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Power.
Some men are obsessed with it, some men already have it, some men exude it. Some men think money means power. Some men have power coursing through their veins. Some have power they pull from the veil.
Spider-Man? Well, the famous Spider-Man has an overly complicated relationship with power.
Helping people is easy enough. It comes natural to anyone with enough practice. Honest to god, it's the easiest part of the job. The hardest part is deciding how to use his powers on people who hurt other people. Does he take the long, difficult route of corporate espionage to slowly dismantle the business powering their endeavors? Does he feed files directly to the police department? Does he swoop in and just start punching people?
It's exhausting. And it haunts him even in his dreams. Are they really dreams? They're more like nightmares. The nightmares don't make sense at first. There's often a pattern. Something like Peter forgetting to wear pants on a patrol. Or, shivering through a snowstorm. Spider-Man entering the wrong door in a school, taking extra time to find the active shooter in the corridors.
It's all humiliation. And he hates it. He wakes up early, sweating and chest heaving. More than once he tries to shower and go back to sleep, but his brain just won't let him calm down. Even if it's just a dream, dream-Spidey's bad choices continue to haunt him. They're his own, he rationalizes.
He begins to hate his beside clock.
One night though, he wakes up in central park. It's not cold or uncomfortable. Peter starts flipping through his mental check-list. Hands still intact? Check. Mask? Check. He fumbles around, only finding a few tears in his suit. He feels although he set up a match to play chicken with a meat grinder. And lost.
First, he hears whistling. Peter's only just finished cataloging his aching body parts when a figure skips under a park light, then lens widen comically to meet Peter's.
Of course. It's Wade. The only thing Peter hasn't dreamt about yet.
Wade seems to bend over, hands on his hips as he hovers over Spider-Man. He seems to consider his choices, lens tightening at the corners and little creases to match. "Bad day?" he offers.
Peter nods, "You have no idea. How did I even get here?"
Wade hums, "No idea," he offers his hand, but Peter grabs his entire forearm. Peter's legs do a little wobble when he tries to stand.
Wade helps, of course. He closes his hand around Spider-Man's elbow and steadies him. They attempt to walk, but for once in his life Peter just can't seem to stand up straight. Peter breathes, "Weird," but he's not entirely ready to panic. He's never been this sore, but Wade's patient as Peter experimentally stretches his legs, trying to figure out how to work out whatever muscle cramps he's got going on.
Wade's jaw sets, and his hands slide down to Peter's wrist. Pete frowns, eyes flickering up to his face. He tries to dislodge his wrist, but can't seem to summon the strength. Of all the times, he muses quietly.
Wade's face is beyond serious. Pete places the other hand on his chest, pushing gently as his voice tinges with the first sign of discomfort, "Wade?"
Deadpool's face seems to glitch out between glee and fascination, Wade pulling his wrist uncomfortably high above Peter's head no matter how much he fidgets, trying to pull loose. Dread pools in his gut and Peter doesn't mean for his voice to shake, "W-wade?"
Then he wakes up.