches up, it's about two blocks away from the hardware store, and the yelling has grown into high-pitched wails that are sure to attract every zombie in the general area.

They are in some kind of neighborhood alcove thing, with smarmy residential buildings that like they'd once been worth a pretty penny. He can see the top of Spiderman's masked head peeking over an old barricade of pallets. Pool moves closer, pausing as he rounds the barrier and catches sight of their victim.

Spidey glances over at him, the lenses of his mask furrowed with disappointment, and that's when Wade remembers.

The dead can talk.

That's probably one of the few things that none of the movies got right in all their foreshadowing. Sure, it's rare, and it's usually only the fresh ones that wanna write ballads, but there's definitely been a few instances where DP was taking a pleasant stroll down the abandoned, blood-stained streets and had the life startled out of him by some dead dudes' rambling idea of a joke. It is fucking terrifying. Like, shit your pants, wish they were brown, terrifying. Wade feels that same weird fucking mix of dread and disgust, and pity now. He doesn't like it when they talk. It makes it all the more fucked up when he goes to unalive them. It reminds him that these were once people. And isn't it just ducking nuts to think that there is still some level of sentience inside those pudding brains? Could they feel the virus slowly turning them into mush?

'Well, shit ,' Spiderman kicks at a hand that reaches to grab his foot, glancing up sheepishly in Deadpool's direction as he signs. ' Sorry, Pool,' His closed hand rubs in a circular motion across the spider insignia on his chest before flashing into their agreed-upon hand sign for DP.

Deadpool looks down at the chunked-up remains of the zombie, spitting out his licorice when the taste combines with the stench of death and makes him want to gag. She's young. Probably no older than fifteen. A fighter. She had to be tough to last this long out here. Her body has been torn to shreds, and her red hair is matted with blackened blood. Her skin is barely wasted, maybe a couple of days into decomp, though the smell is bad enough, thanks to the heat. She'd been a fighter until the end, and a ring of beheaded zombies surrounded her. Sharp, clean cuts that had removed arms and heads. Smart girl once. Undead girl now. She looks up at them with hungry, fevered eyes. One arm is ripped off at the shoulder, the other scratches at Spidey's boot, pulling at the fabric as if she can somehow get him one slow scratch at a time.

A look around shows the other arm lying a few feet away, bicep gnawed to the bone. Wade pauses, staring. Grasped in her hand is a very familiar shape: long Japanese steel and a black hilt. There's a duck keychain hanging from her that's new, but otherwise, Wade would know that katana anywhere.

WTF! Come to momma, you fucking beauty! He has no time to marvel at the sight of Arthur or question Lady Luck about the chances of her somehow ending up here, of all places. It's with eager reverence that he hurries over and takes hold of her blade. Pressing the toe of his boot to the girl's disconnected wrist, he yanks. Arthur comes free with a wicked squelch and crack of bone. The rubber ducky keychain squeaks disagreeably. Wade forgoes a celebration dance, turning to show off the blade to his spidey dude.

' Check this out!' DP signs. Spiderman grins wide behind his mask, 'S o worth it!' If chasing a dead girl is what it takes to get Arthur back, then he'd do it again. Sheathing the blade has him feeling whole, solid. She's the comforting counterbalance to Bea. With her weight at his back and Bea's in his hand, he feels steadier than he has in a long time.

"Help me, please." The zombie girl reminds him of where exactly they are, drawing his attention back to her desiccated form and its final resting place. The sound of her cries grates through torn vocal cords, too loud for comfort. He can hear the distinct groaning of other zombies in the distance, eagerly following the sound of her voice. They're getting closer, so it's probably best to hurry this shit up. Hefting Bea in his hand, he strides over to her, ready to cut off her screaming before she brings all hell down upon them.

"Wait." A hand on his shoulder has Deadpool pausing.

"Hmm?" Deadpool questions, he turns to look at the red-clad hero. Spiderman looks between the girl and Deadpool, the eyes of his mask pinched with concern.

"Just be nice, Wade, she's still a person." He finally whispers, his eyes doing that shifty thing they did whenever he spoke out loud. Wade sighs, rubbing a hand over the top of his head before nodding his agreement. God, he hates the chatty ones. They ruin the whole 'undead enemies' vibe and make him feel like he is the monster. There isn't much he can do to ease the situation. For her to die, heads had to fly, but he does wait until she looked down, giving her the option of not seeing her own death.

He's quick about it. His blade slashes through her neck with a flash and a plop as the disconnected melon falls to the ground. He backs away from the splash of blood, not eager to get more of it on his boots than he needs to. The wind picks up, whipping through her hair and sending it dancing through the puddle of her own blood. It's poetic somehow.

Spiderman makes a sound of disgust beside him, looking away from the bloody sight. Still so soft-hearted, even after all this time. Now there is poetry, standing in a red suit at the end of the world, with a heart full enough to still feel after all the shit they had been through.

"Bruce always said that if he could just get to them on time, he could save them," Spiderman explains, his words barely loud enough to be heard. The storm is threatening heavily in the sky, darkening the sun down to a hazy twilight. The lighting seems appropriate for their current mood. "It's the fever that burns them out, the hunger too. Their bodies burn through all their reserves, and they crave more. He said if we could treat them like normal humans, humans with an illness, then maybe they'd get better, fight off the virus, you know?"

Deadpool squints down at her still, ruined form. He isn't a scientist or a doctor, but he's not sure a normal human could live a normal life after having their arms ripped off in their stomach disemboweled. Still, some of it makes sense.

"We should go," Wade says instead.

Spiderman nods his agreement, and they turn to head back the way they'd come.

Spiderman pauses after a moment, hand settling on DP's forearm and tugging. Stopping him from turning back the way they had come. They go still, Deadpool watching Spidey, Spidey watching everything else. Then he's running, pulling at Deadpool's arm to encourage him to follow. Deadpool follows his lead, breaking into a run as Spiderman heads down a different intersection, only to shake his head and run back towards the girl.

‘We're surrounded,’ Peter’s too nervous to speak aloud now, so he signs instead, stepping back to press himself against Deadpool's front. Pool scowls. Isn't that fucking fantastic? He'd so looked forward to not getting attacked by a zombie horde today.

'Can you swing us out of here?'

Spiderman shakes his head, the lenses of his mask furrowed with distress.

'This batch barely carries me. Shitty components.'

'Well, that fucking sucks.' Deadpool doesn't even bother to tell Spidey to leave on his own. He and the radioactive arachnid are stuck together like an STD on a prostitute. Which is kinda a disgusting metaphor; he'll have to think of a different way to define their relationship. Later.

Overhead, lightning flashes ominously, too far away for thunder to make itself heard. Deadpool looks up to the sky, watching the clouds as they build and build. The sound of the horde's feet is almost hidden by the blowing of the wind.

The undead come around the corner from both sides of the streets in a disorganized mass, no longer drawn by the sound, instead just pushed along by those behind them. Deadpool watches one at the front stumble and fall, only to be shoved and trampled down under the feet of the rest.

"Get behind me, babe." Deadpool orders, sliding Arthur free and hoping she's reasonably sharp. The zombies haven't noticed them yet. They will soon, though.

"Shut up, Pool, I've got this." Spidey ignores him. Instead, he steps to the side and settles in at Deadpool's right, one leg extending as he drops into a crouch, lowering his center of gravity. Classic Spidey move. The string of web he shoots out tangles across zombie feet with stunning accuracy, dropping the front row and delaying the group coming in on the right.

Deadpool takes that as a hint, focusing on the group coming in from the left. He doesn't like it, but he ends up rushing them, leaping into the fray with a swing of his blade and the keen of metal on flesh. To his right, he catches a brief flash of red before Spidey is up in the air, shooting out hoops of webbing and sending the walking fuckers flying off into la-la land with a sharp jerk of his strong arms. Nothing but skin and bones, the zombies are light enough not to break the webbing.

It's fucking fantastic. Deadpool grins under his mask. He is a twirling windmill of Japanese steel, his Arthur slicing through a skull, sending rotting black brains spewing. Bea dives into the gut of another, cutting the walking popsicle stick in half and sending the pieces crumbling to the pavement. The fighting spirit rolls through Deadpool's veins, and he feels fucking fresh, like a beast on steroids. His muscles pump with more energy than he's felt in a while, adrenaline making up for what nutrition he lacks.

There's no such thing as hand-to-hand combat with zombies. They operate with no principles and fight with their fucking teeth. Deadpool thinks it's an excellent fighting method if your teeth carry crazy viruses that infect your enemies. Good on them, mission accomplished. It does make fighting damn tricky, though. It's like a contortionist's wet dream, dancing and twisting around, reaching hands and snapping teeth. He is way more flexible than most would think, and he takes that to his advantage, curving his back and rolling his hips in a graceful dance that looks effortless.

Six. Seven…Eight. Humming the lyrics of 'Eye of a Tiger' under his breath, Wade takes down five more in the time it takes him to get to the catchline. His muscles strain as he connects with the neck of some chick still trapped in a body bag, a little extra pressure, and he breaks through her vertebrae, though the nylon bag proves to be annoying.

Spidey flashes past overhead, nothing but a silhouette in the sky as lightning flashes, obscuring his shape. Wade is treated to the spectacular sight of a zombie smashing against a brick wall like a bug on a windshield. Guts rain down from the sheer force of it. Like so much gruesome confetti.

Dry-bone hands grasp his shoulders and yank. Deadpool chokes on his shout of surprise, his boots scraping across the pavement as he's pulled backward. Twisting away with a sharp grunt, teeth come within millimeters of his throat.

Bitey fucker! On instinct, his blade dives into the eye socket of that dickwad just as Spidey's web latches around its neck, noosing the zombie and yanking it back off of Bea with a squelch of brain matter. Wade salutes in appreciation, backing up as he does to try and put some space between himself and the horde. He tries to catch his breath.

The wind is a living thing at this point, blowing and wailing in time with the horde, drowning out the sounds of the fight. This is probably a good thing. At least other zombies wouldn't be attracted by the noise and start playing follow the leader.

The bad thing is, they are slowly being pushed back. When Deadpool stumbles over something, he looks down in time to see that he has tripped over the young girl's body. A glance around shows he's cornered at the barricade, in the same location the girl had retreated to when under attack. Now, if that isn't a bad omen, Pool doesn't know what is.

Well fuck.

Grimly, he fights on, grateful for the protective shield the barrier offers, even if he has to slice off wandering hands that slip through the wood pallet slots and try to snag him. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three. With a grunt and desperate dive, he evades more snapping teeth, taking one out with a thrust of two blades under its chin.

And then, suddenly, there's nothing. Deadpool comes to an abrupt stop. His chest heaving, one leg aching, the pain gone before he registers it fully. The absence of bodies to slice through is startling. He spins in place in search of another enemy and finds none. For a moment, Pool has a chance to breathe because he'd somehow offed all the zombies in his general vicinity. He feels breathless at this point, chest working to drag in heaving gasps of oxygen. Backing up against the barrier, he glances upwards and catches sight of Spidey leaping to land next to him.

"Holy shit." Deadpool gasps by way of greeting, breath puffing in heated swathes against his mask.

Spiderman looks him over with open concern, then turns back to face the street.

"More are coming." He says, which is the understatement of the year. Wade follows his gaze, catching sight of the other group just as they break through the tangle of webbing. The pressure of the horde behind shoves the dead through the web, tearing it to shreds. They start heading his way, drawn by the movement of the battle. This group is fucking huge, twice as big as the last, and quickly overwhelming the small street. Wade groans, looking out over the sea of the dead with dismay.

"Get off the street, and don't get bit." Deadpool orders, slapping a hand against his Spidey's tight ass and giving it a quick squeeze before sending him back on his way. If he dies now, it'll be with the memory imprinted on his hand. Spidey grunts against the pressure of his palm but takes his advice, leaping to catch himself on one of the buildings. He doesn't even look winded, super-human strength, and crazy bug superpowers giving him an advantage over Deadpool.

The horde swarms outward, swallowing the street under ragged, boned feet. There are too many of them. Deadpool can see that much. They're fucked, like, kiss your ass goodbye because a zombie is gonna eat it, fucked. Say farewell because you're gonna be a walking mushroom fucked. So, so fucked.

Deadpool takes down the first zombies that reach him with a muted shout, aiming for heads over limbs at this rate. There's no time to think, just the grind of boots on pavements and blades through skin. He manages to cut down a few, losing count rapidly. His world narrows to the point that he can't even think about Spidey, just slice-dash-cut-dodge. Rinse and repeat. He doesn't see an end in sight. There are too many. Leaping back out of reach, he thinks there is only one option, and he doesn't fucking like it, not one bit.

"Spideybabe!? Gonna try to break through!" Deadpool shouts over the din of the undead, hoping he can be heard.

There's a sharp whistle of agreement, and he seeks out the weakest point, there to the right. He can see asphalt through the feet of the zombies. Breaking into a run, he hacks his way through the onslaught of putrid bodies. Spidey helps, clearing a path with his webs as best he can. They manage to get him halfway through the horde, it closes up behind him, and he chokes back claustrophobia as it becomes apparent that the only thing keeping them away from him is his steady progress forward.

There's a sharp whistle overhead, and he feels Spiderman's web wrap around his neck, sticky and cold. For a second, he's airborne, flying over the crowd and towards freedom. He can't breathe, but that hardly matters. He's headed towards freedom on the worst ride of his life.

The tension suddenly breaks, and he chokes back a shout as the web snaps, dropping him right into the swell of incoming zombies. Spidey yells overhead. There's no time to comfort. All he can do is tuck and roll, bowling into the horde with two hundred plus pounds of force. It doesn't help for long, and with a grunt, he feels his body drag under the crowd, hands and teeth reaching eagerly for him.

He's slicing blindly, struggling to get his feet under him so he can fight. There's no avoiding all the hands that dig and try to tear through the leather of his suit. Not for the first time, he's grateful for its durability, but it hardly matters as he's pushed and shoved to the ground, rapidly overwhelmed by the mass of them all.

His back hits the pavement with a rush of air, and he gets only a moment to look up at the storming sky.

A drop of rain falls, smacking him on the cheek with a splat of icy cold water. Thunder rolls, shaking through the air just as that small opening disappears behind gnashing teeth and greedy fingers.

Notes:

Chapter 8 is up, and it's a doozy. I think Wade's probably having a real bad day after this. What about you?

Chapter 9: Are You Bit?

One minute, Deadpool is being hounded by the very teeth of fucking hell, with the feel of teeth gripping against his leather armor and hands digging eagerly at his skin. He's going to die. There's no fucking getting out of this. He claws and digs his hands and elbows into the concrete, bodily trying to drag himself away. Then a loud rumbling bang of sound punctuates his scrambling. It charges through the air, and in the next moment, he's drenched, soaked to the bones. His ears ring in the sudden silence that follows that ratcheting roll of thunder.

He croaks back a sound of relief as the cadaverous hands gripping him drop away.

Opening his eyes, he's in a forest of zombies, surrounded by trunk-like limbs of gore and death. He heaves in wretched gasps of air, looking around with wild eyes. Not a single one of them is paying attention to him. Instead, their heads are turned up to the riotous sky, staring into its depths with hypnotized unseeing eyes. He scrambles for his blades, dragging Bea and Arthur in close just as a thump of sound announces movement just behind him.

Deadpool grunts out a noise of surprise as superhuman strong hands take hold of his sword harness and bodily yank him backward through the crowd of unmoving zombies. His leather-clad ass scrapes on asphalt that is rapidly becoming drenched in the rain. Deadpool has no time to get his feet under him. He's too dazed at the realization that he's not done in.

"Holy shit." He lets his head flop back on his shoulders and gets a brief glimpse of dingy red and blue above his head. Spiderman, rapidly dragging him through the crowd of zombies, pushing and shoving past them like they are nothing but movie props.

They pretty much are at this point.

"Fuck-fuck-fuck! Get up, Wade!" Spiderman commands, his voice cracking with terror as they finally break through the mass of bodies, coming out deeper into the residential neighborhood.

Yeah, that's probably a good idea. Heart still somewhere in his throat, Deadpool rolls to get his knees under him. When he doesn't move fast enough, the slimmer man grabs him bodily, forcing him into a standing position with sheer strength.

"Are you bit?" Spidey asks, twisting him this way and that. He shakes his head, looking up at the stormy sky. "It doesn't matter, come on, we have to go. Now!" He orders.

Deadpool feels like fucking jelly, and he leans heavily on his spider, breathing in ragged, gasping breaths. He staggers in the direction he's pointed. Content not to lead at the moment since his brain is still reliving that fucking fall.

The zombies stand in eerie bunches around them, their numbers diminishing as Deadpool and Spiderman get past the main horde. It goes against everything to willfully walk through the crowd like they are not a destructive roaming mass, even on their best day. It'd be fantastic to start lopping off heads while they stood there, completely unsuspecting, but there's no telling when the storm will break. So instead, they run.

See, zombies have no idea what to do with the rain. The first crash of thunder, and boom, they shut down. If the storm lasts long enough, half the city will be littered with the fat, water-bloated flesh-eaters come morning after, there will be a couple of days of respite from the living dead, as those who are outside dried out enough to get moving again. For now, they are nothing but morbid lawn ornaments, statue still except for the odd groan and gurgle.

Spiderman lashes his fingers into Deadpool's, jerking his head east, his chin pointing to guide them further into the neighborhood. The rain is coming in billowing waves, dimming the sun down to a weak point in the sky. There's a house up ahead. The dark-painted facade is nearly obscured by the falling rain. The front door is barred with boards and plywood, but the second-story window is open, with damp and dingy curtains blowing in the wind.

Spidey sees it too. Dropping Deadpool's hand, he takes a running leap with pure muscle propelling him towards the front overhang. He grabs the edge and hangs for a moment. His biceps flex, easily heaving him upwards and over the edge of the roof. When he pops back into view, his mask is off, his hair blows in the wind, like so much brown fluff, quickly matting to his head under the onslaught of the falling droplets.

Rolling onto his belly, Peter drops a hand down, offering it to Deadpool with a wiggle of his fingers. Deadpool isn't opposed to the offer of help. Taking a running leap that only brings him to half of what Pete had managed, warm fingers latch onto his wrist, and he's being pulled up like he weighs nothing instead of being two hundred plus pounds of muscle. Catching onto the rain-gutter, Deadpool kicks one leg onto the shingled roof and hauls himself up just as Peter lets him go. Deadpool's feet slip on the weather-worn roof until the rubber of his shoes finally grips the loose footing. He scrambles upright. The roof creaks under his weight but holds.

The window stands open, just as they'd seen before. A yawning black gap in between the white siding and red brick. Together, they peer into the window and the darkened house. Neither one is quite ready to take the leap and go inside. Deadpool finally gets his head on straight and takes one for the team, dropping feet first onto the spongy carpeted floor. It's wet thanks to the storm, and black from soot, the open window exposing the room to the elements.

Music posters peel from the walls like ribbons, hanging in dismal curls. From what he can see, no one has been in or out of the room in a long time. The door leading out to the rest of the house is closed, but there is a high drift of ashes built up against it.

It's safe. Thank baby Jesus. He so isn't ready for round two just yet. Yanking his mask up on his face, Wade turns to wave Peter into the house, offering his hand even though he knows his babe doesn't need any help when it comes to balancing. Peter takes the offer with hands that still shake from nerves, dropping into the room and looking around with suspicious eyes. New locations are always time bombs waiting to go off, and neither feels secure.

Eking the bedroom door open, Wade peeks out into the room beyond and leads with the point of Bea's blade. He doesn't need to worry, though. The house is empty. So empty that it's like stepping into some kind of surreal dream. The place is a snapshot of the past. Pristinely preserved, right down to the photographs on the wall. Moving out of the room, they find themselves on the upstairs landing, which overlooks a living area and a kitchen down below.

Wade doesn't get the chance to look around. In an instant, he's slammed roughly into a wall. The breath leaves his lungs in a gasp. Drywall cracks behind his back as his hands are abruptly full of a very aggressive, very terrified Peter. Long-fingered hands grip the straps of his swords, pushing his shoulders back until he can feel the drywall cave and the wall studs underneath dig into his back.

"Jesus, babe, take it easy." Wade wheezes, raising his arms up in surrender.

"You stupid-stupid fucking musclehead!" Peter snarls, his hands dropping their death grip to drag down Wade's back and arms, then across his hips and belly. He is searching for something. Some sign that Wade is injured. "Are you bit?"

"Jesus, fucking, Christ." Wade sags into the dent he's made in the plaster. He wants to laugh, to shrug everything off, and just let it drift away. But he can't. He's shaking so bad that it's all Peter can do to hold him upright. His breath is coming in ragged gasps, and before he knows it, he's crying. Big globby tears mix with the blood and the viscera on his face. Rolling down his neck to where the sticky cling of webbing still grips his throat. Wade tries to swallow around it, but it feels like he's being choked.

"Wade. Come on, tell me. Are you bit?" Peter repeats. Wade scraps at the webbing on his throat but shakes his head, then nods, settling on shrugging. The truth is he has no clue if he's been bitten or not. Such little wounds healed almost instantly, and from where he was standing, he couldn't feel any injuries.

"I don't know." Wade finally croaks out, thumping his head back against the wall. He doesn't feel bit, but would he even know what that feels like? His heart is racing, and he has a monster of a headache, but that could be high blood pressure or something.

"Right," Peter whispers, looking lost for a moment. His thin lips purse in an even thinner line, and he looks Wade over. "We'll look for blood. We'll look for blood." He repeats it to himself, words almost drowned out by the clash of the storm outside. Turning in Peter's arms, Wade tries to help by looking for any rips in the leather.

Peter whispers something about idiots with healing powers. Which is fucking rude, considering his healing factor.

"I can't see. Come on." Peter orders, grabbing Wade's hand and dragging him down the hall. Light is shining blurrily from an open doorway across the way. It leads into a master bedroom. A look around reveals that the light is coming in from a couple of sliding doors that open out onto a balcony. The bedroom is pristine, down to the still-made bed. The only thing giving away its unoccupied status is the layer of dust coating everything and the dried roses that sit in a vase on the dresser.

Wade shivers, dripping on the carpet. His mind is still stuck back in that tornado of grabbing hands and snapping teeth. Peter drags him over to the meager light source, turning to look him over. Wade winces as his mask is roughly yanked from where it sits on top of his head, baring his scarred skin to the light.

"Come on, take this off." Peter is impatient and rough, tugging at the buckles on one of his arms. Wade gets it. He's kinda freaking out, too. But Panicked Peter can't seem to control his strength as well as normal Peter. So Wade follows his cue, working his fingers into the straps of his holsters and letting them drop to the floor, trying to get them off before Peter manages to pop seams or tear something important. For once, neither of them cares about the noise, the rain blanketing out any fears they'd typically have. His blade sheaths follow next, followed by his belt. Peter takes to the zipper at his front, unzipping it to reveal taut pecs and hard abs. The view seems lost on the younger man, who's all business at the moment.

Kicking his uniform to the side, Wade stands naked for Peter's inspection, arms raised from his sides enough to give a peek at his skin. Peter looks him over with care, turning him this way and that. Wade does, too, barely able to force himself to examine arms and legs. He searches for anything unusual, anything out of place.

Finally, Peter steps back, pursing his lips.

"I don't see anything."

"Neither do I." Wade agrees, not sure if that means he's in the clear or if he should get ready to get his ass as far away from Peter as possible. Without any more words, they both stand there. Waiting, watching for some sort of change. Wade closes his eyes. He doesn't want to look at Peter if shit goes sideways.

But it doesn't. Slowly, the drum-pounding ricochet of his heartbeat calms. Wade takes in a deep breath.

"I think we're clear," Peter whispers. He doesn't sound at all relieved. His brow furrowed. "With your immune system, we would know by now."

"Don't sound so disappointed, babe." It's the first thing he thinks of saying. The second thing he does is bend to press a kiss on Peter's lips. Their mouths connect with a lightning zing of relief, and the tight, worried lines that mar Peter's forehead disappear. Peter drops his head down to Wade's chest, dragging in a deep, calming breath.

"I-I-fuck, Wade! I'm sorry I dropped you." Peter moans. So that was what had him looking so constipated.

"Hmm..." Wade squeezes him in tight. Yeah, that part had sucked, but he would have been screwed either way. Peter just happened to give him a couple of extra seconds, enough time for the storm to finally break. He didn't bother saying that out loud, though. Peter was a superhero. It was practically in his job description to dwell on every little decision he made. "But we're alive, aren't we?"

"Yeah," Peter sniffs. He presses his face to Wade's bare chest. "We are."

The sound of a snot-muffled chuckle comes a moment later.

"What?!" Wade questioned, relieved to see the stress ease from Peter's shoulders.

"Nothing, you just smell like rancid zombie ass," Peter admits after a moment of trying to compose himself, his nose wrinkles up into an adorable mew of disgust. Wade scoffs and tries not to look offended. Turning his head to sniff at his underarm, he damn near chokes.

"Oh dang, I'd be offended, but you're fucking right." Wade wheezes, only half-joking. He smells like he'd been hanging out in a zombie's colon. Maybe he had. Who's to say what he'd been stepping in? "Think there's any soap around here?"

Wade looks around, but there's no bathroom suite, even though they are in the master bedroom—just a couple of wedding pictures on the wall and the words. Mr. and Mrs. are printed on cheap canvas.

"There has to be a bathroom somewhere," Peter says out loud, reaching out to squeeze Wade's fingers.

"Right, let's take a look." That decides their next course of action. Bathtime. Wade smells like the inside of a skunk's asshole. Lucky them, that's easily fixed since it's raining outside. Wade doesn't feel in the least uncomfortable walking around au naturel, but he does pause a moment when they split up to prowl the darkening interior of the house. He doesn't want to leave Peter's side just yet. But he's a grown-ass man, so he bucks up.

Standing on the second-floor landing, Wade leans on the railing and looks out over the lower level of the house. There's literal plastic on the furniture, and the table is set up with weird fake fruit. Leaning on the railing, he can see an entertainment center, complete with Bluerays and a massive flatscreen TV that takes up most of the wall. There's a portrait of a family, happy and content.

A thin layer of dust covers everything, but otherwise, it's…perfect. Not a crooked photo or a thing out of place. The dishes are still drying on the rack, and their shoes are still set up in a neat row by the front door. It's beautiful, in the weird sort of way that he attributes to abandoned castles and grave crypts.

Wade wants to destroy it.

He wants to rip those photographs from the wall, to throw the stupid, meaningless trash of times past into a flaming pit and watch it burn to nothing but ashes, just like the rest of the world. His hands, on the railing, tighten and twist against the wood until it indents under his fingertips. Something about this place has him on edge and left between it and a horde of zombies. It's too perfect, too much a snapshot of everything they used to have, everything they could have had. He considers hopping back outside.

"Jackpot!" Beside him, Pete makes a sound of surprise, seemingly unaware of Wade's piss poor mood, and Wade turns to see a grin light up the younger man's face. He pumps a fist in the air before heading down the stairs and towards the kitchen. Their near run-in with death is seemingly forgotten. Wade gets it. They can't linger on every moment where they almost die. Like that, his anger fizzles out. If this is what it takes to calm the arachnid down, then he'll take it. Wade hates to see Peter upset, and the only way to survive in this hellhole is to compartmentalize. There is too much fucked up shit they'd been through. They would both crumble under pressure if they thought about it too hard.

Zombie Apocalypse Tip #1: Compartmentalize - Compartmentalize! He likes that. Maybe he'll start writing a book. Call it the 'Keeping it Cool in the Zombie Apocalypse.' Finding a publicist would be a bit tricky, though.

Following the tracks of Peter's footprints, Wade heads down the stairs, dick flopping about in all its flaccid glory. The windows are all boarded up, the only light coming from a cracked skylight overhead. Walking over to a couch, he yanks at the plastic covering, holding his breath as the dust settles down. The cushions underneath are covered in mouse shit, thank god, he's never found mouse shit more comforting. This place isn't entirely untouched by time.

"Who do you think they were?" Peter's voice breaks the sound of raindrops on the roof, coming from just behind him. Wade turns to see him looking up at the portrait above the mantel. He's holding a bottle of dish soap in one hand and a can of boiled potatoes in the other—Wade's stomach cramps at the sight.

Looking away from the can before he starts salivating like a damn caveman, Wade eyes the portrait. A middle-aged, balding man presides over his wife and three children. The youngest is around ten, while the oldest is probably closer to his twenties. The wife looks like a dud, with lonely brown eyes and a pasted-on smile that is tight with too much Botox.

"Politician is cheating on the side. Wife is fucking the pool boy."

Peter raises an eyebrow.

"How do you know they have a pool?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson!" Wade scoffs in his best British accent, which is a trash fire, honestly. Turning, he waves at the back door, where old deflated pool toys sag in a pile. Peter follows his gesture and grunts.

"That's obvious," Peter grumbles with a pout and a hard shove to Wade's bare belly. He turns to explore further, dashing out of Wade's reach with a laugh when Wade tries to get him back for the shove. It's getting dark now, and the light is rapidly fading. The shadows show off the smile on his cheeks. "Stay away from me, trashcan breath!" He orders, spinning in place to wag a finger at Wade. "If we don't hose you down, you're sleeping on the couch tonight. I need something better than dish soap, though, ugh." He glares at the bottle in his hands.

"Hey! How about you sleep on the couch if I smell so bad," Wade argues. "Everyone knows I'm the Misses in this relationship."

"Yeah, yeah. Either way, wife, there's going to be some separation of Church and State if we don't get that stench off you. Where is the bathroom in this place?" Peter asks, his perky buns making their way down a side corridor on his hunt for the restroom.

"So, in that scenario, am I the Church or the State?" Wade follows after him, opening doors. The first leads to a linen closet. Wade eagerly snags a couple of towels. They're musty and moth-bitten, but they still have a lingering scent of laundry detergent even after all these years.

Across the way, Peter gives him a once-over, his eyes greedily taking in Wade's nude body, up and down.

"I'm guessing State, babe. You're hung like a fucking horse."

Wade laughs unabashedly, heading to the next door, twisting the doorknob. Haha, knob. He swings the door open to reveal a cozy little den area. It's set up in warm, rich tones, and Wade can see out into the neighbor's barren yard from the room window. The plywood that was once screwed into its frame now sits skewed and off to the side. Bloody handprints on the wood indicate whoever had taken it down was interrupted halfway through. Probably dead now. That's usually how these things go. For safety's sake, he throws the lock on the door, closing it up with care.

A sound of satisfaction has him turning in time to see Peter disappearing into what is probably the bathroom. Wade leaves him to it, heading to the kitchen to steal one of the dining chairs so he can wedge it under the door handle of the den. Peter's already been in here, based on the upended cabinets and the small pile of canned goods piled on the kitchen island. It's more food than he has seen in a while, though it is too dark to see the labels. He gets the chair situated just in time to help Peter wrestle with a half dozen bottles of shampoo and body wash, whistling at the cheap bottles of Axe and Suave.

"Oh my god, they didn't spend their money on the good stuff, did they? Any lotion?" Wade asks, snatching up a few bottles to lessen Peter's load. He hates the shitty stuff, not that there was a whole lot of room to complain, but it dried out his scars. Same for Peter now, too. His burn scars are notoriously sensitive to their current cherry bubblegum shampoo. It leaves him itchy and inflamed all along his side.

In response, Peter shakes an oatmeal-colored bottle. Wade smiles triumphantly, following him back upstairs.

Notes:

Agh! He's alive! They made it, though DP seems a little bit scarred. Poor bub. If you get a chance, please feel free to comment and kudo. Also, don't forget to bookmark to get updates!

Chapter 10: Unicorns and Bunnies

"We can wash up on that balcony," Peter suggests, taking the steps back up to the bedroom two at a time. Wade grunts his agreement since he hasn't bothered thinking that far ahead. It goes without saying that they are going to wash up in the rain. That has been the plan from the moment they saw the storm gathering on the horizon. They could use it too. Wade isn't the only one getting rank. He didn't mind Peter musty, but damn, could they both use a rinse.

Dumping the towels on the bed, Wade scratches the back of his head and eyes the dingy glass doors that lead out onto the balcony. Dirt and dust have gathered in the slides, so opening them will be a frustrating process. Underneath all that dirt, the slides are dry and need oil. They creak so loudly that both of them wince in unison at the sound. Any other time, and they might have panicked, given up, and held lookout for ten minutes while they waited to see if the sound drew in any undead. Not now, though. The rain cloaks them in a blanket of safety, so they ignore their worries in favor of moving out onto the balcony.

It overlooks what had once been a nice backyard. Any grass or plants had long ago been burnt to a crisp, leaving behind nothing. Through the glass, Peter catches sight of a pool and curses, grumbling about smart ass mercenaries.

"Sherlocked that bitch, baby!" Wade whispers against Peter's ear while eyeing the pool of sludgy black ooze proudly as rain splashes and plops into it. A few feet away, a swing set hangs rusty and creaking, bathed by the rain so that the peeling paint glistens with a false gloss.

Above it all, the gloomy sky is a large bruise of purples and blues with hints of deep red. Wade gazes up at it, the rain scaling down the planes of his scarred face. Lightning and thunder shudder through the air, charging it with the heady feel of electricity. Stepping out into the raging storm, the rain splashes on his skin. It's still warm from the setting sun. For a moment, he is transfixed by it, watching the lightning as it chases itself across the horizon in widening clashes of light. It makes the city almost look beautiful, glossy like a movie set, with none of the hard edges it usually carries. Wadee cherishes the moment because he's not an emotionless bag of dicks, who can't appreciate the little things.

Peter's hand drags along his back, settling on the base of his spine and sending out a shiver of warm heat.

"It almost looks…normal like this," Peter whispers, his voice soft in the dimming dusk. Turning his gaze from the sky, Wade gets an eyeful of naked Peter. He is illuminated by shades of warm gold and purple, cast just so by the rays of the sun that peek through the clouds. The scars on his skin stand out sharp and red, staining his left side like spilled wine. He's so gorgeous, an angel on two legs.

"Come here." Wade reaches out, pulling Peter close. Their lips meet in a clash of teeth on teeth. Peter greets him with a flash of his pink tongue, teasing it into the depths of Wade's mouth. It's pure bliss, especially compared to what he'd been doing not even an hour ago. And somehow, all the adrenaline makes it even more so. His heart is beating in his chest. His hands, when he pulls Peter close, shake with the knowledge that he might not have had this. They moan together at the feel of skin on skin, their breath mixing against Wade's lips. Peter's hand drags down his stomach, fire hot and electric heaven. "God, you're fucking amazing." Peter laughs against his mouth, pecking him one last time on the lips before pulling away.

"Let's clean up." He urges, looking up at Wade with his brown eyes. The rain has plastered his hair to the top of his head, but he doesn't look any less appealing because of it.

"Right." Wade groans but does as he's told, forcing his raging libido down to focus on reading the bottles of soap. He gets to pick his poison today, so he ignores the ones that smell like froofroo fruity shit, aiming for something called Brown Sugar and Vanilla. It smells like dessert and not at all like zombies' guts. He groans, eagerly inhaling the sweet scent. It's possibly the best thing that's been up his nose in years. Other than that one time when he found that stash of coke. That had made his week.

Pouring a sufficient dollop onto his hands, Wade gets to work sudsing up, working it into a lather across the hard planes of his chest and down his belly. The dirt, old blood, and stains of sweat slither off his skin in brown rivulets, washing away with the rain. It quickly dashes the bubbles away, but that's easily solved by adding more soap.

"This is amazing." Peter sighs, a sound of pure contentment, and makes use of something called Summer Breeze, spilling it onto his palm and starting with his tangled hair. He groans happily, turning his head up to the water spilling from the roof drain and using that to rinse away a few weeks' worth of accumulated dirt. He's a sexy thing, glistening and wet. The suds coat his pecs and drift over his semi-hard cock.

Wade watches with rapt attention as long fingers scrub at lithe muscles, working their way from slender ribs and down, lower and lower, until Peter takes hold of himself. His touch is utilitarian at first, sharp movements over cock and under balls. Just doing what a guy in a shower does. Wade shouldn't be looking. He's a perv, fuck, he knows it, but there's no room to be ashamed about it because Peter feeds off it. As Wade watches with hooded eyes, that hand quickly works itself up Peter's cock, dragging with a purpose that turns deliberately sexual as he rolls the palm of his hand against the now hard swell of his cockhead.

"Fuck…" Wade groans, leaning against the brick wall behind him as he looks up and catches Peter watching him with rapt attention, a smirk riding his lower lip. "You, sassy fucking brat, are you showing off for me?" Wade growls, his voice vibrating with approval.

Peter shrugs, "I'm dirty, Pool," He purrs by way of explanation, his other hand sliding up his chest and, of all things, pinching one peach nipple. Wade chokes, his own cock jumping into aching attention at the sight.

"Yeah, you are. Keep doing that." Wade shoves off the wall, moving into Peter's space, blinking drops of water from his eyes so he can see him better. Peter tsks under his breath, shaking his head and lifting his hands to shampoo up his hair again.

His Petepie is a damn tease.

"Don't have enough hands, babe, you might need to help me," Peter murmurs seductively. Wade groans, more than eager to do just that. He drops his head down, sucking sloppily at one pert nipple, Peter's gasping intake of breath urging him on. The soft nub of flesh rolls in his teeth, tightening under his attention until it hardens into an eager bud of arousal. He drags his fingers up Peter's sides, swishing them through the soap. It's not enough. Peter has other ideas: "Lower, get on your knees." Peter commands. Jesus, that sends Wade's cock jumping, and his legs give out before he even gets a chance to command them to, hitting the wooden deck and dropping him level to Peter's pretty cock.

It bobs in front of his eyes, pink and rosy, and so damn perfect. He could wax poetry about Peter's cock, so he does, muttering romantic trash under his breath in Spanish. Above him, Peter chuckles, taking in the sight of Wade on his knees with open interest and hunger. Pete's smart, and more importantly, bilingual. He knows every word Wade is saying. That doesn't make it any less necessary to whisper sweet nothings against his thigh while staring at the heated length of him.

Pale suds glisten on the tip, dripping down to caress Peter's tight balls. Wade lets out a hissing breath, waiting for the next command, his fingers digging into Peter's hips as he forces himself to stay still. He's working off old instincts. He and Peter haven't done this dance post-apocalypse, but he remembers the steps well enough. Peter purrs above him, one hand settling on the hairless contour of Wade's head, the other still working the shampoo off his brunet hair. His fingers drag over Wade's skin, pushing his head back, so he has to look up at Peter.

"Do you remember our words, babe?" Peter questions, looking over Wade's face with those wicked brown eyes. They glimmer golden with the rays of the sun. Wade groans, rolling his eyes. Peter swears by safewords. Wade's of the opinion that he can take whatever his lover can dish, but it's an old argument that he had long past lost.

"Unicorns and bunnies," Wade sighed into the hollow of Peter's hip, closing his eyes and shutting the door on the memory of the last time he'd said those words. Trapped in an alley, surrounded by zombies, with no way out. ' Unicorns and bunnies.' Those words had so many meanings.

Stop.

Take it back.

I don't like what's happening.

He'd 'Unicorn and Bunnies' this whole damn situation if he could get away with it. Above him, Peter hummed his approval, unaware of the memories he'd stirred up.

"Good man." Peter hums, releasing his head and urging him back to the main show. "You aren't gonna get to use 'em. I want you to tap twice if you want off Wade, understand?" Wade nods, introspection forgotten, his breath catching in his throat in anticipation. Peter's voice deepens into a silky caress, going right to Wade's cock, even though the other man hasn't touched him. Christ, they're doing this. Thank god. Thank fuck. Wade needs it. He needs it so bad right now. He doesn't want to be in control anymore. Doesn't want to think or feel anything but what Peter tells him to. "Suck me down, Wade. I want to hit the back of your throat, make you choke."

Wade loves when Peter gets dominant. If he wasn't hard before, he's a steel fucking rod now. He does as he's commanded, the head of Peter's cock breaches the seam of his lip, settling onto his tongue with the salty tang of precum and the taste of soap. Peter keens softly, head falling back, his right hand dropping from his hair so he can grip the rail of the balcony for support. His left grips Wade's head tight, urging himself within the hollow of Wade's mouth with wanton thrusts of his hips.

Wade lets Peter lead, opening his mouth and sucking his lips tight until Peter thrusts in and out of his mouth with slow rolls of his hips. Wade chokes, gagging on the blunt pleasure of Peter's head as it plows against the back of his throat, but he doesn't mind. Peter knows what he is doing. Unable to see through the rain, Wade closes his eyes, losing sight and just dropping himself into the sensation of it. Peter is wild and eager, using him just the way they both like, hard and rough and so fucking good that Wade can feel himself nearing his own climax without even being touched.

Wade whines or tries to. He can't get the sound past the hard rod of muscle currently deepthroating him. It's fucking awesome, and Wade just takes it, forgetting about everything but the grip of blunt nails in his scalp and that cock in his throat. His lips strain around the base of Peter's cock as he thrusts deep, burying himself inside of Wade's throat until Wade can't breathe and tears mix with the rain to stream down his face.

"Don't you dare come, Wade." Peter chokes in warning, burying Wade's face into the skin of his belly, his pubic hair brushing Wade's nose. "I want you inside me when you come," He commands, voice breaking as his seed spills down Wade's throat in hot streams. Peter doesn't last long, but this isn't the main course. It's just an appetizer. The sounds Pete makes are like a drug, gasps, and heady moans growing as he rides his climax. Wade swallows it down greedily, fingers spasming at Pete's hips when he doesn't slacken his pace, thrusting his come down until Wade's seeing stars. Until the only thing holding him up is Peter's grip on his skull. They both know Wade can take it. Neither of them is fragile, and Peter has never hesitated to take advantage of that. It's part of what drew them together all those years ago. They don't have to fear their powers when they are together. For them, being together is bliss.

"Look at you, so fucking perfect-" Peter praises, barely winded from coming, hips pistoning forward. Wade's jaw aches, stretching around the full length. Wade feeds off the attention, pain, and dominance combined. God, how he has missed this. Sometimes, Wade just needed someone else to take control and dominate him. He'd been in command for so long that he couldn't remember the last time he'd just let go. It feels like it goes on for hours, that push and thrust, narrowing his brain down to the cock in his throat and the hand on his head, but it could only be a few minutes since Wade hasn't blacked out yet from lack of oxygen.

Just as he feels that fog take over, like he might pass out, he finds himself able to breathe again with a squelch of spit and a choked gasp. He takes in gasping breaths of air through his suddenly empty mouth, his throat only hurting for a moment before it heals.

Peter drags him up until he's standing on wobbly knees in front of him. They lock together in a hard kiss. Their tongues battled for dominance, mouths open and hot, lips moist and plump. Wade only has a moment to get his shit together before Peter is climbing into his arms, wrapping his legs around his waist, and leaning against the wooden railing so he can grind their cocks together with a lurid roll of his hips.

"Come on, Pool, get that lotion, and open me up." His brown eyes are pools of molten fire. That's a genius idea. He's dating a fucking genius. They haven't taken the plunge into penetrative sex yet. Neither one is confident in their ability to be quiet while fucking each other silly. This would be the perfect moment to do just that when nothing but the storm is paying attention to them getting it on. Wade scrambles for the bottle of lotion, keeping their bodies entwined with sheer strength before coating his fingers in the greasy cream and tossing the container to the ground.

"Fuck, turn around, Princess." Wade's voice sounds fucking wrecked. Peter seems to approve, pressing his lips to the swell of Wade's abused Adam's apple and licking a line up his throat. He tongues over the scarred flesh, punctuating licks with nips and sucks that are hard enough for Wade to feel through all the scar tissue. Wade turns his head to give him further access, hissing at the sharp sting of teeth at his collarbone.

With a final suck along the skin of Wade's neck, Peter drops from his position, turning around to bend over the railing. His skin glistens with rain and is slippery to the touch from it. Wade's cock jumps at the sight of Peter's lovely ass cheeks, open and perfectly framing his sexy little hole. He wants to bury his cock into the steaming core of him and fuck him until he's moaning for more. Wade's a gentleman, though (sarcasm intended), so instead, he bends to lap at the rain where it collects and streams down Peter's crack, wiggling his tongue in close to where his cock wants to be. Peter jumps, thrusting back at the first touch of it. Wade chuckles at how keen Pete is, following the trail of water from that warm, twitching opening and down to the hang of Pete's balls just in front of his perineum. He sucks one into his mouth, lapping at the soft skin. He's silky smooth there, warm and damp from the rain.

With his mouth otherwise preoccupied, he starts opening Peter up with his fingers, urging one blunt tip into the tight opening of Peter's ass. Peter takes it like a champ, eagerly opening up around his finger until he's rocking back and seating himself on the length of it with a throaty purr.

"God, that burns so fucking good," Peter hisses, toes curling and lifting him so that Wade has to chase him. Wade chuckles around Peter's sack. Yes, they are both a little bit masochistic. Peter is less so but more than eager to provide. If only America could see them now, sweet innocent Spiderman, speared on his hand and greedily asking for more. Wade provides, thrusting into that wicked heat a few more times with slow drags of his index finger, before introducing another, scissoring Peter open until the rainwater dribbles into his ass, mixing with the lotion. Until he's crying out for Wade to fuck him. Easing his fingers free, Wade grins and presses a kiss to that slick little ring of tissue, now red and glossy from his fingers. Dragging himself to his feet, he takes his cock in hand, giving it a few good strokes to coat it in lotion. It feels good, and he hasn't touched himself, not when he has so much of Peter to handle instead.

It's even better when his cock brushes against that twitching ring of muscle, urging Peter to open up and let him in. They hiss in unison. Wade rolls his shoulders, thumbing at Peter's entrance until it opens up enough to let his head pop through. Tight warmth envelopes him. Peter squirms, fingers digging into the railing and making the wood crack. He moans, dropping his head down and spreading his legs to make room for Wade's thick length. Wade isn't anywhere close to average, and it shows as Peter's muscles spasm and stretch around the broad swell of him.

Wade rocks his hips, giving him time to adjust, feeding his cock in and out of that tight hole until it's loose and asking for more, lotion easing the way so he can inch into the hilt. Pleasure has him seeing white, or maybe that's lightning? He can't be sure. Either way, he buries his cock deep and marvels at the roll of muscles eagerly sucking at his length, accepting his intrusion with constricting twitches. He pants, groaning out loud and praising Peter's tight ass for any and all interested zombies to hear. Peter laughs, his voice breaking into a cry as Wade starts a rhythm of flesh on flesh.

Wade wraps one large hand around Peter's hip, fingers digging in to use as leverage as he thrusts in hard and deep. His other hand lays at the small of Peter's back, thumbing at the swollen pucker of skin where they are connected. Peter is stretched on his fat cock, close to bursting around the thick girth of him. His ass cheeks bounce with each thrust, perfect little swells of muscle that Wade just wants to sink his fingers in. He feels amazing, hot, and tight as he milks Wade for all he's got.

Their balls slap together as Wade withdraws, only to slam home deep and hard, grunting as muscles part around him, sucking him in deep. Peter rocks under the pressure, rolling his skinny little hips just right until he's shouting as Wade hits that sweet spot deep inside, eagerly working himself onto Wade's cock. The cool rain is a blessing now, as the heat of their bodies working together intensifies. Wade is lost in pure bliss, eyes closed, his hips working faster, harder.

Peter reaches back and grips one of Wade's ass cheeks, urging him into a slow grind until his hips are swirling, rocking his cock into every nook of Peter's pretty ass. Peter sobs, his voice going high in appreciation.

"Fuck Wade, that's it, right there." The sound of his pleasure sends a thrill up Wade's spine. So he complies, plowing against that tight ball of nerves until Peter is a screaming, raw mess beneath him, unable to do much but go along for the ride. Thunder drowns out his cries, and Wade's reminded that this is why they don't do this sort of thing normally. He revels in the freedom, in not having to worry about what dangers a noise would bring. It's Wade's turn to take what he wants, pushing in over and over until he can feel himself on the edge of coming, pleasure pulling his balls tight and clenching his muscles. His hips stutter, and with a shout that feels more like a rebellion than anything, he comes, pulling out just in time so he can spill his seed all over Peter's back. The ribbons of come glisten in the last rays of the dying sun. A lecherous painting. Very Jackson Pollock of him.

The rain steals his come away, but he hardly notices, focusing on dropping to his knees so he can shove his tongue deep into Peter's abused hole, sucking and biting at the sexed out flesh. Reaching between muscular legs, he takes hold of Peter's cock, working his still-lubed-up palm up and down the length of it in sharp, demanding pulls.

Peter's fingers tangle around his, urging him to continue, his breath turning ragged as he gets closer to coming again. Looking up over his plush backside, his skin looks delicate and lovely in the barely-there light, swinging pink and gold, and storm blue, flickering with the glistening flashes of lightning that slams from above to punctuate each pull of Wade's wrist.

It's all too much, and Peter comes with a shout and a keen, seeming to take advantage of their momentary freedom just as Wade had. He rocks his hips back to get as much of Wade's tongue inside him as possible. His cum stains Wade's hand, slickening the rub of flesh on flesh. Pete's legs go wobbly, and he sags against the railing, moaning in sloppy relief. Wade catches him, wrapping an arm around his belly and dragging him in close. Wade settles Peter onto his lap, urging his trembling knees to collapse until he finally slumps down. Peter clings to the top of the rail above him, his body one long, drawn outline of muscle, stretched from wrist to shoulder and down to his hips. He's an Adonis, one of those Greek statues that are nothing but muscle on wiry muscle.

And he's still achingly hard. His sex standing out from his body, head seeping cum, his balls drawn in tight against his thighs.

"Want me to go again?" Wade questions, tracing his fingers up Peter's thighs, his lips chasing water droplets down Peter's shoulder blade. Peter bats his hand away when he gets too close, shaking his head where it hangs on his neck.

"No, not that." Peter protests, lifting his head and looking over his shoulder at Wade. His eyes are lethal, dark chocolate that Wade could lose himself in and never come back from. "I need to fuck you, Wade. I want to bury my cock into your ass until you break." Wade chokes, 'cause that sounds more than good to him. He moans against the soapy skin of Peter's neck, nodding his head to show his approval of the idea. Peter purrs, arching against him and turning his head to examine Wade. "You want that, 'Pool? Should I fuck that hole of yours just like you did mine?"

Wade moans, closing his eyes at the visual. His man could make a prostitute blush. "Yeah. Fuck, yes, I need that," Wade admits, tonguing the notches of his spine.

"Mmmm...well, keep that visual in your head. We need to wash some clothes first."

Wade groans, the sound a little less than pleased now.

"You are the biggest cockblocker I've ever met." He grumbles, pushing Peter off and reprimanding him by slapping one pale cheek with the flat of his palm. Peter yelps, shoving at him and nimbly getting to his feet, seemingly unaffected by the excellent dicking he'd just been on the receiving end of.

Wade will need to try harder next time. He wants Peter to feel him for a week.

Notes:

Here we are at chapter 10 and we have the meaning to why this story is called Unicorns and Bunnies. Also, smexy times insue. There will be more next chapter. See you in a another couple of days!

Chapter 11: Roll Over for Me

Wade crawls messily onto the bed, the once-expensive silk clinging to his wet skin and twisting around his ankles like eager snakes. They've ditched the outdoors with only a rudimentary thought given to their uniforms, chucking soap across the surface and leaving them for the storm to clean. They'll probably regret it in the morning, but horny bitches get dirty clothes. It's a matter of priorities, and his priority right now is Peter's rod up his ass as he sings the Star-Spangled Banner.

"I swear if you try to sing-" Peter knows him too well. Wade chokes back a cry as Peter's hand lands sharp and precise onto the flesh of his ass cheek, the flash of pain lighting up his spine and twisting into delicious pleasure.

"Wasn't even thinkin' about it,'' Wade whines, peering over his shoulder and giving Pete the stink-eye. Peter's touch turns tender, rubbing over the hot point of pain. Wade can barely feel it through his scars, murmuring his appreciation when Peter notices and deepens the pressure enough for him to feel . Jesus in a tutu, that is the good stuff.

"Come on, babe, roll over for me. I want to look at you." Peter urges his hands, already pushing Wade into action. Wade's totally okay with that, fuck yes, grunting into the musty pillow. He flips to land on his back with a whump of displaced air, settling back onto the damp spot he'd already made in the bedding. The room is dim and getting dimmer, and he can only see Peter's silhouette, randomly illuminated by flashes of lightning. He catches a glimpse of lust-filled eyes peeking through rain-slicked hair, lingering over Wade's sprawled body, and a proud cock standing between muscular thighs.

Peter never looks at him with disgust. He doesn't flinch at Wade's scars or even seem to notice, honestly. For Peter, Wade is just Wade. And thanks to that, Wade has never felt a scrap of insecurity around the other superhero. He does take note of Peter's, though, and not for the first time, he wonders if the fucker who bombed New York is out there somewhere. He'd love to make a dress out of his innards, a walking meat suit—something fashionable to attract all the zombie-hoes.

But he's getting sidetracked, and sure, thinking of killing that cock sucker is giving him a murder boner, but he has better things to think about right now. Like Pete, Pete and Pete's thick, fine cock.

Wade's got one of those, too, so he stretches just to watch those eyes light up with interest, biceps flexing, abs rolling as he twitches his hips to send it bobbing at his hips. If you got 'em, flaunt 'em! And he's definitely got them in spades. It's one thing his gnarly body has going for it. Muscles on muscles on muscles. He spreads his legs in a wanton call for more, kicking one muscular thigh outward, so his sack and ass are on full display.

"Are you gonna fuck me, Pete, or just watch the show?" Wade questions, though he doesn't need to. Peter's hands are already eagerly dragging down his inner thighs, jagged nails digging into the dips and peaks of Wade's skin, sending thrills of pleasure up Wade's spine. He pauses at Wade's words, considering them with dark, hungry eyes.

"Nah, DP, maybe another time." Peter declines with a smile, tracing the inside of Wade's kneecap with one slightly scratchy, broken nail. "Right now, I want to make you scream before the rain stops."

Wade moans, the sound quickly turning into a yelp of surprise when Peter takes hold of his balls, rolling and tugging them in his palm. Peter's grip is sure and bordering on painful. Wade chokes out a sound of approval, riding the fog of pain and pleasure. It never lasts long. Between his healing factor and his scars, Peter has to work overtime to keep Wade stimulated. When his hot mouth engulfs Wade's cock it's like fucking heaven. Wade had taken a moment to wash off their earlier exploits, so he is clean enough for Peter to swallow him down without complaint.

"You smell good, like candy." Peter groans around a mouthful of his cock. Wade barely hears him, too distracted by that hot mouth as lips and tongue work around the fat head of him, sucking and lapping. His hips buck upward, seeking out the warm depths of Peter's mouth. Peter's hand on his belly stops him from getting very far.

The fingers that seek out his entrance and begin to work at the hole of him are greedy and fast. Wade moans at the sudden intrusion, digging his toes into the mattress when Peter's finger pushes in past muscles and dragging along his inner walls with a twist of lotion as lube and a pulling-tugging sensation that he can barely feel. Peter works him like that with a few thrusts of his fingers, but the sensation never grows into something more. Wade curses, rocking his hips up to greet Peter's fingers and digging his hands into the bedsheets.

"Fuck, harder, Princess, I can't feel it." Wade gasps, and if he sounds desperate, there's no one around but Peter to hear it.

"So damn impatient." Peter reprimands him with a bite at the sensitive flesh at the crease of his thighs, easing in a third finger with a drag of nails and a stretch that has Wade shouting like a horny teenager. Peter works him with practiced ease, his fingers scraping at deadened nerves until they are alive and electric, racing with pleasure. When he finally turns his attention to Wade's prostate, the pleasure is enough to have precome spilling from Wade's cock and glossing it over Peter's lips. Wade moans, thriving in the vibrating hum of it as the pleasure turns into this living thing in his belly, so so good.

Sitting up from his crouched position at Wade's waist, Peter takes hold of Wade's hips and yanks him in close. Wade grunts as he's dragged across the bedding until his ass hits Pete's thighs. The sheets haven't even lasted the first five minutes. They pop off the mattress with a puff of dust and the creak of old elastic. Neither of them could give a flying fuck. Pete's too busy hitching Wade's hips up until Wade feels nearly bent in half, his spine cracking and bowing until his ass is in the air. Wade's too busy dragging those sheets with him, clawing at them with thick fingers as, with a gasp and a moan, they slide into place within and around each other. It burns, that slow, unyielding thrust past his tight, scarred muscles. It's been so long since Wade's done anything like this. For a moment, he's not sure if his body will adjust. But it does. It always does.

Peter moans as he relentlessly thrusts into him until Wade's muscles are straining around his cherry pink width and finally give under the onslaught, letting Pete in until he is seated against the swell of Wade's ass cheeks.

"Fucking....fucccckk." Wade's a mess, a keening, moaning mess, his ass clenching and throbbing around Peter's cock. His own is rock hard and aching, bobbing in time with Peter's thrust. Withdrawing slowly, Pete slams in again, sharp and vicious, unrelenting. Wade's breath catches in his lungs, and he arches on the bed, body fighting between retreating or urging Peter on. Peter growls, his grip on Wade's hips becoming iron-tight as he forces Wade to still. To relax and feel every slow inch of him as he sank in, balls deep.

"That's it, babe, don't fight me," Peter moans, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure. A blush was high on his cheekbones. He sounds sweet, beautiful, loving, kind, Peter. Yet his grip offers no alternative but for Wade to take it. Superhuman strength stalling Wade from attempting to pull away. "Fuck, you're tight." Peter hisses, seizing control of Wade's body with nothing but sheer strength.

Wade reaches for him, and the other man seems to get the hint, dropping Wade's legs long enough to take hold of the back of his bald head and pull Wade in for a hungry kiss. There's nothing sweet or gentle about any of it. It's hard and rough and painful, teeth clashing and pulling at his lips, hand tight behind his head. It's exactly what Wade wants. He moans and pants against Peter's mouth, the bed creaking and groaning as Peter takes to pounding into him with rolling thrusts, the hard, aching rod of him delving deep inside Wade and clipping against his prostate. Until Wade's shouting against Peter's mouth, the thunder masking his cries, just like Peter wanted.

Wade is shouting out meaningless bullshit, his hips lifting to meet Peter halfway, so they are driving into each other, chasing their orgasm like hounds in heat. He does happen to get a few cords of the Star-Spangled Banner out, but is rudely interrupted by a hand clamped over his mouth.

"Don't you fucking dare," Peter growls, his cock punctuating each sentence with a deep thrust. He works himself against the aching nub of nerves in Wade, digging into that pleasure spot over and over again until Wade's keening past the swell of Peter's palm, teeth biting into the meat of it.

Wade reaches out, tries to take hold of Peter's hips, to grab onto him, and explore every inch of exposed skin. Peter doesn't let him. He stops, his cock just barely breaching the rim of Wade's hole. Leaving Wade gaping and aching to be full. Wade's hands are gathered up in Peter's, wrists yanked hard above his head to restrain him by the wrists. Wade feels his knuckles hit against the headboard. He twists his fingers under the lip of it, taking the hint when Peter squeezes just so.

"That's it, I don't want you to do anything but yell for me," Peter orders, releasing Wade's wrists to trace his fingers downward, over thick forearms and the bulges of Wade's biceps. His fingers trace over Wade's scared face. Pulling at Wade's lips. Wade gasps against the warm protrusions, breath coming out in a heated burst, his tongue tracing the tips of Peter's fingers, and of all things, he whimpers.

"Please..." Wade moans, hips rocking in an attempt to get some sort of friction. The head of Peter's cock teases his entrance. And Peter moans back, sitting up to take in the view. And what a view it is. Wade is laid out like a damn Christmas tree. He's open, thighs sprawled, one set of toes digging into the mattress, the other into the dip of Peter's hip. His cock makes a hard line across his belly, smears of cum staining his abs. Peter takes his time looking. And if Wade were the blushing kinda girl, he would have been doing just that. Instead, he arches his back. And begs again.

Peter provides. He slams home with one sharp thrust of his hips. Thrusting through Wade's aching, straining muscles, and filling him up until Wade can't take it anymore. Wade screams, rocking under the onslaught. His voice is ragged and broken. His lungs are aching, and his ass is on fire with pleasure as Peter takes up a steady, hard pace once more. There's something freeing about screaming to the ceiling in a world where screaming isn't a thing, like stealing a cookie from the cookie jar or fucking that stripper in the parking lot. You knew you shouldn't, but it's so worth it if you don't get caught.

Peter's barely broken out in a sweat, but his chest heaves with each thrust, and his face is screwed up tight with pleasure. Wade loves it: so damn sexy, rolling muscles and hot pale skin. Peter knows how to play all the right chords, blending pleasure and pain, so Wade can't differentiate between the two. His nails drag down Wade's chest, leaving marks that fade as soon as they are made. His teeth bite trails from Wade's lips and down his throat, latching on to one shoulder with a guttural groan as Wade convulses around him, tight and hot. Wade feels like he's fucking split in half, splitting and healing and breaking and coming together again, all under Peter's expert hands. His cock bobs between the two of them, untouched. He doesn't need it to be. Instead, he feeds off of whatever Peter offers him.

It's a final, well-placed thrust to his prostate that has him seeing white and sends Wade over the edge, spilling come across his belly and onto the sheets in white rivulets that brand his skin like fire. Peter growls his approval, wrapping his fist around Wade's cock to eke him out to the very last drop. A few sharp, deliberate thrusts later, and Peter comes too. He doesn't bother pulling out, instead burying his cock deep until Wade can feel his spunk coating his insides, claiming him.

Things get kinda hazy after that. Wade's a spent mess of soggy limbs and drowsy contentment. He feels Peter withdraw from inside him, followed by playful, loving kisses that nibble and chase any lingering aches away. Whenever those kisses get close enough, Wade turns his face for more, feeling them flutter feather-light across his cheeks and along his lips. Wade's healing factor has already kicked in, working in tandem with the warm touches. Peter lets him lie there, blissed out and content, and Wade feels worshiped as those hands manipulate and shimmy him into a more comfortable position. Peter drags a damp towel down his back and between the crease of his ass, cleaning up the mess.

The massage that comes next is a different kind of pleasure entirely, sending him to the edge of sleep as warm hands work deep into muscle. Peter has missed his calling. He digs in and kneads his fingers into Wade's flesh, seeking out and eliminating any knots or achy points. The roll of hands coated in lotion has Wade groaning, and he offers first one leg, then the other to Peter's skilled hands. Then those hands move up, taking his flaccid cock and giving it a light stroke, before moving on, working over the hard planes of his belly and up to his pecs. Peter lingers on his nipples, tugging them into buds of tight sensation. He moves along, spreading the lotion around so Wade doesn't dry out from the cheap soap. It takes a while for Peter to work him from head to toe, quiet and just as content. The only sound is the still howling storm outside.

After mind-blowing sex like this, Wade always gets to be the little spoon, and he relishes the moment that Peter settles in behind him, wrapping long limbs around his shoulders and waist until he's in a warm cocoon of Peter-scented heaven. Yeah, he likes being the little spoon sometimes. It's fucking sweet !

"You're so beautiful, Wade," Peter mumbled against the knob of bone at the base of his neck, pressing kisses to oatmeal-scented skin. Wade mumbles a protest but can't bring himself to answer, too tired for words. Peter chuckles, squeezing his shoulders. "Too tired to talk, huh?" He teases, dragging the musty blankets up to cover their shoulders.

Thunder clashes outside.

Never has a sound been more comforting.

Notes:

A second chapter, in just 2 days? What am I thinking? Well, I'm just trying to get this up so I can keep on keeping on. Hopefully you enjoy!

Chapter 12: Arrow in the Sky

Arrow in the Sky

For once, the streets are clean. Or as clean as they can get. There are still the greasy stains of rotten flesh, old graffiti, and set in bloodstains. The black dust is gone, though, flushed downhill by the rain. It'll come back after it dries out, dusting up across the city and through the streets the same as always. But for now, everything looks shiny and new. The sun above is still overhung by clouds that turn it to the burnished silver of old steel. All bets are on that it'd rain again by the end of the day, but they had postponed long enough.

It's time to go home.

Wade's backpack is full of the things they managed to scavenge from the house. They found loads of stuff: spices and food, water bottles, and soap. There is too much to carry, and they have to make tough choices.

The salt and pepper are gonna rock the socks off that shitty rice. Food cans get loaded up and padded by towels that muffle most of their sound, and they have enough soap to last them the next year. They snag everything they can carry that isn't too noisy and eat up what's left. Wade's belly is full for what feels like the first time in years. Even Peter has a paunch after they are done gorging themselves. Wade affectionately calls it his food baby. Which just makes Peter scowl and attempt to peg him in the head with a can of corn. And by 'attempt,' Wade means he'd been hella accurate. Pete has wicked aim.

On day three, they pack their bags. All they need to do now is get home.

Three days. Three glorious days of unending fucking followed by moderate moments between where they dealt with the dehydration that all that banging brought with it. Three days of storming and thunder and the sweet song of rainfall. Three days for the dead to get all fucked up in the rain.

Wade jumps back from the popping gush of what can only be described as a zombie balloon, dancing his red boots out of the splash zone with a curse. The putrid odor of bloated flesh slaps him in the face. Peter mock gags, leaping onto the side of a building to make sure he doesn't get hit by the back spray.

"Didn't think they could get any nastier," Peter grumbles, his voice not that loud but still louder than they usually felt comfortable talking. There is some comfort in knowing that most of the zombies coming after them are now big ass water balloons with the walking skills of an obese penguin, but neither one can entirely forgo instincts. And instincts said shut the fuck up.

With a soft grunt of effort, Peter leaps off the wall, heading toward clear ground.

Wade doesn't give him a chance, snatching him out of the air with a quick grab of one wrist. Peter switches directions as fast as a whip, making an acrobatic landing on Wade's shoulders. Rock that he is, Wade barely notices the weight, lifting a hand to offer Pete something to balance on. Peter plops down to straddle his shoulders, using his hand for only as long as it takes to work his skinny ass around Bea's hilt, where it rests against his back. His slender thighs settle on either side of the column of Wade's neck. Peter's balls are hot beacons against the back of it.

"Why do you think they're always so thirsty? Is it the fever?" Wade asks, slashing Arthur through the bubbling neck of another, sending off a geyser of muck as it spews out the disconnected neck hole. Nasty.

"I bet they're dehydrated. I've seen the first stages. The fever just...destroys their brains. Base instincts. That's what they have left. So...I guess that's what you get." Peter waves at an ambling zombie, watching as it bumps into exposed rebar and bursts on impact.

"Fucking zombies..." Wade watches, fascinated despite the nasty sight of entrails spewing.

"God, my ass hurts." Pete shifts uncomfortably before finally settling for using Wade's bald head as a lean-to, his palms draping across the hairless, scared skin, chin digging into Wade's skull.

"Can lick it better for you later."

"Eew, Wade, don't be a perv." Peter slaps the top of his head. Wade grunts, seeing stars for a moment, but manages to dodge the mangled remains of a Jeep anyway.

"Oh, now you have standards." Wade rolls his eyes, thinking of how he'd been tongue deep in that ass for the last three days. Fucking awesome memory, one for the history books. Wade has never denied being pervy before. He won't stop now. Besides, most of the time, Peter likes it. The little brat. "I've been thinking about your balls on my neck for the last five minutes."

Peter chokes, and Wade can practically hear the blood rushing to his cheeks. How he can still blush with Wade as a bad influence is beyond the mercenary's comprehension.

A few more winding streets, and they finally end up back where it all started. To say it isn't giving Wade the major heebie-jeebies is an understatement. Up ahead is an army of plump zombie blueberries. Shuddering, Wade eyes the seething mass. It is like a very bad game of bumper cars at the moment. Yeah, he isn't diving into that mess again.

"Fuck blueberries." He backs up before they get too close, not wanting to alert the zombies. Spotting an old beat-up trash bin, he drops back to hide behind it. Pete is off him before he has a chance to crouch, falling to the ground beside him with a soft squelch in the black mud.

I'll go above and find a good route? Peter asks, shifting into sign language to not alert the horde. Wade gives a sharp nod. If they can avoid the grabby bastards, he is all for it. Pete launches himself upward, scrambling along the house's siding beside them before taking off. Wade watches him go, hunkering his muscular ass down on an old garbage bag and waiting for his man to figure shit out.

He doesn't take long. Wade catches sight of a glimpse of red and blue on the rooftop across the street, and Peter waves him over. Taking one more glance at the horde to ensure they aren't paying attention, he races across the street and follows Pete's perky ass down the road.

Peter follows a backward route that involves leaping over fences and racing through the dust bowl backyards of suburbia. Wade is getting his cardio workout, that's for sure. He salutes the corpses of a family still posed in their last gruesome moments and rushes past the wail of a Shrieker before it can get a good look at him.

It takes him a while, but Pete finally leads Wade out of suburbia and into the more gritty streets of the city. Wade looks around, but he doesn't have a clue where they are. Peter has taken to the higher buildings, now visible just by the swing of his body from one section to the next. He follows the kid like a shadow, blades at the ready. He drops into a low crouch to make himself less visible now that they are in the more densely populated area. They don't bother talking again, too risky here, where there are more places for the zombies to hide from the rain.

Wade and Peter slip back into survival mode like seasoned pros, and they make it halfway home with only a couple of run-ins with the death squad. Wade glances up at the sky. The storm is moving out, and their chances of rain are decreasing considerably with the fading cloud coverage.

Above, Pete swings into view, legs jutting out to offset his momentum just as he reaches the top of his arch. There's a familiar twang sound, and to Wade's horror, Peter drops from the sky, falling out of view behind the wrecked remains of a building.

"Pe—" Wade bites back a shout, eyes flashing around for the shooter.

The fuck?

That's when he sees him— a singular shape stepping out from the shadows of a downed skyscraper. The outcropping rebar and crumbling bricks camouflaged him, but not enough to hide the bow in his hands. He's staring at the spot where Peter disappeared. His entire focus is on that one, far-off point in the distance.

The fucker doesn't stand a chance. Wade snatches a knife from his thigh and flips it into his palm. He barely has to look before he sends the blade flying with deadly accuracy. Right into the back of that no-good motherfuckers neck. It squelches as it hits his muscle, and the man grunts, falling to his knees and clutching his new hole. Wade sees red as he stalks forward, ready to take it further and undead the fucker for hurting his Peteypie. Another dagger slips into his palm as he takes two steps forward and uses a palm to hike himself over the burnt-out shape of a car.

The sound of a gun cocking echoes behind him.

Changing directions, Wade spins around on the hood of the car—the bullet lodges into his chest with a squelch of flesh and the hiss of a pierced lung. There's no sound, just the wuff of a silencer. Wade takes it like a champ, grunting through the pain of lead in flesh and ignoring it. He does what any man in his right mind would do when a knife fight becomes a gunfight. He drops his knife and reaches for his gun holsters at his waist. Blood gushes freely down his chest, artery shot, maybe his heart. His clean clothes didn't even make it a day.

"Bitch, I just got these dry cleaned!" Wade snarls, whipping at his chest with the hilt of his gun. Blood sputters. He looks like a fucking Nerf gun. First Peter and now this? Double betrayal. He's gonna cut some balls and make someone squeal.

In front of him stands a bombing hot redhead. Oh, she's sexy by the end of the world standards. Which isn't saying much, considering the last woman he'd check out had been that prostitute zombie from Chapter One, just before he'd blown his own head off. Behind her, to each side, are a hunky man and a teenage girl. She's young for his tastes, but she's definitely working the post-apocalyptic look. Did these dicks raid the beauty aisle or what ? They look like Ken and Barbie. Who wore eyeliner at the end of the world? He doesn't aim for the woman who shot him. He trains both guns on Ken and Barbie, who are standing behind her. Bitch with the gun raises hers to aim at his forehead.

"Shoot me again, and I will unalive them both." Wade snarls low under his breath, spitting blood out onto the concrete. Every one of them casts a suspicious eye about at the sound of his voice. Survivors surviving. Zombies don't give two dried-up shits about gunfights.

"Shoot them, and I'm putting a bullet between your eyes." The redhead hisses back, taking a step forward. She seems sure of himself. So is Wade. He steps forward, widening his arms to keep Ken and Barbie in his sights.

"Yeah, well, only one of us is immortal, so...lucks on my side."

"Wendy, you know who that is? Nate's not gonna like this." Ken hisses. He has his hands up—smart man. He doesn't look entirely convinced that they're gonna make it out of this alive—really smart man. Wade's not sure if he will let him either. He's half of a mind to shoot all of them right fucking now. He's got himself a Spidey to find. And a dude with a bow to gut. Yeah, he's gonna gut him. Send a little prezzy to Lady Death.

"Shut it." Wendy snarls over her shoulder, her eyebrows wrinkled with anger. Wade ignores her. Instead, he turns to glance over his shoulder. No indication of Pete's current location. He can't see him. The kid is swinging too far ahead. Fucking imp. Wade would sew him to his side if he thought Peter would let him get away with it without cutting his cock off.

There's a sound from a couple of buildings down the road, gravel tinks down onto the sidewalk, and he looks up just in time to catch sight of the red toe of a shoe over the edge of the building.

Thank you, Lady Death! He groans internally. That takes off some of his worries. Now he just needs to finish this and get their asses home.

"That's Deadpool." Ken doll hisses, flinching as Wade turns back at the sound of his name.

Wendy at least has the decency to look worried, but the expression closes off quickly, her finger tightening on the trigger.

"He killed Edward!"

"Yeah? Well, Edward shot my Peteypie. 'sides, he's a quadriplegic at worst-"

"Fuck you! Give us what's in your bags!" She orders, attempting to sound intimidating, but she doesn't seem like anything more than a lower-level boss at best. That finger is squeezing that trigger a little too close for comfort, though, and Wade's not interested in sewing another hole closed in his suit.

"Right, daddies getting tired," he rolls his head on his neck, groaning as the bones crack and pop audibly. Hopping off the car, Wade's guns barely waver from their targets. "I'm gonna give Ken and Barbie to the count of three. Then Imma blow baby girl's head off." Wade cocks the gun pointed at Barbie, smiling with teeth stained red from blood. "Ken doll over there is gonna be next. And if you're not gone by then, I'm going to put my knife in your belly button and gut you like a fish for the zombies to eat. How does that sound?"

Ken is looking green on the edges. He looks between Edward and Wendy, then curses.

"Fuck this." Ken croaks. He's the first to run, his combat boots scraping the concrete as he turns and darts down the nearest street. Barbie girl nervously moves closer to Wendy, but when he turns both guns on her, she's the second to bail.

Which just leaves Wendy and two desert eagles eager to fuck up her skull. Wade spits a loogie of blood and phlegm onto the asphalt and raises one non-existent eyebrow.

"Just you and me, pudding-for-brains." He calls, making his voice so much louder than it needs to be. Wendy jerks her head, looking behind her for any zombies that might be attracted to the noise. "I really want that gun of yours, so this is gonna be exciting."

"I thought you were gonna gut me?" Wendy answers back. She doesn't seem as scared as she should be. In fact, she seems to be enjoying this. Wade will have to work on that.

"Yeah, well, that was with the assumption that I would get to use these babies on your friends," Wade answers, advancing on her one step at a time. The wound in his chest aches like a motherfucker, but it's already fading into a memory. "Now they're just geared up and rearing for a party. I'll play with the knives once they have their chance to shine."

There she goes—her gun wavers. Wendy looks pissed, then, with a curse, she drops it, turning and racing away.

Wade watches her go, ears still ringing at the sound of the gun hitting the ground. Walking to it, he snatches it up off the ground and shoves it into his belt. He thinks he'll call this one Silent Wendy.

"Come on, babe, let's get out of here." He whispers low under his breath, knowing Peter will hear him. Turning back the way they'd been headed, he hops over the car and walks past the gurgling remains of Edward/Soon-to-be Zombie Food. His bow and quiver make a nice additional weight on Wade's back. There's the softest scrape of sound from above. Wade takes that as an affirmative.

 

Notes:

Gonna be honest, this reposting thing sucks booty: absolutely zero interaction, and barely any hits. I'm surviving, but damn, am I not thriving! I'll keep going, though, don't worry! Episode 12 is up. Who shoots Spider-Man, that's what I wanna know! How messed up is that? Anyhoo! Catch you all on another day. Bye!

Chapter 13: Bones and Lace

Wade launches through the sky, his boots scuffing on rocky gravel as he kicks off one roof and lunges for another. Usually, he would tuck and roll, but he's got a backpack full of food and a new bow in the way. Instead, he uses all his skills to drop and land as silent as a fucking feather on the next building. He might weigh a ton, but he is a goddamn prima ballerina on his feet. Give him a set of ballet slippers, and he'd rock the hell out of his next recital.

Peter's at it again. The good old fight or flight routine. It's usually a good thing. When you're built like a fucking stick, evasive tactics are the way to go. And Peter's damn quick. If he makes it, he will get home way before Wade. The webbing he leaves behind dangles in the air, a cookie crumb of a trail to follow him home. It's Wade's job to make sure he gets home safe.

Peter might have made his living by swinging through the skyscrapers of New York, but back before the apocalypse, Wade had made it his job to follow him. He'd gotten damn good at it, too. Dating Peter Parker wasn't the easiest thing in the world. Their relationship started off rocky at best. One of those enemies-to-lovers things that ended with them fucking on the tar paper of an old rooftop under the night sky. Very romantic. Hot shit.

Before they ever got around to pound town, Wade had first needed to figure out how to catch the elusive Spiderman. So he'd had to learn quickly how to function in Peter's world of high-rise buildings and open air. Wade put his mercenary abilities into taking to the sky. To catch sight of that amazing ass and just chase after it. He had to. Otherwise, Peter would never have even noticed him. He flew too high, and Wade, well, Wade was a living fucking trash heap on the ground. It hadn't stopped him back then. Nah, he'd wooed and courted Peter with the persistence of a termite on wood, which wasn't easy when you had an avocado face and a seven-year age gap.

So racing the rooftops of Queens is no big deal. Not today, not ever when it comes to Peter Parker.

Thing is, Wade's positive he's hurt. The way he grips his web is hindered, one arm tucked against his belly, the other doing all the work. Wade sees the blood before he even gets a good look at Pete himself. It falls in drips from the sky, trailing after Peter's retreating back. The asphalt stains with it, mixing with oil slick stains and old runny corpse goo. How he's still up in the air, Wade has no fucking clue.

Wade manages to get within a few hundred feet of the running boy-wonder. It's his life now, chasing after spandex pants and hoping for the best. The best ain't gonna work out this time, though. From this distance, he can see the arrow protruding from Peter's shoulder.

Thinking about it has Wade seeing red, his heart slams in his chest, and he fights the urge to turn around and hunt down every one of those fuckers until each one is undead zombie meat. No mercy kills. He'd watch them turn just to see their brains turn into sludge. It's what they deserve for fucking with his Spideybaby. If he ever sees them again, he's going to make sure their throats talk and spill red.

Until then, he has Peter to take care of, and that arrow isn't going to yank out of his flesh on its own.

So he runs, racing after Peter until they're just a few blocks away from home. He can see the familiar brick facade peeking out from behind other meaningless buildings. It's been days. Hopefully, shit hasn't hit the fan there, too.

There's no time to think about it, though. Up ahead, Peter is wearing out. His movements are slowing down to a crawl, enough so that Wade has a chance to catch up. To run until even his lungs are hurting from lack of oxygen, his feet pound, and the backpack jostles. Wade sees Pete’s hand slip. Peter drops a couple of feet, catching himself on the end of the web with a sickening lurch and a soft cry that barely reaches Wade's ear.

It's enough. In the distance, Wade catches the wail of an intrigued zombie. Not that they're ever silent. But he can tell, this one is heading out, looking for dinner, and it'll be bringing friends.

"Fuck. Get up, Pete," Wade hisses, watching as he hangs there, swaying in the afternoon chill. Pete tries to do just that. His injured arm reaches up, wrapping around the web in an attempt to heave himself upward. There's no way it'll work. The muscles in his shoulder are out for the count. He yelps and drops another couple of inches. Then his grip falters, and he falls. Wade's heart plunges with him.

Fifteen stories, he's fifteen stories above the ground.

And Wade is five stories below him. The math checks out. Wade launches across the open space of the street below, thighs flexing, arms outspread to grab hold of the falling Peter before he makes like a fly and splats on the ground. For a second, he feels like Spiderman. What a rush, the glow of accomplishment as he plows through the air, classic...fucking...Spiderman.

Until he misses, Peter drops past, his shriek like the roar of a train engine. There one minute, gone the next.

"Shi-!" Wade wants to fucking curse. Instead, he adjusts his trajectory and just, just barely manages to wrap his meaty fist around Peter's skinny wrist. With a grunt, he heaves Pete up against the pull of gravity or maybe falls down toward him. Dragging the kid in close, there's just enough time to curl his body around Peter's, to press his face into the swell of Wade's neck, and cover the back of it with his head. Wade plows through the window of the opposite building. Tuck, drop, and roll. His fucking bow catches on the window frame, but they make it through. The sound is deafening, glass crashing everywhere. He gets some in his eyes and arms, lances of pain that are shockingly hot.

Self-care is bullshit, though, not in apocalypse times. So he spits out bloody bits of glass, winces through the pain of it, and drops Peter's limp body to the floor. His sword is out as he spins around to check where they have landed.

Hissing gives away that they aren't alone. He curses as a zombie reaches out for them through the dingy twists of old lace curtains. She gurgles, but her vocal cords are long gone. So is everything else. She is withered bones, with half her face sun-bleached and the other half still clinging to the dregs of dried skin. Her suit was probably worth a pretty penny back in the day. Not worth a bucket of sticks, now. She's trapped in the curtains. That's the only reason they weren't dead the second they broke through.

Even now, the curtain rods bow under her weight, creaking precariously. Wade finishes her off with a swish of his blade, driving it through flesh with the same texture and density as a corn stalk. Her body goes limp, her head drops to the floor, and rolls about. It is loud, but they are already screwed up the ass with a pogo stick, so he doesn't bother softening the sound of it. One last look around proves all doors are shut, all exits blocked. They are safe for now. Mostly.

There's probably a horde gathering outside, so...life sucks donkey dicks at the moment. They can't get a fucking break.

Damn apocalypse.

Peter's moans of pain draw him back over. His boy is blinking up at his surroundings as he tries to roll onto his side. Wade hurries over, checking out the rest of their hiding spot as he goes. It's an old office building. Papers, probably taxes or some Old World bullshit, spewed across the floor. Peter's only just aware enough to reach out a hand as Wade drops down to his knees beside him.

"Pete? Pete?" Wade whispers, cupping his palm around Peter's cheek. Like Wade, he isn't wearing his mask. Blood is seeping from a cut on his forehead, dripping down Peter's chin and nose before dripping down onto his chin. Peter is pale-skinned, trembling with pain. His thin lips are pursed in a tight grimace across his teeth. By the way his pupils shine, he's in shock. Explains the running away and how he managed to stay upright until now.

"They fucking shot me?!" He croaks, staring down at the sharp point of an arrow where it exits just below his collarbone.

"Yeah, Princess. Look at you. Took it like a champ." Wade croons, wiping tear tracks and snot from Peter's face with the pads of his thumbs. Fuck, he's alright. It's a non-fatal shot, but it has to hurt like hell.

"Break any ribs?" Wade asked. Peter had fallen after all, and Wade had no idea if he had caught himself. Peter is already shaking his head, but Wade checks anyway. Sliding a hand free from its frantic grip on Peter's face, he drags it down, checking for tender spots, for broken bones that press in like soggy spots on peaches. Peter hisses in pain. There's probably bruising, definitely surface trauma, but nothing permanent.

Peter has a healing factor, but it's been on the fritz ever since the big old bomb that blew up Neverland. Peter, scientisty little shit that he is, thinks it's something to do with the radiation counteracting the spider bite. Wade could give two goats. All it means is that Pete doesn't heal up as well as he used to. His shoulder, the burns, and everything else heal at a slower rate. They have to be careful. He will need help.

Bending, Wade presses a kiss to the corner of Pete's lips and follows it with another pull on his mouth as the other man turns into it, desperate for a distraction from the pain. He lingers there, soothing away chapped lips until the sound of wailing outside the window becomes too loud to ignore.

"Hey, I'm going to look for a first aid kit," Wade whispers, pressing one more comforting kiss to salty lips before he heaves himself upright, shoving his backpack off his shoulders so he can walk more easily. "Then I gotta get us outta here, or we are fucked." Peter grunts his approval, dragging Wade's pack over with shaking hands, so he can use it as a pillow.

The first room is a no-go. It's sleek and showy rather than functional. Bigwigs' desks were always full of gold pens and cigars. Shit like that. Status symbols. No corporate to-do is gonna have something as ordinary as a first aid kit nearby. Nah, that was for the minions.

In the back, though, is a secretary's office. Turning on his flashlight, he spots the moldy sludge of old coffee still darkening the base of a pot and what looks like shriveled donuts curled up on a tray. There's a small liquor cabinet. Wade snags the vodka. It's unopened and, other than some dust, looks unclouded with age.

Turning around, he spies the stained remains of the secretary himself, framed by the light of the midday sun. The shadows of a fire escape block most of the light coming in from this side. Even so, there's enough to see the spray of old brown blood across the desk and the drip of dried-up entrails cascading down from the ceiling fan to his belly. It's a Jackson Pollack, a fucking massacre stamped in time. It smells like shit, old dried-up shit. Despite the evidence before him, the dude hadn't zombied out, so he was one of the lucky ones in Wade's book.

Kicking the office chair out of the way, Wade sends it, and the secretary, rolling off into a corner on squeaky wheels. The entrails snap like brittle stalactites. Leaving the remains dangling from above. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Wade carefully pulls open the desk drawers. Pens, white-out, USB ports. Nothing useful. The next is just files with the dead secretary's signature scrawled across the bottom. It's a two-week resignation letter.

Poor sucker.

The last drawer proves useful. It has a stash of sandwich cookies and a couple cans of tuna, a lighter, and some floss—bonus points for the crackling, old first aid kit hidden underneath it all. The lid breaks off as he opens it. A search inside shows it's mostly unused. There are antiseptics and bandages and even one of those little sewing kits.

As a final afterthought, Wade takes a moment to pry the rusty window open, pushing it upward with a screech of rusty hinges. The breeze that blows in is like Nirvana. Wade inhales a few desperate gasps, washing out the smell of dead things with a more watered-down version, before returning to his scavenging.

"Here we go, babe." Walking back into the room, Wade waves the kit and the bottle to show it off, tossing the rest of the goodies by his bag as he settles down.

Peter groans groggily, wincing one eye open to watch him. He looks like hell, sweaty and pale. Not good, not good at all. Wade lays a calming hand on his belly, rubbing it in soothing swirls over the patterned spandex. The arrow in Peter's shoulder punches a hole through and through the meat of him. Entering in the back just between his shoulder blade and spine, and piercing at an angle to expose the arrowhead somewhere just below his collarbone. Wade listens, ear to his angular chest. No hit lungs, no other organs near the entrance are in danger of being nicked. Thank Zombie Jesus.

"Drink." Wade offers up the bottle of vodka, twisting off the cap and holding it to Pete's lips. Peter chokes on the liquid but desperately glugs it down. He's smart enough to get what Wade's putting down. No one wants to be aware when getting an arrow ripped out of their shoulder. Wade doesn't let him up, forcing his lover to drink down half the bottle. Well past what a normal human his size should have, but Peter has superpowers. It'll take a lot more to knock him down.

"This, too." The backpacks were already under Peter's head. Gathering up the thick, sweat-stained strap, he urges Peter to bite down on it. It's unspoken what it's for. Don't scream. Don't yell. Don't draw more attention than necessary. Peter's metabolism hits the liquor hard and fast. The blood loss helps it in its way. It's not long before his eyes are glassy and dazed, his breathing drowsy around the strap in his mouth.

"Haven't seen you this drunk since that night at Sister Margaret's..." Wade teased. Peter chokes out a sound, a broken laugh around the edge of the fabric in his mouth. Reaching up, he pulls it away to speak.

"Don't remind me...Weasel was so persuasive..." Peter reminisces through clenched teeth.

"It was your twenty-first. You have to get shitfaced on your twenty-first!" Wade doesn't expect a response, and he doesn't get one. Peter just groggily smiles, a pained, barely there grimace, accepting the strap again when Wade offers it up. It was also their six-month anniversary. There had been plenty to celebrate.

Taking out his blade, Wade cuts the edges of Pete's suit where it rests around the wound. Whatever nanotechnology Stark had incorporated into it would enable the suit to heal itself in no time. For now, he doesn't think it is a good idea to get fabric in a fucking arrow wound.

The arrowhead is removable, so Wade takes to twisting it off, watching Peter for signs of pain. As soon as he's sure Peter's somewhere in a boozy fog, Wade doesn't give him a chance to tense up or think about it. The arrow yanks out with a squelch and a spurt of blood. Peter pales, eyes bulging, his shoulder jerking away from the pain. He doesn't make a sound otherwise, just gasps and chokes desperate breaths, teeth-gnashing against the fabric strap in his mouth. Spit forms up into a white froth around his lips. He's tough as nails and manages to stay awake despite the pain.

Wade hates it. He'd rather Peter go unconscious from the pain than watch as he desperately clutches at the wound, tears leaking down his face. It's the vodka that finally does him in. Wade pours it into the wound, working open the edges to spill it as far inside as it's willing to go. Peter shrieks, bucking to try and get out of the way of the spilling fluid. He curses Wade's name, his fist connecting with Wade's gut as he flails. Wade grunts. Spidey's got one hell of a punch, but he doesn't let up. It's only Wade's brutal grip that keeps Peter still until he gives in and just collapses. There's no time for comfort.

When Wade looks up, Peter's out for the count, tough little shit. Wade can't complain. There's more to be done, and he'd rather not have Peter awake during it.

There's blood everywhere, dripping on the floor, staining the yellowing papers to a deep crimson. Not enough for an artery hit, judging by the spray. That's good. It isn't like there are a plethora of doctors walking around to fix a blown vein. If that had happened, they would have been screwed six ways to Sunday.

Shimmying Pete's upper body out of his suit, Wade pushes it down low on his chest. It's fucking routine at this point to shake out the compress and bandages. To rip open the packages and place them onto Peter's chest so he can access them. There's no time for stitches or picking through the wounds to make sure there's no foreign matter.

Wade doesn't have to do this for himself anymore. The injuries from leaping through the window are already a distant memory. For Peter, it's different. Even before the end of the world, he'd never healed up as fast as Wade. Injuries lingered for days, instead of weeks, but they still needed to be bandaged up. Wade always tried to be the one to do it back then. Fucking with baddies was always dangerous, so he'd had his fair share of injuries to take care of. Didn't make it any easier to see, though.

Bruises cover Peter's chest and belly, impact wounds from the fall. Ugly and deep purple already, they make Wade seethe inside. He forces himself to calm down and sets to bandage the kid up. By the end of it, he sits back and thinks he's managed to do a good job, despite the limited supplies.

Compresses on either side, wadded up cotton to soak up the blood, topped off with bandages that wrap over his shoulder and around under his armpit. Wade makes sure to wind a couple of loops around his middle for extra support. Those ribs look a mess, and there is no guarantee some of them aren't cracked. Peter, martyr that he is, probably won't tell him if they are. The final result looks like something out of an old medical TV show. It's a pretty fucking pro job, in his opinion.

Confident the worst is over, he eases the backpack's strap from Peter's clenched teeth and settles his head down onto the floor.

Outside, the sound of the dead has grown into a wailing howl.

Wiping his hands down with a fistful of paper, Wade sits up and starts packing up their things, hefting up Peter's smaller backpack and lashing it down onto his own, doing the same with the bow, the rest of the vodka, and everything else. He heaves it up onto his back, buckling up the clips across his chest and hips so the shit inside doesn't jostle too loudly.

Only then does he peek outside. Walking around past the corpse of the woman, Wade peers at the gritty dust down below. Fifteen, maybe twenty, zombies prowl the front of the building, stepping onto the broken glass and barely seeming to notice it. Only a few have the brain matter left to look up and reach out as they see his head peering down at them.

"Motherfucker!" Wade curses, turning around to look for something, anything to use as a distraction. His boot hits the skull on the floor, sending it rolling across the ground. Looking down at it, Wade gets an idea. Grinning, he snatches up the threads of brittle, dried hair and hefts the thing.

That'll do, pig, that'll do.

Every zombie on the block turns towards the sound of a skull crashing onto the pavement a block away. Their heads bobble on their too skinny necks, and with a gurgle, most of them are off. Wade is accurate to a T and manages to launch a leg bone and an old dictionary soon after, lopping them through the air until they crash just feet from the busted up remains of the skull, splintering it into brittle, noisy, nothingness.

It's not a lot, but it's enough. Wade is confident he can clear the rest of the street. Now it's just a matter of getting the two of them down there without making too much noise. Just in case he tucks the other femur into his belt, better safe than dead.

Squatting down beside Peter's still body, Wade brushes some hair from his face, looking him over.

"Come on, Princess, let's get you out of here." Wade eases Peter up into his arms and buries his face against Peter's ear, wuffling in the warm scent of his hair as it tickles his nose. He still smells like heaven, his hair soft and only now starting to stick with dried sweat. The faint scent of blood turns it into something worrying and sad.

Heaving Peter's limp body up, he becomes even more aware of the delicate man in his arms. Nothing but bones and muscles. His weight is almost nonexistent. His feet kick Wade's shins as he gathers him up, bridal style.

They aren't out of the woods yet, but they are so damn close.

Home. Now. Then he can figure out how to make this better.

 

Notes:

I just...love putting these two through hell. I feel like I should be guilty about it, but dammit if it isn't fun to see how they get through it. Bad author, bad! We also learn a bit about their past together. For instance, they started dating when Peter was 21, and apparently, Peter can throw it down with the mercenaries at Sister Margaret's.

Chapter 14: Something Green

Peter is sick. Not the sneeze and get over it type of sick. Nah, he's the rank scent of infection, fever-hot kind of sick. Deadpool can still smell it in his nostrils now. The smell of rot, the smell of death. Only the smell isn't coming off some skeletal, roaming zombie. Instead, the smell is coming off of the most important man in Deadpool's whole goddamn world.

Shit sucks. Shit sucks real bad.

This is why he's found himself roaming the streets of Graveside, prowling through hotspots and dead zones, deep into the heart of Old Grave, where they would never travel together on a good day.

Today is not a good day. Peter had spent the morning vomiting up the last of their Ramen noodles. Ramen that Wade had spent precious gas heating up for him. Wade had cleaned up the mess and tucked him in to sleep.

Today, Pete woke up screaming, shouting to the ceiling, off his rocker from fever and infection. It's the end of the world. Wade gets it. Whatever Peter sees in his mind is probably mirrored in the real world. Yeah, he'd be screaming too. It doesn't make it any better when the zombies start coming, drawn to the noise—roaming in groups large enough to be a real, credible threat.

Today, Wade knocked Pete out with the empty bottle of vodka and a hit to the head. He gagged the only man he ever loved up. Wound his mouth with duct tape and left him in the bathtub with a heap of towels and a blanket to stem the fever chills. He had resisted the urge to tie him up. That would get Pete killed if the infected came and broke down their doors. As a last-ditch effort, he'd heaved their mattress over the door.

Leaving Peter alone was risky. What if the apartment gets overrun? What if their protections don't hold? What if the infection kills him? The worry is mind-numbing. Everything in Deadpool is screaming to turn around and run back home, to check that he's safe, that he's still alive.

Priorities first, though. The main one being, find some fucking antibiotics and fast. The only other option is losing Peter to an infection. Which is not an option. Deadpool is more than willing to fuck some shit up to give Peter a better chance of making it out of this in one piece. Not so lucky for him. Most of their end of the city is beyond scraped to the bones at this point. That leaves him to scout out the less desirable spots closer to the center of the city. Closer to the hot zone.

Old Grave. They never come here. Too risky this close to the blast zone. There are thousands of zombies. They blanket the streets, waiting, listening for something. Beneath Deadpool's feet comes a soft rumbling sound.

The Hulk. He's that something that keeps most of the zombies at bay, that drives them to stay on this side of the city. The grumbling sound grows louder, stirring up the ash on the ground until it fills the air with haze, and the asphalt rocks under his feet. The beast is moving. Where to is a question Deadpool isn't going to stick around to find out.

Peter is of the opinion that, without the Hulk, the whole city would have been overrun years ago. Watching the zombies across the way perk up and migrate toward that deep, urban rumble, Deadpool is inclined to agree. Today, that's a good thing. He can use all the distractions he can get.

The katana in his hand is already dipped black with putrid zombie guts, from wrist to blade tip. At last count, he'd offed forty-seven of the undead. A new record that speaks for how desperate their situation has become. He's tired, bone-weary from days with no sleep, and filthy with blood and ash. Slashing his blade through the air, he dislodges what he can and cleans the rest off on the zombie he'd just sliced in two.

He's standing by an old folks' home. The sign outside reads Acorn Hills Retirement Community. Low-key swanky as fuck. The tennis court and pool in the back are dilapidated ghosts of what they used to be, but they speak of money. And money means these people were once well taken care of. As shitty as his options are, this is his best chance of finding medicine for Peter. He's been casing this specific building for the last hour. Eliminating threats outside. Looking for an entrance point, checking out what hazards lie inside.

The front lobby is a no-go. Zombies, old, wrinkled zombies, roam there. They must have been abandoned in the midst of an evacuation. Some just shuffled around by the front desk. Others are in wheelchairs or trapped on gurneys, mindlessly grasping at the air. Eerie, rheumy eyes stare out at him, unseeing. When he knocks on the window, most of them don't notice the sound. Only the one in the wheelchair reaches out. Deaf zombies. So fucking creepy. Backing away, Deadpool decides to look for another entry point.

He finds it, one story up, in the form of a window. This side of the building is the epicenter of a blast. The siding is blackened from ignition fluid but otherwise undamaged. Whatever happened here isn't Bomb related—just another casualty of the end of the world. The window glass is a melted pool, glossing down the sides in scorched ribbons. This is risky. Deadpool doesn't have Spidey around to back his six. Doesn't have an escape plan, or any plan, honestly.

Sheathing Arthur on his back, he takes one more look around the street. Empty, but for the corpses he has already cleared out. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he does a quick calculation. If he can leap from the sidewalk to the hood of that car, it should give him enough of an assist to reach the window.

Backing up a few steps, he breaks into a run, boots scraping through bloody entrails, his thighs bunching. He leaps, foot landing on the hood of an old, broken-down Buick. The slap of rubber on metal is loud, but there aren't any zombies left in the immediate area to notice. Using his boots for traction against the wall, he leaps up high enough to grab onto the windowsill.

The melted glass is slippery with dust, more so than he expected, but he manages to get up, his biceps straining to heave himself high enough so he can get a leg over the window. He needs to start doing pilates classes again. His thighs are like rubber bands.

Inside, the room is dark. The waning, overhanging clouds outside do nothing to illuminate the darkness. Unsnapping his flashlight, he clicks it on and jolts when the dark silhouette of a figure appears in the dim light. His sword is out before he has a chance to think, but he stops himself in time, the blade inches away from beheading the corpse.

Shining the light upwards, he catches sight of the nappy end of a rope tied onto the ceiling fan. The rope frayed and stretched with age. Suicide.

Deadpool bypasses the withered body, looking around the dusty, black-stained room. The building has been hit hard by the weather. The walls are ripe with mold that drips translucent fluid in trails through the black layer that cakes everything.

He's in a small bedroom. The furniture is covered with dust, warped with age, and the elements. The bedspread was probably pink at one point, but now there's just a dark stain of dust. Wrinkles of unexposed cloth give way to startling flashes of fuchsia. On one side of the bed is a floor lamp. It looks like another body, but for the translucent glass shade.

On the other side, there's a nightstand.

Rushing to it, he doesn't even pay attention to the way the floorboards creak and squelch beneath his shoes. Coughing around the dust and probable black lung, he slides the drawer open—bottles, lots of them.

Jackpot.

Pain killers, two different varieties. Yes! He pops the caps and shoves them full of cotton he had collected from their pillows that morning. This is Peter's idea: to ensure the bottles don't rustle and make noises. Next is an almost full bottle of heart medicine, useless. Antidepressants. Useless, who wasn't depressed now? A couple of sleep meds. Triple Useless with a capital "U."

Reaching for another bottle, he tilts it toward the light. Amoxicillin.

Inside, one lone pill rolls around. Cursing under his breath, Deadpool pockets the small tablet. What good will one pill do? Nothing. Pointless. What the fuck is he even doing here? For all he knows, Peter is zombie food by now, and he's going window shopping and shooting the breeze. This is the eighth building he's broken into today. He'd come away with some food and more bandages, a blade, and a couple dozen bullets, but what good is food if Peter dies from a fucking infection?

"Fuck..." He whispers, pulling his mask up over his chin, a breathless, barely-there sound of denial. Wade drops his head against the nightstand. Dragging in a deep, slow breath.

Tired, so fucking tired.

He gives himself a moment of self-pity, a second to wallow in his own shit-for-brains frustration. Whatever this is, it's not enough, but it has to be. This isn't about him. This is for Peter.

He yanks his mask back down.

Forcing himself back upright, Deadpool's boots squelch in the moist carpet. He flashes the light around the room again. There has to be more to this place. Inside is a gold mine waiting to be discovered. He just has to figure out a way in. In the corner of the room, his flashlight's high beam reveals the scorched, charcoal-like wood of a door.

There's no giving up, not ever, not now that Peter's back.

The door's hinges creak open, surprisingly quiet for how the door looks. It's a bathroom. Deadpool steps inside, dagger at the ready, but there's no one there, just old, dusty air and the slow drip drip of a leak from the ceiling.

A pool of musty water lines the tile floor, stagnant and green with moss. That soft, fussy collection of leaves is the first green thing Deadpool has seen in years. Most of nature had been offed with the bomb. This close to the epicenter, there is no such thing as grass or trees. There are no birds in the sky or ants on the ground. The only things left alive are those who fight to stay that way.

This, this right here, is alive. Moss— beautiful, rich, deep verdant green. He doesn't care that the squishy thing is probably some form of mold. Crouching down, he stares at it for a moment. How odd, seeing something alive, something real, other than himself. It evokes a deep sense of contentment, much like breathing. Deep, calming breaths, that's what it feels like. Something soothing to the soul that he hadn't realized he was missing until now. He would have never thought moss to be beautiful before. Reaching out, he scrapes some off the ground and into the empty pill bottle, taking some of the water with it.

Peter would like to see it once he gets better.

Tucking the bottle into his pack, he looks up. Above the water faucet is a medicine cabinet. Given the level of water rot in the room, he's not sure anything will be worth using in there, but it's worth a shot.

His boots slosh in the puddle, disturbing the sediments and turning the water grey as he steps inside. The floor creaks under his weight, soft and spongy as he reaches to open the cabinet door. The metal is rusted closed. A hard yank breaks the seal, sending rusty dust bursting into the air.

The first label Wade reads is Doxycycline. Snatching it up, Wade pops the cap and peers inside. Lots, more than enough to get Peter started in the right direction. If he can find another bottle or two like this, they might be alright. Tugging the cotton from his pocket, he starts to shove it down into the pill bottle.

Beneath him, the floor gives an ominous creak.

There's no time to react, no time to think, before the ground gives out with a crash, soggy, water-laden wood parting to send him falling through the floor.

Dropping the pills, Deadpool latches onto the edge of the splintered board, clutching it with one gloved hand in a desperate attempt to slow his fall.

"Fuck!" Deadpool snarls, scrambling to keep his grip—the wood squishes under his palm like a sponge, rotten to the core. With a creak, it gives, snapping in his grasp. There's no time to think, to catch himself, or see where the hell he's landing. He falls, all two hundred pounds of muscle crashing downward.

 

Notes:

Agh! Cliffhanger! Poor Wade, I feel for him, but I also put him in this situation in the first place, so...how bad can I actually feel? These are the questions. Excuse me while I go and contemplate my life

Chapter 15: Help From Above

It doesn't hurt when the floor makes its acquaintance with his spine. He doesn't even notice it. Nah, he's too busy paying attention to the sudden burst of pain at his temple. The explosion of light behind his eyes as his head hits something sharp. He feels, more than sees, the quick impale of something driving up into his skull and playing potato masher with his brains.

Dying ducking sucks. Duck-fuck!

Everything goes black

"We're sorry, Death is unavailable at the moment. Incoming message box is full. Please call back at another—"

An undetermined amount of time later, Wade jerks awake. Or tries to. Something's stopping him from moving, from thinking. Gurgling out a distressed noise, he manages to get his arms under him and heave. Pain, fucking agony, blazing through his head and tearing into his brain.

He somehow manages to un-skewer himself—there is a dirty, slick slop of his grey matter blubbers out of his head, squelching under his hands as he tries to sit up. The seizure hits him like a right hook, taking over his body. His limbs twist and jerk, lashing out across his muscles and sending him into darkness once more.

"We're sorry, Death is unavailable at the moment. Incoming message box is full. Please call ba—"

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Icy water falling into his face is the first thing he becomes aware of the second time around. Gasping into awareness, Wade, no Deadpool, chokes on putrid, rank water. He's shivering, covered in icy water, soaked through. Wiping it off his face, he manages to squint his eyes open through the blaring headache in his skull. What is it with him and head wounds?

"Pete?" He slurs. "Get up...we gotta go." His eyes blink open. Pete's not here—Deadpool's alone. Donkey tits, he's alone in the middle of Old Grave. His flashlight is lying by his head. It flickers as the bulb takes on water. Outside of the dim rays of light, he's left in darkness. Rolling onto his side, he reaches for it.

A blackened foot, skin sloughing off, steps into the dim light.

Not so alone after all.

He rips his mask off, unable to see clearly in the darkness. Wade scrambles back, his movements jerky and awkward as he snatches up the flashlight and reaches for the knife lashed onto his thigh. Jerking his light upwards, the rays meet blind, old eyes. She's a dead one, emaciated and mildewed. The mold grows off her in fuzzy clouds, bobbing with each step.

He's making more than enough noise. She should be on him. He should be dead. Fumbling to a halt, he looks up and watches as she turns, stumbling her way towards some unknown destination. With a grunt, she hits the edge of the lobby counter and stops, fingers spasming along the dirty marble.

Wade takes in a couple of ragged breaths. Looking around, he realizes he's in the lobby. The occupants are, for the most part, unaware of him. The room is dark, dark enough that he's pretty damn positive it is nighttime—a full day, gone. How the hell is he not zombie meat? Well, maybe he shouldn't look too hard into that. A glance outside proves that his fall hasn't gone unheard. More of the undead pile up outside the windows, their bodies so dense they block out the moonlight but for the couple of feet above their heads.

Flashing the light around the room, Wade sees what took him out. A fucking chair leg busted and was standing upright just below the hole Wade had fallen through. It has his brain matter still attached, leaking down the end in big blobs. Even as he watches, a moldy zombie steps into the light. Skeletal hands reach out, fumbling for the bloody brain remnants with weak fingers.

There's something sickeningly fascinating about watching a zombie eat a piece of him. Wade gags, lifting his mask long enough to wipe the blood from his nose before checking the straps to his backpack. Snatching up his other dagger from the ground, he leans over and stabs the fucker through the head, heaving a gasp of relief when it falls over.

Feeling nauseous, Wade rolls over and wretches up what's left of that morning's breakfast. Pop-Tarts and canned peaches. It tastes no better than going down and is muddy with his own blood. He must have swallowed it when unconscious. The silty, dissolved remains of the antibiotic pills swirl in his puke. Gone. Like that. Dozens of them littered the water-soaked ground.

There's not much to do but get off his ass and find some more.

At the head of the lobby, the glass windows creak under the weight of the undead. Wade watches in dawning horror as spidering cracks start to web across the surface, starting in the center and sprawling outward.

Run.

Wade races down the hall, launching himself upstairs as fast as he can. He's off-kilter, his body only half working, and his depth perception off, so he falls more often than not. He needs the higher ground. He needs to get out of here.

He needs medicine.

Wade stumbles to a halt as his flashlight glances off the metal handle of a cart. A medicine cart. It's all he can do to scramble over and force the lock open with the blade of his dagger. It pops open with a creak.

Payload.

There's no time to read, to think around the pulsing slam of his own brain regenerating. With shaking fingers, Wade slides off his bag and forces it open. No time. No time.

The sound of glass shattering explodes from below. The wail of the dead has Wade's chest heaving.

Unthinking, he reaches in and pours the contents into the bag, pills clatter on pills, plastic on plastic. It drives the zombies below crazy. Their screams are blood-curdling as they clamor toward the sound.

Zipping the bag closed, Wade throws it over his shoulder and runs. The rattling of the pills gives him away. There's no changing that. He forces himself up the stairs. Two stories, three stories, until he burst out on the rooftop, feet hitting a flat surface. Slamming the door closed behind him, he looks around. He needs something, anything, to block the door. Metal glints in the dim light. There, half-covered by gravel, is a metal crowbar, maybe a pipe. Dragging it out from the pile of debris, he forces it through the door latch. It's not much, but the bar will have to do.

Pressing his hands to the cold metal, he sags to his knees and tries to catch his breath. He's alone...for now. Sagging against the door, Wade tries to catch his breath. His body shakes with pain. Reaching up, he can feel the open hole of the head wound piercing his skull. It'll heal, but fuck, does it hurt.

He blacks out. He isn't even aware of it happening until he comes to as a zombie slams against the door. The metal door slams against his forehead. The sound is loud enough to draw more of the dead. Wade's heart jolts in his chest, his head throbbing in time with the fearful beat. The sensation is terrifying but so fucking familiar. This is how it was before he found Peter—just surviving, struggling, dying, and coming back—an endless cycle of fear.

Wade's alone on a rooftop, recovering from a lobotomy. He's the most vulnerable he's felt in a long time. And it's dark. It is so dark that if he didn't have his flashlight, he wouldn't be able to see a foot in front of him. Dark enough that if he runs into a horde, he won't know it until they are eating his face.

Focus. Sniffing, Wade wipes at his face, slapping his cheeks to get his head in the game. He doesn't have time to freak out. Peter needs him. Wade has been gone a whole day. Peter's been by himself, sick, scared, alone. Worry is one hell of a motivator.

Alright, first, he needs to shut down the clashing of the pill bottles. If he's going anywhere in the dark, he'd better be silent as a ghost. Behind him, the door slams, a hard shove that strains against the bar holding the handle in place. Wade digs his feet in and shoves back.

With little time, Wade drags his bag off his back and gets to work. There's a lot of useless shit, stuff he has no clue the use of, and other things that are just pointless. The long names are about as helpful as they seemed. What little he knows about medicine is from years ago. Back when he was just some human dipshit, instead of a walking nightmare.

Anti-inflammatories might help, and even vitamins are a godsend when all they eat is canned, expired food. He stoppers up what he can, heaving a sigh of relief when he comes across what he's been searching for. More antibiotics, lots of them. Enough to feed an army of old people. Sufficient to keep Peter alive. It challenges his fucked up brain's dexterity, but he manages to stuff each useful bottle full of a puff of cotton, shaking them carefully to make sure that the pills don't move.

Following what he'd learned a few days ago, Wade tosses the remaining pill bottles into an alleyway, making enough noise to draw any of the stragglers who aren't currently in the building out toward the sound. He watches the zombies chase after the clinking bottles, the bald glow of their scalps glinting under the dim light. The sound isn't much, but it just might be enough. God, he hopes it's enough.

Prowling around the faint edge of the building, it feels like he's in a different world. Everything is so much worse after dark. Sure, he'd been the one to make all those bloody splashes on the street, but at night, that shit looked creepy. He finally found his way around to the side of the building where he'd climbed up. The concrete below is a black pit. There's nothing saying he'll be any safer jumping down here, but the layout is familiar.

Behind him, the door groans, the sharp sound of hinges giving way. Wade jerks his head towards it, watching as the door crumbles to the ground and the horde behind it reaches out into the night.

Yeah, fuck that. Wade's not gonna wait around to be zombie food.

Tightening his grip on the flashlight, he jumps, plowing toward the ground, his arms windmilling to slow his velocity. It doesn't work. He knows it the moment his ass connects with the sidewalk. His ankles snap like twigs and crumble under him the second he meets earth. Wade grunts, gritting his teeth through the pain, moaning deep and low. Fantastic. He crumbles to his hands and knees, breathing through it. He's felt worse. This ain't shit. Still, he's exhausted and at the end of his endurance.

Peter.

Breathing shallowly through the tight confines of his mask, Wade forces himself to his knees and then to his aching, crunchy feet. He's never been so grateful for high-top boots. They hold the gritting bones together as he doubles over, bending to yank the laces in tight, tight enough to get him through this.

Behind him comes an explosive splat of sound. Followed by a raining shower of something wet that splatters across the leather of his uniform. Struggling upright, Wade spins around in time to watch as another body drops from above, reaching for him before it splats to the ground in a bloody shower. Wade backs up, turning his flashlight up to the top of the building. More are coming, leaning over the edge and grasping for him. They screech, alerting others to his presence.

He ignores the pain and runs. Runs like his life depends on it. Like Peter's life depends on it.

Reaching over his head, Wade unsheaths Bea. Gripping her by the hilt and keeping her at the ready as he races down the street. He sees them, the dead, in brief glimpses of hollow skin. He doesn't stay to fight them off, just evades, dodging, jumping, and slashing when he has to. The dark surrounds him, creeping in tight. The howl of the undead chases his heels. Pushing him to run, to keep going even when his legs want to give, and the headache in his skull feels like his brain is falling out through the open wound.

A dark form dives from behind the shadows. There are three, maybe more. Stumbling to a halt, Bea delves into the belly of one, passing through spine and bones like it was nothing more than chalk. He doesn't watch it go down. There's no time. He's too busy cutting down, reaching arms, and snapping teeth. Icy hands grab him from behind.

Wade spins around just in time to watch an arrow fly out of the darkness and delve into the head of the zombie who'd touched him.

Another flies, and then another, raining down upon the horde, unaliving them with quick efficiency. They drop like stones, crumbling at Wade's feet. Wade can't see where they're coming from. Up high, probably. So high that the light of his flashlight can't catch whoever his savior is. He's not gonna say no to a little help, though, so Wade just fights on, hacking and slashing.

Brains and entrails fly, painting a gruesome scene for someone to find in the morning. Wade is fucking Jackson Pollock, and his art is murder. Bea bisects a final victim, sending the different ends over her body, dropping to either side. Wade's chest heaves, his lungs aching for oxygen. His head is screaming, throbbing to the beat of some shit pop song. He looks around, waiting for more to come. They don't. It's as silent as a broken clock. Only the gasping of his lungs interrupts.

A sharp whistle from above has Wade looking up, his arm jerking the flashlight up to glance over the rusted remains of a fire escape. Across broken glass and burned-down storefronts. Then he sees him, a brief flicker of a pale face, high, high above.

Clint Barton. Alive and kicking.

Wade salutes, jerking his arm upward in a sharp gesture of gratitude. That's all he can do. There's nothing else to say. Spinning on his heel, he runs, dashing, racing, through the streets. He doesn't stop until he gets home. Dripping with zombie blood and sweat, he trudges to their door and twists the key in the lock. The door closes softly behind him, and the sound of the world closes off.

The bag of medication drops to the ground. Wade sags with it, leaving behind a smear of blood as his knees give out, dropping his ass to the floor with a muffled thump. He yanks the clasps of his collar open because the catch of fabric on his throat is suffocating and hot. Too damn hot.

Dimly, Wade stares down at his hands. His fingers tremble uncontrollably, fear, brain damage, he's not sure why. It doesn't really matter. Sagging forward, he rests his head on his knees and just tries to breathe.

He can't bring himself to be ashamed when the tears come dripping down his cheeks.

Fuck... he's tired.

Peter's muffled wails reach him from the other side of the bedroom door. They draw him out of his exhausted stupor, forcing him to sit up, to think, and pay attention. Dragging his sorry ass upright is just as tiring as he expected. Groaning, Wade sways in place, his head spinning. Priorities. He's got a spider that needs saving. Bending down, he snags one strap of his backpack and drags his sorry self toward the bathroom.

Chapter 16: Fighting the Infection

The bathroom walls flicker with the contained glow of a battery-powered lantern. It shines a dim, golden light across the room, the battery flashing from being on all day and part of the night. The first thing he sees upon entering the bathroom is the glaring squint of eyes peering out from the seal of duct tape on Peter's lips. Jesus Christ, he's never been so fucking relieved to see a pissed-off Peter Parker in his whole goddamn life. Holding his hands up in surrender, he crosses into the crabby spider's domain, putting on the biggest apologetic frown he can so it will show through his mask. It is probably best to grovel now and get it over with.

"Hey, Princess," Wade whispers, tossing his bag by the door frame so he can slip into the bathroom unhindered. "You look like shit." Peter snarls behind the duct tape, his good hand flips Wade off despite the duct tape restraining his wrists. Good to know Peter still has some spunk in him. Maybe not the most tactical move, though.

"Hey now, that's no way to treat your knight in shining armor."

In response, Peter raises his second middle finger, giving Wade the double bird.

"Okay, okay! Calm down, and don't kill me." Wade held his hands up higher. "Or at least wait until I fix your arm?"

Peter snarls something into the tape covering his mouth, eyes narrowing down to red, puffy slits. He looks fevered, in pain, and above all, murderous. In any other situation, Wade would have found that hot as fuck. Now though? He's just grateful his boyfriend is alive and has enough energy to be a dick. Which sucks, but that's what Wade is here for. Kicking ass and saving Peter Fucking Parker.

"I'm gonna come in." Slipping the flashlight free from his pocket, he uses it to see better since the lantern's dim, failing light isn't much to go by. "I'm approaching the wild Petercus Parkicus." Stepping into the tub, his boots shimmy into the space on either side of Peter's thighs, leaving muddy prints along the bottom of the bathtub.

Peter's eyebrow raises, and he groans, thumbing his head back against the tub wall as if to say.

"Can we hurry the hell up?"

Wade grins behind his mask. Physically, he's feeling better. The ache in his head is nothing but a splinter of pain in his right temple that's probably more psychological than real at this point. He doesn't even sway when he crouches down, shining his flashlight over Peter's sweat-stained clothes and the pale expanse of his throat, where his pulse jumps against his neck. Peter's face is gaunt and sickly, except for the large knot that Wade knocked on the side of his head that morning. That is now a big fucking bruise, blood already pooling downward to give him a black eye.

"That has to hurt," Wade admits, feeling only a little guilty, as he shines the light over the injured flesh. Peter rolls his eyes and mutters something that sounds like.

"You think?"

"Don't take that tone with me, prissy tights." Wade turns Peter's head to the left, then to the right. The bruise is already greening up, which means that at least some of Peter's healing factor is jumping into gear. Good, maybe it'll kick-start the healing process in his shoulder.

That morning, Wade had made a conscious decision not to tie Peter up. Doing that would have made him the equivalent of a Thanksgiving turkey, ready to be eaten, especially if their building was overtaken. But he did duct tape him up and gag him. Not because he thought that the tape would provide any sort of obstacle for Peter to get out of, more than that, he was hoping it would at least give Peter pause before he tried to rip off the gag. If Peter really wanted to, he could shred through the duct tape like toilet paper. It seemed to have worked. Thank fuck.

Yanking off his gloves, he unsheaths one of his knives from his thigh, double checks it's not covered in zombie's guts, and cuts the rounds of duct tape that span Peter's wrists. He's careful not to nick any skin. His blades are sharp, and he wouldn't want Peter bleeding on top of everything else. Peeling the tape off Peter's wrists, he gives each one a gentle massage to ease the circulation back into his icy fingers. Peter curses some more, this time using actual words. His eyes roll back in his head when Wade handles the hand that's attached to his injured shoulder.

"Easy, easy..." Wade whispers, elevating Peter's hurt arm so he could cradle it against his chest. Peter nods, breathing hard through his nose, sharp puffs of air blowing strands of his hair everywhere.

Next is the worst part. Wade mentally prepares himself before taking up the edge of the duct tape on Peter's mouth and peeling it off, very, very, carefully. Peter scrunches up his face, grimacing, and then gasps in a deep breath through parted lips that still have the sticky remnants of adhesive on them.

"Come on then, let's hear it." But, surprisingly, Peter doesn't say a thing. His mouth is pursed into that sullen mumu face he makes whenever he's upset about something, his fever-filled eyes look over Wade, in a slow, searching once-over, lingering on Wade's head, where he's probably covered in blood, with a hole the size of a chair leg ripped through the temple of his mask.

"You look like shit too," He finally croaks. It's so good hearing his voice that Wade can't even deny the words. He chuckles out an exhausted, watery sound that might have had a hint of tears in it if he weren't such a tough son of a bitch.

"I know. We're a matching pair." Wade can't help but smile. Peter's okay. He's alert, breathing, and mouthy as usual. "Come here, kid." Wade pulls his mask up high enough to uncover his lips, then leans forward to press a soft kiss to Peter's mouth. His hands shake where they wrap around pale, sweaty cheeks, but he doesn't care. Peter whimpers, closing his eyes and leaning up enough to kiss him back. His good hand is just as shaky when it presses to Wade's neck, giving him a reassuring squeeze as they remind each other that they are both alive. Together.

"What'd you do?" Peter asks, his fingers pulling at the ripped leather of Wade's mask. "Take a spike to the head?" Shrewd little fucker.

"Something like that." Wade rolls his eyes. Yeah, not a memory he wants to rehash.

He distracts himself by peeling back Peter's sweater to take a peek at the bandages underneath. Fingers moving careful as he can be, he examines the wound. The smell coming off it is tough to handle. Sickness and rot. He isn't sure if any of the shit he got will help. He's not a fucking doctor. Unless a PhD. in Asskicking was good enough to qualify for the title. He usually killed things, killed things deader than dead. He did not heal them. Cradling Peter's head, he helps the other man slowly sit upright, avoiding all the painful bits. He can do this. Right?

"You hit me on the head," Peter complains, giving Wade a weak shove.

"Yeah, well, you weren't exactly coherent. And I had to get medicine." Wade explains as he loops his other arms under Pete's knees.

"You also tied me up and shoved me in a bathtub. That's some creeper vibes, Pool." Peter grumbles, more like croaks, his voice ragged from disuse.

"Creeper is my middle name." Wade grins his most charming grin. He ain't apologizing for knocking the kid out. That'd been all he could think of at the time. And look, they are both alive, so the risk has paid off. Especially as Peter wraps his good arm around his shoulders, the weight of him, and the familiar stick of his fingers where they grip on leather, is reassurance at its best.

Adjusting his grip, Wade hauls Peter upward. He's light. Even so, Wade has some concerns. The main one is, don't drop Peter. Peter moans in protest as he's jostled upright. Then lets out a loud shout of pain as Wade lifts him, settling his skinny body against the hard lines of Wade's chest. The sound is way too loud. Wade muffles Pete's face into the thick column of his neck and rocks him for a moment until the sounds drift off into whimpers.

"Shit, sorry, sorry." Peter gasps once he can catch his breath again.

"You need to stay quiet, babe. Can you do that for me?" Wade asks, his voice a soft, barely-there whisper in the silence that follows. He listens but can't tell if anything is drawn to the sound. Peter takes a moment but nods, his breath wheezing aggressively out of his snotty nose. Yeah, he's got this. The kid's a tough little fucker.

Their bedroom is nipple-clenching cold compared to the closed-in bathroom. Peter takes to shivering immediately. Wade just bears it. The mattress he'd used to block the door is back in its rightful place. The sheets are messed up, but it's not like they are at the Hilton. Room service isn't coming to fix the bed anytime soon. So Wade eases Peter into the mattress, grinning as he immediately goes for the covers, dragging them up over his knees and waist.

"Don't start hibernating yet. I want that sweater off." Wade whispers, pressing a kiss to the hot expanse of Peter's forehead. He shouldn't have bothered. Peter shoots him a glare and turns himself into a damn burrito, only his face showing through the layers of fabric.

"Brat." Standing up, Wade heads over to the window and peers through the slits in the cardboard boxes, watching to make sure nothing outside hears Peter's distressed sounds.

Outside, there's a small gathering of the dead, but they don't seem to have a destination in mind. They're stumbling along in semi-darkness, no visible prey in sight. Muttering under his breath, Wade prowls in front of the window, watching for any other movement in the darkness. He can see the sky is starting to lighten, the sun sneaking its way upward, though sunrise is still a few hours away. Clouds are building again. It looks like they are going to be in for another storm. The icy chill in the air tells him it's gonna be messy.

Silence, but for Peter's soft sounds and pained inhales. Well, that's something. Their luck is shit, but not getting overrun by zombies shit. A glance over his shoulder shows Peter is already asleep, his head lolls to the side, and what can be seen of his mouth is gaping open so he can breathe past his congested nose. He looks adorable. Beautiful despite the red-rimmed eyes and the dry lips.

Leaving Pete be for the moment, Wade turns away from the window. His boy is okay and seems in no immediate danger of bringing the horde down on them. Wade stalks back towards the bathroom, his feet barely whispering on the ground, despite his size. He needs to shower and wash off the zombie on him before he thinks about handling that wound.

Kicking off his boots, he undresses himself with military efficiency, ditching his blood-stained uniform on the ground so he can repair it some other time. He will need to find some leather to fix the damage to his mask, but that'll come later. For now, it is enough just to shove it aside, even if the smear of blood it left behind is enough to make him grimace.

With one ear perked for sounds from the Peter department, Wade steps into the shower and pulls the stopper in the rain catch.

The water is freezing, jolting down his neck and spewing over him. Clutching his gonads for dear life, Wade fights through the initial shock enough to start scrubbing. Dried blood colors the water brown, pooling around his feet before draining into the pipes. He works fast. There is no telling when Peter will wake up or if he'll fall back into the fever and start losing it again.

Taking up a towel, he scrubs vigorously at the dips and lumps of his skin, working the soap into every crevice. Especially his hands, those he spends the longest time on, holding them up to the beam of the flashlight to make sure they are as clean as a baby at a baptism. Outside the door, Peter moans. Wade looks himself over. He's clean, glacier cold, but clean. Plugging up the stopper, he takes a moment to make sure it isn't leaking.

A sweater and a set of joggers later, Wade settles down cross-legged on the bed. His bag is to one side, a bottle of water to the other. It's time to play doctor.

"Pete, you wanna wake up?" Wade asks, peeling the blankets off his head so he can get a look at those pretty eyes. Peter groans groggily, shivering when his fevered skin is exposed to the icy air.

"Shit...it's fucking cold." Peter groans, leaning into Wade's palm as he brushes soggy hair back off his forehead. Wade tries to be gentle about it, drawing Peter back to reality with a slow caress. When those honey-colored peepers open, Wade offers him a bottle of water.

"Drink up. I have some medicine for you." Wade commands, watching him gulp down the bottle with desperate pulls of his throat.

Turning to the bag, Wade digs in, hunting for the bottle of antibiotics. The dosage instructions indicate that one pill should be given every twelve hours. Wade calls bullshit on that. Superhero powers equal superhero immune systems, so he pours four out into his palm. Doing something similar with the painkillers and the anti-inflammatories. He adds in a couple of extra things that he thinks might help. Soon, he's got a cocktail of feel-good pills in his hand. He's never felt more like a pharmacist, as he offers them on over, holding out his palm so Pete can take them.

"Ugh, why so many?" Peter whispers, taking a couple and swallowing them down with a gulp of water.

"'Cause you're special. Too bad I don't have that cocaine from my old stash."

Peter chokes on his water, raising an eyebrow in Wade's direction.

"I'm not taking cocaine, Wade." He purses his lips, prissy as usual. Wade doesn't bother feeling ashamed. He's no saint. That's half the reason Pete had been attracted to him all those years ago. Every American hero dipped their stick in crazy at one time or another. Batman and Ivy, Batman and Catwoman...mostly Batman, if he's honest. But that was another universe, wasn't it? He'd have to think harder to get something Marvel-related.

"Fine, mister goodie-two-shoes. But you are taking these." Wade drops the last couple of pills into Peter's open palm, feeling way more proud than he probably should when Peter swallows up the rest of them.

"DAREDEVIL AND ELEKTRA!" Ha! He knew he'd figure one out sooner or later. Peter sucks down the last of his water but otherwise doesn't comment on the outburst. He's unimpressed, as usual. Damn.

"Right, time to clean up that pus factory on your shoulder."

"Nah, take your time," Peter mocks, shoving the empty bottle of water so it crumbles against Wade's forehead. "Just sitting here, listening to your nonsense."

"Spidey's a dick," Wade grumbles, but he gets the hint, settling down enough to work.

Cleaning Peter's wound is a bitch and a half. His shirt has to be cut off because the inflammation has become so bad that neither one of them is sure Peter can even lift his arm. Underneath, the bandages are crusty and seeping with infection.

"I liked that shirt," Peter grumbles, picking at the torn fabric where it hangs off one shoulder. He is doing his best to look anywhere but at his shoulder. It is nasty, as in World War II trenches nasty. How it'd gotten this bad, Wade isn't sure. Wade had just cleaned it that morning, or tried to. He'd been in a hurry, honestly.

"I'll get you a new one," Wade offers as he straddles Peter's waist so he can work on the injury. He's sure he's seen a similar sweater in one of the abandoned shopping centers. There's no lack of clothing at the end of the world.

Peering at the wound, he leans in close. His flashlight clenches between his lips, so he has both hands free to work. He's on the hunt, checking for fabric pieces or anything else that might be contributing to the cesspool-like condition of the arrow wound.

Peter is high as a kite on painkillers and maybe a couple of Xanax. Yeah, Wade had snuck those in, but Peter could use a little calm in his life right now. Plus, he was hoping it might make it easier to work on him.

"You look good with that in your mouth," Peter whispers, drowsily flicking his fingers at the flashlight's metal rod. Turns out, Xanax makes Peter easy. Wade rolls his eyes. Peter sticks his tongue into the corner of his cheek, poking it against the skin in an obscene gesture—dirty, kinky brat. As if to prove his point, Peter's fingers wrapped around the flashlight, thrusting it into the hollow of Wade's mouth. Wade chokes, laughing and jerking his head back.

"Peter..." Wade admonished.

"Wade...." Peter slurs, pouting in disappointment when Wade just takes the flashlight back.

"Let me work, you dirty slut. I'm almost done, and you need to sleep. You should already be asleep. I pretty much gave you the Saturday night special of cocktails." Wade grumbles, popping the flashlight back in his mouth and capturing Pete's good hand by tucking it under his thigh. He jumps when Peter pinches him hard, where his fingers are trapped against Wade's leg.

It's only when he finishes up with Peter's front and begins to work on the other side of the wound that he finds what might be the source of the problem. A dark, blood-soaked splinter of wood, buried into the meat of Peter's shoulder and barely visible where it is implanted in the flesh. Taking his tweezers, Wade digs into the flesh, picking bits of it away so he can get to the splinter underneath. Peter is doubled over on a pillow, biting into the soft fabric. He's about as aware as a pinky toe. The amount of drool on his pillow is growing by the minute. He's tired and in pain, but he doesn't seem to be suffering too much, or at least he can't vocalize if he is, which is about as good as it gets when doing a medical procedure in the middle of the zombie apocalypse.

He's managed to stay quiet so far, but he just about gives in to the pain when Wade's forced to go hunting deeper. His moans are muffled into the depths of his pillow, his fingers digging crescents into the meat of Wade's thighs. With a soft schlick, the splinter pulls free. Thank fuck. Peter gasps in relief, Wade just about leaps for joy, but he's stopped by the putrid smell that comes with it.

"Yup, that's the problem child." He declared, holding the fragment up to the light with one hand. His other hand absently gives Peter a soothing rub to his lower back. The wood is soggy and black. It doesn't look like it came from the arrow either—some sort of debris caught up in the crossfire, probably.

"One more time with the alcohol," Wade whispers, setting the tweezers aside and grabbing the bottle. It's actual alcohol this time, the isopropyl variety, not the vodka kind. It even has a convenient little nozzle that fits right into arrow wounds. Peter does scream at that. The sound muffled in the pillow, thank fuck. Quickly, before Pete has time to really think about it, he switches the bottle to the other side and flushes out the wound there, a towel collecting the vicious, polluted pus that is released.

By the time he's done, Peter's a sloppy, sobbing mess. No amount of painkillers and downers could make a dent in the amount of pain he is feeling. Wade can't wait for it to be over. He's tired of making Pete suffer, even if it's for his own good. Giving the injury one more look, he doesn't see any more debris. Whatever is left has hopefully been flushed out.

"Should I sew it up?" Wade asks, dabbing at the wounds with a set of clean bandages. It's the whitest white he's seen in a long time. Perfectly pristine, until Peter's bloodstains them. Peter shakes his head, wiping his face off on the musty pillowcase before answering.

"Nuh-uh...just wrap it up. The stitches will pop if the infection gets worse. It'll need to drain." He explains, his voice slurred. Wade thinks he probably knows what he's talking about.

Thank fuck for that. Wade's ready to give up and call it a day. He's more than happy to break out more bandages and tape him up.

Manhandling it around Peter's shoulders and upper waist so the bandages will stay in place. Sitting back, he eyes his handiwork. It's a shit job, the bandages are a sloppy mess, but it's honestly the best he can do. He's put out, and so is Pete.

Wade picks up their mess and tosses it to the ground as he considers his next move. It's cold. Peter's skin has goosebumps, but there's no way they're getting him into a new shirt tonight—Peter shivers, muscles tense from trying not to jostle his shoulder.

"Come on." Settling onto the bed, Wade pulls Peter onto his lap. Peter sighs, sinking against his warm chest with a content sound. Wade's body heat is enough to stave off the shivers that rack through Peter's body. Wade takes his time tucking them both into their huddle of blankets, burying them under the covers until the warmth of their breath fills up the space underneath, and they are snuggled and warm. It feels good just to rest and know that everything will be alright.

Well, for now, anyway, he's not sure what's going to happen in the next chapter. Either way, shit's starting to look up.

Long after Peter falls asleep, Wade stays awake, listening to the incoming dawn. The broken, muffled shrieks of the undead and the lonely whistle of a storm coming in.

 

Notes:

Oh my gosh, I'm at 1,000 hits. Thanks so much, everyone, for reading. Hope you enjoy this tidbit of Wade caring for Peter. He needs it.

Chapter 17: The Little Things

Peter climbs up the rusted-out exterior of an old school bus. His movements are awkward and almost clumsy. His arm is up in a makeshift sling, and it's challenging for him to move right, half-tied up like that. Sticky little fucker that he is, he still is one arm down.

The massive hunk of rotting metal that is the school bus had been flipped on its side during the evac, the front engine crushed, the back more or less completely intact. The tires are melted from a fire of some sort. One wheel spins idly in the air, squeaking softly from the rough breeze that cuts through the street. Other signs point to what had taken the bus down. The asphalt still has tire marks across the rocky surface. There are even a couple of deep impact marks at the front end that mirrored the crushed side of a rolled-over taxi down the street.

For once, Peter's not wearing the Spidey uniform. The tight-fitting material is impossible to wear when injured. Instead, he's in a ball-bouncing set of pink yoga pants with the words 'Juicy' on the ass and a sweater thick enough to drown in. His feet are naked as they cling to the front end of the bus. They're bare for traction since the rubber of his boots is too thick for him to cling through. His toes are tense, where they cling to the metal, and red from the cold. Wade is carrying his boots. They hang off of Arthur's hilt, where she's sheathed on his back, the rubber kicking his shoulder blades with every movement.

Wade leans forward, one hand cupping a perfect little lump of an ass cheek in an attempt to help Peter stay balanced. He's warm and fits perfectly against the round of Wade's palm. Wade is only being helpful, honest.

"My humps, my humps, my lovely lady lumps." Wade sings under his breath. He can practically feel Peter rolling his eyes.

"You're such an idiot," Peter whispers, the rusty metal squeaking under his feet as he hauls himself up over the edge, turning around to offer his hand when he finally makes it onto the top of the overturned bus. The wind catches in his hair, doing some romantic bullshit that makes Wade just want to watch him and go gaga over the fact that this man is his. He's feeling emotional. What can he say? He'd almost lost the little shit only a few days ago.

"You're making me blush." Wade takes the offered hand, but there's no way he's gonna let Pete pull his weight. Not with the way he's still favoring his shoulder. Thighs bunching, Wade digs his fingers into a busted headlight and jumps the last few feet, landing soundlessly on the golden yellow siding of the bus. Up here, the metal looks significantly rustier than it did from below. The lettering on the side reads Cons lidated Bus Transit. Wade scuffs his shoe against the 'o' until the words are complete.

The windows are almost completely coated with dust and debris. Lucky for them, not a one of them is broken, not even the windshield. It's a fucking treasure trove, if only they can get in. Peter murmurs a soft sound of appreciation, probably thinking the same thing. He drops to his knees to wipe away the residue on the window and peer inside. Neither one of them pays attention to the dust. Peter's already as dirty as a hobo in mid-July, his yoga pants dusted with ash, his face stained from dirt. Wade gives him his space. The mid-afternoon adventure had been his idea, after all.

Three days of being cooped up indoors, and Peter had been literally crawling up the walls, pissed off and whining about everything from the way Wade made the rice to how he breathed. Wade put up with it because this is Peter, and he had just been through fucking hell. He deserved the right to bitch about how moldy the newspaper lining the walls was getting. Wade was just happy when the hallucinations stopped, and he finally could eat on his own.

It didn't mean they both weren't relieved off their rockers when Pete recovered enough to take an afternoon stroll. Whoever came up with the name Spiderman should have noticed the kid had a hefty dose of Labrador in him, too. It was like leashing a puppy with ADHD. Peter had pretty much vaulted out the door when Wade suggested they go for a walk.

Turning on his boot heel, Wade kept cautious watch over his still-injured boyfriend, his lips thin with distrust. He eyes the skyline and down each side of the deserted street. Now that he knows there were other survivors out there, and worse yet, survivors with a grudge, he isn't going to let his guard down again. Sure, he is tired, exhausted, actually. He hasn't slept a wink since Peter was hurt, but he's going to kick ass until the day he dies because Peter needs him.

'Hurry it up, kid.' He signs, kicking Peter's bare foot to get his attention. Across the way, he spots a rogue zombie coming down the street. Rubbing at one sleepy, gritty eye, Wade unclips his gun from its holster and unsheaths Bea from his back. Peter nods, bending down to examine the window clamps. Wade lets him do his thing. He's probably been in more buses than Wade ever has, even if those days are long since over. Wade hadn't known Pete when he was a dweeby high schooler with pimples, but he could imagine it.

Through sheer force, Peter manages to wedge the fingers of his good hand into the crack of a window and, very slowly, bears down. The plastic latches give way before he breaks a sweat. Peter grins, his teeth shining in the grey afternoon light. Wade smiles back, watching as he yanks the window down, then drops to his belly so he can look inside. His head disappears into the darkness below, a soft sound of interest leaving his throat. Everything seems to check out because a moment later, he's making like a fucking squirrel and shimmying his skinny ass down into the hole.

Wade half expects there to be the sound of fighting or the rumble of the undead. It stays quiet until a sound from the front of the bus has Wade spinning around.

Peter peeks out from the gap of the open bus door. He's grinning and waves Wade over.

' Come on.'

Wade walks back towards the front of the bus and the open doorway, sheathing his weapons, and peeks down into the dark depths. He can't see very well, not with the sun blinding him. Sitting down on his ass, the leather of his uniform catches on rusty metal, and then he's dropping down, thighs bouncing off of old upholstery, boots scraping through broken glass. Ducking down, his eyes adjust to the dim light. It's a mess of glass and litter. The windows on the side of the bus that meet the pavement are pretty much crushed, but for one or two stray survivors. There's dust everywhere, motes swaying in the stale air as they move with the breeze from the open window.

Peter leans around him, pressing close to pull the lever for the door closed. He's probably getting a rank whiff of B.O. right now. They haven't had a shower in days.

"What do you think?" Peter whispers, backing up a few steps to give Wade room to walk. He shifts gingerly over the broken glass, his bare toes nudging through the detritus to find a comfortable spot. Wade tosses Peter his shoes, crouching down to walk further into the bus. It's small and crowded, with everything flipped sideways: the roof on his left and the seats on his right. The bus is meant for kids, not full-grown adults with bigger muscles than some ten-year-olds.

It's been untouched by time, other than some sun damage on the fake leather. There are yellowing school assignments on the ground and backpacks left behind, forgotten. There are no bodies, no blood, and no signs of attack. Whatever had happened here, it hadn't been a massacre.

Bending down, Peter snatches up a backpack and unzips it. He shakes out a couple of notebooks, flipping through them idly. There isn't much entertainment these days, so Wade leaves him to it, ducking past him to explore the rest of the bus. Quietly, Wade starts gathering up the backpacks, shoving them into a pile at the back of the bus, where the handicap spot gives them the most room to move. A peek outside through the back door shows the same old miserable, barren street they'd been traveling down earlier.

Peter sees what he is doing and helps out, dragging over a duffel bag and a purse. Lying out a fire blanket on the ground, Wade settles down for the long haul. Looting is tough work, and he'd rather be comfortable doing it than have a shard of tempered glass shove itself up his rectum. Everything is filthy and dusty, so much so that Wade's sneezing into his arm sleeve, eyes watering, nose running. He tries to muffle the sound, but Peter's still giving him an uncomfortable look, peering out the back door to make certain they haven't drawn any unwanted attention.

To be on the safe side, Peter stands up on tiptoe and slides the window he'd slipped in through closed.

Together, they dig in. A lot of it is just useless shit from a simpler time. Books, pens, highlighters, tablets, and laptops. There's no need for electric shit now. The batteries are long past drained. Peter collects them anyway. He's had the idea of creating a power source, but it's mostly just resulted in a closet full of used batteries.

Hidden among all the useless trash, there is good stuff too.

"Nice!" Peter waves a package of meat sticks in his face, holding them up to the light to check for mold. It's processed shit, which is good as it gets these days. God Bless America. Wade will take it. Some of the other food isn't exactly edible. The smells are fucking hideous. Who knew an almost four-year-old ham sandwich could smell like rotten eggs?

Other stuff is just fucking awesome. Chips, moist towelettes, floss, deodorant. Some of it is used and dried out, but a little bit of water will fix that right up. A bottle of Midol goes down Peter's throat, and he glugs the pills down with their own personal stash of water. Wade watches his throat work, for once not thinking of perverted shit, just pleased to see him alive and well.

Then they hit payload. Solid fucking gold.

Chocolate.

Wade stares at the familiar brown package, mouth-watering. That bar used to cost maybe a buck and a half. Now it's priceless. He hasn't had chocolate in what feels like a decade, though it's not even been half as long. There's no waiting to get home for that, no fucking way.

"Oh, come to papa, you filthy slut." Wade groans, snatching the package out of Peter's hands. Peter doesn't protest. His eyes are big, and he looks like a lost little street urchin, eager and hungry. Please, sir, can I have some more? This sort of discovery deserves clean fingers, so Wade breaks out the moist towelettes and rehydrates them with some water. Peter follows his cue, holding out his dust-stained hand so that Wade can wipe it clean. There's something warm and intimate about that. Sitting together, the quiet is broken only by their breathing and thoroughly wiping at a day's worth of grime until he reveals pale, calloused skin underneath. Wade takes care to get under each fingernail. No way is a stray grit of sand ruining this moment for them.

Carefully, quietly, Wade peels back the wrapper, his fingers trembling. The sweet, rich scent of chocolate hits his nose, clearing out the smell of dust and rotten food. The bar itself is graying with age and slightly brittle. As imperfect as it is, it doesn't matter.

He'd never had a hard-on for chocolate before. And fuck him if he doesn't orgasm right then and there.

"Stop molesting it with your eyes and give me a piece." Peter moans. His voice, barely a whisper. Wade throws up a finger but complies, taking the bar in hand to gently break it at the seams. Careful as he is, the chocolate is too brittle. It crumbles, and there's really nothing to do about it but pour them each a palmful. Not that the small pile lasts long, Wade ends up just shoveling a couple of bites into his mouth hole.

Nirvana. Straight fucking heaven. Wade doesn't want to swallow. He sucks on it, rolling the flavor around on his tongue like he sees Peter do.

The sounds Peter makes should be labeled as explicit. Peter sighs happily, cheeking his piece, and sucks on it contentedly. He rocks in place, eyes closing so he can cherish the sweet bite piece by piece. He looks so fucking good. Wade can't help but reach out and yank him in for a kiss. Clean fingers catch on the scars of his cheek, digging into the seam of Wade's lips. Wade gives in to his unspoken demand. Hot and hard, their tongues tangle together, chasing that last rich taste. It's perfect and filthy. Peter gasps, soft and sweet, only breaking away when he's breathless. Laughing softly, he shoves Wade away, his eyes hooded, his lips glossy with spit. Wade pouts, still hungry for more, but he can't complain.

Moments like these make life so totally worth living.

Returning to their search, they decide to save the rest of the chocolate. Probably for the best, the sugar is making Wade's head hurt. The soft swish of zippers fills the silence, lost in the susurrus of the wind billowing outside. Wade watches out the back door. Whirls of black ash obscure and blow past their little hiding spot, the swaying motion urging his sleepy eyes closed. He blinks, shaking his head and focusing on the task at hand.

It's maybe halfway through the fifth backpack that Peter tenses, his head jerking up to look towards the front of the bus. He signals for silence, his lips thinning down to a tense line. Wade tenses, too, eyes narrowing. Then he hears it. The soft shuffle of feet. Lots of feet. Leaning around the edge of a bus bench, he peers out through the cracked glass of the front window. The dark stain of dozens of legs blocks out that side of the street. Shuffling. Moaning. He reaches for his katana, moving to get up.

Peter grips his shoulder, squeezing Wade's arm and shaking his head.

'No. Too many.' With slow, careful movements, Peter shifts closer to Wade, crawling until he's hidden away from sight by the thick wall of the bus bench. His head ends up resting on Wade's chest, his injured arm nestled in the crook of space between them. Wade lays his gun down by his thigh, at the ready. His blade is well within reach. Together, they share a meat stick, the sound of their chewing drowned out by the thumping of feet. They settle down, eyes watchful as the horde wraps around the back of the bus, unaware of the meal hiding within. Wade narrows his eyes, waiting, watching, for that one zombie that decides to look back, to bring the horde down upon them.

It never happens.

Notes:

Here's a little moment shared between our two boys. I hope you enjoy! Comments are loved!

Chapter 18: A Fleeting Hope

Wade curls up on the hard, lumpy foam of their sofa, a can of tuna in one hand, a plastic fork with a missing prong in the other. It's late, maybe mid-afternoon, but there's not much to do. They have enough food to last a couple of days, thanks to their scavenging mission a few days before. There's nothing to repair, no water to gather, or zombies to hunt. So he just stares, waves of exhaustion rolling over him.

"When's the last time you slept?" Peter's voice jolts Wade out from whatever fog he's been stewing in. His words are quiet, soft, and groggy from the low-grade fever he's still sporting. Even so, it's the loudest thing Wade's heard all morning. So he jumps, almost dropping the can of tuna in his hands onto the floor.

"I dunno, babe. I don't want to sleep." Wade admits, closing his eyes. It's easier to say against the quiet of the inside of his eyelids.

Peter reaches out, steadying his grip, and gently takes the can from Wade's hands. The concern in his eyes is sickening, but somehow gives Wade the warm and fuzzies. Even more so when Peter reaches out, his palm sliding across the swell of Wade's scarred cheek. Fucking paradise. Peter is warm and alive. His fingers stick and cling to Wade's skin, the soft jump of his pulse flutters against Wade's chin. It's like living through a miracle. Just days ago, he'd been sure Peter was going to be a goner.

Peter sighs, his thumb dragging under Wade's eyelid, seeking out the dark circles there.

"Why? You're so different since...you know...since you made the medicine run."

Wade hasn't told him, won't tell him, about the near undead experience, about the stake to the skull and the run for his life. He can't talk about it, but it haunts him. The memory of being alone. Again. It sucked, not just a little, but a hell of a lot. He didn't know if he'd be able to cope if he lost Peter again. Not if the other day was anything to go by.

The problem is that he's become spoiled with Peter around. The thought of being alone had been...sobering. Episode triggering, too, apparently. His fucking brain is pulling weak shit. Ain't nothing to do about it either. Just ride it out and hope he gets some sort of revelation. It's not like there's a buttload of therapists just sitting around at the end of the world. Not that anyone would want to dip their hands into Wade's crazy gray matter.

Even though Peter is doing better now, his head won't let the niggling worry go. Pete's got a whole pharmacy running through his veins, enough painkillers and antibiotics to treat a horse. His arm is healing up nicely. Maybe there's still some internal damage, but they took off the bandages yesterday, so the outward signs are almost gone. He still holds it like it's tender, and the sling Wade made for him comes out every once in a while, whenever he gets too tired of babying the injury by holding his arm up.

It's good to see him aware and moving. It was even better to go out and scavenge with the kid. Reminding himself of that doesn't change whatever headspace Wade is in, but it helps.

"Wade? DP?" Peter pats his cheek, trying to drag him back out of whatever fog his fucking head is making.

"I don't want to talk about it..." Snatching up his tuna again, Wade swallows down a bit to occupy himself somehow.

"I know, it's just..." Peter sighs, "We'll get through this, together. I'm with you to the moon and back, I promise."

Wade knows what Pete really means. He doesn't have to speak the three words out loud. I love you. That's what Peter is trying to say, even if he doesn't have the ability to say it out loud. Wade chuckles, and maybe the sound isn't exactly bubbly and carefree, but it does the job of erasing the wrinkle of worry on Peter's forehead and the pout from his lips. Leaning forward, Wade steals a kiss. Peter hums a drowsy, content sound, leaning in for another.

"Ick...fish breath." He wrinkles his nose. Then softer, his eyes going distant and dark. "What is that?"

"What?" Wade sits up straight, watching Peter for a cue on whether they need to pick up and run. Hit the road, get out of dodge.

Peter turns his head west. His eyes stare vacantly like he might be able to see through the apartment wall if he tried hard enough. Wade follows his gaze, his own heart kicking into high gear, his hands automatically reaching for his katanas, even though they are currently tossed on the couch and a good ten feet away.

It starts quietly. A soft droning sound neither of them can quite put their finger on. Pete's Spidey senses are on high alert. Wade can tell in the way his shoulders tense, the hairs on the back of his neck rising visibly. Whatever he's sensing, it has him rising to his feet. Wade's only seconds behind, scrambling upright and heading over to the window to look out the only hole in the cardboard.

That's when he sees it. Something is flying in the distance. A dark shape that Wade hasn't seen since The End. It's been so long that he doesn't even have a name for it at first. Then it gets closer. The high-pitched pphhphhhphh of chopper blades slicing the air. The mean whine of an engine. It's been years, but Wade knows that sound anywhere.

Helicopter.

His tuna can falls to the ground, and he's racing out the door. Pete follows fast behind. Bare feet hitting against the dirty concrete just outside their apartment door.

The fuck? Wade mouths, Peter's giving him a similar look of dismay. Thank God they are on the top floor of their apartment building. Racing up the stairwell to the roof, they try to be quiet, to rush as soundlessly as possible. Peter diverts around him, taking to the walls to climb up the stairwell that way. He gets to the doors and works at the wood bar holding it in place. With a grunt, it comes undone. Together, they step out into the late afternoon air and look up towards the sky.

There it is, a helicopter, riding in the clouds like it's just another fine ass day. It zips past, already a block away by the time they step out onto the roof and scramble around the buckets lining the ground. Wade can feel the energy of the blades slicing the air, vibrating against his eardrums like some alien call.

They just miss it, but neither can take their eyes off the hunk of flying metal as it flies overhead. They watched, stunned. It is the first time they've seen something like this in years. And it doesn't fail to enter Wade's mind what this could mean. It's a fucking miracle. If there's one, there has to be more, and if there's more...maybe there's safety, somewhere out there. There's the chance they can even hitch a ride out of this hellhole. What that helicopter brings is...hope.

There's something emblazoned on its side, a familiar logo. The icy wind whips the air from Wade's mouth, dragging it away.

"Is that...?" Wade questions.

"It's a fucking SHIELD helicopter." Peter hisses, his hand coming up to cover his eyes so he can better see as it cuts through the sky. His injured arm wraps around his middle, trying to keep in some sort of warmth against the invasive chill. "It's heading towards Old Grave-"

Yeah, that makes Wade's balls shrink up somewhere high up in his body cavity with dread. It's headed towards Old Grave. Towards a certain fucking blazing glory of death. That is Hulk territory.

Peter comes to the same conclusion.

"Fuck, we gotta warn them!" He makes to leap off the building, his honey-toned eyes wide with worry, his legs moving remarkably fast for someone up to his eyeballs on painkillers.

"No, your arm!" Wade snarls, his mind repeating that moment where Peter plummeted from the sky, his injured muscles unable to carry his weight. They're up high, too high for Wade to be able to pull some magic trick out of his ass and save the kid again. If he fell, they would both end up a stain on the concrete below, and only Wade would come back from that. Peter and his fucking martyr complex, how he could still find ways to activate it at the end of the world, was beyond Wade's comprehension.

Wade gives chase, just barely getting there in time to wrap his arms around the other man's waist and yank him back from the edge of the building, hard enough that they both land on their asses. He does his best to cradle the fall, taking the brunt of Peter's weight. Gravel bites into the palms of his hands, the pain there and gone in an instant. Peter tries to scramble off Wade, cursing angrily under his breath.

In the distance, there is a rumble of sound. It starts as a deep vibration through the air, then grows into something primal and sinister. The grate of rock on rock. The howl of a thousand fucking wolves all at once.

Doesn't matter. Even if Peter manages to get away from Wade, it is too late.

The Hulk leaps out from the dusty remains of a building, the massive frame of its body silhouetted against the dusky sky. The sound it makes is loud enough to hear, even from as far away as they are—a deep, horrible roar. It's more terrifying than ever before because that howl is wholly animalistic, whatever intelligence Hulk used to have has been driven out by the virus.

"Bruce..." Peter whispers, his voice broken and sad as he goes lax in Wade's arms.

Watching The Hulk in action is like watching a horror movie or some kind of creature feature. It doesn't feel real, like King Kong blazing through the air. Only it's very, very real. The Hulk leaps, a bulldozer in flight, a powerhouse of destruction looking to ruin everything in its path. The helicopter moves to evade, but the fight is over in a second.

With a bellow of dust and an inaudible crash of metal, Hulk grabs the tail of the helicopter and slams it down, hurling it into the remains of a skyscraper. The building sways under the assault but stays upright, smoke billowing out from the new hole it now contains in its side. Hulk bellows again, tearing into the side of the building to get at the ripped carcass of the helicopter.

And like that, it's over. They watch from their position on the icy, cold concrete roof. Wade isn't sure why it hits him hard, watching that chopper go down. Maybe because, for one millisecond, he'd felt hope. Either way, his eyes burn with unshed tears. He blinks them away. Apparently, he had a backup well somewhere. Prior to the last few months, he'd been positive he'd cried himself dry years ago.

"No..." Peter moans his hands over his mouth. He pushes away from Wade. Scrambling to his feet, but he doesn't make to give chase. Instead, he stands at the edge of the roof. And he cries too. Horrible, silent, tears dripping down his face, staining the collar of his t-shirt. Wade joins him. The two of them stand there for what feels like hours, though it could only be a few minutes. Watching, waiting, for what, Wade couldn't be sure. Finally, when it's too cold to stand still any longer, Wade gives Peter a shake.

"Come on, let's go inside." Wiping the tears from his eyes, Wade heaves himself onto his feet and offers his hand to Pete. Peter takes it. He's shocked, speechless. His own eyes are glossy as he watches the smoky plume of the wreckage.

How the fuck can you grieve for something that was never yours, to begin with?

Together, they close the door, blocking the sound of the rapidly gathering horde below. Drawn out by the racket and making their way towards the disturbance the helicopter had created.

By day's end, Hawkeye has his hands full. The Hulk is mad. They can see evidence of it in the final rays of sunset— deep gusts of ash, the almost ant-like flash of Hawkeye leaping from building to building as he gives chase.

When the sun drops from the sky, the night is filled with the endless, distant sound of explosions, the concussive force of them shaking the windows in their frames and leaving Wade and Peter wide-eyed and awake, waiting, listening, to see if Hawkeye will finally lose his fight. Peter clings to him, flinching visibly with every explosion. His spidey senses are going haywire. Shouting danger, but the danger is all around them, and there is nothing they can do about it. He cries, soft, broken sobs into his pillow, his shoulders shaking with barely contained emotions. Wade curls up next to him. He doesn't try to stop the tears, just comforts Peter the best he can until he falls into an exhausted slumber.

Wade's tired, so fucking tired, but sleep is proving to be an elusive bitch.

 

Notes:

Reposting this chapter because, for some reason, it posted as Chapter 17 rather than Chapter 18. Sorry for the mix-up!

Chapter 19: Sleep

It's the middle of the night, and a zombie is screaming. Fucking Shriekers. Something has set them off, though Wade's not sure what. He can't sleep, not through the incessant keening that cuts through the padding on the walls. Turning his head, he stares out through the window, watching through the breaks in the cardboard, though all he sees is a sliver of moon. It sounds like the Shrieker is right below them. The grating wail makes Wade feel on edge. There's danger walking the streets tonight.

Deep shit, he gets poetic when he hasn't slept for two weeks straight.

Behind him, Peter is playing at the big spoon, tucked in against his back with a midnight boner and soft snoring that is only a little less annoying than the zombie's, and ten-thousand percent cuter. He's just about the only thing that is warm at the moment.

Not for the first time, Wade wishes he could have been stuck in a warmer climate. Jamaica, maybe, or Arizona. He'd sweat his ass off, but at least he'd be warm.

Rolling over to face Peter, he pulls him in close, the palm of his hand dragging up spindly arms, then spanning the small of Pete's back. He traces the length of Peter's back, his scarred fingers dragging down chilled skin. No raised hairs, no goosebumps. No Spidey-senses tingling out warnings. Thank fuck. Wade's just overreacting. He's been paranoid recently. His head is still stuck in that nursing home. He can't seem to get past it, though. Fear lives in his chest. Fear for Peter, fear for himself.

And then there's the sound of the helicopter. It's been weeks, but it replays over and over again when he closes his eyes. He can't help but think about how close they'd come to finding a way out, to be free from this shitfest. For one moment, they'd had a chance. Now, all this felt pointless. They were nothing but a drop of blood in an ocean of death. Wade shudders at the visual, closing his eyes and pressing his face into Peter's hair. He smells like sweat and warm earth and everything important.

"It's okay..." Comes a groggy whisper, the warmth of Pete's breath ghosting in the air. It's cold, frozen polar bear balls cold. They've gathered all the blankets they could find and are currently living in a laundry pile the size of Staten Island. It helps, but not a lot. Winter's here. The fact that it hasn't snowed yet isn't lost on either of them. "Come here."

Wade does as he's told, rolling over to conserve as much heat between the two of them as possible. He can handle frostbite. Pete's different, though. He might be superhuman, but he's not one-hundred percent immune to the cold. So when icy toes dig into his calves, seeking out warmth, Wade provides. Pulling the covers up over their heads, he sinks into the depths of the bed and draws Pete in with him.

The Shrieker outside wails louder and louder. The helicopter in his head whirs, blades thumping distantly, taunting him, cheating him.

"Whatever it's mad at, it's not us...sleep, Wade." Pete's chattering lips make him hard to understand. He burrows into Wade's torso, shivering bodily. "Fuck, it's cold."

Wade grunts, a soft, barely-there sound that doesn't leave the muffled blankets. He's sure Peter's right. He usually is about shit like this. But Wade can't sleep, not with that thing out there, possibly alerting a horde. He can't focus past the sound of that fucking thing. Danger. Maybe he should go out and finish it off, or break out the bow and shoot it from the rooftop.

God, he's tired, so fucking tired. Sleep is beyond him, though, as it has been for a long time. The rhythmic ghosting of Peter's breath against his chest is comforting, though, calming enough for a moment that it doesn't really matter if he sleeps, as long as Peter is with him. Wade sighs, notching his chin against the top of Peter's scalp.

"You're not sleeping." Against him, Peter sighs drowsily, the sound put upon and annoyed. There's a shift of blankets, a wiggle of lanky arms, and then Wade jumps as icy palms dip under his shirt.

"Babe?" Wade asks, trying to peer into the dark expanse of the blankets, but he can't see much past the glint of pale skin. Peter doesn't respond with words, just hums as his fingers take to exploring across Wade's abs and then snake downward. Gradually warming fingertips dip into Wade's pants, working the elastic and pushing the fabric lower until the joggers hang off his asscheeks.

That has his attention. Wade hisses into Peter's dark hair, choking out a note of approval as he is suddenly surrounded by icy skin, his limp cock eagerly seeking out the touch with a rocking roll of his hips. It's not what he'd normally think of as a turn-on, but Jesus, that feels good.

"Pete?"

"Shh...you haven't slept since I was hurt. I'm going to get you to relax." Peter whispers, his own voice turning throaty as he rocks his already hard cock into the seam of Wade's thighs, pressing the head in just underneath Wade's sack. He slides in there like it's a second home, snuggled up around the loose skin of Wade's balls. If this helps him fall asleep, Wade will take it. Even so...

"Your arm?"

"Just shut up for once." Peter huffs. Wade does just that because Peter literally has his cock in his hands, and Wade's not going to risk losing that bit. Around him, Peter's fingers have finally warmed up, and Wade's hardening into a thick aching shaft in the palm of his hand, the stiff jut of his cock throbbing as Peter's fist begins to work up the length.

Letting out a hissing breath of appreciation, Wade purses his lips so he doesn't make more noise than necessary. There's no thunder to hide their lovemaking this time. One hand clenches the pillow under his head, the other seeks around the bed, hunting until his fingers hit the edge of a plastic bottle. Lotion, set aside for such an occasion because they're a couple of perverts who fuck like bunnies on the regular.

Pump. Squirt. Pump. Squirt. Peter accepts the substitute lube, and it's like fucking a Jergen's body lotion ad as his dick is surrounded by Peter's hand. Wade follows it up with some more between his legs and urges those slim hips to thrust into the hollow of his muscular thighs. The head of Pete's cock catches on him, dragging against sensitive flesh. They both make a sound of appreciation, and Peter's hips stutter before he breaks out into an eager rhythm.

Wade loses himself in the feel of that hand, stroking his cock from root to tip. Familiar, comfortable movements exactly the way he needs them. They've done this too often not to know how to turn each other on. It's comfortable in its familiarity. The sharp twist of a wrist, the dig of a thumb into the head of his cock, smearing pre-come around.

Beside him, Peter huffs, his teeth working along Wade's pecs in tantalizing, sharp little nips of pressure. Wade can barely feel it through his scars, but he doesn't mind. His brain is lost in a mush of primal pleasure, a rising tide of aching need that grows with each stroke of Peter's palm. His blood rings in his ears, building and building into something wild and aching at the back of his spine. Wade thrusts his hips to eagerly meet those skillful fingers, groaning under his breath as Peter takes the hint and works him fast and hard. Best of all, he doesn't even hear the calls of the dead. At that moment, it's just him and Pete, alive. No fear, no worries, no helicopters. Just a hard cock squelching between his hairless balls and the breathy sigh of the man he loves. Peter whines, turning his head up for a kiss.

Their tongues meet in a heady clash of teeth. Neither one can see in the dark to judge distances well enough. Saliva eases the way as their tongues dance together, battling between gasping breaths. Wade loves the feel of Peter losing it, his breath turning to heady gasps. His hips, where they work against Wade's thighs, stutter until he comes between Wade's legs. With a moaning gasp, Pete spills against the edge of his asscrack, body tensing, breath turning into a moaning sigh of release. Wade squeezes his butt, growling out a sound of approval and urging him to ride out himself to completion.

Peter only takes a moment to come down before he's working Wade again, wiggling downward on the bed and pushing Wade over on his back. The lotion can't taste good, but Peter doesn't even complain as he sucks Wade down, those lips parting to envelop him in a tight, hot warmth that has Wade's hips bucking—burning pleasure, swallowing him whole as Wade is sucked down into the depth of Peter's mouth. Wade grunts against the heavy fabric of their comforter, yanking it off his head because, winter or not, it's suddenly too fucking hot under the covers.

"Jesus in a fucking tutu!" Wade hisses, tangling his fingers in Peter's hair and bucking his hips up to meet with the back of Peter's throat. Pete takes it like a damn pro until his nose settles against the base of Wade's cock, and his breath is tickling against Wade's pelvis. Together they work him off, Wade thrusting, Peter offering himself up, lips squelching, tongue working along the base of Wade's dick.

It doesn't take long for Wade to get there. He can feel it in the way his balls tighten and his hips stutter. When his climax finally hits, it blows through his mind like a forest fire, turning the darkness behind his eyes bright, hot white, as he falls over the edge, spilling his come down Peter's throat with a whimpering, muffled sound of appreciation. Peter laps at his cock, licking it like it's a lollipop. The sound of his tongue working down Wade's length barely breaks through the rushing pulse of Wade's own heart.

Dreamily, Peter crawls back up the plane of Wade's torso and straddles Wade's waist. Slumping on top of Wade in a sloppy sprawl of limbs. Wade pulls him close. Sighing into the warm dip of his neck. He's hot for once, radiating warmth from exertion. His heart hammers sharp and fast against the hollow of Wade's chest, a rumbling staccato that is gradually slowing down as he comes off their sex high. Wade has already caught his breath, but he's riding that warm, fuzzy haze that comes on like a freight train after climax. Content, happy.

"I love you, Pete," Wade whispers against Pete's neck. Peter hums contentedly, pressing his lips to Wade's chest, but he doesn't say it back. He never does, now that the world has ended. Wade sighs, pressing one more kiss against sweaty skin. He can't really blame him, can he? He'd do anything for Peter. Give up everything. It's hard, knowing the power love holds over you. "Love you." He whispers again, not sure if he's talking for Peter or to him.

It doesn't take long for Peter to fall asleep. Wade stays up, listening to the sounds he makes as he settles back down, shifting with bony elbows and knobby knees until he's comfortable. Wade lets him move as he pleases, tracing circles across his back, feeling his ribs expand and contract with each soft breath. And for a while, Wade feels himself drift, like maybe, finally, he'll be able to sleep.

Still, he hangs hazily between sleep and wakefulness. It seems like even a fucking Peter Special isn't going to calm him down. Outside, the Shrieker wails, the sound broken. Lost. An ugly reminder that, with nothing but a bite, it could be one of them. Dead. Undead. Whatever the fuck they were calling it these days.

Then the wailing noise cuts off. One minute, the Shrieker is screaming. The next is silence. It comes on so suddenly—an abrupt end. Looking out the window at the glowing haze of the moon, Wade considers what the hell that could mean.

Blessed silence, the air filled with nothing but Peter's nasally snores. Sleep, when it finally does come, sneaks in—dragging him under with slow, relentless fingers.

The next morning, Wade wakes up, well-rested for the first time in a very long time. He peels back the cardboard insulation from the window, wipes the condensation from the glass, and looks outside to see the Shrieker. She's hard to miss. Broken and sprawled across graying asphalt, features twisted from decay. Her blonde hair is brittle and matted, black blood oozing out around her like a dark halo. Even at this distance, Wade can see the bullet wound to her head, right between the eyes. It's pro work. It takes a serious amount of skill to get that shot in the depths of the dark. Wade would know. Wade stares at the broken body for a long time, wondering how he hadn't heard the gun go off. A look further up the street shows more bodies in similar states of death. If he went down to street level, he had a feeling they'd all be similarly taken care of.

Either way, it is a major breach of security. Chances are, those people are still in the area. Maybe they've taken up residence close by, or perhaps they were just passing through. Either one is dangerous. Either one could bring a horde down on them. If there's one thing living in the apocalypse has taught him, it's that the living can sometimes be worse than the zombies. The dead are just...dead. Walking, sometimes talking, but still dead things with habits and movements that are predictable. The living are unpredictable, violent, and scared. The living will kill you for a can of raviolis. The living would shoot down fucking Spiderman in broad daylight.

They aren't as alone as they think they are. Somewhere out there, others lurk. It is up to the two of them to find out if that's a good thing or not.

 

Notes:

Another day, another chapter. Poor Wade is going through some PTSD right now. He probably doesn't even know it, but he's been through a lot, so it's understandable.

Comments are much appreciated and feed this sad author's soul. Have an awesome day!

Chapter 20: Then Winter Came

Weeks pass in the same monotonous rhythm. Then one day, they wake up to the water frozen over, a thick skimming of ice coating the top layers of their water bottles, and what they'd left in the cups the day before. Peter shivers as he's cracking the ice off the top of their cups. The sound has him glancing superstitiously over his shoulder as it resonates through their apartment. There isn't much to do about it, though, unless they don't want to drink for the rest of the winter.

Winter, that shit is finally on them full blast. No holds barred, icy as fuck, winter. And it's not a nice one. New York never is during this time of year. This one is different, though. Wade can feel it in the air. Even Pete thinks that they'll be facing record-breaking cold in the next few weeks. The next days will be hell as they try to scrounge up enough to survive the winter months. They'll need a week's worth, if not more, on standby, just in case they get snowed in. And the pickings have been slim for a while. It will involve going to parts of the city that neither of them is eager to visit.

Winter sucks worse than a hooker on crack.

If they can't find enough, Wade has already decided he'll just go without. He can handle starvation. Peter? Not so much. Peter won't like it. He never does. In Pete's mind, being immortal doesn't mean Wade should suffer or be treated less than human. To him, every time Wade dies is one more chance that this time, he just might not wake back up, which is refreshing for a dude who spent most of his professional career being used as bait for suicide missions.

'We need to stock up. It's getting colder.' Peter signs, his fingers red and chilled in the morning light seeping in from around the cardboard. He's disheveled from sleep, the left side of his face still bearing the marks of the pillow. He's probably right, too. They don't have much of a chance to stockpile, given Peter's injury. The injury significantly delayed whatever prep they might have done. Currently, they may have enough for a couple of days. It's not sufficient, not even close. If the weather really hits the fan, they'll be screwed.

'Yeah, probably a good idea.' Wade signs back, biting his lower lip as he moves to the window to take a look outside. Unable to help but keep a lookout. There's a small horde below, traveling who knows where. Hopefully, far, far away from their little oasis. Every single pair of dead eyes is facing the east. Whatever has their attention, it's louder than any noise he and Pete make.

'We're clear.' He signs once he's looked long enough to make sure none of them have noticed their neighbors upstairs.

"On the plus side," Wade whispers as he shuffles his way back into the kitchen. "If we need to escape somewhere, my nipples could cut glass right now. I look like fucking Batman." Wade looks down at his chest, where the stretch of a thermal shirt shows off two of his greatest assets. Peter looks up from picking bits of ice out of the cup, one eyebrow raised, lips twisting into a confused smile.

"How do you think of that shit?" He whispers, perplexed. "And who the fuck is Batman?"

Oh shit. Different franchise again. It isn't Wade's fault this crap gets so confusing.

"The more important question is-" Wade croons, wrapping his arms around Peter from behind and rubbing his chest against Peter's back. "Can you feel them? Diamond fucking hard."

Peter snorts into the glass of water, covering his face with one hand to muffle the sound.

"Wade Wilson....you're an idiot."

Wade grins, bending to bite playfully at his good shoulder. "Don't act like you don't like it."

"Alright, Batman." Peter turns around, pressing the ice-cold cup to Wade's chest and smacking an all too short kiss to his cheek. Wade hisses, flinching from the chill, and hurries to suck down the last couple of sips. "Go get dressed. I want to get some sleeping bags before those nipples get some serious frostbite."

Peter's walking away. Dropping his glass off on the newspaper-covered counter, Wade rushes after him, ducking into their bedroom and heading towards his pile of laundry. The only difference between his pile and Peter's is that he has a whole lot more leather. And pokey death sticks...and guns. Peter's is maybe a bit neater. He at least attempts to fold his clothes. In Wade's opinion, folding laundry can die like every other lost art. Neither one of them is the king of cleanliness. Shit like that doesn't matter anymore. Not when finding a new bucket to piss in is an exciting event. Besides, who were they trying to impress? The rat that lived in the closet?

Fuck Fred. He ate the potato chips and shit in the rice.

"Fred's a dick."

"Don't be mean to Fred." Peter voices his disapproval through chattering teeth. He scrambles to pull his spidey suit on over skinny pale legs, hopping in place to warm himself up. "He's the first animal I've seen in years."

"Yeah? He's gonna be delicious when I catch him." Wade snarks, grinning sharp and vicious. He has some spices saved up just for the occasion—cooked rat. There is probably a good name for that. Maybe something French. His mouth waters at the thought. Cooked rat tacos...oh god, chimichangas. How has he forgotten about chimichangas?

"We're not eating Fred. He's probably gonna save the world...once we all die."

"Morbid much?" Wade wrinkles his nose, turning his attention to buttoning up his pants and zipping that junk in tight. "He's not gonna do much of anything if he doesn't stop eating our supplies."

"It's just evolution." Peter's head pops through the top of his uniform with a burst of fine hair. "Millions of years from now, the next humans will be descended from rats, like Fred."

Isn't that a gross thought? Wade kinda prefers this iteration of humans. Besides, there's something depressing about thinking they are it. The last of the human race. Bye-bye. The end. Catch ya' later, rat boy.

Nah, better idea? Repopulate the earth. If Fred can do it, so can Wade and Peter. If only they could figure out how to bypass biology and all that.

"If you could get pregnant, we'd make the coolest Adam and Steve." Wade muses out loud. Peter is silent for a moment, seemingly willing to let the observation fly like he does with so much of the verbal vomit that spews out of Wade's mouth.

"Wait....why would I be the one who gets knocked up?" He grumbles, wriggling his fingers so they fit just right in the gloves of his suit. "How about you do it? If you're so hot on saving the human race one sperm at a time. You'd look cute with a little tummy." Isn't that a freaky-Friday visual? Wade groans at that image. Jesus, why is that sexy?

"I think you just gave me another fetish."

"Gross, Wade." Peter jerks his head back, making a gagging sound, and he takes to trying to tame his hair. It's grown long. He could use a haircut. "Get dressed." He orders again, popping his hood over his head, nimble fingers zipping it up just like they do every time. He starts bouncing in place, probably trying to warm up, feet silent on the multitude of carpets, his breath puffing in the air, even through his mask.

Spideybabe, what would Wade do without him? Go crazy...probably. Wade finishes getting dressed, scrambling from his sweater and into the more protective layers of his uniform. He bends and stretches, the leather creaking. It's tight and constrictive from the cold, though his body heat will warm it up in no time.

"Right, let's go. The sun should have melted the frost by now. Leave out the back. There are too many out front." Wade urges, pulling on his mask. Spidey nods his head, dropping into silence as they make for the exit. Deadpool lets him take the lead. It isn't that he doesn't know the city, more that he has no clue where a fucking outdoor store is. He has never been the outdoorsy type. He'd be more likely to be found bumming it out in an opium den than in a tent. When was the last time he even saw a tent? He's Canadian. That probably goes against some sort of code, for fucks sake.

Dropping down to the sidewalk, Deadpool keeps his swords drawn and follows Spiderman. The air is frigid, sharp, and painful even through the leather of his suit. Spiderman isn't much better off. Even though the nanobots in his suit help regulate his temperature, he still scowls up at the sky, glowering at the clouds before picking a direction and walking. His arms wrap around his middle, fingers seeking out the warmth of his underarms.

Spidey sticks close, staying in Deadpool's shadow, where it sprawls out in front of them, racing along ahead like some demented ghost. Deadpool can't help but like that. He wants Spidey close all the time now. Besides, it's easier to protect him this way. He isn't gonna say that out loud, though. Or he'd risk getting his ass handed to him. Spidey has a mean right hook when it comes to people being protective of him. Breaking into a run, they chase the afternoon sun down towards Lafayette Street. This is closer to the big guy than either one of them feels comfortable with, but there's no getting around it. Deadpool isn't going to chance going into a big box store, not with their luck.

Spidey guides using his super-senses more than anything, dodging down an alley to avoid whatever is setting his instincts off. Deadpool follows after. He watches as the smaller man hops over the fence at the end of the alley in one go, thighs bunching as he lands on the other side. Classic. Deadpool doesn't find it as easy, but he is considerably heavier than Spidey, so it's not really his fault. Breaking into a run, he does his best parkour impression (which is fucking bomb , he's a superhero mercenary, after all) and jumps towards the side of the building, one booted foot digging into the brick before he launches himself up and over. His ass skims the chainlink, but his boots hit the pavement on the other side with nary a whisper.

Spidey's giving him the look. The one that's low-key smoldering but also says they got shit to do. Deadpool grins, the flash of his teeth hidden behind his mask. Moving in front, he takes point, jolting when a sneaky hand takes hold of his ass, giving one cheek a squeeze. Aunt May would be throwing a fit if she saw that. Then again, she had never liked Pool. Said he was a bad influence. Jesus, that was a thought blasting in from the past! What the diggity-dick was up with that? He hadn't brought up Aunt May for a while, mostly because it was a touchy subject, for obvious reasons. Some three years ago, Deadpool had been the one to pop her head from her neck. Not his classiest moment, but she had been trying to eat Peter Parker at the time, and it'd been more on instinct than anything, considering they hadn't even known a zombie from a turnip back then.

Yeah, he'd been on Peter's shit list for a week. One week of hell, thinking the world was gonna end, that their relationship would never recover. Only for the world to really end, followed by actually losing Peter. Which he really shouldn't be thinking about at the moment. Jesus, what was with his brain today? Mind fuck much?

Deadpool shakes his head, glaring at Spidey's ass and forcing himself to focus. There are dead things that need his attention, more specifically, his blade. Speaking of which, a zombie lurks at the end of the street, back facing towards them, completely unaware of the two former superheroes. Deadpool signals Spiderman back with a touch to the small of his back, waiting until the other man glances back at him to signal that they should stop.

He's got some angst to relieve, and zombies make good punching bags. Leaving Spidey behind, he creeps up behind the zombie, silent but for the quiet creak of leather. He can see that even from this angle, it's a freshy. The flesh is just barely decaying. It's also about as observant as a goldfish. Must not be hungry.

Dropping to a crouch, his legs tense as he moves in for a sneak kill. He's in his element. Eyes narrowed down to the pinpoint of focus. Leaping the last few feet between them, his hand latches onto stringy, straw-like hair. He yanks the head back, brings his knife up, and slashes with a sharp strain of his bicep. There's a satisfying scrap of metal on bone, and the body goes down. Detached head in one hand, Deadpool guides the lower half to the ground, twisting his fingers in the old, graying sweater and easing the twitching corpse to the concrete, where it immediately becomes one with the trash and debris. The head follows after. It's weird how little a dead body stands out now. He's not sure when he just became numb to it, but he has.

'Come on.' He waves his hand back behind him. Signaling Spiderman that the coast is clear. There's a light touch at his wrist, a moment later, fingers lingering in the gap between glove and sleeve. Deadpool's heart aches as he glances over his shoulder. Spidey's giving him a knowing look. His eyes are concerned. Deadpool can tell. Even with a mask, he can read Spidey's face. Shifting his hand, his fingers intertwined around smaller ones, offering a squeeze of reassurance. Everything's fine. Together, they step over the dead body, bypassing it on their way across the street.

The shopping district is about as populated as Wade would have expected. Sometimes it feels like for every block forward, they have to move two blocks back when they run into a roving horde. Neither of them bitches, why bother? It's not like they had any other plans for the day. Spidey's gut leads them the distance until they finally get a break.

Together, they look up at the brick facade of the building. Multiple stories, lots of broken glass. Distended walls hanging loose on the foundation, the brick taking a tumble thanks to a little thing called gravity. A busted set of double doors leaves the bottom level open to the outside. It's dark inside, with only slivers of light coming in through the windows. The sun is at the wrong angle to really light up the room, but he can see maybe a dozen zombies near the windows, loitering about like they're looking for the next good sale on galoshes.

It's manageable. He can take that number on in his sleep. As they look, the zombies are alerted to their presence. They turn towards the shift of movement, unsure whether the two men are zombies or prey. Deadpool backs up before they can decide, tucking behind the building, glancing at Spidey to make sure he follows. Thinking about it, there are not many options, and they've come too far to give up now. They might have luck if they can get the horde out. Wade didn't have much of a chance to look, but the bulk of them looked old. Old meant slow. Slow was good in the zombie apocalypse.

' You go in. I'll draw them out.' Wade signs.

Spidey considers for a moment, but it's really the only option. He takes to the walls with a frown of frustration, crawling his way up and towards the broken windows near the roof and inching over to the ledge, where a window offers a way of entry. He delicately scrambles inside, careful to avoid the shards. Deadpool waits until he's sure that the other man is on standby, then works his way to the front of the store. More broken glass exposes the entrance to the dank spit of the elements.

"Honey! I'm home!" He calls in a sing-song voice, stepping up to the front door. "What's for dinner?"

 

Notes:

The future is for the rats.

Chapter 21: A Man Named Bob

A grunt of interest stirs the silence, followed by more. The sound is too loud, too much, for the dozen or so zombies he'd counted when he had first stepped up to that broken, dilapidated shopfront. Stomach sinking, Deadpool reaches for his belt, flicks the button to his flashlight, and lifts it above his head to shine the rays deep into the store's depths.

The elements hadn't managed to sneak too far inside the building, so the ground is still coated in the deep brown of old blood, handprints staining the floor and walls. Bodies hung from the steps in various states of mummification. One look inside is enough to see the store is infested. And it isn't your standard roach march either. The beam of his flashlight shines over dozens of zombies, stumbling over debris and the odd dead body. The eerie reflection of undead eyes gleams back at him, putrid green in the dim light. Teeth clack inquisitively, and for a moment, they stare at each other. He and the horde. A deer in the headlights of an oncoming freight train. They're everywhere. Not just a dozen, more like three or four. It's a fucking zombie rave.

A shrieker at the front lets out a wail.

"Oh...fuck me in the-" Deadpool drags a hand over his face, groaning. He falls back a few feet and looks for a new defensible position. The horde follows him, a dozen healthy fuckers followed by twice as many bumbling old skeletons with nothing left but their stomachs. A glance up shows Spidey's ready to bail. He's already crawling from the window, making his way back to help. Deadpool whistles for him to stand down.

"I got this. Get the goods." He orders, his voice breaking when he raises it to be heard over the calls of the Shrieker. Drawing his blades, Deadpool steps back. The dead take up a screeching wail for food, squeezing through the door in one heaving mass. They don't care what rips off their bodies in the process, arms and skin scraping against the green siding. Hands reach out for him, Bae zips through the air, slicing them off before they get too close.

With one last look up to make sure Spidey's keeping to the plan, he runs. This isn't a kick-ass, take names, mess shit up, sort of mission. This is a get outta dodge, run like hell before your face gets eaten mission, which is exactly what he does. The soles of his shoes scrape against the pavement, his heart pounding, frantic with adrenaline. Sure, he sounded confident as fuck out loud, but there was no way he was ready to get eaten today. His muscles stretch, heating up with each beat of his heart, reveling in the sudden movement. It feels fucking good, getting his lungs pumping, chasing the high of running for his life. Glancing back over his shoulder, he makes sure the horde is following.

Behind him is a rolling ugly mass, made up of nothing but sharp white bones and the smell of decay exploding in his sinuses when their bloated bodies burst against each other. He doesn't even need to urge them on. They do it themselves, screeching from hunger, reaching with eager, grasping hands.

He might shit himself.

Yelping, he dodges past another group of zombies. They blunder from down an intersection, heeding the call, and join in. At a crossroads, the two groups merge, converging into incredible numbers. If Deadpool isn't careful, he'll end up with a Hulk-level horde on his hands.

Great, just peachy! Deadpool curses under his breath in fluent German, his teeth biting every word with sharp anger. There aren't any options. He's gotta get gone, ditch this crowd, and get his ass out of there. They are a couple of blocks free from the store now. Peter's had more than a chance to get what he needed and book it. Lungs heaving, he vaults over a car, ass squeaking across the hood, and then makes a sudden turn down a side street. It's free and clear, but the horde isn't quick to give up, so he dodges and leaps his way from one side of the street to the other, bounding across cars, bins, a baby carriage, whatever's in his way.

He's quick. He's a fucking beast.

His ass cheek is cramping.

Fuckkkkk!

It takes two more quick switches in direction and a mad, limping dash through a sandwich shop to finally lose them. By the end of it, his lungs are gasping for breath, choking on oxygen, and ready for naptime. Stumbling to a halt, he looks around, trying to get his bearings. A soft whoosh of displaced air announces Spidey's presence. Deadpool glances over, grinning when his eyes meet Peter's wide, brown ones. He'd taken his mask off somewhere along the way. His hair blows in the wind, a gust of ash tangles in the strands, turning them grey.

' We're good. You lost them.' Peter's fingers shake while he signs. His pale lips are bloodless from fright. On the plus side, his shoulders are loaded up with bags, straps hanging from his arms, even a fanny pack attached to that stick-thin waist. 'Jesus, that was terrifying.' He looks over his shoulder, back towards the horde. They can still hear them shrieking.

Deadpool grunts his agreement, rubbing the cramp out of his ass cheek before he reaches to take some of the bags off Peter's hands. They're heavier than he expected, though not too heavy to handle.

"You okay, Pool?" Peter whispers, gesturing towards his ass.

"Nothing some rat meat won't fix," Deadpool whispers back. Peter rolls his eyes, punching him hard in the shoulder. He feels his collarbone dislocate and quickly heals back into place. Damn, he could use more vitamins in his diet. Maybe he should start dipping into the multivitamins before he develops scurvy or something equally fugly. He is usually immune to that shit, but who knew what his powers would do when they weren't properly sustained by a diet of Mexican food.

'We should go home.' Peter gestures for Deadpool to follow, hiking it up the slope of the road. Deadpool does as he's told, falling back to guard their asses. It's when they hit the crest, coming up over the top to look down across the city, that Deadpool sees it. A cloud of smoke billowed up into the sky, turning it black.

"What is that?" He whispers, his eyes chasing the column through the sky, towards the source—an old warehouse. The smell of smoke tickles against his nose, sharp and familiar, despite the fact that he hadn't smelled anything like it in a long time.

"Fire?" A look of dismay flashes across Pete's face. There's no discussion on whether they should take a look. Curiosity is a bitch, but they're drawn to the promise of heat more than anything. Warmth. It's only been a bit, yet it feels like months since they've been warm. Deadpool can't bring himself to worry about what the fire might attract. He'll take care of it. All he wants is a nice soak, so his bones don't feel like popsicles, and his balls will finally drop from where they've made their home inside of him. Together, they follow the smoke cloud, hunting it down until eventually, a slap of warm air collides into them like a wall.

Deadpool croaks a sound somewhere between delight and surprise, closing his eyes against the initial wave of heat and soaking it up. God, it feels good. So damn good. This is why the Swedish like saunas so much. Damn, he's hooked. Beside him, Peter gasps, drawn towards the bellowing torrent of flames. Blinking out of his dazed reverie, Deadpool follows after. Ash speeds free, deep, dark stuff that combines with the people dust. Bright, fluorescent red and orange flames flicker over dried-out wood and old drywall.

Deadpool sniffs. It smells strangely of meat and cooking things. He can guess as to why that is. The fire burns toward the sky, reaching heights normally reserved for clouds and Peter. It's a stunning, breathtaking sight. Peter's entranced by it, one hand reaching out as if to touch the flames. Deadpool is more cautious. After the initial jolt of surprise, he takes in their surroundings, checking for danger. There's no way they are the only ones curious enough to look at the fire.

He's the first to see the man. Not a zombie. He knows that right away. There is a certain awareness that the dead dudes just don't have. Nah, this is a flesh and blood human, a sallow, lonely figure standing before the flames. Too close, too damn close. The fire licks towards him greedily, his jacket smoking and wrinkling away from the touch, polyester melting on contact. At his feet sits a red gas can. Ah, that makes sense. This is the fire starter. Their presence goes unnoticed. Instead, he watches the flames grow higher with a look of defeat and loss that's all too familiar.

It's a look that speaks of death. Someone died today.

Deadpool gives Peter a gentle shove. Urging his attention towards the man. Peter jerks in response, eyes flashing around for a threat, understanding finally hitting him when he catches sight of the man.

"Umm...hello?" Peter calls, voice breaking as it rises well above their normal whispered levels. The fire swallows up the sound, hiding it behind the creaking grate of wood falling. He moves forward, at a loss for words. They haven't interacted with anyone in a long time. Even the word 'hello' feels foreign. There hasn't been anyone to say hello to in ages.

The man turns towards the sound of their voice, one eyebrow quirking up into his thinning hairline. He looks like an average fellow. Skinny, tall, but with greying hair and dark skin. His eyes, when he looks up, mirror Peter's expression. He turns to face them, and they finally see the other half of his face. Or really, the lack thereof. It's missing, a deep bloody gouge marring dark skin, leaving behind the gory remnants of tendon and muscle. Even from here, the bite marks are visible.

He's infected.

Peter draws in a sharp breath, taking a cautious step back. It's hard seeing that he's still not immune to the horror of the apocalypse: beautiful Peter and his bleeding heart. Peter sighs and takes the lead. Deadpool follows a couple of steps behind him, a silent guardian at his back. It's better if Peter does the talking. He's always been better at that part than Pool. And Pool is better suited towards watching their six and staying on the defensive. Peter stops a few feet away, his brow twisted in a frown of pity.

Peter rings his hands, waving weakly. His foot digs nervously at a patch of tar on the road.

Pool cringes. Okay, so maybe Peter's lost some of his personability through the years. Deadpool eyes that bottle of explosive gas sitting at the older man's feet. Even as he watches, a flame flickers past, too close for comfort. Deadpool gets close enough. He snags that gas can, hauling it a safe distance away from the fire so they don't go up in flames if it catches and ignites. The gas inside sloshes about, the smell trailing after him. It lands on the concrete with a thump. Deadpool turns to look down the road, keeping an eye out for biters.

"Figures, I finally see people...and it's already too late." The stranger's hollow, pained voice is without emotion. He stares at Peter, eyes flickering over the suit, then turns back to the fire. "Never thought I'd see one of you out here—a superhero, I mean. I always thought you lot ran off to live on an island far away from all this. Huh...Steph would have loved that."

Superheroes? Wade scoffs. What had they done to earn that name? They are more like super letdowns. There's nothing left to save. Hadn't been for a long time. Even at the beginning, the Avengers had been useless. No virus could be crushed with a fist or blasted with a couple of bullets. At the end, every one of them had been just as vulnerable as a normal human. All they could do was watch their loved ones die and kill the ones that came back. There was no heroism in that: failures, every damn one of them. Deadpool included.

"You're hurt," Peter eases his packs to the ground, dropping down to a knee. He's going to give away the last of their bandages, isn't he? Wade can't blame him. Peter was still a hero. His actions were just smaller—tiny little offerings, insignificant in the vast scheme of things. What did a dying man need with bandages?

"Don't bother." The man waves Peter off. He knows how useless the gesture is."I'm going to be one of them in a few hours anyway." The stranger sways, the light of the flames glints in his eyes, the tear tracks staining his cheeks glittering like melted glass. Deadpool can't look. He averts his gaze, catching sight of a zombie shambling its way down the road.

Her dress is light blue and stained with blood. Her hair hangs in brown dreads, twisted by wind and time. She doesn't seem to notice them. Instead, she's drawn to the fire, one step at a time. Deadpool uses the distraction for what it is and jogs the couple of yards forward to meet her head-on. His katana whips from its sheath before he buries the tip between dead eyes, sharpened steel seeking out infected gray matter with efficient accuracy. Wiping the blade clean on the blue-brown fabric of her dress, he takes to stalking a few meters away, putting himself to use, protecting the two men while they talk.

Peter looks like he wants to protest, but he zips his bag back up, hauling it onto his shoulder before standing.

"If that's what you want...I have painkillers." He offers, unable to stop helping.

"Name's Bob..." Shocked black eyes follow Deadpool's movements, ignoring Peter's offer. He watches Deadpool dispatch another group of zombies that eek their way from down the street. Deadpool can feel his gaze boring into his spine. His blades dance through the air to hack off limbs and heads. He can't help but watch Bob, too, out of the corner of his eye. There's something disturbingly fascinating about him, like those last five seconds before a car crash. You want to look away, but curiosity keeps your eyes glued. That's what this felt like.

"I'm Peter, that's DP-I mean, Deadpool." Peter scrapes a hand through his hair as he introduces them. He needs a haircut. The thin strands are knotted and lanky, reaching down to his shoulders. Soon, he won't have room under his mask for it all.

"My-my girls are in there." Bob stutters, his voice breaking with grief and a lung-clenching sob. "They're children...just children. They didn't deserve to-to die like that." Bob croaks. Deadpool follows Bob's gaze, and he can see them. Two small forms, brown and crisping under the heat. That explains the smell. "I just...wanted to give them a proper send-off. Take down the dead ones. Got bigger than expected."

Bob moans, his grief overwhelming him. He falls to his knees beside the flames but otherwise goes quiet, entranced by the blaze. Deadpool can see the play of suffering creeping in behind his eyes. He's in shock now. Give it a few hours, and their deaths would hit home. Not that it mattered. In even less time, he would be dead. Not a bad way to go, if Deadpool is honest. He couldn't remember how often he'd wished himself dead after losing Peter. What was the point of living without the people you loved? There wasn't one, not now, not at the end of the world. Deadpool never had a choice in the matter. He lived on, no matter who passed. Bob though? He had it right: get out and get out fast. In these times, life is only worth the people you have left to fight for.

"What are their names?" Deadpool asks, stepping up beside Peter to rest a comforting hand on the small of his back.

"Steph and Lilly," Bob answers after a long pause, sighing slowly. He closes his good eye and lets his head sag back on his neck. "Such good girls. Strong. Stronger than me."

"They're safe now," Peter whispers as if that will offer some form of comfort. Bob nods, whipping the tears from his cheeks.

"Maybe." He says.

They stand with him, watching the fires burn because no one deserves to stand alone at their children's funerals, not even in these times. Deadpool thinks it's a glorious way to send someone off in a world where death is no longer honored. People don't get funerals anymore. They get eaten. Together, he and Peter linger in the warmth for as long as they can. They're practical, absorbing the warmth despite the terrible circumstances behind it. Peter stands quite by Bob's side. Head bowed, eyes glossy, shimmering orange with the blaze.

Somehow, Deadpool has a feeling that he's not thinking about those girls, but instead about all the people he's lost. Friends, family, heroes. Maybe he's honoring them. Burying them in a way they hadn't been able to in real life. Deadpool doesn't have anyone to think about. The only person he loved was standing right next to him.

The smoke burns his eyes, even through the mask, but he ignores it. They stay through some unspoken agreement, offering the only thing they could in this horrible, dead world. Companionship. It's a rare commodity these days.

Deadpool might not have anyone to grieve for, but he protects the two silent mourners. Breaking away to defend against stray zombies, taking them down before they have a chance to pile up and pose a threat. He works in relative silence, the sounds of undead bodies hitting asphalt deafened by the roar of the fire.

"You're pretty good with that sword." Bob finally breaks the silence, his voice ringing out sharp and clear. Stopping Deadpool mid-kill. "Mind doing me a favor?" He asks. Deadpool finishes off the zombie with a swipe to its neck, then turns to look him over. With considering eyes, he takes in the deep red gash in his cheek, the sickly yellow tint to his eyes, the feverishly pasty skin. Before the man says what he's thinking, he knows what he's going to ask.

Kill me. Kill me, please. Deadpool heard those words often when the end first came a calling. When every other survivor was infected or dying or had been crushed by falling debris. It didn't matter the circumstances. Those were always the words they asked. Kill me, please. Deadpool doesn't make him say it. He nods, walking back to the two men. The look of relief on Bob's face is enough.

"Hey, Pete?" Deadpool murmurs, looking into the confused, beautiful face of his lover. "Why don't you go do a perimeter check?" He urges, jerking his head to the right. Peter doesn't need to see this. Death isn't his world. No, he lived to protect, to save.

"Wha-what's going on?" Peter protests, looking between the two of them. Deadpool shakes his head, gesturing again, with a point of his chin.

"You don't need to see this kid."

Peter's eyes flash with understanding, and dammit if that lower lip of his doesn't tremble. He's gone in an instant, a flash of webbing and a twist of his arm sending him up into the skyline.

Slipping an actual cleaning cloth from one of many pockets, Deadpool glides the thick rabbit-skin over his katana, removing any remnants of the undead with the soft fabric. Even he has standards. He'll give Bob an honorable death.

"Thank you." Bob sobs, a broken, wretched thing that heaves over his bloodied lips. Tears drip from his good eye. His eyelids flutter closed in honest relief. A prayer leaves his lips.

With a soft slick of skin on metal, it's over. Deadpool tries not to think about it as he heaves the body into the flames, helping the lost man join his daughters in death. He stays only long enough to watch that old green coat alight in the fire before stumbling away. His legs feel numb, his arm heavy, where it holds his blade. It's only when he reaches the crest of the hill and catches sight of Peter, waiting for him, hair blowing in the wind, that he realizes he's crying, the inside of his mask sticky with tears. The cold leeches in, freezing fabric against his cheeks. He suddenly can't breathe through it, so he reaches up, wrenching the fabric free from his head and taking in a gulping gasp of frigid air.

'Come on, let's go home.' Peter signs, his eyes just as glossy, his brow twisted into a frown of dismay. He falls in beside Wade, one arm slipping around Wade's waist to offer comfort. They don't speak after that. There's nothing much else to be said.

 

Chapter 22: Christmas in November

It's warmer than normal. That's the first thing Wade notices when he walks out of their room after a particularly satisfying morning spent sucking Peter off. He leaves Peter to sleep off the post-coital bliss, grinning like a fucking idiot around the toothbrush stuck in his mouth.

He's hit with an icy chill, but his breath doesn't fog up, and it's surprisingly warm. Scrubbing the taste of come off his tongue with a liberal dose of Colgate, Wade travels across the room to peek out the southernmost window and raises an eyebrow. Outside, there's a land of white. Snow is covering the streets in flurries. Mounds and mounds of it, coating the dingy sidewalks and the still rotting forms of the dead zombies that he'd taken out a few days ago. It's...pristine, a damn fairy tale—a glittering blanket hiding away the ugly world that's usually so damn obvious. On the other side of the street is another apartment building. Wade can see that the snow has blown up, sticking to the brick face and, if he were to hazard a guess, insulating the building. He can't hear a thing. No screams, no moans or wails. Yup, their insulated, or whatever the word is. He's not a scientist. Peter would explain it better. Either way, the apartment is warm enough that he's not freezing off his balls.

Wade grins, popping his toothbrush from his mouth, an overwhelming sensation of cheer hitting him right in the solar plexus. He feels positively festive, his eyes flashing up to the gloomy sky, not even the clouds chasing that feeling away. Evaluating himself, he concludes that this can mean only one thing.

It's Christmas, and something has to be done about it. Now, before the snow is stained gray and the ground turns bloody once again. Feeling impulsive, he considers his options, his eyes alighting on the dining-room door, which has gone mostly unused up until now.

"That'll do it." Slapping his toothbrush against his thigh, Wade leaves it on the living room table and heads out of the apartment, closing the door quietly behind himself. He needs to find some firewood...and a Christmas tree.

This floor of the complex was cleared out by Peter a long time ago. Well before even Wade arrived. It's safe, zombie-free, and mostly secure, but for the hole in the wall in apartment 6G. Wade doesn't bother suiting up. He prowls down the hall barefoot, heading towards the apartments at the end of the corridor. They've scoured every inch of this level. He knows exactly where to go.

The Richards. They were a pretty awesome couple, according to their photographs. Holidays in the Bahamas. Wild ski trips in the winter. All signs point to them being on vacation when shit hit the fan. There is a list of things to do for the cat on the counter, an itinerary still hanging on the fridge, and a fine layer of dust coating it all. Mister Jenkin's is a stain on his kitty pole. Wade waves as he passes, ducking into the storage closet, where he locates exactly what he is looking for.

Oh, Christmas tree! Humming under his breath, he hauls the faux tree free from under a pile of winter coats, snatches up a couple of those while he's at it. A box labeled 'ornaments' sits to the right. Perfect. Arms full, he totes his goodies back home, shutting the Richard's door behind him, with a cheerful tune playing on his tongue.

"Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree, aren't you so damn pretty." He can't remember the words, so sue him. It's the thought that counts.

---

Sometime later, Wade opens up the bedroom door and crawls into their much-abused bed, mounting the pile of sleeping bags and by default, the sleeping Peter underneath. A strained groan gurgles up from underneath the mound, and a moment later, Peter's legs tense underneath him. A well-placed shove connects to Wade's chest, sending him stumbling across the room.

"Aww...don't be like that, baby!" Wade pouts, unrepentant. He leaps back into the fray, this time straddling what he thinks might be Peter's waist, well out of the target range of those grasshopper-like legs. Pawing at the blankets, he unearths a bright splash of auburn hair and the sleepy squint of one eye, glowering up at him from around forest green nylon.

"Merry Christmas, ya' filthy animal!" Wade growls, bending to smack a kiss to that button nose, then lower, snagging those lips together despite the mew of confusion from Peter.

"Wade... It's November. At best, it's Thanksgiving." Peter mumbles, his chapped lips catching against Wade's scarred ones.

"What?! It's November?" Wade jerks his head back, frowning in disappointment. "How do you know that?"

"Because I'm not a caveman, you Neanderthal." Peter ducks back under the covers, burrowing in like a damn flea.

"But babe... It's snowing!" Wade whines, wanting to share his excitement with Peter.

"Is it?" For a moment, he sounds interested, but he doesn't move to take a look. He sighs, glaring out from under gummy lashes. "Welcome to New York. It's always snowing," Peter grumbles, sounding just like a jaded New Yorker would. Shame, shame on him.

"Where is your holiday spirit!? It's the first snow of the...however long it's been. Besides that, I'm Canadian. I don't celebrate Thanksgiving." Wade hauls Peter onto his shoulder with a grunt of effort, heaving his unwilling participant out of bed.

Peter doesn't bother helping, but he also doesn't resist. Instead, he slumps across Wade's shoulder with a whine that might have been a snore. After a slight adjustment, Wade heads out their bedroom door.

He doesn't take them far. Tromping (quietly, always quietly) across the living area, and past it, into the very rarely used dining room. The table is covered in a completely unsexy amount of Peter's science paraphernalia. Wade has a thing against science shit. Being a science experiment will do that to a man, so he deliberately avoids looking at it. Test tubes. Ugh. This is where Peter likes to make his webbing and sometimes gets super nerdy and tries to build them silly contraptions. He is limited without electricity and regularly bitches about wishing he'd gone into engineering instead of biochemistry.

None of that matters, though. More importantly, this is one of the smallest rooms in their flat, other than the bathroom, and... best of all, it has a fucking fireplace.

A fireplace that is currently dancing merrily away because Wade is a romantic fucker despite his ugly mug. And, no matter what Peter says, this is Christmas! The tree sits in all its ragged glory just to the right, underneath the uncovered window. In the fire, a pot sits, burbling over with a bubbling concoction of cooked rice and beef jerky. He'd thought about using the pickle, but Peter must have eaten that at some point—the sneak. Wade has yanked the covering off the windows, so they have a prime view of the outside, where the snow has begun to fall in huge flurries, twisting and churning in the wind. The ornaments are in their box at the foot of the tree, waiting to be decorated. It looks like shit, but it's the best thing Wade's ever done. Other than Peter, there's no topping that.

Peter stirs when Wade closes the door behind him. Curiosity and the warmth of the fire finally jolted his brain out of sleep mode. He shifts from his slumped position, his abs straining against Wade's shoulder, so he can look around.

"Holy...shit." He practically scrambles out of Wade's arms, lunging the distance between to crouch by the fire, his eyes flashing over the Christmas tree and to the box of ornaments. Even with the walls draped in cardboard, it looks nice, cozy even.

"Babe? This is a terrible idea!" He doesn't sound too upset, and when he looks over his shoulder to gaze at Wade, he's grinning ear to ear. The way his eyes sparkle makes Wade's chest ache. Who knew something so small could feel so damn big? Peter rarely smiles, even when they are at their goofiest.

"Don't worry. The snow will muffle any sound. It won't last anyway. That's the only log I could find," Wade grins back, snatching a couple of mugs off the table and dropping to the ground beside him.

"Merry Christmas." He offers one of the mugs, and Peter accepts it, grunting in surprise when he realizes it's hot. It's the smell that hits him first. The sweet scent of chocolate wafting up from the hot steam.

"Hot chocolate?" He dips his finger into the drink, suspicion making his lips thin before he tastes a sip.

"What? You think I'd poison you?" Indignant, Wade buries his face inside his mug, sighing at the watery taste of melted chocolate and old powdered creamer. It is the last of their haul from the bus, and man, is it worth it.

"Okay...this is the best idea you've ever had." Peter groans, peering out the window to see the snowfall. Wade's enthusiasm must be rubbing off.

"Eck, that's a low bar." Wade teases, watching Peter delicately sip at the lip of his cracked mug.

"I don't have high standards, I guess." Peter shrugs, laughing into his drink as he turns back around to sit down beside Wade. "Merry Christmas, Wade." Leaning across the space between them, Peter shifts close for a kiss. Wade turns his head, meeting the kiss halfway. A chaste smack of lips lasting only long enough for both of them to get distracted by their hot cocoa once more. They've got priorities, after all.

Delicious, delicious priorities.

"Thank you, DP," Peter whispers. Wade thinks he catches sight of a tear before it's swiped away by vigorous fingers.

"Oh, this ain't it. Wait until you see the Christmas feast!" Wade points towards the boiling pot of rice. There's no undercooked, sandy rice for them. They are eating in style this time, and it has spices, courtesy of the swimming pool house—parsley, salt, pepper, and chicken bouillon. He thinks it might be something like a casserole. Best of all, it'll be hot. Peter leans forward, practically sticking his nose into the fire to catch a whiff.

"That smells so good." He rocks eagerly in place, impatient. "I think my stomach's going to eat itself if it doesn't finish cooking soon."

"That's not all!" Of course, it isn't. This is supposed to be a special day. Wade turns around, snatching up two bags of half-dollar chips off the tabletop. They're the type kids got in their lunch bags, way back when there still were kids. The bright orange packaging has faded somewhat over time, but they aren't picky.

"Should we share?" Peter accepts it, looking openly surprised.

Wade shrugs. "It's Christmas. We need appetizers." That's all the excuse they need.

The food is never enough. And even once Wade pours the last of the crumbs into his mouth, his stomach still gurgles for more. Peter isn't satisfied either. He tears open his bag, his tongue diving over the plastic to catch every last crumb. Horrible manners. Wade follows his example.

Peter picks up his mug again, sipping at it as he takes up the spoon to stir the rice. Tossing the empty bag to the side, Wade gives his hip a nudge.

"Wanna decorate the tree?" Wade whispers, feeling way too excited at the prospect.

With Peter's permission, they set out to hang the ornaments and set up a little nativity set on the mantel. They are both giddy with excitement. Whispering and laughing under their breath as they work, hanging up strange, unfamiliar ornaments. Some are common: red globes, snowmen. Others are more personal: a collection of pipe cleaners with googly eyes and a small glass balloon.

Back in the day, before shit had gone down, they'd had a little collection of ornaments themselves. One for every year they were together, another for each of their friends. They'd set up their ten-dollar Christmas tree, a scrawny, two-foot thing that Wade had found in a trash can, and celebrated with a bag of tacos. Afterward, they might have headed over to the Stark tower for a round of festivities there, or maybe to Aunt May's for an actual feast including roast beef and all the fixings.

They'd never known how good they had it.

Now, they value each moment, naming every ornament and hanging it with care, breaking out the garland to twist it about the tree until what is left is something close to a masterpiece. Stepping back, Wade watches Peter stand on tiptoe to drop the angel in her place on top of the tree and wishes he had a camera to capture this moment. Instead, they share a long look, both taking in the moment and cherishing it.

"We need presents..." Peter announces as he steps back, adjusting a ceramic teddy bear on her metal hook so she hangs just right. He's right. What is Christmas without presents? Considering his options, Wade grins. He's got just the thing. It's sitting in a little medicine bottle, deep in the depths of his backpack. The moss. He's been hiding it away, though he's not sure why, but this is as good a time as any.

"Right, be back." Wade trails out of the dining room, Peter following after. They diverge from there, Wade going for his backpack and Peter disappearing into the bedroom.

The bottle is still in its hiding place at the bottom of his bag, tucked in among old wrappers and stray bullets. Wade digs it out, popping the cap to catch sight of the fuzzy growth of green, still cheerfully chugging along. He quickly caps the bottle, then tears a piece of newspaper from the wall and wraps it up.

"Okay... I've been saving this, but..." Peter reappears, his arms holding something square and wrapped in toilet paper. He furtively tucks it out of Wade's line of sight, "No peeking, though." He orders, eyes narrowing. Wade ignores him and scrambles to his feet to take a look. Peter evades him, scrambling up the wall, then crawling across the ceiling to disappear into the dining room. He's loads faster than he was even a week ago, his arm well on its way to being healed.

When Wade returns to the room, the water in the rice has cooked off. Wade takes his time scraping the now slightly browned rice from the edges of the pot. He pours the rest of the water bottle he used earlier into it so the grains can keep cooking. Peter's gift makes a thunk as it drops onto the ground under the Christmas tree. Neither of them pays attention to it. As Wade said, the snow is like cancellation headphones, muffling noises, and the dead are straight-up popsicles at the moment anyway.

Wade's present is tiny in comparison, but Peter doesn't look put off. He's eager to see what's inside, Wade can tell. Wanting to build up the anticipation, they decide to wait until after the rice is done to open them. It's like Christmas Eve. Wade snuggles up against Peter's back, and they curl together in front of the fireplace, with Peter using Wade's bicep for a pillow and Wade burrowing his face into the dip at the back of Pete's neck.

"Let's play a game? How about..." Peter questions, holding his fingers out to the fire, "Secretly dirty Christmas lyrics." Wade reaches out, entwining their fingers together, pausing a moment to think it over.

"Oh, come ye merry gentlemen." Grinning against the hairs on the back of Peter's neck, Wade runs the pad of his thumb down the inside of Peter's scarred palm. "Those filthy old men."

Peter snorts, "You didn't even have to think about it that long." He pouts, "What about... 'snowin' and blowin' up bushels of fun.' I'm gonna guess that has to do with lots of cocaine and blow jobs."

"We can only hope. It sounds better than whatever the hell a jingle-bell rock is."

Outside, the wind picks up into a wicked howl, blowing the snow past and shaking their home to its bones. The walls creak and moan, snow pasting itself to the window, obscuring their view. Wade crawls out from their huddle long enough to stir the pot and give a hoot when the rice proves itself done.

"Food's ready," Wade says, popping the pot out of the fireplace and onto the first piece of fabric he sees that isn't flammable. Peter offers up his chocolate-stained mug, and Wade fills it to the brim, following his cue and grabbing up his own discarded cup. They sit down to eat, blowing on the steaming mugs with a reverence usually reserved for Bibles and cocks. Wade lifts his spoon and pops the first bite into his mouth. It's hot and so damn delicious, like ramen, but ten times better. The rice is cooked perfectly the jerky has somehow become less like old shoelaces and more tender. It's the first real food either of them has had in a while.

Peter groans, sucking his spoon into his mouth and practically inhaling his first bite. He is in the middle of an orgasmic experience. Wade can't blame him. He is, too.

"You...are...amazing." Peter moans. Wade's not sure if he's talking to the rice or to Wade. He'll take it for a compliment either way. Wade chuckles, shaking his head. They don't rush the meal, both eating with the slow, steady chew of men who know how to appreciate every bite of food they have. Peter groans halfway through his cup, clutching his stomach and pouting at the remaining food.

"I don't think I can finish it." He croaks, covering up a burp with his hand.

Wade stares down at his half-empty mug, feeling much the same. Full. It's a weird sensation, a strange tightening of his stomach, an ache he hasn't been familiar with recently. Their stomachs have shrunk, he supposes, from all the rationing. He would have sworn he could eat the whole damn thing not even fifteen minutes ago.

"Dinner?" Peter suggests around the rim of his spoon, looking about as disappointed as Wade feels.

"Yeah, dinner." Wade agrees, shrugging. "We'll have to. That's the last of the rice." Wade admits, looking into the depths of his mug. They'd done well rationing it. It helped that the rice was damn near inedible without some major prep work. But still, Wade was disappointed to see it go.

"Right." Pete nods, and he has to know what that means. That they've finally run low on rations, but he doesn't say so out loud. Neither one of them wants to ruin the moment and talk about problems. When they are done, the log is reduced to the barest coals, flickering white with ash and black charcoal. Wade takes up the fire poker, the cast iron a nice, balanced weight in his palm, and shifts the ashes about, pushing them deeper into the fireplace, where they won't fall onto the carpet.

"Hurry up. It's present time." Peter has gone all in. His earlier skepticism is now buried under a layer of childlike nostalgia and eagerness. He scoots his skinny ass across the carpet, settling down in front of the tree. Wade follows after, crawling over to lounge slumped on his side, his head cradled in his palm.

"For you. From me." Peter whispers, holding his present out with a look of shy uncertainty. Wade accepts, reaching out to take it. Peter snags his gift, and together they set to rip apart their horrendous wrapping jobs.

Wade tears through the toilet paper, revealing a....brick?

Beside him, Peter does the same with the newspaper.

"Viagra?" He leans towards the window, reading the label on the bottle with squinted eyes. "You trying to say something?"

"Open it up, twirp," Wade responds, flipping the brick over in his hands, growing more confused. It's...a brick. "Pete, what is this?"

"It's a whetstone! To sharpen your blades." Peter answers, struggling with the child safety locks on the bottle. This is one of the smartest men he's ever met, foiled by a child safety lock.

Wade grins, flipping the hunk of stone over to examine it more closely. Nope...it's just a brick.

"Princess? This is a brick."

The look in Pete's eyes is enough to make turtles cry. Wade hurriedly backtracks, reaching out to yank Peter down to his level and smack a kiss to his lips.

"I fuckin love it," He says against Peter's mouth, rolling onto his back and pulling Peter with him until muscular thighs straddle his waist.

"You sure? I just thought-"

"Yup, best weapon ever. I'll name it Chuck." Wade grins up at Peter. Peter laughs, twisting his bottle of viagra in his hands, but he seems reassured.

"Now open yours." Wade urges, taking the bottle away long enough to snap the safety locks off. Peter accepts it back, twisting the cap and tilting the bottle to look inside.

"What is..." His brows raise, and he bounces in excitement, eyes reflecting green with the moss inside. "Oh my god, it's moss? Wade, you found moss? Do you have any idea what this means?" He squeals eagerly. Wade grins, shaking his head no. "The biosystem is recovering! That's what it means! This is...amazing." The look he gives his workstation says he's considering whether he wants to break out his microscope. The look he gives Wade says he wants to science fuck the hell out of him.

After a moment's consideration, Peter gives in to his baser instincts. He sets the bottle aside and bends down to capture Wade's lips in an eager kiss. He's such a scientist. Wade can feel the boner kicking in against his belly. Sure, it's a boner over moss, but Wade will take it.

"Can Chuck watch?" Wade groans against Peter's mouth, breath hitching as fingers delve under the hem of his shirt. Peter sputters, laughing against his lips and rolling his eyes.

"Yes..."

Best gift ever.

 

Notes:

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Chapter 23: The Church on a Hill

It's snowing. It has been for two days. This is the first and only moment when the weather has let up enough to let them out of the apartment. Even now, clouds on the horizon are threatening another storm. Peter thinks this one is gonna be bad. He can't explain the intuition, but he had woken up that morning with a fire under his ass and demanded they go on a food mission. The frantic look in his eyes had been enough to get Wade moving. Sometimes Peter's powers didn't make sense, but they were always worth listening to.

With Peter's intuition going haywire, they travel further and further from their little apartment, ghosting deeper into the city's burnt-out core on the lookout for supplies. Under their feet is the constant rumble of the Hulk. They are in his territory now. It's almost more terrifying than the idea that at any time, there is a chance they might run into a horde and get swarmed.

This far into Old Grave, the usual rules don't apply. There are sounds everywhere. The wails and chatter of the dead create a continuous background groan that fills his ears with a sense of dread. On top of it all, there's the creak and whine of multi-story buildings just waiting to fall over.

There's a certain amount of freedom in knowing that one misstep won't bring a horde down on them, less so in knowing that they're technically just a block away from the largest festering population of zombies in the greater New York area.

Wade tries not to think too hard about that.

"You're not religious, are you, Pete?" Wade whispers, squinting as he looks up, way up, eyes landing on the once-white glimmer of a cross. The steeple is bent, the wood burnt and warped like everything is nowadays. A church. They stand before it, looking out across a courtyard that's been blocked off since the beginning. The fencing is high, robust, and military-grade. It sets up a blockade around the whole church, ass to front. The barbed wire will have stopped any normal human from getting inside. Lucky for them, they aren't normal.

Beside him, Peter snorts, his red nose ducking into the dusky fur of his jacket hood. "Not now, at least." He whispers, his breath ghosting out in a white puff of condensation.

"Still feels like we're asking for something, breaking into a church," Wade admits. He's tucked into a parka. It's remarkably warm, but leaves his arms unhindered so he can use his swords. The wool beanie covering his head helps to retain some of the heat. He looks like an idiot, but Peter isn't mentioning it, so his reputation isn't hit too hard.

"This was one of the last aid sites. They housed dozens of people. There has to be food in there." Peter whispers, reaching out to test the fence's strength, heaving at it where it connects to the ground. "I don't think it's been touched since before The End." His bicep bulges, and the wires warp. With a groan of cold metal and a snarl, Peter lifts the metal from the cement block foundation. Ice and snow crackle, trickling free of the broken blockade.

"God, you're giving me a stiffy." Wade groans at the show of strength.

"How? It's like ten degrees out here." Peter protests, not even remotely entertaining the idea.

"You do things to me. What can I say?" Wade teases. "Don't take the whole thing down. I don't want any surprises coming in from the streets." He adds, stepping back to watch, gauging the size of the gap to see if he can fit. "That's good." Dropping to his stomach, he shimmies his way under the thick metal fencing. His shoulders are too broad, but Peter works his magic, lifting the fence a little higher with a grunt of effort. Wade's barely on his feet when Peter lands beside him—having taken the faster route.

Not fair! Why, oh, why couldn't Wade get some of those awesome superpowers, too? Even with his powers semi-diminished by the bomb, Peter is still so damn kickass. It doesn't help Wade's...situation, that is certain. Rock hard. Fucking rock...hard!

"Show off," Wade whispers, turning to look for something to cover the hole in the fence with. Adjusting himself, he snatches up an old garbage bag and shoves it into the makeshift entrance. That will do the trick. It's not like zombies are rocket scientists, and it'll camouflage the warped fence just fine. It is a bad idea to block his only exit, but Peter can kamikaze chuck him over the top if a worst-case scenario comes along.

Peter signals him to be quiet. They creep towards the vestibule door, twisting their way around body bags half-buried in snow and ash, past old, sun-worn tents that flap in the breeze, fabric tattered and torn. This is where they'd brought the injured, the ones who'd been hurt in the initial infection wave. There are a dozen or so places like this in the New York area, but most hadn't been as fortified. They'd gone down long ago.

Wade stops next to an off-kilter tent, stepping inside to look around. Ducking under the thin, worn-down material, he blinks a couple of times so his eyes can adjust. Dusty, weathered equipment, looks back at him. Computers, radios, and a laptop with a cracked screen. It's all junk to him. A bleach-white skeleton presides over it all from an office chair. The cause of death is suicide, based on the gun clutched between its pearly whites. Peter follows after, his eyes bright with interest, fingers running over broken keyboards.

"This must be their operations booth." He whispers, pushing the skeleton off the chair with a clatter of bones. His eagerness makes him reckless. The noise isn't too worrisome. They'd been casing the place for the last hour. Any zombies were on the other side of the fence, blocks away, or trapped inside the church interior. Settling into the chair, Peter bounces on the seat before idly clacking his fingers across some keys.

Wade bends and snatches the SIG Sauer from brittle fingers, popping the clip to see how many rounds are left inside. It's a full clip, but for one bullet. At nine millimeters, the bullets are too small for his Desert Eagles, but that's 16 more bullets than he had at the beginning of the day and a new gun. He isn't picky when it came to firepower.

"There has to be a generator somewhere. What if we could get these online?" Peter whispers, turning to flick the switch to the radio.

"We'd need gas..." Wade murmurs, hitching the gun into his belt. Bending, he presses a kiss to the crown of Peter's head. He doesn't want him to get his hopes too high. Good gas is hard to come by, especially for some long-shot chance of contacting other survivors. "Come on. We need to get out of here before the storm hits." Peter reluctantly leaves it behind, following Wade further into the encampment.

They walk up to the front entrance of the church. Peter grasps at a handle, and the doors grind open on hinges rusted from years of disuse. Stepping inside, Wade is surprised at how well-lit it is. Bright, colorful light shines from dozens of stained glass windows, sending prisms of color down over the room.

It's been a long time since the church has served its original purpose. The pews where people once worshiped have now been stacked to the side. In their place are dozens of triage beds. IV stands and medical equipment stand in quiet vigil over the empty cots. The preacher's pulpit is taken up with lab equipment, only the cross hanging and the colorful glasswork above hinting that it had once been a place of worship.

"It's abandoned?" Wade questions, looking around for any sign of what had happened. He'd expected to find zombies or a massacre, but the floors are nearly blood-free, the walls clean but for various pieces of paper. Why had these people up and left so quickly? Their location was defensible. This is safe, safer than anywhere beyond the fences.

"Maybe they were evacuated?" Peter whispers, walking over to a rolling cart and peering at the label on a bottle. He hums with interest before dropping down to one knee to pop the doors and take a look inside.

"Maybe." Wade sticks close, peering down at one of the only three occupied beds. The figure underneath is hidden by a sheet. An IV sticks out of one decrepit, frozen arm, skin gray and paper-thin. They'd been left to die, or maybe they'd died before shit went topside down. Flipping up a corner of the sheet, Wade catches sight of a bite mark marring the dried-out skin on the body's arm. The second bed is much the same: IV bag, body, bite mark, this time on the neck, though it's hard to tell. Bandages cover the wound, thick with dried blood and other fluids.

The final occupied bed holds a little girl. She'd lived long enough to shove off the sheet that covered her. Her hands were bound to the bed, the leather bindings shredded. She'd been alive when she was abandoned, alive and fighting. Her skin has multiple bite wounds, significant trauma, too, if his keen eye is anything to judge by. Wade glares down at her, considering the small, broken body. He's seen enough death to know the difference between a dead zombie and a dead human.

Why hadn't they turned?

Wade looks up towards the rafters. Not even a window is broken. From the inside, it looks pristine, almost untouched by time. He can picture the panicked hustle of dozens of men and women working against an unachievable task. Trying their best to save people because back then, it had seemed like there was a chance they could be saved.

Turning away, he walks the room's perimeter, mounting the steps up towards the preacher's pulpit and the lab equipment that sits there. Beakers and flasks with dried-up residue cover the bulk of the tables. The bulky form of machines he doesn't have the names for taking up the center. Desks line the wall, butting up against an old pipe organ piano. Most are empty, with the random flyaway of a sticky note or a stray pencil left behind.

He pauses when he reaches a desk near the center of the pulpit. His fingers skim over the binding of a book, where it rests on the tabletop, tracing the embossed lettering—a Bible, and underneath it, just the barest glimpse of something else. Sliding the Bible to the side, he makes an intrigued sound.

"Pete, check this out?" Wade picks up the notebook, flipping it open to examine a page. It's a journal of some kind. Coming up behind him, Peter peers over his shoulder.

"- trying to stay optimistic, but findings are insufficient. Today, we lost another patient. Every death makes me feel like a failure. How can I help these people with such limited resources?

Through preliminary data, I know that those who are infected eventually perish from a combination of fever and dehydration. However, that doesn't take a great leap of logic to understand. I imagine that most of the population has noticed that at this point.

Perhaps my only success thus far is that I've been able to extend the initial infection stages. By providing a cold environment to stop the virus incubation and keep the infected hydrated through intravenous infusions, I've extended life expectancy by a full three days.

Vaccines have proved useless for the most part. Trials 13 and 14 have varying results but show the most-"

Muttering under his breath, Peter snatches the book up from Wade's hand, flipping through the pages with rapid-fire interest.

"Holy-shit DP. This is...this is a vaccine. They were working on a vaccine!" Peter exclaims in a hushed whisper, his eyes wide as he skims over the words. "It doesn't look like it worked."

"Maybe it did?" Wade considers, jerking his head towards the occupied beds, where three people had been left to die. "They just didn't know it."

Peter follows his gaze, eyes flashing with some unknown thoughts, his intellectual mind snatching up the information and mulling it over. He flips to the back of the notebook, reading the last page with fervent interest. "There has to be more." He whispers, turning towards the desk and tugging on the drawers. They're locked. Wade considers taking out his lockpicks, but Peter doesn't need his help. Using his strength, he yanks on the handle until the metal gives with a creaking strain.

The first drawer is empty, but the second one isn't. Peter heaves out a half-dozen, maybe more, of those cow print composition notebooks, hands trembling with excitement. Wade isn't a scientist. He's not sure what is significant about those books, but he doesn't care. He's unzipping his duffel bag before Peter has to ask, tucking the books into a side pocket where they'll be safe for the time being.

Some knowledge is worth saving.

Outside, the wind picks up. The sound of something rumbling and crashing to the ground breaks their small, isolated bubble. Wade peers out a window, but the stained glass doesn't offer much of a view. The outside world is warped and twisted by the texture of the windowpane.

"The storm." Peter turns his eyes up to the sky, pupils dilating as he stops to listen. The hairs rise on the back of his neck—his spider-senses flaring aggressively.

"We can stay here until it passes?" Wade offers, retreating deeper into the belly of the church. If there's one thing that tells him, it's that they need to hurry. A door leads to the left. He heads over, twisting the knob and letting the metal hinges swing inward.

"Probably not a good idea. I don't want to be trapped in Old Grave if we get snowed in." Peter responds, the click of a flashlight preceding him as he shines it into the depths of the room. "Let's hurry up and finish checking it out. If there isn't anything here, we're screwed.”

"Yeah, well, I think our prayers have been answered." Wade offers, grinning as Peter's flashlight shines onto the glimmering rim of an aluminum container. It's a kitchen. More like a galley now, with stray uniforms hanging over folded chairs and the still leftover remnants of a meal gone by, scattered across the tables. There, in the back, are shelves and on those shelves are stacked dozens, upon dozens of cans. Wade hops over a chair, reaching out and snatching up a can. Mixed vegetables. Never has he been so excited to see mixed vegetables in his whole damn life.

"Holy-" Peter gasps, turning the flashlight over rows upon rows of food. MREs, juice boxes, bottled water, and cans, so many cans.

“Halle-fucking-lujah!" Wade sings, grinning so big his cheeks hurt.

Notes:

Finally! These boys have come across something useful. A possible cure to the virus? That's some crazy luck. Now if only they knew what to do with it...
Comments are adored, and feed my filthy little soul.

Chapter 24: Winter in Old Grave

Holy shit balls! Deadpool lunges over a pile of refuse, hiking his knees up high, so his feet don't get caught in it. He is positive he looks majestic as fuck, flying through the air in his multicolored parka, his too-tight joggers straining at the seams as his muscles flex. He's a flying boy wonder, except for the fact that whites of his eyes are pinched tight with sheer terror, and he's more falling than flying.

Overhead, the real boy wonder flips between buildings, his shoulders weighed down with goodies, his backpack pulling against gravity. They had loaded up on as much as they could carry. Which isn't much in the wider scope of things, but it is enough. Enough to survive for weeks if they rationed right. And when they finished it, there'd be more. So... so much more, shit just got easy peasy lemon squeezy. As long as they could get through Old Grave, they'd be made! In front of him, Spiderman flips in midair, dropping to the ground with a burst of ash-blackened slush that splashes from under his boots. Deadpool stumbles to a stop, managing to halt his momentum inches from a head-on collision. Spidey reaches out a palm to steady him before ripping off his mask.

"Holy shit...how the hell does Hawkeye survive out there?" Peter gasps, voice barely audible through the howling wind. His face twisted into a wicked little grin. He's sweaty from exertion. Cheeks flushed from their flight through the inner city—such an adrenaline junkie. With a grunt and another burst of snow, he falls backward, flopping into the huge drift of snow. The movement is followed immediately by the sound of something crunching under his ass and a groan of regret.

"Crap, forgot I was wearing a bag." He gasps, reaching behind his back and wincing. "Agh, gross, it's seeping." He lifts his hand, showing his stained fingers to Deadpool. Deadpool crouches down, giving them a sniff.

"Smells like beef."

Peter wrinkles his nose, wiping his palm into the snow.

"Beef..." He whispers, taking up a handful of dirty snow and rubbing it over his sweaty face.

"Don't act like you have standards. You're rubbing people dirty into your face right now. Beef is the apocalypse's Coco Chanel." Deadpool snarks

"Why do you have to make everything gross?" Peter groans, tossing the remains of his snowball in Deadpool's general direction. Deadpool grunts as it hits true. Right in the balls. Hot damn, that stings.

From somewhere behind them, a zombie shrieks, a high-pitched wail. It's close, though he can't quite pinpoint it. But both of them go still. Deadpool, turning his attention down the street, then upward, to look over the dead cityscape. His trained eyes flicker across broken, empty windows, dancing over open, hollow panes. There isn't any movement other than the odd curtain, sun-faded and dirty, drifting in the wind.

Peter heaves himself out of the snow, his features tight with uncertainty. Neither of them speaks out. They share a look and take off down the road, away from the sound of the Shrieker. Just another day of the same old same old. There's never much chance to sit and cherish the little things in times like these.

Ten, maybe fifteen minutes of booking it, and they stumble out from the catacombs of the inner city. Deadpool doesn't even notice it at first. But suddenly, the familiar heights of the city disappear, giving way to the burnt-out carcass of bare trees, their branches reaching the dull grey sky like skeletal fingers.

Peter's piercing warning whistle slams into his ear canals. Not soon enough, though. One moment, he's plowing through the thigh-high snow. The next, ice-cold fingers wrap around his neck, tangling into the collar of his uniform. Deadpool lets out a shout, twisting his blade in his palm, the hilt flashing around his hand as his instincts urge him to slash through the zombie's flesh. His blade meets flesh and bone. Slashing through grasping fingers, he leaps backward, making room between himself and his attacker so he can get an idea of what he's dealing with, his fingers clenched tight around Arthur's hilt. The amputated hands clatter to the ground. Otherwise, it is eerily quiet. Deadpool comes to a stop and stares, eyes flashing across the scene in front of him.

Above, Peter zips past, his arms flailing as he's suddenly without any large buildings to catch his webbing with. Thinking fast, he aims his web-shooter for the large carcass of a tree, the white web pulling tight when he yanks his arm to pull himself in that direction. He lands with the tips of his toes, crouching on top of charcoal black wood. The branch creaks, with a grunt of shock and a crack of wood, the limb snaps, sending him tumbling towards the snow-laden ground. He disappears behind the wall of bodies.

Deadpool's heart jumps in his throat. He resists the urge to call to the other man. Looking for a way to get to him. Something that might prove difficult because dozens, if not a hundred zombies, stand before him—a whole goddamn horde of them. Reaching out, long, broken bone fingers grasping in the air, hair stiff and waving choppily in the wind. Eyes hungry with a fevered intelligence that only a zombie can have.

And every damn one of them is frozen stiff as a fucking popsicle. Long icicles hang from their fingertips, snow gathering in drifts on top of their heads like gnome hats. It's fucking glorious! On the other side of the popsicle brigade, Peter's whistle rings out, humming against the ice like a tuning fork. The rest of the zombies take it up, and for a moment...they are singing—a haunting, hollow sound, like the touch of a wet finger to glass. Deadpool stares, caught off guard by it. He can't help but think they looked like some weird art exhibit. Stiff pale figures with the sharp rise of dead tree branches randomly lurching out from the landscape around them. In times gone by, it could have been some artist's commentary on global warming or some other bullshit. Now it's just...weirdly exhilarating.

Deadpool grins behind his mask, walking forward to press his fingers against the chest of a zombie. The ice covers up any details, but he'll name this one Gerty. He leans into her and pushes , shoving at the ice-cold body until she topples over with a crash. The sound of ice shattering is muffled by the howl of the wind, tinkling onto the snowy ground with the lightest of clinks. Peter's auburn hair bursts into a vibrant display as he scrambles onto the shoulders of a zombie. He looks like a grasshopper, all knobby bones and long legs. Best of all, he's whole and uninjured in everything but maybe his pride. His eyes are wide with delight, and he's just as starstruck as Deadpool. His muscles twist under spandex, and he stands up, using the dead body as a lookout post. His sharp gaze flashes over the river of death.

'Holy shit.' He signs, his breath gusting out in a white cloud from his lips. His presence doesn't disturb a one of them. All is quiet. What is left of their minds transformed into nothing but ice cubes from the cold.

"We clear?" Deadpool questions, standing on tiptoes in hopes of getting a better view.

'Yeah, we're clear. It's a park. Nothing but frozen meat puppets.' Peter signs back, playing leapfrog with the frozen bodies. Sheathing his swords, Deadpool catches him when he gets close enough, snagging one foot out of the air and hauling him in like a fish on the hook. Peter scrambles into his arms, the skin of his fingers sticking tight to the wool parka. Long legs slink around his waist, clinging there with barely any effort on Peteypie's part. He's uninjured from the fall but for a smear of charcoal across his cheek.

"That was close," Peter whispers, tucking his icy cold nose into the space where Deadpool's mask meets his uniform collar. Deadpool shivers, turning to press a kiss to one flushed cheek. He can't feel Peter's skin through the fabric of his mask, but the gesture is comforting anyway. It goes unsaid that they are luckier than a rabbit's foot. Any other time of year, and Deadpool would have been a zombie shishkabob.

"Come on, wanna do some crowd control?" Deadpool offers a thrill of excitement running down his spine at the idea. Time to give a little payback and fuck some shit up! Hitching Peter down to the ground, he reaches over his shoulder to grasp Bea and Arthur. "You can practice with the katanas!"

"I don't want to play with your chopsticks, Deadpool." Peter rolls his eyes, laughing under his breath but accepting the weapon's hilt anyway. He hefts the weight, looking the long blade up and down. Peter has never liked handling weapons, a viewpoint that hadn't become easier after the apocalypse. In Peter's eyes, the zombies are still human and deserve a chance to be healed. Deadpool couldn't imagine the sentiment had become any easier to handle now that the bottom of Deadpool's backpack was weighed down with the cure to the goddamn virus!

Either way, Deadpool thinks that the kid needs to defend himself in some way. There might be a day when Deadpool isn't there to help him and when running isn't an option. Not that he didn't approve of the kid's methods. They'd kept Peter alive until now.

"Aww, come on, you'll love it. Bea is better than crack!" Deadpool urges, hitching his backpack straps up high on his shoulders with the crooks of his thumbs. He skips towards the closest zombie to do them in with a backswing better than Tiger Woods. "Baby steps bitches." He grunts, his biceps bulging as he powers through the solid mass of frozen flesh, shearing the body in two before going for the head, cleaving that in half with a burst of semi-frozen brain matter. One less zombie now meant one less chance for some fucker to sneak up on him and snack on his brainstem later. Just a little bit of insurance is what that is!

Beside him, Peter watches in morbid fascination as the body goes down, the tip of Bea's blade dipping into the snow. Trying not to cringe, Deadpool uses the toe of his boot to ease Bae off the ground, prowling around to Peter's backside. Yanking his mask off to better see, he snuggles up close, hips pressing against the small of Peter's back.

"Come on, remember what I taught you?" Wade urges, sheathing Arthur so he can settle his hands on Peter's hips and pull him in close. They've done this before, but Wade thinks Pete deliberately chooses to forget the technicalities of it, the little shit. Wade kicks at Peter's shoes, shifting him into a more defensive position. Every good romance story has a teaching moment. Wade's gonna get his. Slipping his fingers up Peter's side, he feels Peter's lungs hitch as he shifts them upward across Peter's ribs and then higher, sliding down his arms to grasp Peter's wrists. Peter whines, a low, needy sound in the back of his throat. Fuck, that's hot. Stick-thin wrists fill his larger palms, the bulky shape of the web-shooters squeezing beneath his thumbs. Wade usually holds his blades one-handed, but that's too advanced for Peter, so he gives him a more basic grip, similar to a baseball bat. Two hands support the long hilt, one guiding and the other keeping it steady.

Keeping in mind the scars on Peter's side, where he doesn't have the full range of motion, Wade guides him through the movements. Twist the wrist, aim with the elbow, and swing, motherfucker, swing! The head of their target falls to the ground, the body staying upright, icicles clinking with a stutter of motion.

Peter jumps against his chest, jerking away from the rolling head. Wade rolls his eyes, chuckling under his breath.

"Come on, you try." Wade orders, stepping away with a swat to Peter's backside for good luck. He backs up far enough that an awkward swing won't chop off anything that'll take a bit to grow back. Peter looks over his shoulder, face twisted into a mew of distaste.

"Wade..." Peter whines, even as he sidles further down the line of zombies, clumsily taking aim. Wade watches, grinning under his mask.

"Don't bitch, kid. You're gonna have to do it someday." Wade reminds him, digging his fingers underneath the hem of his collar to scrape at an itchy scar.

"This isn't some stupid pillow, though. This dude probably has a family." Peter complains, sizing up his opponent. If this was the real deal, he'd be dead by now.

Arf!

"Did you just bark at me?" The katana stills in Peter's hands.

"No..." Wade shakes his head.

Arf! Arf!

The younger man's head jerks up with a flash of surprise. Wade follows his gaze out over the barren white landscape.

"The fuck?" They whisper in unison.

Arf! Arf!

This time louder, the sound bounces through the open clearing, high-pitched and so damn familiar.

"Is that a dog?" Peter squeaks, his eyes widening as big as saucers. He scrambles up the frozen side of the zombie, blade flailing dangerously where he clenches it in his palm, coming close to giving the poor guy a shave. Peering out over the dreary landscape, he looks around, hunting for the source of the sound. Wade watches him, waiting, observing for that tensing of muscles that will point the way. Peter's easy enough to read. He gasps, legs stiff, head tilting like he's a fucking hound himself. And then he's off, leaping a path across the frozen bodies, towards the sound of barking.

Wade darts after, diving into the crowd of twisting outstretched limbs. At first, he's careful, dodging around the glass-like sculptures. He gives up with a roll of his eyes, unsheathing Arthur to send her blade slicing through limbs and skulls. The sound of ice shattering is muffled by the howl of the wind, tinkling onto the snowy ground with the thick clink of broken flesh. Viscera sprays from his blade, splashing against the crystalized zombie in growing swaths. Shoving through the last of them, he comes out on the other side, chest heaving, the sound of a dog barking sending him chasing the blood-red flash of Peter across the landscape.

Before him is an old pond, any signs of water have long ago evaporated in the blasts. This far into Old Grave, it never stood a chance. The pond is now nothing but a kidney-bean-shaped hollow of concrete. A sidewalk sprawls the rim of it. The sad sway of an American flag hangs from a pole in the center. The stars are the only thing visible, as it blows stiff in the winter wind. Wade pauses long enough to assess that they are in no immediate danger, then races after Peter, feet skidding across the icy concrete.

Ahead, Peter disappears behind a rickety, aged gazebo, the sound of barking growing louder and louder. Wade skids to a stop as he catches up, heart pounding, a lump in his throat as he catches sight of Peter, standing off against two very much unfrozen zombies. His back is straight, the line of the katana sticking out at his side in a long, lethal line. And behind them, a twisting, panicked splash of yellow against the pale ash-stained snow. A tether of wire tangled around one paw. It's a dog. It's a dog!

"Peter?" Wade slows to a walk, Arthur a counterpart to the tension in his spine, his breath hitching as he tries to catch it. "Careful." Peter turns, giving him a grim look over his shoulder. Then, he's sprinting forward, the blade swinging upward and slicing through the air, clumsily cleaving a zombie in half, what he lacks in finesse is more than made up for with superhuman strength. His next swing misses, and he leaps back, out of reach of grasping fingers, before slashing at the second zombie. This time, the blade sticks where he lodges it against the thick vertebrae of the dead man's neck and brings Peter way too close to snapping teeth.

That's when Wade steps in, Arthur deftly maneuvering between Peter and the zombie. Just in case, he slaps his palm down on top of Peter's head, holding him still as he slashes at the zombie's outstretched hand, his blade twisting mid-swing to decapitate it one vertebra up from where Bea is lodged.

Peter leaves him to it, yanking his head out of Wade's hand and stumbling over the bodies towards what hides on the other side. A pale scrap of yellow still twirling and howling in fear. The dog yelps, tail between its legs, head ducked towards the ground. Scared shitless, literally, it'd shit itself. Poor little fucker.

"Careful, he might be infected," Wade warns, heaving Bea from where she is stuck and twisting her wrist overhand to finish off the first zombie, which is trying to crawl towards Peter's exposed ankles. His blade delves deep into its skull, grating against soil and then popping free with a squelch.

"No, look at him. He's...clean." Peter's right. It's shockingly clean for a stray prowling Old Grave. "Holy shit, it's a dog, Wade," Peter hisses, dropping to a crouch, a soft cajoling croon leaving his lips. "Hey boy...shhh, it's okay. We're good. We won't hurt you." He whispers. The dog whines, its ears lifting like it hasn't heard a human voice in a long time. Peter smiles, "That's it, don't be scared."

Wade drops down to his knees beside the two of them. Big brown eyes cautiously flash Wade's way before finally making their way back to Peter. He's a mix of a golden retriever and something else. One ear sticks up at an awkward angle, the other a floppy fold of skin where it presses back with anxiety. The fur is long, scraggly, but mostly yellow. Peter reaches out, yelping when sharp teeth come within inches of biting his fingers. He jerks his hand back, settling back on his heels and giving the poor animal a long look.

"Damn, he's vicious," Peter whispers, sucking on his lower lip as he considers his options.

"Yeah, well, he's alive, so I can't blame him," Wade suggests, tching under his breath. "Maybe you should let me do the touching." He offers, turning his attention to the tangle of wire. It is rusted, old industrial cording, a knot of it tangled around the gazebo's wooden support. The wood creaks precariously, burnt within an inch of its life.

"You grab him, I'll take the cord off?" Peter considers, his face twisting in an apologetic grimace. Wade narrows his eyes, looking the little beast over.

"Yeah, alright. I can do that. Just watch out for those teeth. I don't wanna waste the antibiotics and something as stupid as a dog bite."

"Don't be an ass. Look at him, DP." Peter gives him a shove. Wade doesn't really need the big puppy eyes to persuade him. This is a fucking dog in the apocalypse! Like...what the fuck?

When Wade catches him, his fur is soft and warm to the touch. His teeth are sharp as daggers and latch on to Wade's arm with a snarl and a yowl of terror. Wade shouts, going for a chokehold, his free hand snapping up to stop those jaws from fastening against his throat.

"Hurry up!" He orders, gritting his teeth through the pain.

Peter curses, gasping out apologies. He scrambles to reach the little guy's back legs, only just evading squirming, slashing claws. With a yelp and twist, the wire comes free. The dog's breath blows hot around his arm, heaving with anxiety. His furry body twists in Wade's grip, wrenching from side to side. Afraid to hurt the poor thing, Wade frees him, grimacing when those fangs leave his flesh and the dog leaps away from his arms. The wound heals before he gets a chance to really feel it.

Rolling onto his side, Wade watches the dog stop, twisting around to stare at them, then at its back leg. As if amazed at its good fortune. Wade grins, watching that tail peak upwards in the shyest of wags. Peter falls backward onto his ass, a grin lighting his eyes up. Together, they stare at him, one living thing in awe of seeing another.

Peter reaches his hand out, palm up. The dog limps forward, skittish but curious. His muzzle is scarred with old wounds, and his body is just on the verge of being emaciated. Sitting at its neck, still fresh as years ago, is a bright blue collar, unstained by dirt. Peter whistles, urging the dog forward.

That gets the dog's attention. His ears twitch out of their laid-back position, head jerking upright with a wuffle of surprise. He stares at the downed heroes, licking Wade's blood from his lips. And without any warning, he spins on his paws, racing away, down the dark streets of Old Grave.

"No!" Peter leaps to his feet, making to chase after him. Wade reaches out, snagging hold of his booted foot.

"Hey...easy." Wade squeezes his ankle, urging the other man to look at him. "Pete, he knows what he's doing. Look at him. He's fine. He probably knows these streets better than we do."

Peter's breath hitches, his eyes going glassy, his head turning towards where the dog disappeared. Nodding, the tension leaves his muscles, and he turns, taking Wade's extended hand to help him up to his feet.

"I hope you're right." He whispers, voice holding that hint of loneliness they always try to hide. That desire for companionship that even they couldn't completely fulfill in each other.

"I have to be." Wade grunts, heaving to his feet and dusting snow off his ass. "This is Old Grave. No one gets saved here. Not even a dog, babycakes." Snatching Peter up into a big hug, he presses a kiss to the top of his head, his lips chilled with stray snowflakes. The storm is starting up again. "On the plus side. Good job slicing and dicing." Wade offers, turning Peter around to view their kills.

"Oh...right." Peter turns an alarming shade of green before spinning around and upchucking his chicken dumplings into the snow, lunch spraying across the dead bodies. Wade laughs under his breath, yanking Peter away before he stumbles over his own feet.

"Come on, Gandhi, stop wasting good food," Wade growls, digging his knuckles into Peter's scraggly hair. Peter snarls, twisting free from his hands to throw him the finger.

"If you care so much, go eat it." Peter offers, wiping puke off his cheeks. Wade laughs, following after his little pacifist. Goddamn, He loves that man so fucking much.

 

Notes:

A dog! This is the first living creature we've seen folks, the rat doesn't count

Chapter 25: Finding a Purpose

Peter is endlessly fascinated by the notebooks. It's been a week already, and by Wade's count, he's read through every one at least once. He has now set to studiously analyzing each word for word, scrawling down their formulas and muttering to himself endlessly as he devours the information held within their pages.

Even Wade can't help but find them morbidly fascinating. Opening one up to skim through the pages. Some of it was similar to what they read in the church. Observations taken at the end of the world by some mysterious scientist who never referred to themselves by name, just with the initials R.R. The rest might as well have been gibberish, for all the sense it made to Wade. Big, heavy words, formulas, equations. All that shit went right over Wade's head, but while the words themselves hold very little meaning, he can't help but wonder if the cure to the virus is hidden somewhere in its pages.

Which is sorta fucked, if he thinks about it. How in the hell did he and the Wonder Arachnid end up with all of this in their laps? They weren't exactly the prime candidates for making the world a better place. It was all they could do to keep themselves alive most days. And now this?

Yeah, Wade is positive they are in way over their heads. He understands Peter's fascination. The kid has a martyr complex bigger than Joan of Arc and a brain even bigger than that, but they have to face it at some point. Neither one is a Captain America, sacrificing for the greater good, type. Or...well, Wade's not. Pete's kind of a mystery on that front. He's never cared about the "greater" good. It's always been about protecting the little guy, keeping Queens safe, that sorta thing. He left everything else to the Avengers unless he was specifically called upon.

That left them with one fat, rectangular-shaped problem. What were they supposed to do with all the fucking notebooks?! If he were a betting man, he would have a feeling Peter was wondering the same thing.

It's been a few hours since Wade woke up to find Peter's side of the bed cold and unoccupied. Wade had wandered out to the living room to find his boyfriend curled up on the couch, a notebook in his lap, and their solar light sitting over his shoulder to give him light to read by. In all that time, Peter's head has remained buried in his notebook. His brow furrowed in concentration.

The problem is, Peter, hasn't been reading for at least half an hour, if not more. He hasn't turned the page or read a word. Instead, he sits under his blankets, his gaze fixed on a dog-eared page, his eyes distant.

Wade hasn't seen him fade out like this in a long time. It reminds him of the beginning when they'd first found each other. Where it'd been a fight just to get Peter to remember he was in the room. But it's not dissociation this time. At least, Wade doesn't think it is. Instead, Wade's pretty damn positive he's thinking . That smart head of his was dwelling on something important, something big. And for once this week, it has nothing to do with those notebooks.

"Pete?" Wade whispers, breaking the pervasive silence that's been pressing in for the last few hours. His words go unheard, Peter barely batting an eye. Reaching out with one foot, Wade pokes his big toe against Peter's side. "Hey?"

That gets his attention. Peter jolts from his reverie with a flinch, almost dropping the notebook in the process. Wade watches him bodily resist the urge to leap onto the ceiling and crawl away.

"Shit! Oh—Wade, it's you." He flushes, neck to cheek, a bright pop of color in the otherwise dull browns and grays of the living room. Looking around the room, his brow furrows with confusion. "When'd you wake up?"

"A while ago. You've been out of it. Feeling okay?" Wade tries to hide his concern, but Peter notices anyway. Understanding dawns across his face, and he eases his death grip on the notebook, reaching out to squeeze Wade's ankle. His fingers stick to Wade's skin before he lets go.

"Hey, don't worry. It's not like that ," He reassures, his own head probably reviewing those first weeks together. "I've just been thinking."

"About what?" Wade eases out of his sitting position, rocking onto his feet and stretching his arms above his head, his fingers reaching towards the vaulted ceilings. He's got a feeling this will be a long talk, and long talks always go better with coffee.

Peter follows after him as he walks towards the kitchen, shedding his blankets like a cocoon. Wade heads towards their now very stocked cabinets. Pete moves to jump onto the countertop, his ass making a satisfying plopping sound on the cold marble. His bare feet kick restlessly back and forth as he watches Wade hunt down the bucket of instant coffee. Fucking adorable. Wade fights the desire to bite onto those knobby knees and kiss his way between perfect thighs. Fuck, he needs to focus—now isn't the time.

"About what?" Wade repeats, clearing his throat, moving to another cabinet to take out a couple of mugs. He forces himself not to look again. Instead, he pops the cap on a water bottle and splits it between the two of them. Peter sighs, turning his head up to the ceiling and considering his words. Since he seems to need his space, Wade doesn't urge him on again. He just continues making them coffee.

The most exciting thing they found in that church hadn't been the coffee or the food. It'd been Stark tech. Not guns or anything, Stark had long since ousted himself from the trenches of warfare when the world ended. Instead, joy came in the form of dozens of rolls of what looked like, for lack of a better word, condoms. They weren't condoms, though. Nope, instead, each copper foil held a heating tablet—a tiny little pill made out of who knows what chemicals. Popping a tab into each one of their mugs, he watches expectantly while it fizzes like an Alka-Seltzer, then grins when the surface starts to steam. Science is so fucking awesome. Thank you, Tony Stark!

"I'm gonna throw a dozen of these in the tub and have a bath." Wade decides, offering Peter his coffee. Peter accepts it, humming his appreciation. Wade sighs, bringing his own cup to his lips and taking a sip. It's black, no sugar, no cream, just simple, unaltered coffee with a hint of a metallic taste from the heat tab. It's heaven.

"I think we should leave."

Wade sputters, choking on his mouthful of coffee, his mug slipping from his hand. With lightning-fast instincts, Peter snatches it out of the air, not spilling a drop onto the pillows below. Wade coughs, muffling the sound into the crook of his elbow.

"Leave?" Wade chokes around the skin of his arm, wiping liquid off his lips. Shit, he doesn't have much of an appetite anymore. He waves away his coffee when Peter offers it back, feeling like a monkey just shit in his Cheerios. This is what he's been thinking about all morning?

"Yeah," Peter whispers, his brow twisted in distress. He sets Wade's cup on the counter with fingers that tremble visibly.

"But....but, this is home?" Wade croaks, feeling like the world is somehow caving in on him again. They have it good, they have it really fucking good right now, and Peter wants to leave? To go out there, into hell again. Wade shakes his head, at a loss for words. "Why?"

"Cause of this." Peter touches his palm to the top of the notebook, where it sits on the countertop. His voice is tentative. He's aware that what he's saying is life-altering. Not only that, it's fucking terrifying!

Peter doesn't know what it's like out there. He's been living it good, up here in his tower, hiding away from the world and only coming out when necessity dictates he has to, but Wade does. Wade was toughing it on the streets for years, running from one hideout to the next, hoping that the next time his hiding place was discovered wouldn't be the last. Only sleeping when it was absolutely necessary, because to sleep was leaving himself open to attack. It was hell. Not just hell. It was the journey to hell, through a minefield sitting on top of a fucking nuclear warhead! Wade isn't sure if he was ready to do that again.

"Babe, you don't know what it's like out there." Wade glares at the notebook, lips twisted in a grimace of distaste. "What we see when we go out, that's just the tip. If we leave this place, there isn't anywhere to hide, to be safe ." He stresses, wishing he could make Peter understand the gravity of the situation. "It's hell out there, literal hell. There's nothing left."

"Yeah, but...here's the thing! There was a dog! Here, in the city!" Peter gestures towards the window, his voice tight with some belly-deep emotion Wade didn't want to understand. "What else is hidden out there because we haven't bothered to find it? We don't know shit about anything . What if it's just New York?!?"

Oh fuck, Wade gets it. Hope. The kid's feeling hope. Wade groans, covering his face.

"Thinking like that is gonna fuck you up, babe. Don't think big, not now." Wade reaches out, cupping a hand to his cheek, trying to bring him back down to reality. Peter's not interested in excuses. He shakes his head, dislodging Wade's hand.

"You don't understand." He turns his head away, unable to look Wade in the eye. Like Wade's the crazy one in this situation, but Wade's just being fucking practical. What does Peter expect him to do, jump on the crazy train and leave everything they've struggled for behind?

"You're the one who told me we can't get out of here," Wade reminds him, trying to bring them down off of whatever cliff they are climbing. "You said there wasn't a chance of getting past Old Grave!"

"I know! Don't you think I know that? I'm not an idiot." Peter hisses, his voice rising before he can get control of himself. Snapping his mouth closed, he glares out the window, frustrated by his inability to express himself. "But I've been reading these and, Wade, and there's something here." He jabs his finger at the black and white speckled cover, his skin pale from the force of it. "I don't know much about virology, but I know enough to understand that whatever this is, it's a piece to the puzzle. We have to tell someone. Anyone! This can't die with us."

Wade groans, turning around to pace the area in front of the stove, his feet frustratingly silent against the rugs. Jesus Christ. He is right. Wade doesn't want to acknowledge it out loud, but he's so fucking right.

Just when shit was finally getting easy.

Fuck.

"Okay, fine, I get it," Wade doesn't think he can look Peter in the eye right now. He's pissed. Why did they have to find that church? Those notebooks just made things so much more complicated. "But, it's not like this is the Bahamas right now. Look outside! It's the middle of winter. There isn't a whole lot we can do at the moment."

"I can't stay here...I can't." Peter admits, his voice is watery. Wade stumbles around to face him, stunned by the tears in his eyes. The frustration he's been hiding deep down inside is finally coming to the surface.

"But Pete...this home." Wasn't it? His own voice cracks with confusion. They'd worked hard to keep this place, to survive.

"This isn't home. This is waiting to die." Peter gestures around their apartment, taking in the rotting cardboard, the thick, dusty rugs, and the pillows that had started to darken with age. It's not much. Of course not, but Wade had thought it was enough. For him, it was, but Peter has always been different. "What are we gonna do? Wait until the food runs out? Keep hunting and hoping we find one last bag of chips, so we don't die of malnourishment? Whisper for the rest of our shitty lives?" He shouts the last.

"Shh!" Wade claps a hand over his mouth, smothering the sound of his voice behind the skin of his palm. "You don't think I am aware of that?" Wade snarls, his eyes flashing towards the window. He can only hope the sound won't carry through the snow. "What choice do we have?!"

Peter leans out of his reach, face red with anger.

"We have a choice, Wade. We do. We can pack up what rations we have and get out of here. We can take this show on the road and...fuck, I dont know. Live for once. There are other people out there. The people who shot me-"

"Not a good example," Wade growls, channeling the anxious energy in his gut into murderous thoughts. When he found those fuckers he was going to rip off their arms and eat them, or at least slap a couple of them with each other's limbs. That would be nice.

"Fine. Not a good example. But there are others. It's not just us. We saw a fucking helicopter. S.H.I.E.L.D Wade! S.H.I.E.L.D.!" Peter reaches out one hand, holding it out until Wade gives in and takes it, threading their fingers together. Gently, Peter tugs at him, urging him in close, between the swell of his thighs. Wade grumbles, not sure how those puppy dog eyes always seem to reel him in. "If we can get out of here and past Old Grave, I know where the compound is. I can take us there."

The Compound. That fabled place Peter told him about. Where scientists like Bruce were working to get a vaccine. Where there was the potential for a whole different way of life.

It's not like Peter is wrong either. Wade's been thinking a variation of the same thoughts in the back of his head, even if he'd never planned on actually following them. They'd been running through his head since Peter was shot, since that night at the retirement home when he'd been certain he was going to lose the only man that had ever mattered to him.

The truth is, their way of life now isn't sustainable, and eventually, there wouldn't be any more food to be found, any more water to drink, or bullets to use when they got themselves into deep trouble. Someday, maybe not yet, but soon, they'd have to leave. Why not now, then? When they had enough supplies to last them, the energy to have a go at it, and the will to fulfill a mission? A pretty important mission, too, get the notebooks to someone who could use them. Find a cure. Save the world. Sounded easy enough when said like that, huh?

"Alright...alright. Yeah, I get it. Fine." Wade whispers, letting Peter yank him into a hug with a gasp of surprise. He laughs, his voice strained with relief.

"Can we go?" Peter whispers, pulling back far enough so that his eyes meet Wade's. He's crying. Fucking hell. Wade wipes at his tears with his thumbs, looking him over with a quiet, thoughtful expression.

"Like I could stop you," Wade answers. Peter lets out a squeal of relief, diving from the counter and into Wade's arms with zero regard for the coffee cup in his hand. Wade can feel hot coffee spilling down his back. He groans, supporting Peter's ass in his hands and burying his face into Peter's neck. "Give us a week. One week to get our shit in order to plan this out?" There's no way they're doing this without a plan. No fucking way.

"Yeah...yeah, I can wait a week," Peter emphasizes each word with a smack of lips along Wade's neck.

"You've waited almost 4 years. A week isn't anything." Wade grumbles, turning his head to give him more room despite his protests. Peter laughs, leaning back far enough in Wade's arms to look him in the eyes again. He looks like he's swallowed up a balloon full of helium and is floating somewhere in the clouds. He looks happy. Relieved. Hopeful. God, he looks like Peter Parker. Not the guy that's been struggling to survive the end of the world. Nah. The one that Wade used to admire from a distance, exuberant and full of purpose. Who is he to deny that? Wade smiles, offering him a reassuring nod.

Yet, inside, he can't help but worry. Things are changing, and he's unsure if they're for the better.

 

Notes:

There it is, what this fic's been leading up to, our boys finally have a purpose. It's not just eating and staying alive anymore

Chapter 26: I'm Not a Hero

Shit. They're doing it. In a few more days, they'll be gone. Split. Vamose! Outta here!! And it's fucking terrifying. Wade's stomach can't take it. He's uneasy, sweaty with nerves and anxiety he hadn't realized he would feel as the days draw closer.

He's taken to pacing the tight quarters of their living room, trying to work off some of his growing dread. It isn't like he has much to do. For once, they were completely self-reliant. There isn't any food he needs to gather or zombies to kill. He's fat with it, has put on at least five pounds just in the last week, or that's what it feels like. It's not like he can weigh himself. Peter's about the same, if not better, his powers kicking in now that he has a proper diet to help fill in the dips and divots between his ribs.

The point is, they are safe up in their little apartment. Wonderfully, amazingly safe, and comfortable, and warm. Yet, none of that's gonna matter in a few days. They are leaving all of it behind on a suicide mission. Everything they've worked for is going to end. Everything they have is so fucking pointless, it makes him sick. He's gonna puke. He's so gonna puke. Why does this have to be so hard?

Pete is making himself useful, at least. He sat down that morning with a plan to make duplicates of every notebook, word for word, 'just in case,' something happened to them. If that isn't testament enough to the absolute bullshit they are setting out to do, Wade doesn't know what is.

His legs take him past Peter's workstation for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. Wade glares at the notebooks, twirling the dagger he holds in his hand by its long blade. He hasn't felt so murderous towards an inanimate object since they replaced fruit-shaped Trix with those stupid fucking circles. Fuck circles. Who wants to eat a bunch of shitty round bits, anyway?

"It's stupid, is what it is." Wade snaps, throwing the knife at the couch. The metal point stabs into ratty leather, thunking into the cushion and breaking the silence that has been driving Wade mad.

"Oh my God, leave the couch alone, Wade! You're driving me crazy!" At his desk, Peter lets out an exhausted sigh. There's the sound of paper tearing, and then he's spinning around in his chair to watch Wade leap onto the couch and gut it with a snarl. The bite of the knife through cotton isn't as satisfying as Wade woulda hoped for, but watching yellow stuffing spilling from inside is pleasing as hell.

"Why? It's not like it matters anymore." Wade snaps, taking a firm grasp on the hilt and shredding the thick fabric over and over again.

"Yeah, well, you're going to sit on that side until we leave." Peter snaps back. How the hell he managed to yell and whisper at the same time is beyond Wade. Flicking his wrist in Wade's direction, webbing shoots from his wrist halter, snapping across the distance between them. Before Wade gets a chance to protest, Peter disarms him with a yank of his hand as he reels it back in. Wade tries to snatch his blade out of the air, but Peter's too fast. He catches the blade midair, laying it out of reach on his desk.

Before Wade can process it, Peter has Wade pinned to the busted fabric of the couch, straddling his waist with strong thighs. Two more shots of webbing wrap like icy coils around Wade's wrists, sticking them to the sofa. Wade hisses out a sound of surprise. It's not often that he can be disarmed in under ten seconds. Damn, that's hot. Peter heaves a sigh of annoyance above him, tangling his fingers in the fabric of Wade's t-shirt and giving him a gentle shake.

"What is wrong with you?" He questions, bending to meet Wade's eyes when Wade refuses to look up at him. "I thought you agreed with me?"

"Yeah, that doesn't mean it's easy!" Wade strains against the couch, bucking to get Pete off him. He doesn't want to do this. 'Feelings' talks suck. Look where the last one got him! "Come on, let me go."

"You're bitching about Trix right now. I don't think I should let you go." Peter whispers as he clings tighter, his knees digging into Wade's hips, his arms burrowing under Wade's pits so he can slide his fingers against the skin between Wade's shoulder blades. The weight of him settles like a blanket on top of Wade's chest. So heavy that Wade can barely breathe around it. Tight, sweet confinement. God, that helps. It's exactly what he needs.

Wade gasps, dropping his head back to rest against the couch, turning his eyes up to stare at the ceiling. Shit, it's been a long time since Pete had done this, long enough that he can't remember when it last happened. Sometime back before all this, when Yellow and White were still driving him up the wall nutballs, he hadn't thought Peter would remember, but of course, he does. Peter knows everything about him, knows how to help even when Wade doesn't.

"I know you're scared, DP, but it's not like we have a choice." Peter sounds just as scared, his body trembling with pent-up nerves. "We're superheroes. We got this."

"You're a superhero. I'm the douche canoe everybody wants to get rid of." Wade gasps. His eyes are burning. Why the hell are his eyes burning? Inside his chest heart hurts. He doesn't want to remember any of this. But dammit. Wade Wilson is not a hero. He's an idiot with a sword. Why does he have to be one now? On the periphery of Wade's vision, he can see Peter wince, his expression mournful and sad with memories neither of them cared to recall.

"They never understood you." The big they, the Avengers, they hadn't even up to the last. Wade had wanted to help, to save those he could. But even at the end of the world, those stuck-up assholes hadn't wanted him. Wade took in a gasping breath, trying to breathe around the guilt he always held deep inside.

When the world had ended, he'd been relegated to couch duty. How many people could he have helped if Tony and Steve had held even an iota of respect for his and Peter's relationship? Not a single one of the Avengers in their fancy suits and expensive capes had thought he would be useful. He was the mold on their cheese stick, the bad taste in their mouth they couldn't quite get rid of.

If he hadn't been a hero back then, what made him think he could be one now?

"Because it doesn't matter what they thought."

Wade flinches from Peter's words. He hates it when he talks out loud. It's a bad habit, leftover from Yellow and White. Peter sighs, his breath skimming against Wade's throat.

"You're a hero. You always have been one. Besides, remember what you told me? They're probably dead, and you aren't. So you've got that going for you, right?"

Wade snorts, jerking his head up to give Peter a look.

"You're gonna really use my words against me?"

"Always." Peter grins back, his smile thoughtful and just barely reaching his eyes. He leans forward, and Wade chases his lips, sighing with relief as they connect skin to skin. "I know you better than any one of them. You're a hero, babe. We can do this. We can."

Clenching his eyes closed, Wade tries not to protest, to voice how idiotic all of this is. It's a terrible idea. If he were a maths guy, he'd wanna punch both of them in the face, their odds were so low, but he's not. He's just Wade Wilson, the Merc with a Mouth, the Regenerating Degenerate. So he does the one thing he knows he's good at and leans forward to catch Peter in a kiss, turning his attention to Peter's plump lower lip. Peter makes a humming sound of interest, his tongue peeking out to trace the seam of Wade's mouth with an inquisitive flutter.

Wade chases his worries away with the taste of Peter's tongue. Delving into the warm hollow of his mouth and growling out his approval as Peter does the same, tilting his head to open himself to Wade's advances, his breath hitching, his thighs tensing around Wade's waist. It's heaven. It's bliss. Wade groans in disappointment as Peter breaks away, backing out only far enough to knock his head against Wade's forehead and glare at him from under thick lashes. It's over.

"You're distracting me," Peter whispers, raising one eyebrow to glare down at Wade. His crotch strains against Wade's belly. Peter doesn't seem as annoyed by the idea as he should. And Wade wonders if he might get him to put down those books for a few hours.

"It's not distracting if I need you." Wade persuades, suggestively raising one nonexistent eyebrow. For a moment, Peter seems to consider it, but then he turns his head, eyeing the notebooks where they sit on his desk.

"Would it help if I showed you what I'm planning?" Peter responds, dashing Wade's hopes for sexy times. That's a big fat nope on his end. Operation: Distract With Sex fizzles out before it even gets a chance.

Wade shakes his head. He doesn't want to talk about their shit idea. And even if Peter were to plan for every possible outcome, plans didn't work out there, in the city. The moment they stepped out of the apartment and left, those plans would go out the window.

His arms strain against the couch until the fabric gives, tearing where the webbing twisted into its fibers. Hands-free, he drags Pete in close, dropping his chin to rest on Peter's shoulder.

"Ugh, you're such an ass." Peter slumps, staring at the now very ripped-up piece of furniture in dismay.

"What'd you expect? It's not like this shit comes off easy." The webbing sticks against his fingers when he tries to get it off. "You're lucky I'm balder than a baby's bottom. Fuck, this shit's sticky."

"Come on. I need your help anyway." Peter pulls at his arm, hauling himself off of Wade's lap. He looks down at Wade through the flop of his disheveled hair, giving Wade's arm a tug of encouragement.

"Fine, but we're coming back to this position. I want sex." Wade grouches. He didn't really expect Peter to give in that easily. The kid is pretty damn dedicated to this whole "get killed while saving the world" idea.

"It'll be your present if you're good." Peter offers his hips, swaying a little too much while he walks over to his desk. Oh, Wade could be good, all right. He had a halo when he needed it. He follows like a lost puppy, chasing that apple-bottom across the apartment, his run-in with the couch more or less behind him. Leave it to promises of sex to calm Wade down. Man, he is Easy with a capital 'e,' and Peter fucking knows it. He supposes that's one of the nice things about having shit for brains.

"Okay, look." Peter shoves a torn piece of paper towards him. On it in neat block letters is a list of things they need. Wade leans down. Considering the list. It all seems a lot less complicated, written down on paper. Peter points to the first item on the list. "Do you know where we can get one of these? I don't have much of New York memorized past Queens. It'd help."

Wade grunts, reaching into his sweatpants pocket and pulling out a red crayon. "Yeah. I can do that, but these," He moves his fingers down the list, scratching out what he knows won't be useful once they get into the real world. "Aren't gonna work," he finishes, scrawling his own suggestions in his rougher handwriting.

"You dont wanna pack a lot of stuff. Lighter is better. We're going to be running a lot. Especially for you, if you need to go air-bound. The propane tank will have to go. It's not even half full anyway. We can get lighters if we need to make fire..." Turning around, Wade hunts down a spare chair and hauls it towards Peter's messy little desk.

They sit together, making pointless plans that make Peter feel better and even somehow, despite his protests to the contrary, help Wade become more comfortable with the idea of leaving. And the next day, they got to work—Peter with his duplicating, and Wade with the scavenging.

 

Notes:

Poor Wade, he knows what is out there waiting for them, and he's not excited to go back.

Chapter 27: The Elevator Shaft to Hell

Thanks to the cold, Wade isn't exactly keen on the idea of leaving the apartment. There's gonna be more than enough of that in the future. Lucky him, they have plenty to go through in their lonely apartment complex. They've looked through every building at one point or another, but that had been with different goals. Now the plan has changed, and so have their needs. He finds plenty hidden throughout the building and manages to knock the bulk of the list off without issue. Toilet Paper? Check. Lighters? Check. Compass? Check and check. There's other shit, stuff he wouldn't even think of, like a tent and fire-making supplies. He finds those in Mr.M's, who was some kind of Boy Scout guide. Then there is the stuff that is uniquely needed for Peter. Bleach, peroxide, and cornstarch. None of it makes sense to Wade, but in Pete's hands, combined with a litany of other chemicals, he'd get a decent amount of webbing.

Though he manages to find most of what Peter is looking for, he finds himself stuck on one significant detail.

Step one of Peter Parker's Plan to Save the World? Find a map. That's it. It says so right there on the top of the list, with a big old numero uno circled on the side. It's a good start. As far as steps go, it seems pretty easy: Go find a map. Bring the map back. Make Petepie the happiest boyfriend, this side of New York. Get fucked. Or, at least, that's the result he's hoping for. Peter had offered him a reward after all.

The problem with maps is, they weren't very commonplace back in the before-zombies-fucked-shit-up days. Most people had smartphones, and most phones just figured that shit out for a dude. Maps were outdated. They might as well be looking for a pager for all the likelihood of finding a map. Sure, he could head to a bodega down the street, but those had been stripped down and looted years ago. So yeah, completing Peter's honey-do list isn't going to be as easy as he hoped.

Which is how he finds himself standing before an empty elevator shaft, considering prowling into the deepest darkest recesses of their apartment complex. The parking garage. He shudders just thinking about it. Who wouldn't, with the prospect of diving into a fucking pit of blackness, and who knows what bullshit lurking inside?

The doors have been stuck in the open position since long before either one of them took up squatting in the place. Long enough that dust had migrated across the old tile, turning it a grungy, beige hue. Wade came prepared, with pockets full of car keys they'd confiscated from every apartment they could get into. The metal weighs down his joggers, but they're doing their goddamn best to stay on his hips. Bae and Arthur are a balancing weight on his back, the straps pinching under his armpits, familiar and comfortable. He's got back-up, but, staring down the elevator shaft, Wade grimaces. He's so not into this. But it's all they got.

"I blocked off the entrance to the parking garage when I first came," Peter explains beside him. He gives Wade's shoulder a gentle squeeze. Wade nods his approval. That'd been a smart move, blocking any possibilities of a surprise attack from below. "So if something is down there. It's been there this whole time."

"Right. Doesn't sound so bad. Does it?" Wade offers, trying to sound confident when in reality, he is pretty sure this is gonna be about as fun as getting his balls twisted off.

"Do you think this is a good idea?" Peter questions. Dropping to his knees, he clings to the doorstop and, doing what Spidey does, he crawls out into the awaiting abyss, giving it a once-over. Everything seems to be Peter-approved, though, because he doesn't call the job off. Instead, he eases his grasp on the concrete and reaches out to grasp the elevator cable, where it hangs from the center of the shaft, giving it a hard tug to test its strength.

The cable is old and fraying, with water damage and rust. A look upward shows the elevator car, three stories up above them. It creaks ominously, swaying slowly above them. This is a horror movie in the making. Wade just knows it. Peter peers up at it, just as apprehensive.

"You said you wanted a map," Wade shrugs, dropping down to his ass to reach for the drop cable. It's cold on his palm and leaves smears of grease behind.

"Maybe I should go." Peter protests, his hand tugging on the sleeve of Wade's shirt before he gets too far.

"Not a chance. I need you up here to haul me up if shit goes upside down." Wade answers. Besides, there's no way in hell he's gonna leave Peter to go down there by himself. He doesn't know why they are still talking about it. They had already decided on this route hours ago, after the last accessible apartment flats proved fruitless.

"Remember to throw a line down. Just in case." Wade reminds, biceps straining as he transfers himself onto the cable. Leaning the distance between them, he offers Peter a reassuring grin before going in for a kiss. Peter complies, smacking their lips together before shoving Wade away.

"Be careful, don't forget to transfer to the elevator cable as soon as I pull you outta there." He urges, biting his lip. "The webbing isn't gonna hold your weight for long." Yeah, Wade remembers that. The lesson had been drilled into his head some time ago.

"Aww, he cares." Wade teases, turning his head up to nip at Peter's nose before he gets too far out of reach. "Love you, snookums." Wade sings, his words slurring as he pops his flashlight into his mouth. Giving Peter a salute, Wade eases his grip on the line and lets himself drop into the darkness. The thick wire drags across his palms and thighs, biting into his flesh. He tries to slow his speed down with his boots, but holy rugburn, Batman, that stings. His thighs are healed before he lets go of the cable, but his joggers not so much. He can feel a breeze between his cheeks. Crispy, cool like peppermint gum. The wire tings and creaks under his weight, but it holds until he reaches the bottom, thumping down to bare concrete with the soles of his shoes smoking from friction. His pockets, weighed down as they are with keys, almost pull what's left of his sweatpants off his hips.

Sucking on the handle of his flashlight, Wade takes in his surroundings. The bottom of the shaft is a dank, dusty place filled with at least a couple of inches of filth, including garbage and other useless crap. In front of him are the two metal doors that would normally open in time with the elevator. It looks weirdly out of place, seeing them without a panel of buttons and a shiny aluminum box surrounding him. For the most part, they're closed, though brown, bloody handprints stain the dusty metal, still trying to push the doors open all these years later. The metal bows inward towards Wade, leaving a gap just big enough for Wade to get his muscular ass through if he really clenches. The front bumper of a car is wrecked through the crack, half in and half out of the elevator shaft. The emblem on the hood says it's a Volvo. Wade doesn't care what it is. He just knows it's in the way.

Peering through the gap, Wade is met with darkness. His light reflects off car headlights and glass windows. They're in luck. There are a few vehicles down here. And one of them has to have a map. Doesn't it? Hitching his pants up, Wade heaves himself through the busted door. He clamors as quietly as he can onto the hood of the Volvo, his palms lining up eerily well with the handprints of those who had done this before him. It's so dark down here that Wade's positive he can see his own blood beating behind his eyes every time he blinks. And the smell. Somewhere between old farts and leaking gasoline. It permeates his lungs the moment Wade drops down the elevator shaft.

The garage is huge. Wade thinks it must join a few different properties. His light barely reaches halfway across the distance, hitting the farthest walls with only the faintest glow. A support wall blocks his view, but as far as he can see, he's in the clear.

Wade doesn't waste time. He drops down off the hood of the Volvo. The passenger door is open, but the glove compartment has already been cleared, as has the back seat. Well, life's never fucking easy, is it?

There are not as many vehicles as he hoped, and he moves down the line, all the while hyper-aware of his surroundings. The wind howls down here, a deep, constant whine that sounds like a dozen voices murmuring at the edge of his hearing. It judders against his eardrums, sending shivers down his spine. Checking his six, he gets an eyeful of concrete. Nothing else.

It's so damn dark.

He heads towards the closest car, rubbing the goosebumps that creep up under the skin of his arms. His eyes seek out the emblem on the trunk. As soon as he catches sight of that blue and white logo, he delves into his pocket, hunting for a key that might match. He's lucky. First, try, and the lock clicks open. Shaking his head, he can't help but marvel at another one of Peter's hair-brained ideas. The kid was smart. Wade slips inside, wrinkling his nose as he settles against crunchy leather.

There's a lucky rabbit's foot hanging from the rearview mirror. Reaching out, he yanks it down, snapping the string that holds it there. The fur is still soft in his hands, undamaged by time. He smiles, twisting in his seat long enough to tie the broken string onto Bae's hilt where it sticks up over his shoulder. It looks good combined with Arthur's rubber duck keychain. Besides, with what they're doing, they could use the extra luck. In a few days, shit was going to get real fucking sucky. The sound of something moving from outside the vehicle jolts him out of the moment. Wade jerks his head up, looking around. But everything is quite otherwise, and the beam of his flashlight shows no danger. This isn't Disneyland, you dumbass. Wade reminds himself, chewing idly on the end of the flashlight before turning his attention towards looking for the map.

The dashboard opens without a whisper. Showing off its treasure trove of used tissues, expired registration, and useless vehicle manuals. Wade shoves those aside, grabbing a stack of yellowing paper from underneath the pile and hoping against hope that something in the handful will prove useful. It's old mail, bills, junk. He flips through them, considering each one under the glow of the flashlight. The closest thing he gets to a map is a Gino's Pizza flier with a map to the location. Gino's, fuck, that pizza had been bomb. Like, ditch Peter on a Saturday night because they gave free slices bomb. He's salivating at the memory. The fact that he had also been given the silent treatment for a week after because he didn't have his "priorities" right hadn't mattered.

Pocketing the sliver of paper, Wade dumps his handful of crap onto the passenger-side seat and moves on to the console. This proves useless, too. So does under the seats. He ends up searching the whole car, front to trunk, with no luck. Straightening up from his position in the back of the vehicle, Wade flashes his light around, double-checking he's still walking dead free. Reminding himself to be patient, he leaves the car behind, not bothering to close the doors or trunk behind him. Too much sound, and who was here to judge him? The zombies sure wouldn't. They had the manners of a bear with rabies. And if another survivor did happen to want to take a stroll through this horror movie waiting to happen, then at least they'd know the vehicle held absolutely nothing of value.

He moves on to the next closest hunk of metal he can see. Walking closer, he can see that it's a truck. Brand new, still with the temporary plates on. Who drives a truck in New York? Much less with a deep navy paint job and custom rims? Wade bypasses it. Not a chance there will be anything useful in there unless it's a dealership bill of sale and the body of a guy who was seriously compensating for something.

Working his way down first one row, then the next, he finds himself growing more and more impatient. The cars are few between. Most of them were abandoned in a line that ascended towards the exit ramp, forever waiting in queue. These particular vehicles are easy to get into because the owners hadn't been thinking much about locking doors as they ran for their lives. They'd also been picked bare long before Peter had come along and closed the exit off. Wade passes by some of their dead, chewed-up remains, shaking his head at the mess. The apocalypse is dirty, nasty business.

He makes it to the top of the line of cars. There, Peter's barricade blocks the exit into the main street. Wade whistles low under his breath, impressed. How he had managed to get all those cars flipped over without drawing a horde, Wade has no clue. It's reassuring, though. The blockade is solid. No one without a brain is getting in here. They've tried, though. Long, skeletal arms are wedged between any hole large enough to fit them. Either fully decomposed or twitching listlessly when he draws too close.

Averting his gaze, Wade moves on, his feet taking him deeper into the parking structure. Here, black dust has collected over the years. It's up to his knees, high enough that he can't see his feet anymore, and he has to push it aside just to get inside the vehicles. He leaves a trail of keys behind. The little suckers are useless to him now. It's relatively easy work; he's not even breaking a sweat as he heads away from the latest attempt. All the while, the moaning hum of the wind drowns out the sound of everything else until he can't hear his own breathing through the noise.

Then he finds it. Out of sheer desperation, inside a duffel bag, in the back seat of a beat-up Honda. Thank Jesus! Coughing against his arm, he wheezes out a sound of relief around the thick taste of ash in his mouth. Mmm, tastes like lung cancer. The zipper nearly tears the paper in his excitement when he finds it. Underneath that is something even better —cans of food, bottles of water, a knife, and another compass. Everything a man needs to survive the end of the world. Goodie goodie, jackpot, mapspot. He gives it enough of a look to make sure it's not a map of New Jersey or some bullshit. But nope, there it is in the right corner. New York, New York, proudly emblazoned next to a grid of the city. There are a couple of pages, but Wade's just gonna assume all of it's useful.

Thank you, baby Jesus! Shoving the map into his briefs, Wade gets nice and cozy with his prize. The bag won't zip back up, but he's not too worried. There's plenty of room when he tosses out the clothes and extra socks. Mine. He thinks, heaving the bag over his shoulder. At least there's something to having slogged through a desert's worth of ash. The map's not half bad either. He's so gonna get laid.

Wade makes it three steps towards home when his foot connects with something underneath the thick ash, his ankle twisting faster than Chubby Checkers on the dance floor. Wade chokes back a grunt of surprise as the bag throws him off balance, sending him tumbling to the ground. He disappears underneath the thick layer of ash, with the duffel and its contents clattering to the floor.

For one moment, the air becomes thick, deathly silent, that hum disappearing with his head under the dust. The next, he's surfacing from the dirt, shaking the grit of it from his eyes in time to watch with dawning horror as, feet in front of him, the ash shifts, bulging and sloughing in the weak light of his flashlight. Silent as death, Wade stares into thick, bubble-like eyes surrounded by mummified skin and the tight stretch of leather over a mouth filled to the brim with ashes. The gritty substance coats its teeth and fills the protruding swell of its nose. Zombie.

The sound of the wind intensifies.

 

Chapter 28: That's Not the Wind

With a rattle of old bones, the rotten carcass throws back its head and hums a deep, keen bubbling in its chest around the swell of ash in its mouth. The dry leather of its cheeks cracks from ear to ear, sending more ash spilling free from the cavernous mouth and revealing rotten molars.

Behind it, more shapes began to rise from the ashes. And the sound of the wind increases, growing higher and higher with each waking horror. Wade can feel the vibrating thrum in his chest, in his lungs. The grating howl is louder than anything he's heard in weeks. It is ear-splitting. Mind-numbing, even. The kind of sound that gets into your brain and shakes the grey matter into vacant pieces.

What is that? Wade thinks, his mind working at a snail's pace. Peter would be ashamed. Then understanding really hits him. Oh fuck, that's not the wind! No, that sound comes from dozens of throats, full of ash and grit and dead things. The dust bursts from open mouths, spilling down lips desiccated by the dry environment.

Out of instinct, more than anything, Wade heaves Bae from her sheath at his back, swinging compulsively until metal thunks into dry, mummified bone. Thwapping off first one reaching arm, then the next. Its head follows after, falling into the dust and disappearing from sight. A sickly sweet-mildewed scent assaults his nose as old, sloppy brains spill free from its skull cap.

The keening wail doesn't stop with its death. Instead, there's the hollow creak of bones from behind him, the snap of teeth. The telltale sounds of an enemy he's all too familiar with. He doesn't have to look. Wade knows what those telltale signs mean. Of course, he knows what they mean. He's been knee-deep in this shit for long enough not to be surprised. This is starting to feel like a trend, actually. Every time the two of them split up, shit gets real shitty.

He looks anyway because he's a sucker for punishment. Turning his head, the flashlight just barely lights up more mummified zombies as they rise from the ashes, the dust spilling off them in billowing waves, revealing soot-stained bodies and skin the texture of beef jerky.

There are too many of them. Surrounding him, following the call of that first zombie, even though it's now a bucket of empty brains at Wade's feet. And all Wade can think is that he's alone. Alone in the dark, with no one to help. He'd left the only man who cared a fly's ass about him seven stories up because he was too afraid for Peter to get hurt again. Dusty, aged hands brush against his arms. He's not alone enough. And if there's anything that can get Wade's ass moving, it's the feel of stone-cold bones dragging down his bicep. So yeah, time to get out of dodge.

He doesn't give himself a chance to think. One moment, he's sucking oxygen, the next, he's diving back under the ash, the thick layer of sediment swallowing him up and surrounding him in all-encompassing darkness. On hands and knees, Wade scrambles through it, like Michael Phelps in a swimming pool, arms pumping, his boots scraping against the concrete for purchase. If he could, he'd do a backstroke right there and swim his way to safety, but it's too damn thick, and the zombies are literally everywhere. He can feel hands grasping at his waist, digging against his belly, and all the while, there's that humming wail droning against his eardrums.

Bursting free from the ash, Wade gasps for air he doesn't necessarily need but craves anyway and scrambles onto his feet. It's dark enough that he's getting flashbacks of the nursing home, but this time is so much worse. These dudes aren't senile old bitties; they're walking, singing corpses that have been starved for who knows how long. And they are hungry.

Wade runs, his legs hampered by the deep sloughs of ash. Around him, the ground heaves up as more of them wake from their slumber. He stumbles back when a zombie lurches to its feet in front of him, limbs uncoordinated and bumbling. He doesn't even have to look before he sends his katana downward to slice the zombie in two, head to pelvis. The two halves fall to the ground, the sound going unheard over everything else blasting against his eardrums. Three others rise from the ashes to take their place. Wade isn't gonna get out of this easily. Not by a long shot. He's too far from the elevator, the ash is hindering his movement, and there are too many of them.

His best option? Get his ass to higher ground. Mount Everest high, Snoop Dog high. High enough so that they wouldn't be able to reach him.

There's a vehicle buried just ahead. Wade makes it to the SUV, sheathing his blades so he can reach out to snag the bike rack on top. It's easy-peasy to shove one foot on the bumper and shove off, arms flexing until he's on the roof of the SUV, one knee pressed to the dull black paint, the other reaching behind his back for life insurance policies one and two. His heart is racing, his muscles pumping with blood and adrenaline. It's terrifying, yet Wade hasn't felt so alive in weeks! Fuck planning to save the world, this, this he can do!

Popping his flashlight from one cheek over to the next, Wade hefts the weight of his blades, adjusting them automatically, so they sit perfectly balanced in his palms.

"Alright, my pretties, time to get shit done." He doesn't wait to see what's following him. Instead, he leaps from the SVU to the next vehicle, thighs bunching, hips twisting to catch himself on the aluminum roof—the top caves under his weight. Wade barely notices. Instead, he's grinning like a fucking loon, a sharp, murderous smile flashing in the darkness. One more jump brings the far wall into focus, his light clashing against stained concrete walls.

And hallelujah, there's a maintenance ladder to his right, and just above that, thank fuck, is a hatchway, the handle just visible in the light. Some kind of maintenance access, maybe. The distance is too far, and he's running out of vehicles to play hopscotch with. The ground all around is shifting, mounding up in great big waves all around him as more and more wake from their slumber. It's a miracle he hadn't walked into any of them on the way in. Looking out over the shifting ground is like looking at a minefield.

Hands grasp at his butt, tangling in the ripped inseam of his pants. Wade yelps, his heart leaping in his arms. Twisting around, he rams Bae into the skull of some poor teenager with a skateboard still strapped to her back and fishnets hanging off her ankles. Bae's blade slams right into her right eye socket, finishing the kid off with one blow. Wade heaves upon the hilt, hauling the now very much dead girl's body up, and launches the corpse at the horde gathering behind her. She slides off of Bae's handle with a slink of black blood. Strike! Her body crashes into the group like a bowling ball, taking them down under her weight. That'll teach her. Only Peter gets to touch that ass.

Turning back around, a dozen more have already gathered on the other side, right in his way. Wade groans, rolling his shoulders and scowling out over the crowd. Bunch of ashy jerks, he'll have to bypass them entirely. Backing up to make a running jump, his heels hit the edge of the bike rack. Kicking the dust off his heels, Wade slaps some more off his face so he can see better and then runs, lunging across the dented hood of the sedan and vaulting. He's airborne, legs outstretched behind him, toes pointed to maintain as much contact as he can with the hood of the car. It'd look a hell of a lot cooler if he weren't wearing sleeping pants and an old shirt, but he'll take it.

At the highest point of his jump, Wade twists in midair, spinning on his torso, his ass breezing in the wind, his katanas extended out from his arms. He aims for the crowd just below him. Like a pinwheel of death, his blades slice into the crowd. Half of them are just falling apart from their own weight, the rest splitting under Bae and Arthur's moving blades.

Slashing through bone and sending blood and guts splashing, Wade uses the closest zombie as a bouncing board, hooking his foot onto one rickety shoulder to push himself out of grabbing range. His boots hit the ground with a burst of ash. The fact that the ground gives beneath him with a squelch just clarifies the shitfest he's gotten into.

Running for the ladder, Wade glances over his shoulder in time to see a couple of dozen bodies illuminated with the flicker of his flashlight. Cursing Peter and his stupid ideas, Wade makes it to the farthest wall, sheaths Bae, and scrambles up the ladder. There's the maintenance hatch above his head. Wade's ready to kiss Lady Death's apple bottom jeans until he lays eyes on what's cozied up right next to the handle. A padlock. A motherfucking padlock. Sealing away any chance of an exit. Fan-fucking-tastic, just his fucking luck. What mirror did he break to deserve this shit?

He doesn't get a chance to test the strength of the lock. Hands latch onto his ankles and yank, jerking him down a rung of the ladder. Wade feels teeth scrape against his shoes. Brittle old bones snap against the rubber. Way too fucking close for comfort. Clenching the ladder as tight as he can with one arm, Wade kicks back, aiming for where he knows the skull will be the weakest, right at its temple. Foot meet bones, bones meet brain. Ugh, he's gonna have to throw away his sneakers after this.

Shaking his foot off, Wade hauls himself up higher, out of reach, until he's hanging there like a salami ripe for picking. A couple of women, who look eerily similar, thunk into the wall below before reaching for the ladder, their bodies crushed against brick as the rest scramble to get a piece of the world's greatest mercenary. Zombie twins. Not sexy, not sexy one bit.

Wade does what he can to fight them off, clinging by one hand, the other flinging Arthur around with the finesse of a toddler. He's just aiming to fuck shit up at the moment. There are too many to really fight. Every time he tries to climb up higher, they manage to get a hold of him, yanking him back down. Wade's on the very brink of getting his ass eaten. And not in a good way.

Hanging there like a salami ripe for picking, Wade's on the verge of getting his ass eaten. And not in a good way. His range of motion is limited to what's just in front of him, and when he removes one zombie, another quickly fills its place. There's a particularly bitty mother fucker in a construction worker's helmet. He has a great idea to try and climb the ladder. And Jesus, is that little glint of leftover sentience terrifying? Black as oil hands grip the ladder rungs, teeth coming within inches of Wade's ankle. Wade heaves himself upward, doing the world's worst curl-up, his six-pack clenching to keep his legs out of reach.

There has to be another way out. His head twists on his neck, searching for something, anything. There, overhead, Wade can see the long, distended twist of water service pipes. Or maybe something else. Either way, those are his best bets. The metal pipes are wide enough to hold a grown man until the feeding frenzy is over. All he has to do is get there.

Wade's grip isn't secure. Not with one hand covered in slippery ash and the other busy trying to lop the heads off of anything close enough to bite. He tries to adjust, to pull himself upward with strength alone. If he can just get four more rungs up, he'll be set. But it's physics that lets him down. His grasp on the ladder gives. His palm slips, fingers scrambling against rusted iron.

And he's falling.

Fuck.

Notes:

This was the best chapter to write, I love the visceral horror in it.

Chapter 29: 30 More Seconds

A sharp whistle breaks through the droning hum of the dead. Wade would know that piercing sound anywhere. One moment, Wade's free-falling towards gaping, broken mouths. Next, there's the familiar sound of Peter's web-shooters, followed by the icy chill of webbing as it lashes around his wrist. Instead of plummeting to a grizzly death, his momentum sends him swinging in an arc by the strands of webbing. The sticky web pulls him up short, and Wade lets out a hoot of relief as the toe of his sneaker grazes just inches over the open maw of the horde. He has only a moment to think he's safe when he feels a sharp lurch and the sound of something snapping.

Wade looks up, his eyes flashing towards where the webbing strands are fraying, rapidly straining under his weight. He doesn't even really notice that. Instead, Wade realizes he's not alone anymore, eyes feasting on the world's best guardian angel, who sits on the pipes overhead, hauling Wade in as fast as he can. He can see the look of fear in Peter's eyes. The last time they'd done this, it had ended with Wade falling into a crowd of the dead. And it isn't likely some miracle storm would appear to save them, not down here. If Wade fell now, he'd be cat food.

"Itsy Bitsy! You came!" Wade calls out, his flashlight making the words slur in his mouth.

"Focus, Scarface!" Peter grunts, grimacing when Wade's weight yanks on his bad arm. His eyes are intent on the fragile strand of webbing between them and that point where the strands are weakest. Quicker than Wade can see, Pete lets himself fall from the pipe, one hand outstretched behind him to catch onto the warped metal of the pipe as he falls a few short feet. Peter hangs in the air by that arm, his free wrist twisting the length of webbing to pick up the slack as he drops.

Has Wade ever mentioned how awesome it is to be dating a fucking superhero? Dear Baby Jesus, that shit's so damn hot. He's a damsel in distress—one of those pretty ladies with their long hair and their pasted-on eyelashes. Wade is literally swooning. That hits him right in the metaphorical vagina. No wonder superheroes get all the girls.

Sweet, sweet, muscular biceps reel him in. Wade reaches up with his free hand, and Peter sees it, snatching Wade's hand out of the air before the webbing gets a chance to snap. Wade clutches that thin wrist for dear life. The pipe creaks precariously underneath them, protesting the excess weight. He can feel Peter's frantic pulse fluttering under bare skin. Peter's biceps barely flex under Wade's weight, heaving Wade up with sheer strength alone. Thank you muchly, radioactive spider go-go juice. He hauls Wade up like a sack of laundry, shoving him over the side of the pipe and following shortly after.

"Did you get it?!" Peter barely waits for his feet to land on sweet safety before the question blabs out of his mouth.

"The fuck Pete?" Wade signs instinctively in disbelief, dropping back to rest on the metal. What is it with this damn map?! He'd just come out of a crazy horde of singing dead people. A little concern would be appreciated. Thank you very much. "Priorities, man. I just got my ass handed to me down there!" Wade grumbles, rolling onto his side to peer over the edge of the pipe. The hunk of metal sways dangerously under him. Hopefully, it doesn't give out before they get their asses to freedom.

"Right, right, sorry," Peter gestures, his hand signs almost invisible in the darkness. He has the decency to look at least a tiny bit ashamed when Wade turns his head to look at him, his flashlight shining over the kid's dust-smeared face. Peter winces from the light, shoving Wade's face away so he isn't blinded. Wade chuckles, then lets his head fall down to his arms. Trying to catch his breath, at least for a moment. The shadow that is Peter moves close enough to drop his hand on Wade's shoulder. The weight of it is comforting in the twisted darkness.

"Are you okay?" Peter asks aloud to get Wade's attention, his fingers squeezing Wade's muscles in a gentle caress. What kind of question is that? Seriously, all he has to do is look around and see shit is definitely not okay. Nope, not one fucking bit.

"Perfect. This is just a walk in the park." Wade snarks under his breath, not bothering to meet Peter's gaze. "I'm having so much fun." Dismissively, he starts looking around for a way out of this nightmare fest. Below, the zombies with half a brain left struggle up the ladder again, aiming for their hiding spot with grasping hands.

"Come on, Wade. Focus." Peter rolls his eyes, not entertained. "The map?"

"Yes. I got your map." Wade groans, slapping a hand where the all-important papers are tucked up against his ballsack. "I got you three of them, actually. Does that mean I get triple sex points?"

Peter, who's ignoring him like a big dickbag, spots the zombies climbing the ladder and launches himself down off the pipe. A string of webbing lashes around the rebar above to swing him toward the hoard. With a sickening squelch, he uses his pretty little booties as a battering ram, smashing the skull of the lead zombie into pieces. It breaks with a puff of dust, sending shards out to shrapnel into the others below.

Headshot! The kids got aim.

The zombies clamoring up behind it collapse under the weight of the limp body, crashing into the horde beneath. Wade's there to catch him on the upswing, lunging through the space between them to latch onto one thin arm and haul Peter in. Pete lets out a grunt of surprise as his trajectory significantly changes, but it takes his toes out of range of snapping jaws, so he doesn't seem to mind.

"Let's get out of here." Wade hisses against the damp, musky-smelling warmth of Peter's hair. Pissed or not pissed, there's something different about running for your life when your best boy is there with you. And there isn't a chance he's going to let his baby get brain fucked by a bunch of dusty-looking acapella wannabes. Even if Pete's being an inconsiderate ass.

"Yeah. Good idea." Peter whispers, waiting for him to lead the way.

"It's dark as Satan's asshole out here." Wade hisses, scrambling hand over knee to turn around and crawl over the pipe. His footing is testy on the pipes that line the ceiling. The metal is rusted, old, and slippery, no matter which way he goes. Wade ends up playing snuggle bear with the goddamn thing, arms stretched around the circumference of the pipe, his ass in the air as he makes like a caterpillar and crawls. Behind him, he can hear the sound of Peter moving. A whisper of cloth against rusty metal, a grunt of annoyance when he bounces into Wade's ass. Wade grins when hands land on his buttcheeks, shoving away from him. A moment later, Peter's head pops up underneath him, crawling along the bottom of the pipe as quick as a bug. A shit-eating grin lights up his face when he overtakes Wade.

The bulk of the horde of zombies doesn't notice them leaving. They're still busy attacking the ladder, or each other, only a dozen or so following after Wade's wiggly ass cheeks. It's not easy being this purdy, but Wade manages to get enough distance between them, the pipe he was balanced on swaying dangerously in the air with every shuffle forward. He crawls on until abruptly, there isn't much in the way of options for Wade to go. The line ends, leaving him nestled up to the end of a heating vent that's covered in dust-bunnies and a set of purple streamers. Wade gives one a poke, the brittle plastic snapping under his fingers. An old, deflated balloon is trapped in the vent, and Wade can just make out the word 'irthda' through the dust. Dead end...well, that sucks.

"Babe?" Wade hisses, peering around for Peter. Peter has the decency to look sheepish when his head pops up several pipes over, and he sees Wade stuck at a dead end. The pipe creaks in its braces, lurching dangerously downward. "Hurry up, would you?" Wade squeaks, clutching the air duct for dear life.

Peter crawls back to his side, unhindered by the lack of actual footholds. Wade's flashlight flickers across him as he moves, randomly illuminating odd bits of Peter. A hint of sneakers' feet, a flash of grey. It is one of those things that would look terrifying in a horror movie, but doesn't hold much weight when Wade knows it's his babe on the other side of that flickering light. Peter pauses beside him, clinging to the roof by fingers and toes, his lips pursed with indecision as he looks Wade over. He's thinking—that pretty head of his working overtime.

Wade drops his head to rest on a vent, trying to ignore the sound of his resting place losing its structural integrity. His light flashes over the navy truck he'd come across early. The vehicle sits a ten-foot drop below in all its dusty glory. Wade considers it, glancing towards where they came from and the crowd of the dead still lurking out of sight. It's as good a place to wait out the storm, but he'd tossed out the rest of the keys when he'd found the map. He's not the best at thinking ahead, so sue him.

Peter seems to have a similar idea, and Wade holds his breath as he drops down into the horde below and onto the truck's roof. Peter ignores the trailing zombies that thump against the truck bed, clawed hands reaching but unable to get any closer. Wade peers down, raising an eyebrow curiously as his personal hero bends down, presses one sticky palm onto the sunroof window, and heaves.

His biceps strain. The sound of the lock breaking sends their undead comrades into a frantic wailing. That humming noise increases to ear-shattering proportions. It's a whole herd of Shriekers calling out for food. Alerting the others to come and get it. Like a dinner bell. A dinner bell that would include their brains on a platter. Wade hisses, looking back behind them. These assholes will bring the rest of the horde down on them again.

Peter heaves one more time, the sound of metal creaking until finally, the window pops off its frame, his fingers clinging to it like a suction cup. Peter looks up at him, and fuck, it's hard to be irritated with him when he smiles like that, gesturing for Wade to get into the cab. It's not much, but it'll do.

Wade drops down onto the roof, almost falling off before Peter's fingers tangle into the neck of his shirt and yank him back from the brink. Wade signs a quick 'thank you' before moving towards the opening Peter had made. It's a tight fit for his wide shoulders, and he is forced to shimmy in the first one, then the next, until he's in. Dropping through the broken window to fall back against deep black Napa leather seats, the smell of really old Old Spice enveloped his sinuses.

"The bro was strong with this one." Wade croaks, tilting his neck to peer up through the broken window. He tries to ignore the groaning scrape of nails against the driver-side window. Tries. They're way too close for comfort. Peter looks down at him from above, leaning in through the open window to press his lips to Wade's ear. Pale fingers slip across his face before snatching the flashlight from his lips and clicking it off.

"I'm gonna distract them," Peter whispers, leaning down from above until his lips join with Wade's in a frantic kiss. Wade jolts from the sensation of skin-on-skin, instinctively lifting his head to meet the kiss, his lips connecting with Pete's chin more than anything.

Oh damn, is he getting a Toby McQuire moment?

He so is! This is like the optimum of Spidey moves tropes, and it's happening. Finally! Fuck, why isn't it raining? Where's the Spidey suit so he can pull it down for Pete's chin? Hands other than their own thump against the car. Peter flinches, breaking away to glare at the face smeared up against the glass. Wade drops back against the seat, pouting only a little bit.

"When the coast is clear, you run." Peter orders. He's gone before Wade can protest, the weight of the flashlight dropping into Wade's lap. Above him, the busted window scrapes back into place, and a smattering of webbing glues it down. Wade bites back a protest, resisting the urge to punch the steering wheel and reminding himself that he can't baby Peter. If today has taught him anything, it's that they should be doing this together. They were better as a team.

Wade doesn't see him disappear. Couldn't if he wanted to. It's so damn dark he can't tell his ass from his foot at that moment. His ears strain to listen for something, anything, to tell him what plan Pete has up his sleeves. And then he hears it, far off in the distance, the distinct noise of a car door slamming. Bang. And then again. Bang.

Wade flinches with each recurring noise. Hoping against hope that they are deep enough underground that the sound won't travel and make their lives worse outside their apartment.

Around him, the zombies go silent. They're close enough that he can see the bare outline of their heads as they tilt towards the noise. Drawn to it as they were to any sound. The zombie closest to him leaves a smear of charcoal mud across the window as he twists toward potential prey, his spine moving too far for any human, the vertebrae showing through the leathery mold of his flesh. It shoves off the window, disappearing into the darkness.

Peter smashes another car door closed.

The zombies follow.

And Wade, well, Wade stays still. Very, very still, his fingers clutching at the dagger by his hip, his eyes flashing around the darkness. It's not quite. It can't be, with the horde humming in the background, the feel of their collective breath dragging the air from his lungs. He clutches at the plastic of the doorknob, listening, waiting, for some unknown signal that might tell him the danger had moved on.

Minutes pass, and instinct tells him he is alone. Alone. Alone in the dark, alone with the deep, broken call of a hundred dead things surrounding him. Wade fumbles with the latch, his hands shaking, not for himself, but for Peter. Who's also alone out there, facing off against their enemy. All to protect him. Wade finally manages to get a hold of the door handle and pops it open, slipping out of the plush leather seat until his feet hit the ground.

He runs.

The thinning layer of soot on the ground is enough to muffle the slap of his feet as he heads into the darkened belly of the apartment complex. His eyes are open wide in the hopes of seeing something, anything. But it's pitch black, swallowing up until he can't think past the fear of it. Until he's there, back in the soggy hell of a retirement home, his brains hanging out of his head, limping back into life. He's there, running through the pitch-black streets, a horde reaching for him, pulling him downward, back into Old Grave. Wade stumbles, his legs giving out under him, his kneecaps jarring against blood-stained cement. Curling in on himself, he covers his ears, trying to bury the sound, to press the memories back into his head. But the darkness is still there.

Oh fuck, he's having a panic attack. Oh, Jesus. Oh...fuck.

Distantly, he hears it. BANG! A car door? He fights to remember why that sound is so important. BANG! Something about...Peter? The sound ruptures through his head, jump-starting his brain. Peter! Out there, all alone, just like he is. BANG! The sound clangs in among the fear and disrupts it just enough to let in one tiny thought.

The flashlight.

It's there, pressing against his temple, where his hands clutch at his bare head. Wade gasps, fumbling with the flimsy piece of metal and plastic. His thumb snags on the light switch, and he presses it. Light. Weak, warm light cuts through the dark, putting some distance between him and the memories.

Wade whimpers in relief and tries to catch his breath. He drags himself forward at first, unable to do much but crawl, his light aimed at the floor just in front of his hanging head. It's through sheer strength of will that he gets back onto his feet again, lifting himself upward despite the pull of gravity.

Again, he runs.

Underneath him, his legs are weak. He feels like he's drunk a six-pack and had a bit of Weasel's cocaine. Through sheer force of will, he runs as fast and as quiet as he can, his fingers clenched around the hard barrel of his flashlight, masking the glow so that only the barest of rays can shine outward, guiding him towards home.

Wade stumbles over old, skeletal bodies, his feet tangling in the twisted remains of a jacket. He struggles, catching himself on the trunk of a car, before moving on, his chest tight, his lungs rushing frantically with worry for Pete and whatever the fuck that was.

Finally, he sees it, a black hole, in the already dark expanse surrounding him. The chrome flash of a Volvo emblem greets him, and just beyond it, the broken doors of the elevator. Wade clamors over the twisted remains of the car, which blocks the elevator door.

Sliding down the hood of the Volvo, he falls onto the other side, his ass cushioned by the trash that lines the floor. Scrambling to his feet, Wade turns back towards the door. Jaw clenched, legs itching to turn around, to give chase and find Peter, even though every piece of him is terrified of going back into the darkness.

There's nothing he can do. He has to trust Pete to take care of himself. The kid's smart, tougher than Wade will ever be. He's good at surviving. Wade knows that this is how it will be from now on. Running, fighting, protecting, but most of all trusting one another to watch each other's backs.

This is the new normal, or maybe the return to normal. Whatever they had been doing these last few months? Pretending, playing house. That was abnormal. When they get out into the real world, he can't be doing it all by himself. Today proves it. Something is wrong in his head. He can't be doing it all, not if they want to survive. If they are going to do this, they have to be a team again, and Wade has to remember how to trust Peter. Peter will have to take risks. Wade will have to let him. That doesn't mean he has to like it, though.

Standing in the tight confines of the elevator shaft, Wade waits, katanas out and hanging at the ready at his side. He scowls, peering into the dark space that stands between the two warped double doors. Fear. Worry. Anger. Anger at himself, at his lover. His heart in his throat, his morning meal of scooty-o's feels close to making a reappearance.

This is taking too long. Fuck, what if Peter is hurt? What if he is out there, somewhere in the dark, getting eaten by a bunch of diseased, dead people? All for a stupid map.

Chapter 30: A Chance at Freedom

Two and a quarter...

"Two..." Wade whispers, snarling under his breath and sheathing his katanas with a rapid flash of his biceps. His heart is racing. His ears ache from trying to listen for something, anything. "Aw, fuck it, Peter, where are you?" He hisses, heaving himself up through the lift doors.

There's a scuffle of sound, the clatter of a body colliding with a car door. A moment later, Peter leaps through the opening, feet first, his toes barely hitting the ground. Wade snatches him up out of the air half a second before colliding with him and yanks him close, grappling with long limbs still in fight or flight mode. A fist connects with Wade's side, and a wayward elbow digs into his chest.

Peter fights him for a moment, then seems to realize who is holding him, or maybe his spidey-sense finally kicks in and tells him he's in safe company. He stumbles into Wade's arms, his breath echoing in the tight confines of the elevator shaft. Wade gathers him close. Smothers him in a full-body hug where both of them are shaking, but neither can say a word. Until the adrenaline wears off, and he can think past the terror that has been eating him up.

"Fuck, babe, don't disappear on me like that again." Wade croaks against the ash-covered crown of Peter's head. He runs his fingers up and down Peter's arms. Checking for what? He's not sure. He just has to reassure himself that Peter's alright.

"How could you stand being down there for that long?" Peter gasps, his voice muffled against the cotton of Wade's shirt. Wade laughs, the sound breaking into a thousand pieces on his tongue.

"You asked me to," Wade gasps back, rubbing grit from his eyes. That's the only reason he needs. Wade looks out into the darkness behind Pete's back. He thinks he sees something move out there. A shuffle of too-long arms and bone white legs, but it disappears, melding away into the shadows.

The humming continues. It echoes through the elevator shaft, sending shivers up Wade's spine. Wade stares out into the darkness, pressing his lips down onto the top of Peter's head, claiming Peter back from the black hole beyond the elevator door.

"Yeah, well, next time, say no," Peter hisses, his voice cracking in a sob even as he gives Wade's shoulder a smack. Wade covers Peter's hand with his own and pulls him into a hard hug. That's enough to get Pete to hold him back, and for half a second, Pete clings to him, squeezing the air out of his lungs.

"It's over." Wade croaks, giving long fingers a squeeze of reassurance. Peter nods, but he can't seem to meet Wade's eyes. Peter jerks his chin towards the cable.

"Come on. We have to get up. The webbing won't hold them long." He whispers, wiping at his face. Wade nods his agreement, watching the pale body of the zombie creep up from between the cracks of the door.

"You go up first." He pushes Peter up towards the elevator shaft and sheaths his blades. Wade's new lucky paw taps the back of his neck. Skeletal fingers breach the darkness of the door jam and reach into the light, seeking to pull him back into that black pit. Wade shakes his head and steps back, grasping blindly for the cable. He hauls himself up.

Above, Peter is no more aware of the zombie than he was before. His sneakers disappear over the lip of their floor, dust spewing down to hit Wade in the eyes and mouth. Wade frowns but doesn't complain. Biceps flexing, he climbs up the elevator cable, the rusted metal dyeing his hands orange.

Gasping for breath, Wade drops down to the dirty tile floor outside the elevator door. Peter slumps beside him, half as winded but just as tired-looking. They're covered in thick ash, a dusting of it hovering in the air.

The hum of the undead echoes back up through the open elevator shaft, vibrating through their very bones. It drowns out the gasping intake of their own breathing and the creak of the broken elevator hanging on its rusty cable. Wade stares up at the swaying elevator cart through the open gap of the doors. That elevator's a death trap waiting to happen. When it goes, the whole building's going to follow after.

"That is the worst idea I've ever had." Peter gasps, letting out a shaky laugh. He covers his face with his hands, muffling his voice behind them.

"You think?" Half sitting up, Wade shifts onto his elbow and peels Peter's hands away from his face. Looking into sad brown eyes. Peter looks like something out of an old black and white movie. Ash seeping into his skin and hair, leaching out the color that should be there. Raising his hand, Wade brushes his thumb over soft lips. Rubbing away the ash until the pink of them shows.

"Are you alright?" Wade asks, looking Peter over. It's dark out here, but his eyes are used to the dark now. He can see well enough.

"Yeah," Peter whispers back, pressing a kiss to the pad of Wade's thumb. He looks Wade over, too. "I'm fine. We're fine. Right?" He asks, his voice riddled with guilt.

Wade nods, smiling.

"Right." He says, even though he feels the exact opposite deep inside. "And, it wasn't all for nothing. Look what I got."

Reaching into his pants, Wade yanks the map out from under his balls. He thanks baby Jesus that it's still there because he isn't going to go back out to retrieve it if it weren't. He slaps the map onto Peter's chest. Peter watches him with a level of fascinated disgust.

"Where were you storing that?" Peter asks, lifting it towards the sunlight streaming down the hall from their open door.

"You know where," Wade answers smugly.

"You're disgusting, Wade," Peter snickers back, shoving Wade away so he can sit up. "Come on, we should wash up."

"Probably a good idea. You look like you've been dragged through a campfire."

"Yeah, well, you're no better," Peter observes from under sooty eyelashes.

Wade looks down at himself. Fuck, Pete's right. If anything, he's worse. His shirt, which was once a pale shade of white, is now dingy, almost black. His joggers are fit for the burn pile, and he's not sure there's any hope left for his boxers.

Peter tries to wipe the ash off Wade's head. Wade closes his eyes and lets him do most of the work. But with a sound of exasperation, Pete gives up.

"This isn't going to work. You should throw them away." Peter whispers. "Besides," he snorts, "You've got a hole in your pants."

"Hey, don't laugh at me. This was your idea." Wade grumbles, easing the straps of his harness off his shoulder. Peter's right. He doesn't even know why they're trying. There are plenty of clothes to choose from in the apartment. Yanking his shirt over his head. He's like the world's worst dandruff commercial. Peering down at his stomach, he's no better underneath.

Wiggling out of his joggers, Wade tosses them down the elevator without a backward glance and follows them off with his boxers. Naked as the day he was born, Wade gives a full-body shudder. It's colder than an ice rink in this bitch.

"Alright, that does it." Wade hisses through chattering teeth, bending to grab his katanas off the floor. He's tired of being fucking cold.

"What does it?" Peter questions, balancing on one foot to yank off his dirty sneakers. He leaves those sitting on the ground. Throwing them down would be too loud, even with the wind howling outside. "Babe? Where are you going?" Peter whispers, louder, scrambling to follow after Wade.

"Where do you think?" Wade turns around, walking backward so he can gesture down at his filthy self. "We're taking a bath, babycakes."

It's a good fucking idea, one of his best, actually. One last hurrah before dropping off the deep end into whatever shitfest awaits them out there in the big bad.

"Is that a good idea?" Peter hums, "But what about the water?"

The fucking spoilsport.

"Are you questioning my genius? Of course, it's a good idea. What else are we going to use all that water for?" Wade asks, wrapping an arm around Pete's shoulders and scruffing Pete's head with his knuckles.

"It does sound nice..." Peter relents, chuckling against Wade's armpit. Wade can feel the rise of goosebumps on Peter's arm. He doesn't say anything out loud, but he makes sure to hold Peter extra tight, his mind still down there, somewhere in the ugly darkness.

Today was bad. But soon, things would become so much worse. He doesn't want to dwell on it. He wants to savor these last moments, here in the relative safety of the sanctuary they'd made a home.

They step into their apartment, and, despite his excitement, Peter immediately walks towards his desk, shaking out the creased folds of the map. Wade watches him go and sighs, muffling the sound by closing the door behind him.

He doesn't bother saying anything as he heads back towards the bedroom. Peter will come around when he's done.

---

Sometime later, Wade finds himself chin-deep in lukewarm water and oatmeal dog shampoo. His brain is calmer, less adrenaline-filled. He stares at the scarred skin of his legs, where they poke out of the water. Watching the light from the candles flicker across his skin. It's quiet. Comfortable even. He hasn't been in this much water in a long time.

He's also alone. Wade tries not to dwell too much on that part, but he keeps glancing towards the door, listening to the quiet, barely-there scuffles of Peter working in the other room.

With nothing else to distract him, Wade's mind keeps returning to earlier. To that moment, where panic had overtaken him, and he hadn't been able to think or breathe past it. No matter how hard he'd wanted to, he couldn't stand up. He sat there, useless, broken, a sitting duck waiting to be eaten.

Wade shudders as the visceral memories overwhelm him. The candlelight can't fight it. He's there, under a thousand tons of concrete, the darkness swallowing him up. His lungs grow tight with remembered anxiety. His heart races as the shattering hum of a hundred voices grates against his mind.

God, he's so fucked. Shifting, Wade dunks his head under the water. Holding his breath and submerging under the heavyweight of it. The light of the candle refracts through the water, flickering across the surface and over his eyes. His eyes burn, but there's no way to tell if he's crying, not here, in the wrapped depths of the tub.

If it hadn't been for Peter...

Wade shakes his head, pushing those thoughts aside too, locking them in a box. He couldn't think about what might have been. Only what is. And at the moment, he's sitting here. Alive and mostly okay.

All that meant was that they had to work together and combine their strengths to get through the next part of their journey. No more of this running off on their own, chasing ghosts, and almost getting killed. Every time they leave each other, bad shit happens.

First, it had been that zombie girl. And then it had been those assholes with their damn bow and arrow. The retirement home. The damn outdoor store. No matter what, when they didn't work together, shit got ugly.

The bathroom door creaks open on squeaky hinges. Any other day, he might decide to take a can of good old WD-40 to it. Not now, though. What was the point?

Peter steps into the darkened room, his face flickering in the light of a single candle's flame. His hair is damp but not as wet as it would be had he taken a shower. He's also naked as the day he was born. Wade eases himself up from the water, holding out one dripping palm.

Peter looks at him, but he doesn't move to come closer. He wrings his hands together nervously, taking in a deep breath.

"I just...wanted to say. I'm sorry. For rushing us into this." Peter whispers, looking mournfully upset. Wade blinks, surprised, and sits up to protest, but Peter stops him, raising one hand in the air.

"Let me finish, Wade?" He whispers, stepping inside and easing the door closed behind him. "I've been thinking about it, and I'm doing this all wrong, making mistakes that could get us killed. That almost got you killed. I'm playing with your life, babe. I shouldn't be doing that. I should be protecting you."

That's...different. Wade thinks to himself, raising one eyebrow. He isn't usually the one who needs protecting. He's the protector. The disposable one. He doesn't know how often he's been sent on literal suicide missions because Wade Wilson will always make it out alive, even when he didn't. He gets it. It fucking sucks, but he gets it. Wade tries not to let it get him down. Still does, though.

"It's not like I'm a voice of reason." Wade protests, letting his arm fall back to the rim of the tub. The water ripples around his thighs, sending bubbles dancing around on the surface. "I could have said no to going down there. Hell, you should have come with me from the start, but I just hate putting you in danger."

If he had his way, he would swaddle Peter in blankets and keep him protected from any and everything in this rotten hellscape. But he can't. And Peter deserves better. And according to Peter, Wade deserves better, too? They shouldn't be babying each other. It makes this world too difficult to survive in.

Wade blinks. Darkness flashes under his eyelids, there and gone, when he opens them once more. Even so, the memories will still be there when he closes his eyes again. Blood seeping down his chin, his brain splattered across the ground, and sticking to the broken end of a leg chair. Fingers reaching, taking hold of such an integral part of him, and eating it.

Fingers brush against his skin, yanking his stupid head out of those fucked up memories. Wade closes his eyes again, but this time he just feels. Peter's touch chases away the horrors. The soft caress of his fingers tracks over the dents and dimples of Wade's face. Tracing over the creases of his eyes, where tears threaten to fall.

Wade sobs, and yeah, he's crying. Big fat tears dripping from his eyes.

"Oh...Wade..." Peter whispers, his voice cracking.

"I don't think I can do it alone anymore..." Wade whispers, ducking his head in shame. He doesn't dare look up at Peter. "Something's wrong in my head. Ever since..." He can't say it.

"That night." Peter finishes his thought. Wade nods, wiping aggressively at the tears on his cheeks, washing them away into the water.

"How long have you been feeling like this?" Peter asks. And even though Wade can't see him, he senses him moving closer. Sees out of the corner of his downturned eyes as Peter dips one pale foot into the water, the seams of his toes still stained black from ash.

"Long enough," Wade admits, his voice clogged with emotion. His chest is tight, aching with that familiar heaviness he can't fight.

Wade feels Peter straddle his waist, his ass settling into the cradle of Wade's belly. The water level rises to lap at the rim of the tub. Peter's soft and warm, and everything Peter all at once. His thighs clutch Wade's waist tight.

It's not enough.

Lunging forward, Wade sends waves of water spilling over the lip of the tub. He doesn't notice. He's too busy burying his face in Peter's throat, smothering himself in his warm embrace.

"Tell me what happened?" Peter whispers, wrapping him in a tight bear hug.

"I can't," Wade gasps, sobbing against the pale out-juts of Peter's collarbone. Peter's weight settles on Wade, buoyant and warm. There's a water tablet fizzing at Wade's elbow. It tingles against his skin. "I want to, but I can't. I keep thinking about it. Over and over. And it's stupid. It's fucking stupid because I've been through way worse shit—"

"Hey," Peter's lips press to Wade's, stopping him from speaking. He kisses him, warm, tender lips fluttering gently across Wade's mouth to his chin. "Don't do that, don't belittle your experiences." Peter orders, sitting up enough to look Wade in the eyes.

Holy shit, he's so beautiful. Wade runs his fingers across Peter's cheek, palming it so he can brush his thumb across Peter's eyelashes. He looks at Peter, and everything he's gone through is worth it.

"I don't know what I did to deserve getting you back," Wade whispers, swallowing hard, Adam's apple bobbing at his throat. "And I don't know what mistakes I'll do to lose you again, and fuck, Pete, it scares me. It scares me so much that I'll lose you. I can't go back to the way things were before. I can't live without you."

Peter closes his eyes, a single tear tracking down his cheek. They're a bunch of emotional babies. Who can blame them, though?

"Maybe we shouldn't do this?" Peter whispers, wiping at his cheeks. "We should just stay here through the winter, and—"

Wade can't stand to hear the uncertainty in his voice.

"No, Pete," Wade protests. "You're right. Who knows what tomorrow will hold? You have a duty. I might not like it, but you do. We have to get those notebooks to someone. And even if it's an icebox out there, at least the zombies are slower. We should go."

Peter looks into his eyes. Searching for if Wade is speaking the truth or just saying what Peter wants him to say. He seems to find what he's looking for there.

"Alright," He nods, running his fingers through his hair and taking a deep breath. "But, we have to be more careful. There's no point to this if we die because I want to hurry up."

Wade can't agree more.

"No dying. No matter what."

Peter smiles, one of those lopsided, halfhearted smiles that have become his thing nowadays. He holds out his hand, pinky sticking up.

"Promise?" He whispers.

Wade tangles their pinkies together.

"Promise." He agrees, tugging Peter down until he settles against Wade's chest.

"You're stealing all the water," Peter grumbles. Then, quieter, his chin digging into Wade's pec as he speaks. "This was just one bad day. It'll get better, babe, you'll see. Just one bad day, that's all."

"Pete..." Wade sighs, closing his eyes and pulling Peter in close. He drops his chin to Peter's shoulder and sinks deeper into the water, his back hitting porcelain. "This is the new normal. Sure, today was bad. Out there? It's a hundred times worse."

Peter is silent, his breath fluttering against Wade's ear, his fingers clutching the spaces between Wade's ribs. Wade slips a palm down his back, cupping the damp skin of his bottom, his thumb tracing the dips at the base of Peter's spine.

"But..." Peter breaks the silence between them, his lips flitting along Wade's jaw. "Today, we lived." Kiss. "And tomorrow, we'll do the same thing." Soft, warm lips, brushing against grainy, scarred skin. "And in the future, we'll be free of all of this."

Free. Wade rolled the idea around in his head. What a stupid, romantic, idiotic concept. He loved it.

 

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Unicorns and Bunnies