Chapter Text
“I should have stayed in tonight.”
Peter hisses out as he swings down from a rooftop, clutching his side tightly. This is one of the worst nights he’s had in a while. A grunt escapes Peter's throat as he lands on the ground, a string of web wisping in the air behind him. He hops on one leg momentarily to give the other one rest whilst a violent bruise blossoms under the skin of his calf from when he had clipped his leg on the side of a building earlier. The pain in his body comes in slow dull waves as the adrenaline slowly filters itself out of his blood. Tonight hasn’t exactly been an ideal night for him. It started out perfectly fine, just like any other night. He got home from work, started an essay on biochemistry, and then suited up and left for his second job as New York's Spiderman. In the first half of the night Spiderman stopped a mugging, took a few selfies with some stoners at a 7/11, saved an obligatory cat from a tree, etc.
The second half, though? Now that was rough.
Yes, he did stop a robbery in his favorite deli shop. No, it wasn’t as easy as it sounds. Usually when he stops crimes like muggings or armed robberies, most of the aggressors tend to drop their weapons and raise their hands due to Spiderman's reputation. However, there are always a few that are either too determined or stupid and fight back. They’re usually easy to subdue, so Peter fought them like he normally would. To say that Peter underestimated them is an understatement. They absolutely beat the shit out of him.
“Who-” Peter flinches as a painful jolt jerks his muscles “-the hell brings a taser to a robbery?”
A really powerful and alien looking one, too. It was definitely an illegal weapon. He was able to destroy it during the fight, but damn it hurt! It would have certainly killed anyone who wasn’t a mutant.
Peters’ breath hitches in his throat as he limps into an alleyway, ignoring his body’s warnings for him to rest in favor of retrieving the backpack he hid behind a dumpster. After being a super for a decade, Peter found that it’s very helpful to leave stashes all over the city that have civvy clothes for him to wear in a pinch. He’s definitely done patrolling for tonight and he’s certain that he left a stash around here. He hasn’t had much trouble in this part of town for a while, nor did he ever really need to change into civilian clothes for the same amount of time. So, this stash has been here for at least a year. He hopes it hasn’t been found. Peter stiffly crouches towards the ground and reaches a shaky hand out into the dark space between the dumpster and the wall. After feeling around blindly, his fingers graze the rough canvas of a backpack. He breathes out a momentary sigh of relief, thankful that his stash is still there.
When Peter fishes the backpack out, his relief leaves him. The bottom of the bag is soaked in mystery dumpster liquid. He exhales a sigh of defeat, his head hanging. Peter is left ultimately quipless. He lost his sense of humor the moment someone tased him for a good half minute on the highest setting possible with the super taser.
Peter remembers when he used to be on his A game. He used to pull consecutive all-nighters when he was a teenager. He could stop a runaway train, three robberies, finish an essay and still have time to help his aunt may with dinner at five. Peter was fighting tooth and nail tonight just to stop a couple of punks from stealing pocket change from a sandwich shop. Peter doesn’t want to admit that he’s overworked. Because then what? He takes a break from being Spiderman and focuses on college and his job? That just isn’t an option for him. He isn’t the only one noticing his sloppiness, though.
There are way too many videos of ‘Epic Fail’ compilations about Spiderman on Youtube. The comment section is rough. Not to mention The Daily Bulge has been coming out with quite a few new harsh news titles that have Peter cringing. Especially so whenever he sees the photos that he takes of himself being used under them. He’s considered quitting a few times but it pays him well considering he’s their best photographer. Even Deadpool has been asking him about it, in a slightly not-so-joking manner. He’s twenty five! He shouldn’t be feeling like this already. What did 15 year old Peter have that he doesn’t?
“Sleep.” He mutters bitterly. “And free time.”
Peter sets the bag onto the ground, cringing when he hears the bottom make a wet sound as it touches cement. He is definitely not putting his suit in there. There is no way he’s carrying it around in a bag that has been fermenting in god knows what for the past month. He’ll just have to wear the clothes over his suit and be extra cautious going home. Zipping the bag open carefully, he reaches a wary hand inside and gently pulls out a few articles of clothing. Clean hoodie, clean pants, clean shirt…and not so clean sneakers at the bottom. His face twists in disgust at the thought of having to walk home in the used-to-be-white shoes. He doesn’t exactly have a choice, unfortunately. He regrets not putting a pair of socks in here.
“Sorry, suit.” He mumbles an apology as he sets the shoes aside, taking a mental note to YouTube how to get horrible smells out of spandex later. Peter stands slowly with the clothes in his arms, biting his lip as the pain in his side reminds him that it’s still there. Damn his slow healing factor. He has recently come to envy Wade's insane healing abilities. If Peter could heal half as fast as Deadpool he wouldn’t have many issues keeping up with his responsibilities. Peter lifts his mask up over his nose so he can hold the hoodie between his teeth. The pants were easy to get on, slipping over his spandex suit with ease with minimal pain.
The clothing he has the most trouble with, however, is the shirt and hoodie. His ribs scream at him to stop as he haltingly drags the stale cloth over his head and back. His body thrums with pain as he settles his arms back down to his sides. With the adrenalin gone, his breathing is starting to feel painful and heavy. I must have cracked a few ribs. He takes his mask off to stuff in his back pocket before pulling the hood up over his head. With trembling hands he slips his gloves off carefully. His hands hurt like hell, too. There are angry purple and yellowing bruises littering his knuckles. He swallows roughly, the lingering taste of blood still there. He’s thankful that he moved out a couple of years ago so Aunt May doesn’t have to see him like this. Aunt May would ground his ass regardless of him being spiderman or not. Or being a grown man. A puff of laughter escapes him at the thought.
Finally, Peter turns his attention down to the pair of sneakers on the ground with a look of dread. He’s going to have to walk home in those.
“Okay…You just have to wear them for a few blocks, and that’s it.” Letting out a weary sigh, Peter shudders as he slips his feet into the shoes. A chill runs through him as he feels liquid seep into the spandex covering his feet. Gross. Very, very gross. This is ten times more disgusting than wet socks. This is like if wet socks had a baby with touching wet food while doing the dishes. This just feels wrong. Peter feels a slight wave of nausea, but not from the shoes.
Peter's mind feels hazy for a moment, and his eyes flutter. He almost has to steady himself against the dumpster, but he catches his footing. Okay, Peter hasn’t really been taking care of himself lately. He’ll admit that one. He’s pulled his third consecutive all-nighter and he hasn’t been eating as much as he should. He’ll be fine, though. He always pulls through. It’s just finals week, and after that he can spend more time recovering while working as Spiderman. When break comes, he’ll be able to spring back up like he always does.
Before anyone asks, yes. He’s certainly had worse nights. Like when a building fell on him. Or that time when he got comically thrown into a row of parked motorcycles and made enemies for life with the Bronx motorcycle gang. Or the first time he had met Deadpool. Deadpool had saved him from a runaway bus…and by saved he means Deadpool ran in front of Spiderman before he could stop the bus and got himself run over unnecessarily. Peter felt so horrible over it that he agreed to sign Deadpools–You know what? He’s not going to finish that thought.
The point is that Deadpool still won’t shut up about that day. Wade keeps babbling about how Peter is bound to fall for him after the gesture of his “undying love”. That was probably the funniest joke he’s ever heard from the merc's mouth.
Speaking of him, it was odd that he didn't run into him tonight. It’s Taco Tuesday for Pete's sake. Wade always finds him on Taco Tuesdays. Peter could have really used the extra hand tonight, too. They patrol together most nights nowadays, so his disappearance was certainly odd. Peter has to begrudgingly, but warmly admit that the mercenary has grown on him. At first he was very hesitant and suspicious towards a mercenary trying to feed him every week. As he got to know Wade, however, Peter came to love Taco Tuesday, and probably more importantly Wade's friendship. It was free food, after all. Any broke college student loves free food. Should he be filing a missing persons report? It’s just odd for Wade to skip what he calls a weekly national holiday.
Wade better bring double the tacos next week or he’s going to web him to a wall and eat Wade's food right in front of him. It’s Wade’s fault that Peters hangry now. Wade hasn’t once missed Taco Tuesday for the past five years.
Peter rounds the corner with pinched brows, etching his worry wrinkle deeper onto his face as he thinks about Wade's no-show. It isn't like he’s worried about him. Okay, that's a lie. He’s a little worried. Wade can handle himself though, he’s an unkillable killing machine. He’s sure he’ll see him soon. Peter shoves his hands deep into his pockets and fidgets with the spandex gloves in an attempt to ignore the squelching sounds in his shoes while he walks down the sidewalk. Thankfully there aren’t many people on the streets at this time of night to spare him glowering looks of disgust. He glances at an impertinent passerby, watching as the man goes out of his way to cross the street to get off the same walkway as he. He could swear he saw the man cover his nose for a moment.
“I don’t smell that bad, do I?” He says to himself with a frown.
Peter lifts his sleeve to his nose with a faltering hand. He presses the sleeve to his nose, suddenly gagging when he smells himself finally. Oh, God. He understands why people are crossing the street now. This night is officially now on the top ten–No–Top Five list of worst nights. He wants to go home, take a shower, and go to bed. He’s just so tired. Way more tired than he normally is. He could probably drop dead, honestly.
Whenever Peter thinks about home his mind always goes to Aunt May's first. He misses waking up to a home that isn't empty. Where there’s a fresh pot of coffee for them to share and May is watching the Golden Girls on TV while folding laundry. Peter misses it all. He visits Aunt May whenever he can, but he always feels so empty at the end of the day when he has to leave. Peter sighs deeply, eyes focused down on the ground.
He made plans to have lunch with her this Friday. It’ll be the perfect way to end this hellish week, and even now Peter is excited for it. He has classes nearly everyday, and then his photography and part time deli job takes up the rest of the free time Peter has before he has to go out as Spiderman again.
However, Peter has to work extra hard this week or else Jameson is going to have a fit. Peter’s been so tired recently that it’s starting to show in his work. He’s been turning in work later than he should. Between his full time college courses, and three jobs, Peter feels like he has an excuse. He needs to up his game this week or else he won’t be able to pay rent or eat. Speaking of eating, Peter is fucking starving. He was kind of relying on Taco Tuesday as a really late dinner. He doesn’t have much cash in the bank since he paid his rent a few days ago, and his paychecks don't come until the end of the week. Another reason to look forward to Friday, he supposes.
Oh yeah, and don’t even get him started on his current headache, Tony Stark.
What billionaire just volunteers to co-teach a class at a random University? The only reason it hadn’t made the news was for the countless NDA’s that were made as a part of his contract. He’s obviously onto Peter somehow, and what's worse is that Stark is hardly trying to hide it. He sees the way Stark eyes Peter in the classroom when he pretends not to notice. Tony has been trying to scout Spiderman for about a year now. He’s managed to evade Tony for the time being, and he knows that has to frustrate the multi-billionaire-extraordinaire. Peter looks up to him for sure, but Peter is such a mess that there is no way he could possibly help with whatever Tony wants with him. With Stark's always evolving artificial intelligence, JARVIS, Peter was bound to be found out eventually. He wouldn’t be shocked if Stark has been monitoring him for a while now. For how long, though? And what tipped him off? Did he slip up somewhere? Peter is very careful with his identity. Or he thinks he is.
Peter just needs to get his shit together. Then he can speak with Tony, and not become a huge disappointment to his idol.
Peter has been screwing up a lot lately. The public is either pissed or concerned over him. Aunt May is worried for his health. Deadpool has stopped joking about Spiderman's mistakes. Jameson is on the brink of firing him. He’s starting to fall behind in his studies. Tony Stark is like a bloodhound on the trail of Spiderman's Identity. Everything he has been working towards for a decade is starting to unravel. No, Peter is starting to unravel. What is he supposed to do, though? Really, what? For once in his life he has no idea where to even start on fixing this all.
“I have to get it together.” Peter groans and rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand drearily. A prolonged yawn escapes him, making the drowsy feeling worse. Maybe he’ll skip the shower and just head straight for bed tonight.
Peter glances up to read the street sign at the end of the block, squinting as it seems to blur. Weird… He hasn’t needed glasses since he got bit. So why does he–
“Oh–” Peter sways to the side for a moment, falling against a wall of posters and graffiti next to him. His hand braces against it for support, sticking to the surface. Something is wrong with him. He blinks rapidly as he feels his vision blur and his mind go blank. The world around him feels fuzzy and his head sounds like it's underwater. He needs to go home. His shoes drag against the pavement as he pushes away from the wall, walking sluggishly to the end of the block. His hands clutch around a metal sign pole, molding dents into them as another wave of dizziness rushes him. He needs to go home. Maybe he shouldn’t have stayed up four nights in a row. He shouldn’t have been skipping meals. And he definitely should have been more cautious dealing with criminals tonight. His healing factor must be taking what little energy he has left to heal the injuries he sustained.
“Oh, god-” Peter bites down against his lower lip when he feels a rush of nausea wash over him.
I really need to go home.
Peter's head feels light and his body feels very heavy. He knows that if he were to stop, there’s no way he could get up again. If he did, who knows what would happen? He knows it’s unlikely, but the thought of some random passerby finding out Peter is Spiderman scares the shit out of him.
Does he even know where he’s going? Every street looks the same, landmarks are becoming unrecognizable and he’s having a hard time reading the street signs around him. It doesn’t help that his spider senses are going haywire, alerting him to danger that isn’t there. In his fuddled state Peter turns down a narrow passageway between two buildings, unaware if the turns he’s taking are the right ones anymore. His shoulders brush against the sides of the buildings, his hands steadying themselves on the walls when he starts to tip over. Peter grasps the corner of the wall and looks out. In the clearing he is able to make out a vaguely familiar building, a few of its patrons leaving through the front door. His eyes brief over the metal sign when he gets close, brushing past a man coming out of the building. He forces his eyes to focus on the sign.
Sister Margaret’s? Where has he heard that before?
“Watch where you’re going!” A man shoulders him roughly as he walks by. “No good drunk.”
At the impact, Peter stumbles back and loses his footing. He expects to meet the cold, hard, unforgiving pavement but he instead finds himself falling against the front of another man. His head spins as he slides down against the strangers front, fully expecting to crumple to the floor. He lets out a groan when the stranger grabs him under the arms and lifts him up away from the ground. Wherever he was grabbed by also hurts like hell. “Sorry-” He manages, keeping a stern grip on the man's forearm to try and support himself enough to stand on his own.
He expects for the stranger-now-made-support-beam to leave him, but to his dismay, the stranger turns Peter around to face him.
Oh.
Oh, no.
“Holy shit pickles, what kind of hallmark bullshit is this? What’s someone like you doing falling into my arms at-” Wade pauses to look at his Hello Kitty watch. “-2:10 in the morning?”
Deadpool stands inches from him in full gear, holding Peter close for that much-needed support. Shit shit shit. Is his suit visible? Does his injuries look odd? He should get out of here. Peter opens his mouth to speak when a leather finger presses against his open mouth, abruptly interrupting him.
“Ap, ap, ap! You don’t need to say another word, that indeed isn’t a gun in my pocket.” Peter watches as Deadpool winks down at him with all the classiness in the world. Peter would frown if he didn't feel so disoriented right now. Also, what the hell? What has Wade been doing tonight? Did he actually just forget Taco Tuesday? The momentary feeling of bemusement is interrupted however when the world starts to spin. Peter grips hard enough into Deadpool's forearm to make his bones creak. He lets out a labored breath, trying to stay awake. Pops and sparks of white glimmer in his vision before everything around him fades to dark.
Oh, shit.
He knows he should be more concerned considering he’s wearing his suit underneath only a few layers of clothes, but he can’t find the strength to care anymore. Being here with Deadpool, too, makes him feel strangely safe. Maybe he's out of it, but the idea of passing out here with Deadpool by him is more tempting than anywhere else.
He’s just so fucking tired. The name slips out of his mouth before he has control over it.
“Wade...” Peter speaks hoarsely as he falls forward. His eyes roll into the back of his head before he goes limp against the mercenary without another sound, face pressed against the other man's chest. The mercenary flinches at this. Maybe he was surprised to hear his name spoken by a “stranger”, or that this stranger just fell asleep against him whilst standing. Either way, this is all a problem for when Peter wakes up.
Wade
Wade stands stiffly as he holds the now unconscious, inebriated man in his arms. His hands shuffle over his body awkwardly, trying to find a place to hold that isn’t completely perverted. Wade. This hot piece of ass called him by name… Have they bumped uglies before? He swears that he would remember a face like his. Or, any face that wanted to fuck him in the last ten years. And, it isn’t like his name is a secret, most people are aware of Wade Wilson's identity, but most call him Deadpool. Unless they are real comfortable with him, then it's Daddypool.
“This totally counts as someone falling for me, right?”
He pulls the guy's hood back gently, taking note of his face. Deadpool lets him fall back a little in his arms so he can get a clearer look, just enough so his head rolls back limply. Split lip, black eye, definitely broken nose. Under all that hurt though is a whole lotta pretty, though.
“Yeesh, you sure had an unlucky night. I’m going to do my good deed for the day and get that purdy face of yours cleaned up. WWSD. You know what that stands for?” Wade hefts the little alcoholic up into his arms to carry him toddler style. “Stands for What Would Spidey Do?”
He places a hand under his butt and holds him tight to his abdomen. The kid's head rests right in the dip between Deadpools neck and shoulder. He hums a moment of consideration at how light he feels before he walks up to the staircase that leads to the duplex above Sister Margaret's. He's sure Weasel won't mind him using his pad for a moment or two. The metal stairs squeak under his weight up the stairs as he hums along to the tune of ‘Keep Your Arms Around Me’. Deadpool approaches the front door, shifting his weight to grab the weathered door handle. He jiggles the knob with his free hand and lets out a groan when it doesn’t budge. Locked. Wade casts a glance down at the boy he’s carrying and then towards the window by the door.
“Oh shiiit, what if he has a concussion? Shit!” Deadpool curses.
Wade looks through the dirty glass, letting out a hum. He pulls his mask up over his nose and breathes against the pane, creating a circle of condensation, before he rubs his gloved fist against the clouded surface. The glass squeaks when he gets through the grime, leaving a perfectly round, clear circle amidst the muck. He hefts Peter in his arms when he starts to slide, making sure to keep him close. The sudden movement seems to stir him for a moment, mumbling something soft against Wade's shoulder. Well, it was more a slur than a mumble.
“Oh, good morning. Let’s try to keep you awake, okay? And don’t you worry your cute little ass. Papa Pool has a key.”
Wade punches his hand through the spot where he cleaned on the window, reaching around broken glass to unlock it. The door clicks open, and Wade pushes it with his hip to get in. The duplex smells of weed and dirty laundry. Wade makes a mental note to check for Weasel's secret stash after he fixes up pretty boy's nose. He knows that snub bastard has been holding out on him lately. Weasel keeps denying him the goods, but Wade is a contraband bloodhound.
"Does that little shit fuck really think he can weed cuck me? What kind of friend doesn't share their stash with their good pal?"
Energy drink cans and other clutter kick against his shoes as Wade makes his way into the living room. The living room is easily the messiest room of the flat. Strange electronics and computers take up most of the table space, and unfolded laundry acts as a second carpet. If there was any remaining space left, it would no doubt be occupied already by takeout boxes and cans. An arm steadies around Sleeping Beauties back as Wade squats down in front of the coffee table. He hooks a hand under the hardwood and hefts it upwards, spilling various laptops and takeout onto the floor with a violent crash.
"Whoops." Wade sing-songs as he lets the table fall back into place loudly.
He grabs a pillow from the couch and sets it on the table, gently transferring the kid from his arms to the cold wooden surface. Wade stands and takes a moment to take in his appearance, trying to figure out the untold story here. He is beat up, presumably drunk, and smells like garbage. There isn’t much else to go off of besides face value. There doesn’t look to be a wallet in his front pockets, and he didn’t feel one in his back pockets, either.
Deadpool sat down beside him to find any clues. By the looks of the bruises and a few split knuckles on his hands, it looks like Pretty Boy here has been fighting. Then, Wade spots something interesting. He tilts his head to the side and pokes at the clear medium size sticker stuck to Peter's sweater. Being gentle, Wade peels the sticker off and holds it in the air in front of his own face to examine it.
“These clothes still have tags on them?”
Then, Deadpool finds something else. A familiar red and blue pattern catches Wade's eyes. Wade tilts his head to the side, rolling up the stranger's pant leg a bit.
“Ooo, Spiderman socks.” Wade says before tugging the fabric back down. "You think I can score some brownie points if I get him Spidey's autograph?" Wade flaps his hand back and forth, trying to get the sticker to fall off of his thumb. “Maybe if Sleeping Beauty gets lucky he’ll get to see my Spiderman themed undies that Spidey signed himself after that bus incident–”
Deadpool goes silent as Peter lets out a groan, his sleep being momentarily disturbed. His eyes open into slits, gaze going to Deadpool. Wade perks up at this and watches curiously, but the stranger makes no move to do or say anything. After a moment of prolonged silence, the mercenary goes to speak, but stops himself when the kid gives the sleepiest hint of a smile before going back to sleep. He's out like a light within moments.
Wade gently stands up and places his hands on his hips. Now he's really confused. Questions can come later, though, preferably in the form of pillow talk. However, he should really attend to that broken nose and split lip.
“Alright, sweetums, you just stay there and get your much-needed beauty rest while I go and search Weasels filthy apartment.”
Wade places a comically loud smooch to the sleeping beauty's forehead through his mask.
He moves through the clutter of the duplex like a bull in a china shop, not caring much when he bumps into something, and it crashes to the ground. The hallway is somehow the cleanest part of the house with only a few socks on the ground and an unopened condom, which Wade pockets. Wade turns into the bathroom and flicks on the first switch he sees. He hears the sputtering of the fan go off somewhere in the bathroom. Wade sighs and flicks on the right switch, squinting his eyes as the fluorescent light comes to life.
Grabbing the side of the mirror cabinet, he opens it up, looking at the contents of the pill cabinet behind it. Empty. Weasels pill stash is probably wherever he hid his mystical weed. On God, he will find both before he leaves today. Where do people keep first aid kits anyway? In bathrooms, right? He's pretty sure he himself owns a very old first aid kit in his own bathroom cabinet. He doesn't have much use for it anymore, like any first aid kit, but he knows that it's an IFAK kit. He might have to take the kid back to his place and fix him up with that. First, though, he needs to set his nose and get him cleaned up. He crouches down on the filthy chipped tiles to get at the cabinet under the sink. It opens with a shrill squeal before Wade rummages around in the compartment. Pushing aside a half full bag of toilet paper he finds a plastic first aid kit tucked away in the back. Wade grabs the handle and drags it out from its depths. The first aid kit clatters out with its contents rattling inside, already sounding half empty. Wade clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth before he opens it.
A box of Band-Aids and Rubbing alcohol.
“Well, fuck me sideways.”
Wade opens up the bottle of rubbing alcohol, checking the inside. Barely half full. It’ll do. He sets the bottle back in the kit and shakes the Band-Aid box. It makes an odd sound, not of band-aids but of…
Oh, that sneaky little asshole.
Wade opens up the band-aid box, letting out an affronted gasp when he finds it packed with neatly rolled joints. He leans over and looks out into the hallway before slowly unclasping the pouch on his side to slide in the reverse Royal Dansk goodies. He’s sure Weasel won't mind him taking the weed he hid so diligently from specifically him.
He leaves the kit on the floor wide open and takes the alcohol, leaving the cabinet open and disheveled. Weasel won't mind all this mess in his mess anyways. Wade's hand brushes over the light switch to turn it off as he leaves, then trains his eyes back on the unconscious boy laying across the table. He plops down on the worn couch next to the coffee table, hooking his ankle around the leg to drag the side Peter's head rests on closer to him. Wade sets the rubbing alcohol aside and rubs his palms together.
"Alright, sweetums. Let’s get that nose of yours back in its original spot.”
He grabs the kids face gently, tilting his head towards himself. Wade takes his thumb and–wait–what the fuck?
Wade tilts his head to the side in utter confusion as he tries to understand what in the shit fuck is happening right now. Not only is his nose magically unbroken, but the black eye has faded into a lighter shade and his split lip looks less swollen. He runs a thumb over his nose gently to check to see if it's indeed intact, leaning in close with a quizzical frown. All wade can find is the yellowish hue of a healing bruise that was once there. Is he a mutant with a healing factor? How many mutants does he know? A lot. How many mutants does he know that are as pretty as this? His eyes scan down the length of his body, trying to figure out the puzzle in front of him on the table. He’s just missing some pieces…
What is he not seeing?
His searching is interrupted when the front door slams open suddenly. Wade looks over unflinchingly and retracts his hands away from the hem of Peter's hoodie. Weasel stands at the doorway with a broom in his hand looking ready to fight…Well, more like whack somebody with a broom like an old lady. Wade would joke about it, but he suddenly isn’t in the mood to do so. The mercenary spares a glance at Weasel before he looks back down at the unconscious boy laying across the table with an analytical stare.
"Why the fuck am I hearing talk about you hauling some drunk guy up to my apartment, Wilson?" Weasel throws his hands out in dramatic fashion before doing a double take towards his window. His eyes guide downwards where glass litters the ground in shards.
"Again?" He groans, letting his arms drop to his sides.
Weasel looks up and seems to take a moment to take in the scene before him, face scrunched in perpetual displeasure. He gestures angrily towards the unconscious guy on his coffee table as if Wade wasn't aware that he was there already. Wade doesn't make a move to remove Peter, and Weasel doesn't have the guts to do it himself. After a tense moment of silence between them Weasel is the one to break first.
"Listen, man, I know your love life is shit with you looking like the testicle of a burn victim, but my home is not some cheap love motel! Oh–and you fucking knocked over all my shit, that's just great–"
“Oh, was that your shit?” Wade turns his attention back to the kid. He grabs the rubbing alcohol from aside, unscrewing the cap with his thumb. He then grabs one of Weasel's shirts out of the hamper sitting by the couch and dumps the remaining rubbing alcohol onto it. “Well, then, It was already like that when it fell there.”
Weasel makes a noise of indignance as Wade continues to make a mess. Before he can say anything remarkable, two things happen. One, Wade presses the shirt oh so gently to the kid's split lip. And two, said kid's hand shoots up like a bolt of lightning to clench Wade's wrist in his. Now that makes Wade flinch.
“Motherfucker!” Wade jumps, holding his hands up in surrender as the kid sits up like he’s possessed. His eyes are wild, trying to take in everything around him all at once. His eyes meet Wades only for a brief moment before he looks towards the other man in the room almost automatically. The kid stares him down with a dangerous look. Weasel takes a cautious step back and holds the broom out towards him like Peter might lunge at him. Interestingly enough, the guy's body language shows that he harbors more caution towards Weasel than he does Deadpool. The kid didn’t even look that scared at the fact that he woke with a mercenary by his side. A mercenary that he knows to be Deadpool. He looks more terrified of Weasel and his unfamiliar surroundings than anything. Wade starts a mental checklist in his head.
- He knows Wade personally.
- He is comfortable enough with Deadpool to call him “Wade.”
- He is not familiar with Weasel, and by proxy, not Sister Margaret's, either.
- He’s wearing clothes with tags still on them, which could mean a few things.
- He is a mutant.
- From the little Wade has seen, he has:
- Super strength.
- A healing factor.
- Very fast reflexes.
Slowly, Wade feels the gears in his head turning. His eyes naturally gravitate to the guy’s Spiderman socks again.
There’s no fucking way though, right?
The kid stares at Weasel long enough to make him feel like he’s the weird one for being here in his own apartment. He swallows hard enough for his throat to bob, and Wade is shameless enough to ogle. After way too long, the kid finally pries his gaze from the bartender to look towards the mercenary. Neither of them move away. He opens his pretty mouth before closing it again, and Wade can’t help but lean in. He’s captivated by this stranger that seems familiar and has no anxiety being so close to him. He can’t help but look at him all over again, taking everything in.
“Oh for fuck's sake, are you two eye fucking each other? My apartment is filthy enough, I don’t need you two jizzing all over the place-” Weasel interrupts their unspoken conversation.
Sleeping Beauty looks back over at Weasle, shooting him a look. He then scoots off of the table and away from Wade, who stands with him automatically. The kid starts walking towards the door, suddenly looking self-conscious and fidgety. He fiddles with the helms of his sleeves. Stopping ten paces before the door, he looks back at Wade with a question gathering in his throat; anxious about something. A moment of tension passes before he swallows whatever he was going to ask or say back down.
“Uh-” The guy swipes his tongue across his chapped lips.
He stiffly points a thumb towards the door and nods to it awkwardly. “...’Gunna go. Thanks.” He flashes a nervous smile that makes Wade's heart squeeze. Wade stands there with his proverbial dick in his hand and watches the not-so-stranger leave, his chest pulling at him to follow, but his legs remain like stone carved from the ground up. The kid shimmies past Weasel, who has his arms crossed over his chest with his signature stink eye aimed at the ready. He mumbles an apology as he hurries out of the doorway, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. Something tugs at Wade's brain while watching the boy leave.
Wade walks over to the window he smashed earlier, boots crunching the glass into the carpeted floors. He hooks a finger around a curtain and draws it back in time to watch the kid at the bottom of the stairs, casting a look back at the apartment as he walks away. The kid's eyes widen when he catches Wades, not expecting to be caught snooping. He whips his head forward quickly and doubles his walking speed. He nearly trips down the stairs, but catches himself on the railing. After a few more speed walk fueled steps the boy disappears around the building at the end of the block. Wade watches for several seconds, knowing that he just walked down an alleyway that leads to a dead end. After a few moments pass he sees him walk back out, looking lost suddenly.
That kid is going to get mugged again.
Wade's legs start to move automatically, feeling drawn towards the stranger. After all, who is he to turn a blind eye towards a damsel in distress?
“Oh no, don’t you even think about it, Wilson. You are cleaning up this fucking mess. You are not chasing tail, I swear to god–Wade–”
“I’m just grabbing a broom from downstairs, prissy pants!” Wade calls back to Weasel as he rushes down the stairs. He either didn’t see that Weasel had a broom already or he just didn’t care about the inconsistency in the lie. “Also, buy a proper fucking medical kit for your home, Weasel! God, I’ll fucking buy you one, actually.”
“Wait, you looked through my– Shit!” Weasel curses before running off into the apartment, probably to look for his not-so-secret stash.
Either way, Wade is making his way quickly to a very lost cutie-pie. The kid seems to hear him coming because he looks over his shoulder at the mercenary, eyes widening. His walking slows to a halt as he waits for the leather clad anti-hero. Wade catches up to him quickly, stopping to leave a couple of feet between them. They both sit in awkward silence, watching the other with charged caution and curiosity. After a moment of the two sizing each other up, the kid is the first one to break the silence.
“Hey…” He speaks with a meek wave.
“Hi.” Wade parrots him, “You looked lost…”
The guy in front of him stares up at Wade with a parted mouth, suddenly snorting as his face breaks out into laughter. Oh, wow. Okay. He has a very pretty smile and laugh. Without those nasty bruises on his face, Wade can see a lot about him already. His dark brown eyes, the dimples on his cheeks, the slightly sharp canine poking out from behind his lip. He also notices all the bad. The bags under his eyes, the way his smile seems to falter under the tiredness he carries. The way the kid looks like he could cry if pushed. Wade swallows a lump in his throat, laughing contagiously but softly along with him. Peter drags a hand over his face and shakes his head.
“Tonight has been ridiculous…” He mumbles, his words groggy with sleep. Wade snorts out a laugh through his nose and points over his shoulder with his chin.
“Let’s get you home?” Why does Wade sound so airy?
The laughter held in the kid’s shoulders is slowly replaced with tiredness and stress. He looks up at Wade with a concerned look, eyebrows raising. He opens his mouth and glances away, sucking in a breath of air. His teeth bite down on his bottom lip, chewing on the flesh. Then, slowly, he nods. The guy looks as if he’s coming to a conclusion in his mind over this situation. There is so much tension and worry in his features that Deadpool fears he might have stepped over the line. But then it breaks. His features go soft and tired, and he looks up at Wade with a longing that he can’t place.
“Yeah… Yeah, okay.” He nods and shoves his hands into his pockets.
He tells Wade his address, and they start walking. They fall into pace with one another, shoulders brushing against the others every now and again. A silence hangs between them, and neither of them do much to break it. Wade glances down at him from his peripheral, watching the boy fidget and sneak glances at Deadpool. Who is this guy? Why was he hurt? Why is he wearing clothes with tags still attached that smell and look old? Why did his injuries heal so fast? Why isn’t he afraid of Deadpool? And how does he know Wade? He doesn’t ask any of these questions, but he has a feeling that even if he did he wouldn’t get a straight answer. Wade also has a feeling that he knows the answer to all of those questions.
Wade glances over when he sees the kid pull up the cuff of his hoodie, as if hiding the hem of the clothing he’s wearing beneath it.
Even when they’re both standing at the door to his apartment, there are no questions between them. He grabs a small spare key from behind a potted plant outside of his door and unlocks it, stopping to turn and stand in the doorway to face Wade. To the merc's surprise, it looks as though the kid has just as many questions as he does. He worries his lip and breaks eye contact, hands fidgeting with the helms of his sleeves again. Whatever questions he had must have gotten pushed down like the last. The kid sighs out softly in time to look up and meet eyes with Wade. First there is reluctance, then acceptance, and finally…
Wade blinks, taken aback. Suddenly the kid looks pissed as hell!
He crosses his arms, wincing once at some mystery pain. Wade's hand flinches at this, like he wants to help. He restrains himself, though. Finally, the kid speaks.
“...It’s Taco Tuesday, man, what the hell?” Spidey exasperates.
Wade's jaw drops, and he lets out a loud and elongated gasp. Spidey just rolls his eyes and grabs Deadpools sternum strap, pulling him back into the apartment with him. Wade has enough mind to kick the door shut behind him, but his eyes remain trained on the kid before him, jaw still dropped. The kid who is fucking Spiderman and is at least ten times more hot than what Wade had imagined.
“Help me out of my clothes.”
Wade's brain is slow to process that one, still wide eyed and slack jawed. When he finally catches up, Wade has to steady himself. “Sorry, I just got so hard that I nearly passed out. What the fuck did you just say?”
“Aaand he’s back.” Spidey speaks, some amusement in his tone. “My ribs, a few of them at least, are definitely broken, and I’m still not feeling…” He pauses for a moment, a hazy look in his eyes. He blinks away the feeling and rubs a hand over his forehead. “I’m not feeling great, Wade.” He mumbles the last part.
Wade jumps into action. “What the hell happened, Webs?” Wade speaks in a gentle voice that surprises himself. When Wade goes to help Spidey out of the hoodie, he gets stopped. Spidey shakes his head and points towards his very small and dreary looking kitchen. This makes Wade realize where he is, and his eyes start to wander. They’re in a small, old, and cold apartment. This is where Spiderman lives? Wade isn’t an eighth of the hero he is, and he lives much better than this. Well, to be fair, Wade's former line of work left him with a lot of spending money. He still takes jobs, but with the whole no-killing rule, the payloads have been a bit meek.
It’s still enough for Deadpool to buy a few yachts a month, though.
The kitchen is certainly barren, but the living room is a bit…cramped. It sort of reminds him of weasels, but it’s more of a nerdy mess. The coffee table has various papers and textbooks on it, a quarter of the books opened. The books have so many highlights and tabbed pages that he wonders how Spidey doesn’t get a migraine looking at them. There is a laptop sitting amidst the mess, it being chunky and covered in duct tape. The thing has to be more than ten years old. Christ, the poor computer looks like it should be in hospice. There’s even a fucking whiteboard covered in maps and sticky notes with a bunch of random bits of writing strewn around.
The couch isn’t much better. It looks old and very, very well-loved. There are multiple quilted blankets draped over the back and arms, most likely to cover up any tears. Right next to the couch is another giant white board with tons of different equations and seemingly random notes scribbled onto it. The whole place reeks of nerd.
“There are scissors in the top drawer over there, just cut the hoodie and shirt off of me.” Webs speaks, drawing Wade's attention back to him. Now that Wade is more alert to Spideys injuries, Wade hears the breathlessness in his voice. Spiderman is taking in short, shallow breaths. He’s definitely broken some ribs. Wade feels a slow roll of anger in his gut directed at whoever did this to him. Spidey fishes something out of his pockets, tossing them aside so they land on the couch. The Spiderman mask sits against the couch staring back at Wade. Wade knows that this is Spiderman, but seeing the mask makes it feel more and more real. This really is his Spidey in the flesh. Really, really hurt flesh.
“Wade?” Spidey asks. To Wade's slight horror, his voice sounded almost slurred.
“On it!” Wade rushes to the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers. The drawers are cluttered as hell. Wade even manages to find some web cartridges before he finds the scissors.
He rushes back over and quickly cuts Spidey out of his civvies. The garbage clothes fall to the ground in tatters, revealing the classic red and blue suit underneath. Wade only grows more upset when he sees the state of the suit. Part of his suit looks singed.
Afterward, Spidey unbuttons his pants and lets them fall to the floor at his ankles. He kicks his shoes off, visibly cringing. Web-head goes to reach behind him to get the zipper, but before he can get even halfway, he lets out a whine. His face pinches with pain before he ducks his head so he’s looking down. Wade holds his hands out, hovering them just by Spideys shoulders.
“What-” Wade starts speaking, but is interrupted.
“I-I…” Spideys voice shakes, but he takes a moment to steady it. “I can’t reach back.”
Wade understands. He quickly goes around the super and finds the hidden zipper on the back of his suit. Wade places a gentle hand to Spideys shoulder, a little concerned when the kid sways with the movement. He’s standing, but Wade can tell that he’s doing so unsteadily. Wade carefully draws the zipper down, getting more and more upset when he sees what's underneath. He pulls the suit down over Spideys shoulders, carefully peeling him out of it. The kid's body is covered in horrible bruises. The worst of them is an angry and swollen looking bruise that expands over his ribs. What concerns Deadpool the most, though, is the open cut on Peter's side. It looked like it was webbed over, but it’s dissolved, and the wound has started to bleed again.
Wade’s only seen Spidey get cut up a few times, but usually he just webs it shut and keeps fighting. By the time the webbing dissolves, the wound is always healed. His healing factor may be slower than Wades by a fuck-ton, but it’s still fast. His webs dissolve after hours, and if that's the case, that means Spideys injuries have barely healed! What is happening to him???
The suit is pooled around his waist, so Wade kneels down to get the rest off of him. When Peter lets out a strange noise, Wade looks up again to an incredibly alarming sight. The bleeding wound on his side starts to heal slowly, the red cut turning more pinkish. When this happens, Spidey does a full body shudder before his knees buckle. Wade quickly stands and grabs him. He looks so small.
“Spidey?” Wade speaks softly, holding his friend up from under the arms.
The kid is letting out shallow, but labored breaths. When Wade tilts Spideys head back to get a look at his face, his concern only triples. Spidey's face is pale and clammy. His eyes are open, but they’re out of focus and hazy. When Wade checks his pulse, he can feel that it is a lot faster than it should ever be. His healing factor must be sapping out any energy that Spidey has left to heal his injuries. Is this why he’s so tired and beat up? Actually, now that Wade thinks about it…
Hasn’t Spidey been a lot more tired than usual this past year? And in all honesty, it’s only been getting worse and worse. He used to be so quick on his feet, but there were a few alarming times where Wade had to step in to save Spiderman from something coming his way. That has never happened before.
“Okay, I’m taking over.” Wade speaks sternly, as if Spidey would argue.
Wade picks Spiderman up bridal style and frowns at how light he feels. When he picked up Spiderman when he was disguised as a civilian earlier, he didn’t think much of it. But a hero shouldn’t be this light, right? Has he been losing muscle mass?
Does… Is he getting enough to eat? Wade's mind goes back to the kitchen. He wonders what he’ll find if he opens the fridge.
Wade gently lays Spidey back against the couch and positions him in a way that makes it easy to peel the rest of the suit off of him. He tosses the suit away and looks over Spiderman's body. With every new injury found, Wade gets angrier and angrier. His body is clammy and pink in some areas where blood has been smeared from old and current wounds. Step one is to get Spidey cleaned up.
Wade picks Spiderman back up again and walks over to the cramped bathroom. He was hoping to find a bathtub, but all this apartment has to offer is a small stand-up shower with room for one.
Wade curses under his breath and sets Spiderman down onto the toilet. When he’s sure that Spidey won't fall off at any moment, Wade turns the shower on and puts the–quarter full–bottle of shampoo somewhere easily accessible. When that’s done, Wade drops in front of Spiderman for a moment. Spidey is awake for the most part, but exhaustion is incredibly clear in his expression. Hopefully he’ll be aware enough to understand that Wade for once isn’t trying to be a pervert.
Wade looks down to Peter's jockstrap and cup.
“I wouldn’t normally say this, but I’m glad you’re wearing briefs under all of that.” Wade mutters. He removes the protection and hefts Spiderman up to rest back-to-chest, walking backwards into the now warm water. Spideys head rolls forward limply, but Wade takes a hand to roll it back to rest against his shoulder.
“I have to apologize in advance, Spidey, because I’m about to lather down my walking wet dream in soap, and I’m not confident about where my blood will go next.”
All Spiderman does is groan in response. Wade tries to keep it as clinical as possible, rubbing suds over the hero's body to clean him from sweat and blood. It’s hard not to think incriminating thoughts, though, when his hands are sliding over his friend's slick, toned body. Christ above.
When Wade is finished cleaning his body, he turns Spidey around to face him. He hugs the super close and removes his own gloves, tossing them aside. He pours a generous amount of shampoo onto Spideys head, making a mental note to buy New Yorks #1 hero some better shampoo and conditioner after all of this. Hell, he’ll buy him a new fucking apartment after this. Someone should, and a greedy side of him wants it to be him especially.
Wade runs his hand into Spideys thick hair, massaging the shampoo into his scalp. Wade is a saint, because when Spiderman fucking moans with Wades bare hand threaded through his hair, he doesn’t even make a dirty joke. He continues to lather soap into his hair despite the arising spank bank material. Once Deadpool is finished, he rinses out his hair and waddles out of the shower with Spidey still hugged to his chest. Deadpool towel dries him and fishes out a way better first aid kit from under the sink. Wade does his best to patch Spidey up, putting butterfly sutures over the cuts and applying padding and gauze over the swollen areas.
Deadpool looks down to the floor, seeing that he’s made a bit of a mess himself. He probably shouldn’t have worn his suit into the shower. He towels down his suit real quick before moving onto the next problem. Wade is working overtime tonight to keep his inner pervert from rearing its ugly head.
“Maybe we should have just taken the shorts off…” Wade says as he stares at Spidermans now very wet and skin tight–Wade slaps himself and shakes his head. “Bad Deadpool!”
Wade dries Peter's hair with a new towel the best he can before scooping him up again and walking around the apartment. He finds his bedroom pretty fast considering this apartment is small as fuck. The bedroom is less cluttered than the living room. It actually manages to come off as sort of comfy. The bed is about a queen size with multiple blankets and a few pillows on it. The blankets are all mismatched, somewhat complimenting each other, save for one. There’s a nerdy-ass periodic table blanket that sits at the top of them all, making Wade let out a snort. God, this guy is such a huge fucking nerd.
Wade walks in and gently sets Spidey down onto the bed, looking over his unconscious friend. Spidey is sprawled out against the bed, his legs hanging off the edge. His damp hair curls over his attractive features, making Wade stare shamelessly for a bit too long. Spideys unexpectedly angelic appearance only makes what Wade has to do next feel a thousand times more depraved.
The underwear is going to have to come off…
Wade looks around, grabbing a towel from a nearby hamper. He lays it out flat over Spideys lap and slips his hands down under it after a moment of hesitation. Wade quickly regrets the lack of gloves. His fingers eventually find the hem of Spiderman's underwear after having to map out his thighs and waist with his bare fucking hands.
“I'm going to hell.” Wade slowly peels the underwear off, pulling them down over Spiderman’s knees and ankles. He tosses them over his shoulder, hearing a wet slap somewhere off behind him. He leaves his friend's side to go to the closet in the room, opening the creaky sliding door. He picks out a pair of briefs, dark gray sweatpants, and a very comfortable looking red hoodie. After carefully dressing Spiderman, he places him in bed and pulls the covers over him. All five of them. Even the periodic table one. Christ, this is a lot of blankets.
It makes sense, though, given how cold this apartment is. Deadpool sighs and steps back, watching his friend sleep. Spidey is buried so far into those blankets that all Wade can see is the top of his head. The comfortable lump rises and falls slowly. Wade relaxes now that his baby boy is taken care of for now. However, Wade can’t get too comfortable yet. He has a job to do, after all.
And that’s taking care of New York's number one starting now and forever.
“Maximum effort.” Wade huffs out, turning towards the bedroom door.
Peter
Wednesday, ??:??
Peter's eyelids flinch as the morning light glints through the shaggy curtains and catches his eyes. The light illuminates the room with a soft golden glow, particles of dust catching light in their passing across the room. Peter draws a deep breath, the kind that fills your lungs until they start to ache. His arms stretch up over his head, knuckles brushing against the old wooden headboard. A wonderful crack resonates in his back and Peter can instantly feel the tension being released. Peter releases a sigh, just managing not to let his soul out in the process. A hum escapes him as he rolls onto his side to peer over his shoulder, eyes peeking at the alarm clock on the nightstand. Peter rubs at his eyes until the red numbers on the clock appear clear. 12:54 PM. He shoots up out of bed immediately, eyes wide and hair tousled.
“I’m late!” Peter's voice crackles.
Peter rolls over onto his stomach and out of bed, and nearly takes all the bedding with him. He falls onto the floor with a loud thud and scrambles up onto his feet. Peter grabs a pair of jeans from his closet and rushes out to the bathroom. He grabs his toothbrush and sticks it in his mouth before dropping his sweatpants to the floor, kicking them aside with his foot. Peter is never late. He’s already missed two of his classes, and the next one is only an hour away! Peter brushes at his teeth while he wrangles his pants on over his knees, half walking-half hopping into the kitchen to get started on some toast. He gets them up over his thighs before stopping completely at what he finds in the kitchen.
Deadpool is in his kitchen.
Scratch that, Deadpool is in his kitchen with nothing but Spiderman boxers–The signed ones–and an apron on. He’s at Peter's counter, half turned around to look over his shoulder at him. Next to Wade is a ridiculously high stack of waffles. Before either could speak, Peter's stomach growls so loudly at the smell and sight of the waffles that Peter briefly considers throwing himself out of the window in embarrassment.
Wade stares at him with this nonjudgmental, but knowing look.
“Thank god. You were practically catatonic in there, Webs. I was hoping the smell of food would draw you out of your coma.” Wade turned back around, and when he did, Peter noticed everything else in the kitchen. His stove top had three cast iron pans–which he did not own–that had bacon, eggs, and sausage links on them. Right next to that on the counter was several different kinds of fruits cut up into a bowl and–
“Did…Did you go out and buy coffee…?” Peter pointed, a little dumbstruck.
“Well, duh. I didn’t think I’d have enough time to figure out how to use the espresso machine before you woke up.”
“The what?”
“The espresso machine. That one.” Wade pointed with a butter knife, and Peter followed it to an espresso machine that was still in the box on his coffee table. Peter was stunned speechless. He hardly even realized that Wade had approached him until he was being steered towards the couch with two, big, strong hands on his shoulders. The feeling caused Peter chills, and he had to swallow the spit in his mouth. Wade made Peter sit down on the couch before handing him a big plate of food. It had…everything. Peter must’ve been making a face because Wade let out a bark of laughter.
“Oh my god, what is that expression?”
“...Wade, what…” Peter tried to form words, his brain moving too slow to catch up.
“Ugh, this is so not fair! You were already so cute in suit, baby boy. And that bedhead.” Wade practically squealed, fanboying. Wade ruffled his hair before he sat down next to Peter with his own plate. The couch shook when Wade landed, reminding Peter just how much muscle Wade has. Peter sneaks a glance towards Wade, looking him over. He’s seen Wade semi-naked over the years whenever they hang out at one of Wade's homes. Peter doesn’t know why, but it’s always incredibly…distracting.
The boxers on Wade may as well be briefs with how tightly they’re wrapped around his muscled thighs. So much pure muscle. Peter swallows dryly.
“Why–” Peter pauses, a lopsided smile on his face. “Why are you not wearing clothes…?”
Deadpool paused, but a slow and mischievous grin formed. “I am, though.” Wade pointed to his apron, which had words on it. It read, “Kiss the cock”. Peter read it with a deadpan expression. He looked back up at Wade, raising an eyebrow.
“Is this some weird, elaborate ploy to get me to…” Peter stopped speaking immediately, deciding that he should not finish that sentence, even if it were meant as a jest. Deadpool would never let him forget it.
“Please. Please finish that sentence.” Wade begged, only scooting closer to Peter.
Peter looked away and began eating so he’d have an excuse not to talk, his ears burning. Once he began eating, though, he couldn’t stop. His body absolutely needed this. Peter finished his plate within minutes and got up to get himself seconds, and then thirds. Only halfway through his fourth plate did he slow down. Peter sighed deeply, laying back against the couch with his hands on his stomach. He hasn’t been this full in a while. It felt amazing.
“Well, now that your mouth isn’t full, why don’t we talk about what you were going to say earlier?” Wade waggled his eyebrows, causing Peter to shoot him a disapproving stare.
“Good to know how that expression looks under the mask.”
Peter sat for a moment before getting up, finally gathering his bearings.
“Firstly, thank you for…” Peter gestured around and then to his bandaged self. “All of this and that.”
Peter began to feel embarrassed, though, when he thought more about it. It was embarrassing that Deadpool found him like that. It was embarrassing that his identity was found out so easily. It was embarrassing that Deadpool had to take care of him. And it was embarrassing that Deadpool saw how he lives. All of it made Peter want to sink into the floor and never return.
“I don’t…” Peter rubbed at the back of his neck. “I don’t usually get that roughed up.”
“Who did it?” Deadpool spoke casually, but Peter knew that he was mad.
Peter just shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “They’re already locked up. I handled it.” He didn’t need the grim reaper to pay them a visit.
“Handling it is a strong word.” Wade gets up and takes both his and Peter's plate to the kitchen, setting them in the sink. Wade begins to wash all the dishes and utensils used, but Peter butts in and starts washing them in his stead.
“One, I’m doing the dishes. You cooked. Two, I still handled it.” Peter huffs out.
“Are you now?” Wade hummed, lifting his watch. “I remember a little birdy telling me earlier this week that they were in the midst of finals week. The same birdy also screeched this morning that they were running late…”
Peter froze, suddenly remembering that he had school in less than an hour. Peter put the plate back in the sink and quickly ran around the apartment. Wade watched from the living room, a smug look on his face. He watched as Peter ran around, grabbing his backpack and web shooters. Peter went to the coffee table and slid various papers and books into the poor threadbare bag, zipping it up before throwing it onto his back. He grabbed his suit, too, which was surprisingly clean, and threw it into the bag as well. After he had everything, Peter ran towards the front door.
“Ap, ap, ap!” A bagged lunch and the to-go coffee were placed in Peter's hands. Wade brought his hands together and pressed them to his cheek, lifting a foot in the air. “There you go, sweetums! Have a wonderful day at school, Spidey!” He cooed.
Peter blinked, staring down at the lunch and drink. “...Wade, what are you doing?” Peter smiled lopsidedly. Wade dressed his wounds, cleaned his suit, bought him stuff, made him breakfast, and now lunch as well?
“Spidey maintenance.” Deadpool says. “It’s clear that you’re in poor hands, and yes I do mean yours.”
Peter huffs out a breath. “I can–”
“Take care of yourself? I saw your fridge last night. It was really, really sad. Also, seeing as you’re going to school full-time, and you are most likely working, I doubt you have any time to rest. No fucking wonder you’ve been having a rough go at it…” Wade exasperates. “I bet my dick and balls that your healing factor was so slow because you haven’t been eating… Webs, were you relying on the food I was giving you?”
Peter went silent at this, unable to look Wade in the eyes.
“Spidey–” Wade astonished.
“Peter Parker.”
Wade stares down at Peter blankly. Then, slowly,
“...What’s my favorite photographer have to do with anything?” Wade cocked his head.
Peter smiled, exasperated. Of course, Wade would be a fan of his work. “If you’re going to stay, make sure to lock up when you leave.” Peter takes the lunch and drink into one hand before opening the door. As he steps out, hand still on the knob, he gives Wade a smile.
“And I’m glad you like my work.” Peter shuts the door behind him. When he does, he hears Wade scramble to the door after a moment of silence. The door opens quickly, and Wade pokes his head out into the hallway.
“You–What the ass!? You work for The Daily Bugle!?” Wade yells. “This is some serious, multi-layered self-hatred!”