Chapter Text
Peter Parker can’t have anyone. That’s what he tells himself after MJ.
It’s the heroic thing, to become celibate. After what he did to MJ, how he put her in danger. Got her killed. Why he never tested his semen, he doesn’t know. But then Deadpool showed up in his life again. Peter knows he’s on that godforsaken cheat list. He’s known ever since they left Hellhohle. He said he was going to pretend he didn’t know, but it’s hard.
Wade’s the only person Peter can fuck without killing. The universe is laughing at him, telling him the witches were right all along. Wade’s his heart mate because he’s immortal and Peter Parker kills the people he fucks.
It’s a dark night, a night where Peter’s playing Overwatch in Wade’s man cave. It’s lined with things Wade loves and adores and he wishes nothing more than the idea he can get drunk. He’s stupidly suicidal and Wade just finished putting fourteen stitches in his back. They fought after he was reckless in a fight. They’re not even in a relationship.
Wade had said in a tense voice, “Why the fuck would you do that, Spidey.”
Peter had replied, all angry and hurt by the harsh words, “I killed my wife.”
“What.” Wade had stopped, shock filtering through, then denial, “No, you didn’t. You’re Spiderman. You don’t kill.”
Peter fixed him with narrowed lenses, “I’ve killed two women I loved.”
“Bullshit.”
Peter geot angrier, “What do you know, Wade? Huh?” his voice rises, “I can’t date.”
Wade, too thick to somehow read his mind like he wanted, “You’re just blaming yourself!”
Peter’s voice rose, “No, Wade, you’re just stuck with the stupid fucking fanasty that I’m the perfect hero.”
“Of course you are!”
“How can you be a perfect hero when you give people cancer?” Peter shot back.
Wade went quiet, eyes on his mask going far too wide. He reached for Peter, trying to be reassuring. Rather than allow it, Peter’s anger bubbles up and he snapped, slapping it away and standing up. He’s not supposed to walk. But he’s going to play Overwatch.
And that’s what he’s doing. He’s kicking ass in Overwatch, despite how angry and upset he is. Gamers would call this being tilted, but if anything Peter’s better when he’s tilted. At least until he breaks the controller. It takes one too many kills by a troll playing Symmetra and the controller cracks like glass, crumbling. Fortunately the power button on it works, and he turns off the console before the urge to throw the controller at the screen becomes irresistible. Even angry, he doesn’t want to destroy Wade’s stuff.
Everything is radioactive. His blood, his semen, his spit, his vomit. If he continues to fight alongside anyone for years, he will subject them to radioactivity. Tony Stark might be gone, but if he was here he’d be the one telling Peter Parker he’s too dangerous to help any more. Every time he gets injured and someone gets blood on them stitching him up, he’s going to give them a dose of radioactivity. He can’t do it. Bruce and Steve are the only other colleagues who are immune to him. Steve’s more of a mentor, actually. Bruce and him are pretty level because Peter’s one of the next brightest minds after Tony died.
He feels stinging on his back, the blood dripping from reopening his stitches from his pacing. Wade emerges from the bedroom, looking like he just had a full conversation with his boxes. Peter wonders if he committed seppuku in the tub again. When he sees Peter, Wade lunges forward with heavy cussing. He tries to get Spiderman to sit down, let him clean him up and restitch the nasty cut from Mysterio throwing him into old scrap metal. If he doesn’t, he’ll have to regrow a five by eight patch of skin on his back.
His name is Peter Parker, and he’s literal fucking cancer.
He looks directly at Wade with crazed eyes, “I’m Peter Parker,” he introduces himself, “and I’m literal fucking cancer,” he chuckles.
Wade stutters to a stop and hisses, “fuck,” before approaching him, “Stop,” he urges Peter.
“Stop what? Being cancer?” Peter wheezes out the quip, taking a step back from Wade. He deserves to hurt, to die. To rot and not be alive.
Wade’s properly spooked now, and puts his hands on Peter’s shoulders to urge him to sit on the couch. Blood drips down his back down to the sweatpants he’s wearing, and it smears on the couch, too. Wade pulls an old sheet off the arm and starts wiping Spiderman’s back down, then pulls a pre-threaded needle from his pouch and starts to fix the four stitches Peter popped.
Peter relishes the pain, and for some reason he wants more. He wants to be punished, to be hurt a hundred times over. An idea pops in his head and he stares at a speck on the wall, “Wade.” he states.
Pool’s voice is strained, “Yes?”
Peter turns to him, voice strained, “You gotta do it. You gotta unalive me. I’m a walking carcinogen. Burn me. Bury me.”
“What the fuck, Spidey.” he states back, his eyes wide as he physically leaned back from the man to fix him with a sincerely confounded look, halfway through the last stitch.
Peter doubles down, “Listen to me. Every time someone forgets a small smear of blood on their wall, they’re going to get some radioactivity. Every time I jerk off, I contaminate the washing machine. Every time I piss, I contaminate city water. Every time I have to be stitched up, I’m slowly killing someone else,” he pushes on, “Deadpool. Be a hero and unalive me.”
Wade stares for a few more seconds in complete shock then his face contorts, angry and upset, “What the fuck, Spidey! No.” he stands up, hands smeared with blood but he doesn’t even care as he paces away, “No. I am not doing this.”
Peter gets angrier, “Do you want me to do it my-fucking-self?”
Wade spins on him, basically snarling, “We will figure something out!”
“Like what? A cure to cancer? Went so fucking well for you,” Peter spits out.
Wade reels at the low blow, “Yeah, it fucking did. I’m here, saving lives,” he reasons, “And even fucking better sweetums, it made me immune to you.”
Peter sits up straighter still, gesturing around the room, “Really? I’ve bled all over these floors several times. The whole apartment is contaminated. This couch needs to be burnt and the ashes buried. That table, too. The whole floor does!”
Wade settles down now, thinking of solutions to get Peter to calm down, “I’ll buy a house in the middle of nowhere. No civilians. Just us. Our trash burnt and buried. Hell, if it makes you happy I’ll burn the whole house down after you’re gone.”
It’s his turn to stop yelling and Peter does, “And what? I live in that box for the rest of my years?” his lens narrowed.
And Wade tries his best not to be offended, to not think that Spidey would rather die than live in a house with him. Lord knows blind Al had tried for years to run off and live her own life again. It wasn’t until she treated him like how he deserved and called him master, until he teleported Al and Deuce away, that he realized how bad he was to live with. He’d been downright sadistic for years to those who he called friends. The only time he hadn’t been cruel is when he was with Shiklah, and even then he’d been downright controlling, setting up fake skits to get Spiderman’s attention. He’s come a long way.
Yet, Peter was here. His house was free of empty pizza boxes, the kitchen clean, the trash taken out. His sheets had been clean until Peter had bled all over them. He actually washed his suit at least once a week, if not twice. It had been more than Al had accomplished in over fifteen years. But then again, it was only her last year that Al had actually believed him capable of change. That’s when he sought out redemption, tried seeking out joining the Avengers. Ended up joining then going on stupid missions with Spiderman to gain his respect and guidance.
He’d earned all of that, and now he’s gotta take the low blows. To understand what Peter’s going through, to not distance himself or let this get to him. Spidey had supported him through all his stumbles.
So he steps forward, simply giving the man a hug, “Of course not. We’ll figure it out. First, let’s go house hunting.” Peter shudders and collapses into himself, the weight of the world lifting with this promise.