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Say My Name

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Peter was on the floor with some random bad guy’s knee crushing his larynx when Deadpool showed up. More precisely, when his two katana appeared, through the guy’s chest, and hoisted him off Peter’s throat.


Peter scowled reflexively, being sure to squint his eyes for maximum impact through the mask.


Deadpool looked delighted. “Oh Em Gee! If it isn’t lil’ Spidey!” He jerked the now limp body off his katana and onto the floor in a grim splat of blood.


Peter winced. He wondered if the guy had any family.


Deadpool sauntered to him, holding out a hand to where Peter lay sprawled on the floor.


Peter deliberately ignored the offer, choosing to flip to his feet with ease before dusting himself off.


“Deadpool.” He marched past, not even looking at the merc, before he felt a resounding slap to his ass.


As he rounded on the other man with a snarl, Deadpool already had his hands up.


“You missed a spot.” He pointed unhelpfully at Peter’s behind, smirk filtering through his voice. “Just helping out a Buddy.”


Peter huffed, shaking his head. It had been a long night. Actually, a long week. A long life.


He heard Deadpool skipping behind him, skidding slightly on the gravelled roof to stay in pace beside him. “You know it must be jelly, ‘coz jam don’t jiggle like that”, he sing-songed with a swing to his arms.


Peter sniffed, using the last dregs of willpower in his body to ignore the taller man as he knelt by the edge of the roof. He even managed to ignore the wolf whistle as he ripped his backpack off the side of the building where he had webbed it in place earlier. He unzipped his pack in search of refills for his webbing.


Deadpool threw himself down next to him, unaware of how much Peter had to resist pushing him off the building. Just because he would come back to life, doesn’t make killing him okay.


“So, Spidey, Webs, oh Love of my Life, you got any hot goss for Daddy Deadpool?”


Peter felt a muscle in his neck twitch at the nicknames, still focusing on twisting out his empties. “Cut to the chase. What do you want?”


Deadpool whined, “C’mon, Webs! Nothing!” He wiggled like a schoolgirl, looking stupid in his hulking body if you asked Peter. “Why are you so mad at me? The fuck did I do this time?”


“What do you mean? I’m fine.” Peter continued packing away the empty canisters.


Deadpool threw himself forward in an exaggerated flop, Peter jolting forward to catch him as his mass teetered near the edge, other hand still firmly on his pack.


Deadpool allowed Peter to pull him back up, looking pleased. “So you do care! Aww, Webs.”


Peter let go of him with a huff, turning back to get a refill for his shooter. “I told you, I’m not mad. I’m just… Tired.”


Deadpool hummed, swinging his feet across the empty space. “Well, I’d sure be more inclined to believe you, except you’ve been like this for over a month now.”


“Ever thought maybe it’s you I’m tired of?” Peter shot back.


Deadpool scoffed, “Unlikely. I’m a fucking delight.” He brought his hand up to squeeze his chin, body fully turned to Peter. “Hm, not mad. Can’t possibly be me.” He snapped his fingers, “The girlfriend giving you trouble?”


Peter rolled his eyes. “Don’t have a girlfriend, ‘Pool.”


“Thought you and Stark were…” Deadpool made a loop with one hand, sticking his fist through.


Peter grimaced, almost dropping the canister. “Oh my God, ‘Pool. That’s disgusting.”


“Not even a-?” He switched to a finger, tickling around the edges of the hole.


Peter shoved him away, Deadpool shooting a couple inches across the gravel.


Deadpool bounced back, settling closer than before. “Hm. So… No trouble in paradise for the Amazing Spider-Man?”


Peter sighed. “Apart from the usual criminal activity, I’d say Queens is doing pretty well.”


Wade cheered, slapping Peter on the back, causing the contents of his pack to clank together. “There’s that wit from your Grindr profile.”


Peter squinted, wracking his brain. That wasn’t on his profile, right? Wait. How would Deadpool even know that was his profile?


Deadpool continued, oblivious to Peter’s musings. “Well. It was on your cosplayer’s Grindr profile. Never underestimate my ability to identify dat ass.”


Peter nodded internally. Right. He wouldn’t know his profile from any other stranger’s.


“So does that mean your profile is-” he waved his hand at the suited man “-this.”


“Well I can show you Baby Boy!” Deadpool shuffled closed, un-wedging his phone from a tight leather pouch on his thigh. “This’ll be sure to bring back the Spidey the fangirls clicked on the fic for. Here, look”, he leant closer before suddenly cradling his phone to himself and jerking back. “You’re old enough for Grindr, right?”


Peter frowned, “I’m 32, ‘Pool.” He twisted further back to consider the other man. “Wait, you were flirting even though you weren’t sure I was legal?”


Deadpool scoffed, “I mean. I was pretty damn sure you were legal. But Grindr is a dark place when you’re still all youthful innocence.”


“You kill people in front of me. All. The. Time.”


Deadpool scoffed, “I only slightly un-alive some bad guys. Anyway, so here’s me.”


Peter leant back in. Typical headless shot but wearing skin tight clothes and the leather gloves from his Deadpool costume. He scrolled to the next picture, a shot of a bunch of toys, gags, a selection of whips. Only one more picture and it was of a figure bent over in leather pants so tight Peter was surprised he couldn’t make out the asshole. The description just said “IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH IM NOT FOR YOU.” The name just said Wade, 35. A lot less My Little Pony and body horror than he was expecting.


Peter snorted, “No way are you 35.”


Deadpool took his phone back. “Hell yeah I am.”


Peter just stared at him silently.


“Well, I mean technically I’m maybe 50- But I don’t age!”


Peter poked Deadpool in the gut. “Haha, you’re old!”


Deadpool jabbed him back. “As if you’re so young, Baby Boy. 32?”


Peter stood up, stretching backwards until his hair would have brushed the ground. “30 is the new 20, ‘Pool. But you’re just old.”


“You love that science shit, you do whatever nerds do to age shit and you’ll see I’m forever 35.”


Peter kept twisting side to side, enjoying feeling his muscles tense and release as he stated drily, “What cut you in half and count the rings?”


“If that’s what it takes! I’ll grow back eventually. I’ll even let you keep my bottom half. It’s where the party’s at anyways.”


Peter straightened up, looping his backpack over his shoulders. “I’m good, Wade.”


The other man froze a second. “Hey, say that again.”


Peter paused, looking down where the other man sat. “Say what again?”


“My name.” Deadpool cocked his head. “Sounds nice when you say it.”


Peter turned away awkwardly. “Don’t make it weird, ‘Pool.”


“But Webs!” He whinged from behind Peter, “I’ve been such a good Deadpool this year.”


Peter turned back at where the other man now lay sprawled across the ground. Peter nudged his ribs with his foot.


“If you stopped killing people, I’d be more likely to agree with you.” Although, he pondered, it was true he had seen Deadpool on the wrong side of the fight less and less.


Deadpool shot back up, looking like an excited masked puppy. “So if I cut back on un-aliving people, you’ll use my name more?”


Peter paused. It didn’t really matter to him, but if it saved some lives… But equally, they were never truly in private. Someone could always be listening.


“What about your secret identity?”


Deadpool turned back to the city with a shrug. “It’s not really a secret. Seeing as I can’t die and all. No one really cares to know.”


Peter paused as Deadpool looked out at the view laid out in front of him. He wandered over and ruffled the top of the mercenary’s mask.


“It’s a deal, Wade.”




Peter came home to an empty apartment.


He dragged off his mask, throwing it onto a pile of laundry on the floor as he flipped the light switch. Nothing happened.


He groaned, seeing if the lamp switched on. The TV. The microwave.




Fuck. They’d switched off his electric. Again.


He flopped down on his bed, defeated. He glared at the ceiling.


When it wasn’t lack of funds, it was disorganisation. And he just didn’t have the energy in him to call the energy company to see which.


Things had fallen apart quickly since MJ had left. And that was over a month ago now if his Facebook memories were anything to go by. He should just delete the damn thing.


He went to pick up his phone where he’d left it plugged in on his bedside table, but of course it was dead. He resisted the urge to throw it across the room, instead letting it clatter back on the table. At least he felt slightly more justified in not calling the energy company.


His stomach rumbled, pulling him towards his tiny kitchenette. He knew better than to open the fridge, something had been growing in there and at this point he was too afraid to ever look inside again. That was the growth’s domain now.


He banged through his few cupboards, finally finding two cans. He squinted in the poor light filtering through the window, trying to angle the labels into the thin orange glow. He hummed, shaking them. Well, one sounded like canned fruit, or unidentified liquid with chunk. The other… Pass.


He shrugged, sliding the second can back in the cupboard and fishing out his can opener.


Hmm, but he knew there had been no clean forks for about two weeks now. He tapped the top of the can absent-mindedly.


But! He’d had chinese take-out yesterday or last week or some kind of close time ago.


He nudged at the pile of trash in the corner before he heard the rustle of paper bags. He carefully felt around sticky boxes before he felt them.


He cheered, chopsticks in hand. Ah, sweet victory.


He turned on the kitchen tap, ignoring its pained juddering, to quickly rinse the sticks.


Moving back to the can, he started cranking that baby open. Or, that was the plan, but while it was making the metallic noise, it was damn stiff and it didn’t seem to be cutting anything.


He growled at the can opener, calling it a traitor as he flung it at the trash pile.


Not even wincing at the sound of his carefully constructed trash pile toppling, he gripped the edge of the tin and tapped into his super-strength to rip it open with a nasty screech.


He picked up the sticks, licking up the can juice as it leaked down his arm before shuddering.


It was ‘fruit’... It was pineapple.


”Why are you even here?” Peter hissed. The can neglected to answer.


Resigned, he stood in the middle of the floor and stabbed into the offending fruit, eating it dutifully.


He was almost done when the lights came on with a low hum.


Ah. It wasn’t his fault. A power cut.


It was then he realised two points.


One; the can had a ring pull.


Two; He’d been trying to use a garlic press as a can opener, which now lay in a twist of metal among spilled noodles and microwave containers.