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Peter and Wade had this thing.
It's not really spoken of. They didn't discuss the do's and don'ts beforehand. It was a mutual agreement, whenever Peter wanted to hang out he could just drop by Wade's house. As long as he was there, they'd get some food and chill for the night. Started, ironically, by a pack of killer robots that made them have to shelter at Wade's. (Safe from harm-able civilians and otherwise.)
After that, Peter would drop by his home. It started as once a year but slowly turned into one a month, usually seeking for food or companionship. Wade's house was, unsurprisingly, disgusting. But the more Peter stopped by the cleaner it got, suspicious stains cleaned and takeout boxes thrown out. They'd known each other for what must've been five years at that point, but this only started around two years ago. Nowadays, if someone asked, he'd call Wade a friend. Or, what Peter considered friends- he's pretty sure Wade thought they were besties the day they met.
On this particularly rainy day, Peter had been on a boring patrol and decided to see if Wade was in. The window in the kitchen was usually left open for him. Wade's apartment was surprisingly nice under all the junk, a product of his well-paid hobbies. Peter didn't even want to think about how much it cost.
Hobbies that Peter tried to get him to stop but knows Wade still did them under the table. He'd get to him, someday. Even if Wade became homeless and had to live with Peter. While Peter was well-aware that Deadpool did put his research into kills, he could also be impulsive and naive. He'd see two facts and think he knows the entire situation.
The window wasn't open, which made Peter stop in his ministrations and consider. They hadn't made a verbal agreement, but the window was usually open.
Maybe it got closed by accident? The wind was blowing pretty hard today, he could feel it through the spandex.
He still got that feeling inside his gut, spider-sense buzzing faintly. Not 'your gonna die' buzz, but the 'your feelings might get hurt' buzz. Which did happen on occasion. Usually when he's about to walk into a place and see something he's definitely not gonna like. Unlike the other parts of his spider-sense, he barely listened to that one. It did make him cautious as he entered, though, climbing skillfully through and landing on the floor with a quiet thump.
It was silent beside the outside traffic. Wade's kitchen was a little dirty but nothing compared to how it was. A couple dishes were here and there, and the fridge was still suspiciously zip-tied shut. Peter wasn't incredibly sure what that was about but decided not to push it. Peter walked soundlessly through the room and entered another. Maybe he wasn't at home. That had happened a couple times, and Peter had just walked right out again. Not a big deal. But something told him to keep going.
He'd gotten as far as the living room- an open space with a tattered couch and a huge flatscreen- when Peter's spidey-sense started going haywire. It went off so quick that he felt himself get dizzy with it, whirling around to assess the danger. It was so quiet, he couldn't hear-
BANG!
Peter jumped nearly out of his skin. His ears hurt with the loud sound of the gun, disabling him for a second as he cleared the ringing. Even with the spider-sense, he didn't expect a gun to go off. If it was a gun, he should've heard the safety go off, or shoes of someone moving.
It sounded like it had come from the other side of Wade's apartment, where his bathroom and room were. From where Peter was, he could see both doors open, but couldn't see inside them. Both lights were off, but it definitely came from inside the apartment.
Wade wouldn't kill anyone, right? They'd spent so long working together, finding other outlets for Wade to get his strange urges out. Peter had literally sat with him for five hours after Wade called saying he had the itch, that he'd wanted to so badly. Had been called up to kill a corrupt CEO and wanted to kill the guy, but Peter convinced Wade he shouldn't. That Peter could get him what he deserved through the justice system. It was like helping a junkie, except Wade wanted to fucking kill people and Peter just desperately wanted to see him stop. It was the Deadpool way, murder and violence, but that didn't mean it was the only way. Maybe never completely stop, that was too big of a thing to ask. But sometimes stop.
Even if he did kill someone, why would he do it in his own house? Peter had to believe it was in self defense. That he wouldn't do it, not anymore. He really did trust Wade. They'd been friends for so long and he'd never done anything bad to Peter. Even when Peter killed him and threatened to hurt his daughter he was stead-fast. He trusted Wade more than he trusted the goddamn avengers, at this point.
He debated on just leaving. Ignoring it. But Wade might need his help. Spider-Man didn't hear any retreating steps or see anyone, so maybe they were looting his dead body or room. Maybe that was the gun-shot. Someone killing Wade. Okay, okay, that's manageable. And Peter wasn't supposed to be here. So, he'd have the element of surprise, perfect.
But, then again. The window was closed.
Decidedly, he strung a web to the ceiling and stuck upside down to it. In case someone made a run for it, including Wade, they wouldn't see him immediately. It was almost dark outside, but there weren't any lights on in the house. The only light was dim and came from the city, bathing the rooms in a dark yellow.
The first room Peter looked into was Wade's bedroom, but he saw nothing more than a messy bed and dirty clothes strewn about. He turned his head to the side and peered into the bathroom. It was dark, so he had to squint.
Peter was no stranger to gore.
He'd seen it all, especially on Wade.
He'd seen blown bodies, torn spines, shattered bones. He'd witnessed people getting tortured and killed and slammed into grounds. He'd taken in mass murder scenes, carnage, rooms filled with blood and guts and gore.
But there'd never be anything that compared to seeing someone he cared about hurt.
He didn't see anyone leave. There was definitely no one in there. He webbed the light switch and pulled until it turned on. Peter dropped to the ground and crept silently to the bathtub, easily scaling the tiny New York bathroom. No one behind the door, he checked the reflection. His spidey-sense stopped buzzing immediately after the gun-shot. He wasn't in danger.
In the bathtub was Wade's dead body. The bottom of it was filled with half an inch of water, ombre from dark red to pink on the outside. A steady flow of bright blood fell from Wade's skull, spurting out in pulses and hitting Peter's thigh. It bled into Wade's shirt, loose and black and stretched out, all tattered and frayed on the edges. Dried blood stuck thick and almost black to his thighs and arms. It was already clotting on the edge of the bathtub, thick globs forming as it dropped over the sides. The floor already had a coating on it, gummy with oxidation. He was only in boxers and they were already soaked, pink mixing with checkered red hearts. The smell was disgusting, coppery and mixing with stale water. A little rotted at the edges. A ghostly yellow glow was casted over, bathing the scene with an almost fake look. Peter wanted to throw up. It looked like one of those shitty movies with too much violence and blood but this was real, definitely was, because he heard the gun go off. His ears were still ringing a bit.
Wade's arm had a stream of blood down it. The tiles behind him were splattered with drying blood. Some was even smeared, digging itself into the grout. The floor had more on it, some from the new wound but some looking old. It all came together in a horrible scene. Wade's arm was draped out of the bathtub and holding one of his guns, safety still off. A knife looked like it had been thrown to the side, just as bloodstained as the rest of the room.
He dropped to his knees. Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit.
Peter fumbled and pulled the gun from Wade's hand, grabbing the bloody skin. Clawing at it. He felt rapidly cooling blood seep into his suit, disgusting and gummy. His stomach turned. Wade's skin was already going cold. His pulse was gone, even as Peter desperately felt for it on the wrist and pressed his hand to Wade's chest.
Peter knew Wade could come back to life. He was well aware of it. But seeing someone dead was an automatic response. It was a not good response, the pit in your stomach. And he cared about Wade, a hell of a lot. He couldn't bare to see his friend like this, no matter if he'd wake up sooner or later.
He ran his hands up Wade's arm, smearing blood into globby streaks. The fluid that had fallen to the floor was getting into his knees and legs, spandex becoming cold and heavy on him. Took Wade's head into both hands and turned unseeing eyes to face him, shook him but his head lolled uselessly.
It took Wade anywhere from ten minutes to five hours to come back to life, depending on the damage and how tired he was.
Peter had timed it once, grimly sitting next to a brain-damaged Wade. He hadn't recognized Peter when he first came back.
Everything was disgusting. Peter hated blood, hated it with every fiber of his being. He didn't pass out at it but he just didn't like it. The way it globs up, the way it smells, the sick shine of it and the way it infected everything it touched. The side of the bathtub, where it wasn't sprayed with blood, was stained pink. Peter had only been in Wade's bathroom once or twice and never noticed it, but it stood out clear as day now.
He looped his arms underneath Wade, ignoring the stiff and gummy feeling. Peter felt weak, struggling to pick him up, even though he could hold back literal trains. His head hurt.
He nearly slipped and felt his stomach turn again with the knowledge that it was Wade's blood he was tripping on. Peter heaved and pulled the boneless body up. Where he was laying, a huge clot of blood had collected. One of Wade's feet disturbed it and it jiggled, literally fucking jiggled. He resisted the urge to gag.
The blood had stopped spraying and was slowly pumping, falling out like oil. Peter held Wade up with one arm and turned on the faucet, peeled off Wade's shirt as he let the water wash over. It sprayed all over the bathroom without a shower curtain but he figured it would probably be better that way, maybe clean it a little bit.
What was a slow drip into the drain turned into a stream. Peter had to bend down and pull literal blood clots out of it so it would all go down, pushing the cold substance to the side. He stood up and ran his hand over Wade's bald, scarred head, crusty blood coming off in flakes. His hand brushed over the bullet wound and he pulled away like he had been burned. Peter's head was silent, it ached. It hurt. Hurt for Wade, like when you see someone slip and know their pain.
His chest was a broad expanse and Peter ran desperate hands across it. He had to climb into the bathroom and support Wade with his body, effectively soaking the spandex to the bone. It didn't matter all that much, his comfort. He had to clean Wade up, get him into bed.
A fresher, more raised scar, was right where his heart was. Blood had dripped from it at sometime, and Peter had to scrape it away with his fingernails. He was as gentle as possible but did it effectively. The bathtub was still having trouble draining, filling up dark pink around their ankles.
He had to lean down again, one arm around Wade's hips and the other pulling blood away from it. It kept flowing back and clogging it. Peter closed his eyes and squashed the biggest clot.
It slid around in his palm, heavy and freezing cold. Thin, watery blood squeezed out. When he was done, only a thin coating was left. It couldn't get dissolved, so he set it aside. Peter stood up again and went back to work.
He'd clean it up. He'd clean it all up.
Felt that sacrificial need to take care of others. He'd always done that, it was one of the things he had to work on, but he'd be a horrible person if he left Wade in it. Wade could always come back, but Peter didn't know he felt so horrible that he'd… that he'd do this. Wade had expressed how he still felt pain, no matter if he could heal instantly or not. This definitely hurt.
Peter raised his mask until it was over his nose and pressed his cheek to Wade's shoulder, running both hands over his arms. He was only supporting Wade with his own body and he felt weak but knew he could do it, feet sticking to the acrylic beneath. Fresh, long, and vertical scars lined both of Wade's arms.
He moved to Wade's thighs, thick and muscular. They were cold. So cold. Wade ran cold because of his metabolism, but he'd never been this cold. And still. Deadpool didn't sit still, he was always mouthing off or twitching or bouncing his leg. Hearing silence come from the man was so daunting, so strange. They'd maybe cuddled once or twice and he'd never, ever, been so cold. So stiff.
Like his arms, both thighs had long scars on the inside. They were healed but puffy and large, would probably lower to slight bumps in a couple hours.
The inside of his calf was the same.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Peter tried to forget what he was doing and focus on the repetitive swiping and cleaning until finally, finally, Wade didn't look smothered in blood. Peter's suit was soaked and he was freezing, shivering under the cold spray, but he felt so much better looking at Wade now. He stepped out and pulled the heavy body of the man with him.
The smell of blood still permeated the room. Peter's enhanced senses made him cringe, shiver, at it. He hastily dragged Wade into his room, laying his wet body onto the bed. He flopped lifelessly.
His hands shook as he dragged the comforter out from under Wade and pulled it over his body. He moved Wade around until he was perfectly straight on the bed, head resting on one of his favorite Hello Kitty pillows. Peter knew that because Wade had told them once while they watched a movie, handed it to him and demanded for him to feel Hello Kitty's fur.
Peter still felt sick. He was soaked and wet and he felt so sick. Was Wade really hurting so bad that he'd kill himself at least four times? Probably more, judging by the caked blood. He could come back every time but, what if he didn't? Was that what he wanted? He could have sworn Wade was happy. Maybe it was all an act. Put on the big strong mercenary look and tough it out.
He felt bad but Peter pulled the curtains closed and unzipped the back of his suit. It peeled off his skin, blue stained almost purple and red dark and splotchy. The suit flopped wetly onto the floor in a heap. Peter went to a laundry basket of clothes and dug through them for something else to wear. He felt like shit for doing it but he knew Wade wouldn't mind. He'd probably like it and make a joke about it, say something about never washing the clothes again. But he couldn't do that now, because he was fucking dead in his own bed and there was blood caking the bathroom floor. Peter put a clean shirt on Wade.
Wade's clothes were way too big on him and the legs of his sweats dragged on the floor but they smelled like him so it was fine. They were also warm, made of really nice cotton, and weren't soaked. Peter decided to pull off his mask and hang it up, too, so it could dry out. His hair wasn't soaked but it was damp, curles flat on his head.
He shuffled into the kitchen silently and got a trash bag and a rag. Peter searched through Wade's cabinets and only found some bleach. They were almost completely empty as well. He made the mental note to come with Deadpool and get the guy some groceries. Deciding it to be better than nothing, he grabbed the bottle and went back to the bathroom.
In the time it took him to do all that, the blood had almost completely dried. A fruity scent with rotted undertones took over the room. Peter had always despised the way death smells. It would always be one of the worst things he'd ever experience. So… so permeating. Nothing you'd ever forget.
Peter dropped to his knees and started to scrub. The rag turned red quickly but he stayed vigilant, squeezing out the bleach everytime.
Why would Wade do it? He'd tried to help him, so bad. Thought he was happier now. He knew that Wade wasn't the most mentally stable. Peter knew shit still bothered Wade, but fuck. If he was sad, why didn't he call Peter? It's such a selfish thought but he'd give anything for Wade to not feel this pain, even if he could come back from it. It hurt even worse because Peter had felt like that, at one point. Never killed himself, obviously, but he knew somewhat how it felt. To be so hopeless. He'd felt like that when MJ dumped him and he nearly got thrown out onto the street. His powers had stopped working and he felt so hopeless and useless.
It must have taken two hours to clean it all up. Peter's arm ached but his chest hurt even more. The trash bag was heavy with blood clots and was probably a pound or two when he finished.
With a nauseous tug, Peter picked it up and tied it with a triple knot. He pulled it out of the bathroom and took it out of the apartment, walking down two or three sets of stairs. He probably looked suspicious as hell, sweats stained in blood and face red, eyes haunted. But he didn't care, his biggest priority was to help Wade. Either way, Wade's apartment was stashed in a mostly empty and rundown building. Peter was probably the least suspicious character around.
The place smelled strong of ammonia as he returned, so he searched for anything to make it smell better. Predictably, Wade didn't have much, so he settled on opening a couple of windows to the night and hoping it aired out.
He sat down on the side of Wade's bed and buried his head in his hands.
Wade was still dead. It'd probably been three hours at this point. A deep, overwhelming feeling of horror filled Peter's chest. Loss.
What if he didn't come back?
What if Peter never heard Wade's stupid fucking remarks again? What if he never felt strong arms gripping his arms or broad shoulders encasing him in tight hugs? What if he never heard his raspy, bright voice, that never failed to bring a smile to his face? What if all Peter's waiting and resistance amounted to Wade being dead and he never saw the full extent of his emotions? What if they never ordered food and hung out, gaming and cracking jokes, again? What if they never fought side-by-side again, easily falling into an instinctual groove? What if he never heard Wade say Spidey again? What if Wade never smiled again, bright teeth and all? What if-
It felt like an overreaction but the words lingered.
He tried to take deep breaths but they were shaky and he was hyperventilating. Peter never really realized the full extent of his affection for the larger man. Knew he cared, knew it in his heart, but didn't know how much he cared. How much he'd really miss Wade, because the man had actually become a friend at this point.
Over the sound of his own heavy breathing Peter couldn't hear anything else. His senses were so dull and he was so overwhelmed but so tired at the same time. Dimly, he thought he heard shuffling, like something was rooting around on the bed.
Large arms wrapped around his waist.
Peter jumped, fully. He nearly tumbled off of the bed but they kept him in place, pulling him to the chest they belonged to. His heart dropped and he turned to look at Wade, who was looking up at him with dark eyes. He offered a weak grin but he looked haunted and a little lost.
Peter ran his hands over his face, wiping tears out of his eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he wasn't wearing his mask. But… well, he knew Wade, he knew what Wade looked like. He trusted him.
Wade was weaker than he usually was and struggled to sit up, but he continued to hold on tight to Peter. "Damn, did I die and go to Heaven? 'Cas baby, you look like an angel."
He'd had never been happier to hear someone's voice in his life. His voice was deeper and raspier than Peter had ever heard of it, quieter than a mouse's. It lacked the character it usually had. It hurt. He dove forward and wrapped his arms around Wade's shoulders, enjoying the feeling of alive and moving flesh underneath his palms.
"I'd never reject being hugged by such a pretty little thing like you, but who the hell are you, dude?"
"Spider-Man," Peter mumbled into Wade's neck, breathing in deep. He still smelled like blood but the hormones were filling out into what Peter remembered.
There was a moment of silence, Wade stiff in Peter's arms, then, "Oh, holy shit. Spider-Man? No way. Pull away, lemme get a look at your face."
He was so nonchalant and Peter suddenly felt like he had overreacted. But he knew.
Saw the haunt in Wade's eyes behind the confusion. How tired he was. Felt it in his limbs as he picked his dead body up, soaked in blood. This was just an act, and Peter fell for it.
God fucking dammit.
He pulled away and stared at Wade with tired eyes. Wade's eyes were soft and his scarred mouth was turned into a frown. "You look like shit. Did you- did you, ohh, oh no…" Wade tipped toward until his head fell against Peter's chest with a slight thump. "Fuck, Webs, I'm so sorry. You don't… you shouldn't have to see that, why the hell were you there? I didn't think- I never would'a-"
"I, uh-" Peter's voice cracked. "I came over. So we could get some food, or something. Then I- then I heard it, I know I overreacted but you killed yourself, Wade. Why- you, if you called me, I would've come over and help, you didn't have to do that. I would've… fuck, how bad would you have to hurt to do that, I'm so sorry."
He wanted to take all of that hurt and put it into himself. Take what Wade felt and smash it into nothing so he could genuinely be happy instead of putting on a shitty exterior. Why didn't he see it?
Wade's head was heavy on his chest, heaving up and down as he took a deep breath. "I don't… fuck, you really shouldn't of seen me like that. Damnit, Webs."
"I'm sorry, but I couldn't just- I couldn't- I couldn't leave you there," Wade sounded exhausted and like he was still in pain.
Wade pulled away and sat up straight, hands bracketing Peter's shoulders. They stared at each other for a couple seconds. Wade genuinely looked like he cared. No matter for his rough words, his face betrayed it all, as it often did. He wore his heart on his sleeve, but Peter always relied so much on tone and words that he couldn't even notice. "I had to do something. Wade, please, don't be mad. I cleaned it up, I just wanna know why you'd do it or how I can help or-"
There was a flash in Wade's eyes then he leaned forward and they were kissing. It was weird in the situation but no matter that, it felt right.
Really right. Like fitting a puzzle together after missing the last piece for so long.
Peter had trouble with relationships. He'd never had a successful one. Either they were better off as friends or strangers, that was it. That's part of why he never made a move with Wade beyond best friends, because he was terrified to lose the man. He was still scared, now. But he couldn't stop himself as he responded. He wrapped his arms around Wade's shoulders until they were almost chest to chest, kissing chastely. It wasn't sexual in the slightest, just a fated meeting. Bound to happen.
They both pulled back and Peter rested his forehead with Wade's. "I didn't know you cared so much, Webs."
"Peter. It's Peter. Peter Parker."
"Peter," the other man echoed, hands gripping the fabric of Peter's shirt. "Are you wearing my clothes?"
"Yeah, I, uh, I got my suit wet, sorry. I'll take them off if you care."
"No, yeah, no, it's totally fine. Actually, I'll probably never wash these again. Like, ever. If you wanna keep wearing my clothes I'll happily let you, Petey."
Bingo.