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Wade sits on the edge of the bed. Looking down between his legs. Just a little to the left of his body, the marred flesh of his knees takes up his vision.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been tunneled on the landlord-special brand of carpet. It’s always itching his feet. Right now he barely feels it, tee bee eitch.
“You trying to burn a hole in my floor?” A voice mumbles, heavy with sleep. Incredibly close for a mercenary not to notice. A calloused hand runs over his shoulder, up and around to his collar. It’d be sexy if Peter weren’t still half-asleep and using Wade for balance.
Dick jokes flip through his mind like names on a rolodex. One dances out his mouth. He isn’t sure if it makes sense. Has he been blinking enough?
Peter conks Wade’s head with the side of his fist, like you’d bop an old TV. He sputters like static.
Oh, there we go.
The memories click into place, no longer stuck in the corners of his mind but overlapping with reality. It’s overwhelming. He recognizes his body curling into a ball— xoxo to ya, Canadian Special Forces. Arms cradle around his head. His nails are digging into the shell he’s trapped in.
Wade can hear his own shallow breaths with disgusting clarity. He digs at whatever gag boxers he’d put on to make Pete blush. The cheap material snags on his skin painfully. He attempts to puppet his putrid body to get rid of the awful sensation. Nails break skin.
Wade is sure he’s shaking, because Peter’s hands are wayyy steadier than his. He tugs away at the touch, but Peter holds on. Blinking to fight through his fugue state, he can see pale skin covered in blood, stained crimson. Panic slices through the turning in his stomach.
“Shit shit shit, Petey I’m so sorry,” he pleads. Something slimy and settled hisses that it was inevitable, with a man this deep in a savior complex.
He tries to yank his hands away. Spider-strength keeps him firmly in place, however. It’d be sexy if Wade’s heart wasn’t pounding in his ears. The horrible guilt of it all is kind of a turn off.
Peter is talking, saying something he can’t for the life of him understand, but it doesn’t matter. His voice is smooth and Queens-y. It gives Wade something to grab
Following the hands that he’s now white-knuckling to not lose, he leans towards where he thinks Peter is sitting. Hands pull away, before Wade can mourn them he’s swaddled by soft body, smelling like the apartment he’s in. He’s in New York at all, suddenly.
“-I meant it as a playful lovetap, that’s all, I didn’t think I’d actually break your brain-” Oh, sweet Bea, even his sweet nothings are neurotic.
“Brain was broke to begin with, baby boy, didn’t you see the No Refunds sticker?” He points to his temple. He can feel blood under his nails.
Peter doesn’t dignify him with a response. They sit in silence for a while, Wade having to bite back a few more hiccups. The night goes from gray to purple as the city glows. Light pollution, motherfucker.
Eventually the last of the fight breaks within Wade, and he fully relaxes against Peter. The man pulls Wade so they’re pressed flush together.
Wade is usually the big spoon, so when Peter tries to wrap around Wade in the same manner, it’s so dorky and wrong that he can’t help a watery giggle. “You’re so bad at this.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
Wade swallows. “I mean, since you’re asking, your knee is digging into my thigh, I’m not getting any support under my head—”
Pete’s nose scrunches up with frustration. He’s so easy to bait. “You’re insufferable.”
Wade bitterly laughs, sitting up and moving away, despite the way it freezes his exposed skin. “Don’t I know it.” Peter pushes buttons on Wade, he pushes back. It’s what they do. It’s what makes the sex so mind-blowing.
“I’m trying to help you, why are you being difficult?”
“It’s like you don’t even know me.”
Peter gets up. Wade doesn’t even see it, too damn dark and blurry. Just the creak of their bed, the opening and closing of a drawer, then Wade is catching whatever is thrown at him.
Sweatpants. The nice brand Wade buys triples of. He unwads them.
Pete is already making his way back to bed, the bed bouncing as he flops in. The mattress squeaks unhappily. “Was it a dream?”
The sweatpants feel thin and loose, and aren’t soaked through with sweat. “We don’t have to do this song and dance, Pumpkin-Eater. You don’t wanna, I don’t wanna.”
“Stop putting words in my mouth.” Wade misses when he was sleepy and sexy. Not snarky and… okay still pretty sexy. But now very, very awake. With those baby browns that normally make him melt. Right now they’re filled with an emotion Wade Never wants to see in them again.
His body stands, reaching for a mask and gloves. “I’m going out.”
“I gave you the perfect dick joke offer, you didn’t even–” He stops mid-blabber. “Is this a fight?” Peter looks exhausted in the glance Wade steals as he rushes to the door.
“When is it not, baby boy?” He blows him a kiss, just to make the way he slams the door hurt worse.
He kind of blacks out, for a minute. His body moves but he’s not in control of it. There’s something, he can smell the piss of outside, and the cool chill of late night New York. He doesn’t know where he is, or where he’s going. Eh, he’s fine with it. Not like anything bad could happen. He’s a roach, dontcha know!
“You’re the stupidest motherfucker I’ve ever met.” The putrid nasal sound of Weasel pulls him back to himself. Speaking of roaches. He’s surrounded by shot glasses.
“Weasel, when have I ever asked your opinion?” Wade’s got one in his hand. He downs it without a thought, obviously. The burn in his throat will last longer than the buzz. He whistles like a kettle, slamming the glass down just to piss off Weas. “Another!”
“I’m cutting you off, man. You’re using up all of my merchandise.” Wade looks around. No one else is there. He must’ve barged in right before close “And you stink. And I’m tired.” Weasel reaches for the army of glasses between them.
A knife is in his grip before Wade can even decide. It pierces the fabric of Weasel’s ratty flannel. Just the cuff at his wrist, obvi. He’s not looking to do any damage, though he’s open to suggestion.
Wade’s pinning Weasel’s knobby hand in place. He twitches like something dying. Wade’s knife is stuck in the counter now. Shit.
“The only thing getting cut off is good ol’ Lefty if this glass isn’t refilled in the next thirty seconds.”
Beady eyes scrutinize him from behind coke-bottle glasses. They need to be cleaned, how can the bastard even see? “Jesus Christ.” He mutters, clumsily reaching around behind the bar. Wade snickers at his expense. “You skip your meds?” Weasel snarks. “This is a lot, even for you.”
The words buzz worse than the alcohol ever will. Not that he’d admit that, though. That’s gonna stay an inside thought.
His mouth is dry. He wants to lay down. “Y’know what? Eighty-six the shot, Weas.” He rips the knife out of the cork, twirling it between gloved fingers. “How about a bottle of some Asgardian shit for the road! You got that on tap?” He tsks. “Eh, probs not. What about some coke? The not-soda kind.” “You’re not staying?”
Wade is up. He’ll need to sharpen his knife again. “Nah, I got things to see, people to do.” Weasel also pissed him off by kicking him while he was down, but he won’t hold a grudge. That’s, like, their whole dynamic. “A gal like me can’t waste all her time canoodling with riffraff like yourself.”
Weasel flips a few lights off. “Yeah, whatever, man. Take your circus on the road. I’m not getting you shit, you know where it is.” Weas sticks his fingers through the extra hole in his sleeve, spitting expletives. “Don’t wreck my stuff, Wade.”
Watching the man yawn and head upstairs, Deadpool is left with many oh so many options.
“Okayyy,” He rubs his hands together. “Which floorboard has the stash?” Wade hops the counter, smile peeling his face open when he hits the jackpot. Ohh, Weas is gonna be so pissed.
-
He’s fighting someone.
Okay, maybe a couple. Like, four or five. Or twelve. And counting.
Don’t blame Wade! Blame coked-up Wade! Who was here for a blissful couple of hours, until he ran out. That was a tragedy, until he remembered this drug ring that would def have more. He broke in, sniffed out their stash, and dove into the piles of bricks Scrooge McDuck style. It was not a soft landing, but the pain was instantly forgotten as he was blasted with a cloud of powered sugar.
And by powered sugar, he means nose candy. And by nose candy, he means Florida snow. Devil’s dandruff, White girl’s purse pooch, the big C. Don’t worry, he can say that one. He’s riddled with the stuff, just ask his oncologist!
Annoyingly, his joyride is cut short by gunfire. So now, here he is. Fighting off all these fuckin’ guys. Wade was handling it fine, until the stupid drugs started to wear off.
Now his body is sluggish and heavy. He’s hyper aware of the bullets cutting through his flesh. He doesn’t know if it’s the intense comedown, or the recent menty B, but he’s not nearly as efficient as normal. Wade’s gotta admit, he’s pretty peeved.
These guys are stupid resilient. He doesn’t know how many there are, but it’s more than he thought when he scoped the place out. Their aim isn’t great, but there’s enough of them for decent coverage, and Wade can’t take advantage of reloading time.
His trigger finger itches in a way it hasn’t since Spidey. Years of military training have made him sturdy, if there’s one thing Wade Wilson can do, it’s aim and—
Right as his finger shakily lands on the trigger, a familiar thwip and a blur of matte white flashes in and out of his vision. Taking the gun with it.
“Motherfucker.” He mutters, reaching for his babies strapped to his back. “I should’ve known, should’ve fuckin’ known.”
Spidey and himself are a great team, as always. He assumes. He doesn’t really process it, boiling with rage, and all.
The last guy is webbed up, sirens in the distance. “I had it handled.” The bitterness in Wade’s words sours stronger when a second splooge of web traps his hands behind his back, to the handles of his blades. “Seriously, Webs?!”
“Sorry not sorry, Wade.” Peter calls from a wall somewhere above him. He blinks, and Wade is swaddled in a BabyBjörn of psuedo-silk. A webbed knee tips him against a brick wall and on his ass. From apex predator, to slumped against the wall of whatever building they’re in. It’s a familiar position, one he hasn’t been in since he and Spider-Man first crossed paths. Back before Webs trained him to sit and stay.
“God forbid a girl just wanna have fun!” He squirms in place, trying to break his wrists, but un-fucking-fortunately Peter knows his tricks by now. There’s not enough give for him to move his fingers and snap his thumb. He’s well and truly caught.
Fruitlessly kicking and tugging at the concrete and brick, Wade wishes he had pocketed some of the coke for later. A voice pulls him out of his tantrum, right next to him.
Wade says as much, spit getting caught behind his mask.
Webs just sighs, doing that squat sit he does. The gun is held with an iron grip in his left hand, like he’s guarding it with his life. A key just barely out of reach. If he tries reaaaally hard, he can taste the hot metal on his tongue.
“You gonna leave me in time out, sugar-tits?” Webs ignores him, shoving the gun under his elbow (and he’d bully him about it if he wasn’t fucking seething). Peter grabs Wade by the wrists in one hand, shooting a web to a taller building and George of the Jungle-ing them out a window. Presumably the one he entered through, Fuck, he didn’t even notice!
Spidey delivers him to a flat roof. He lands squarely, practiced. Yes, even with the extra weight of a 200-something pound Deadpool. He can hear the sirens down the block.
“You gonna bend me over, spank me ‘til I’ve learned my lesson?” He’s grasping at straws, powerless with Peter holding him by the scruff.
Peter drops him near an AC unit, and stays standing. Spidey is scrutinizing the area, always the paranoid fucker. Wade just watches those big bug lenses for some kind of fucking clue at where Pete is at. He wants to rip them off with his teeth.
“You were following me.” He accuses.
“Can you blame me?” Peter’s voice is tired. Like he’s trying to put down a fussy toddler. Wade is so angry he can feel it in his fucking toenails.
“This whole time?” He ventures, praying for a twitch behind that sonofabitch mask. Pete doesn’t answer. Wade barks out a cold laugh. “You gotta keep your guard dog on a tight leash, huh? Gotta make sure I sit and spin whenever you say,” Shit, he already used that, didn’t he? Wade has stopped fighting against the webs, glowering.
Stupid Peter, stupid giant brain, knowing exactly how to corner him. Thankfully, Wade knows exactly how to push Peter’s buttons, too.
“I’m just another failed attempt in a long line of baddies Spidey trained and couldn’t tame. If I could die, you know I’d be six feet under with ‘em too,”
He hears the click of Spider-Man swallowing. His head tips down to his feet, speaking slow. “That’s a low blow, and you know it.” Some heat returns to his voice, shoulders hitching. The gun in his hand trembles slightly. A crack, fucking finally.
Wade wedges his nails in and digs.
“It’s true, ain’t it?” He grins wide, not for the feeling but so Peter can hear it in his voice. “You can’t put away your hero complex for two seconds to wonder if someone even wants your help. Lotta the times, they’d be better off if they never met you, eh?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Isn’t it always? I’m here to boost your ego, prove to the big leagues you have some kind of power. The big, bad, Deadpool has a collar now, surely they’ll have to start taking the bastard that did it seriously!” He laughs, raw and painful as it dredges from his chest. “Look how good that turned out.”
Spidey’s arms are crossed, lenses narrowed. “Are you done?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Bad news, they call me the Mouth for a reason. I can go aaaall night.”
Webs kneels back down, getting on his level. Mask to mask. “I followed you because I was worried.”
“Not even gonna acknowledge the sexual innuendo? I set those pins up for you to knock ‘em down!”
“This isn’t a game!” Oh, voice raised. Wade’s got him good. “You almost killed someone!”
Wade snorts, his breath hot inside the leather. “Someone?” His voice croaks on the word. “Oh dear, baby boy. Need I remind you? I’ve killed a lot of someones.” It’s fun. Like stepping on a crunchy bug. It’s sickening and he is desperate to break Peter for good. “I’ve extorted, blackmailed, tortured, disemboweled, dismembered, and disappeared countless someones across New York alone! That’s not even counting the international body count—”
Peter rips his mask off, and Wade bites his tongue. Big brown eyes are teary, purple eyebags hanging heavy against his pale skin. “Will you shut up for two seconds and listen to me?” Wade tastes blood.
Peter is coming closer, probably planning whatever words he thinks will magically snap Wade out of it. He hopes they don’t. He knew he was melting the moment the mask was off. Wade is a timebomb.
Deadpool’s hands are aching from the shitty position. He tries to rip them free again, hoping time will have weakened the webs. All he does is dislocate his shoulder for his trouble. He grunts, the pain pulsing.TThe moment Spidey’s super hearing picks up his distress signal, he redirects. Wade thanks whatever deity is puppeting him around today.
Spider-Man tears through the webs like tissue paper, reaching for the popped shoulder.
Wade lunges the moment he’s free, trap officially sprung.
The forward roll is sloppy, but it makes Spidey hesitate. It gives Wade an opening for his prize.
Webs is quick. The moment he clocks Wade going for the gun, he follows through blindly.
They tumble for a moment, Peter strong but Wade feral. His shoulder screams, but pain is distant. The moment he feels smooth metal through his gloves, he knees Peter in the stomach. Websy wheezes and groans, an awful, ugly sound that curdles like milk.
Wade yanks the gun free from his grip and presses it to Peter’s temple.
Spider-Man freezes, eyes wide and mouth a thin line. They’re half on top of each other, both panting and sweaty and it’d be hot if Wade wasn’t shaking so damn bad.
“Itsy bitsy spider…” Wade coos, flicking the safety on and off, just to dick around with the buzzing in the back of Peter’s neck. Spidey sense, he calls it. Didn’t stop him from getting a gun to the head. Wade laughs, and debates explaining the joke to his mark.
“You’re not going to shoot me, Wade.” He thinks eye contact will bring Wade down.
Deadpool cuts through, clock running lower. “Who are you trying to convince? You couldn’t even trust me on my own for a few hours.”
“It’s been two days.”
Shit, he lost a lot more time than he realized. “You know what they say, time flies when you’re having the worst fucking time of your life.”
“Put the gun down, Wade.” He’s using his superhero voice on him. Commanding but calm. Like he’s some kid robbing a bank. Like he’s a joe-schmoe trying to feed his family instead of a weapon-for-hire with a bloodlust.
Wade presses the metal harder against Peter’s skull. He watches him wince, watches him stay put. “Stubborn spider,” his breathing is funny. “You know you’re stronger than me, why are you sitting there with your thumb up your ass?”
“You’re not going to shoot me.” And why, why, why does he sound so sure of himself? He’s not even smug about it, brown eyes unwavering. A battle already won, even though Wade’s got him cornered and pinned down.
So why isn’t he squishing him? Listening for the crunch?
Wade is still breathing wrong. His arm hurts. Peter isn’t even scared. Why does it feel like he’s the one at a loss?
He doesn’t know if it’s a crash from the drugs or the adrenaline, but suddenly his anger is gone. Peter “Always Gets Back Up Again” Benjamin Parker is sitting and looking at him like he’s something human. The boil has gone from his blood.
Time’s up, and he’s done.
Wade flips the gun around and shoves the metal in his mouth, pulling the trigger. Nothing happens.
A sob, clicking again and again. Nothing, nothing nothing happens. Stupid fucking Deadpool, he knows better, he knows he’s suppposed to count. Unless Pete emptied it during the trip. His shoulder still throbs, though it’s less. His muscles are exhausted and healing factor on empty. Maybe from not eating for what was evidently 48 hours. He bangs the thing against the side of his head, hoping maybe it’ll fracture his skull, knock him out, something. He does it wrong, and all he gets is a broken pinkie for his troubles.
Wade throws the gun as far as he can, wanting it away. He is sick of his skin, sick of it twisting and pulling and hurting and he claws at it through the suit. Dulled leather-covered fingers don’t do any damage, and he rips off his mask, fingers seeking to gouge out his eyes, to do some kind of damage, get some kind of grasp—
Peter is holding his wrists. He’s running his thumbs across the scars there. The callouses catch on the ridges of his topography. “Hey, Wade,”
Wade can’t breathe, he can’t look at the person trying to hold him down, pin him to the table, cut him open, filet him like a fish and poke and pry until Wade can’t take it anymore— then even further.
“Easy, Red. I’ve got you. You’re with me, it’s just you and me,” Peter soothes. And it is Peter, who else would it be? No one else is as soft and sharp all at once, as willing to stay. “You’re safe.”
But he’s got that complex, and Wade has spewed venom at him after Peter trusted him. He knows exactly where his Achilles heel is, and Wade just took an axe to it.
He’s going to leave, he’s going to hurt him, and Wade can’t take it.
He collapses against the roof, heaving breaths and aching. He wants the gun back, wants something to put him out of his misery. Tears burn in his eyes but he can’t let them see, it’s weakness, and they’ll make him go through it again and again—
“I’m not going to leave. I’m not going to hurt you, Wade. I’m not going to let you hurt yourself, either.” Wade doesn’t know if he’s babbling aloud or if mind-reading is another one of those wacky spider-themed powers, but he doesn’t have the energy to care anymore.
“I’m gonna touch you, okay? Is that alright, Wade?” Wade swallows back his saliva and kind of nods, squeezing his eyes closed. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, feel it in his broken pinkie.
Petey maneuvers him, and presses Wade to his chest instead of on the rough, unforgiving tarmac. Peter talks him through setting his shoulder, and has to snap his pinkie to set it right again. Wade barely feels it. He might’ve forgotten to blink.
He does feel as Petey scoops him up, fireman carrying him over his shoulder. It’s an unsafe way to swing, but baby boy must be desperate to get him back home because he just holds onto Wade’s thighs like a vice and then they’re flying. Wade gets a great view of the Spidey-booty, but he’s focused on the way the world swirls and blurs as they swing. It quiets his mind and stirs his stomach. To be fair, it could also be the coke.
Spidey sticks to the side of their apartment building, gets the bedroom window open, and Wade is plopped on their bed unceremoniously.
The nausea hasn’t gone away, but it’s fine because the smell of Peter and Wade’s blanket from Al’s and home that his head slowly softens.
He melts into the bed, aching for the warmth of his Petey near him.
“You still with me, big guy?” Peter mumbles, a cold hand pressing to his cheek. It feels nice. Wade leans into it.
He knows, though, that he needs to pull away. “I don’t know,” he admits. It feels like defeat. “I can’t be good for you, Petey-Pie. I’m not like that. You can’t hero me out of this,”
A second passes, then Peter is straddling him. Wade’s bald brows shoot up. “Not where I pictured this going, but hell yeah.”
Shaking his head, Peter starts the tedious process of undoing the belts and clasps of the Deadpool suit. “No, you stink. I bet it’s worse under all that leather.”
“You betcha! Blood, coke, and sweat are a helluva musk.” He sneers. “Makes you a freak. How do you put up with it?”
Peter raises an eyebrow, certainly clocking his poorly veiled ask for validation. “It’s a great question.” He tears off Wade’s mask. Wade feels himself wince.“You are exhausting to keep up with.”
“Drugs would fix that. Maybe not the stuff I mess with though. You’re so naturally keyed-up I think it'd kill you.” The jab goes ignored. Wade is annoyed by this, but in a different way than before. It’s softer, more palatable. “You wanna try some downers?” He wiggles his eyebrows to cover the fondness he knows he’s wearing.
Pete peels off Wade’s boots and pants. “I’m good, actually. My job drug tests.”
“Tony makes you piss in a cup? Actually, I’m not shocked. He would so be into that.” Wade is running his mouth on autopilot at this point. Peter rolls his eyes. Wade feels a desperate hunger. “Not that I’m judging. You wanna piss in a cup for me, sweet thing?”
“Flirt all you want, we’re still going to talk about this.”
Fuuuuuuck.
Wade sighs petulantly. “Right now?” Peter sits him up like a doll, pulling the top of his suit over his head. It makes him feel small, and cherished.
“Nah. Didn’t I just express how much you are to keep up with?” With Wade in his fully naked glory, Peter cocoons him up in blankets, all Spidery. “I’m tired. And I’m pissed at you.” He flops down next to Wade, making their bed squeak. Wade feels a pinch of self consciousness, but he deserves it. Honestly, he deserves wayyyy worse.
It must show on his face, because Pete is leaning up enough to pull him into a soft kiss. “Don’t take that the wrong way.” His breath fans Wade’s face.
"What’s the right way to take it?” Wade wants to beg for comfort and run away all at the same time. He’s grateful to be trapped. He'll never tell.
Peter pauses for a moment, and it’s a horrible moment. Wade wishes he hadn’t blown all of the coke at once. “With a lotta lube.”
Wade can’t stop the snort of a laugh he produces. It makes Peter smile, and it’s like watching the sun emerge from between clouds. He can feel sunshine on his skin. “You’re perfect.”
“I’m really not.” Which is a crazy thing to say with that perfect voice.
"Thank fuck, neither am I.” He’s grinning, Peter’s always making him do that. The shithead. He cards a sentimental hand through Pete’s hair, sweaty from non-stop exertion tracking him down. Ah fuck, fear cuts through. He wants to break free, but instead–
“What if this happens again?”
Peter holds his face in his hands, thumbs moving up and down cheekbones. Wade shivers. Pete leans in close, voice low. “Then I’ll catch you.”
“That’s hot as fuck.”
Peter shuts him up with a kiss.
They’ll have to talk about this, probs with a lot of emotions and- gag, crying.
He’ll take it, even if it petrifies him. Even if he’d rather yank all of his teeth and fingernails out with his own hands. Wade decides it’s worth trusting Peter, if he gets to keep being loved like this.