Actions

Work Header

Temporary House Guest

Chapter Text

Wade hit the wall hard enough to crack both it and his ribs.

Wow.

That hurt.

He stepped out of the indent and shook off the loose chunks of caulk and brick at a lazy pace, knowing the person who’d put him there would wait. Wade wheezed as he caught his breath and leaned forward to rest his hands on his upper thighs. He shivered as his healing factor kicked in and repaired the broken rib. The pain faded into his usual constant ache as it fixed itself up.

We should have seen that coming.

Wade shoved his swords back into their holsters and cracked his neck back and forth.

Time to get serious, huh?

We can handle that.

“You are not touching him,” Spider-Man said. He stood between Wade and his target with his hands up—still ready and raring to fight. A sliver of blood seeped through the thin rip in the fabric of his costume from where Wade’s swords had sliced him. The wound had healed enough to stop the blood flow but it still looked raw and painful. “Leave now, Deadpool.”

Change of plans.

Can we do that?

Our plans always involve killing anyone in the way of us killing our target.

Right. And Spider-Man’s the exception. We can’t kill him.

Which means…

“Change of plans,” Wade said under his breath. He pulled out his gun and pointed it at Spider-Man. I can shoot him without killing him. The hero stayed stubbornly in front of the wounded Norman Osborn with no fear of Wade’s bullets. “How good is your healing factor again? I’m debating a shot to the kneecap or the ribs since it’s very clear you’re not going to move.”

For some reason.

He’s a hero. It’s what they do—even for the bad guys.

Wade wouldn’t even ask why Spidey was defending the literal human monster behind him.

It’s what heroes like Spider-Man do.

But Wade had a job, too.

“I want to take you down and keep you down but not permanently, you know?” Wade continued when his thoughts returned to him. “I get the hero thing, I do. But I was paid in advance and I’m a man of my own word so, uh, Osborn’s got to go.”

“Then send the client a refund,” Spider-Man said. He remained unflinching—stubborn as a mule but with a way better ass to his name. “Because you are not killing him.”

“I’m not a refund sort of guy. It would destroy my credibility,” Wade said. He put his finger on the trigger and steadied his breath. Spidey can dodge bullets. We have to watch that. “So since I need to move you manually, I’d really like an answer to that earlier question about how good that healing factor of yours really is. Pretty please?”

“You figure it out,” Spider-Man said. Osborn moved behind him and the hero glanced at him before returning his focus to Wade. Spider-Man tensed and shifted his feet. The division of his attention was going to be his downfall, but he stayed in place. Spider-Man’s fist tightened. “Walk away, Wade.”

Oh, he pulled out the given name.

Spidey means business, too.

“We’ll start with the knees then,” Wade lied. He aimed the first shot toward the leg but changed direction fast enough to nick a rib when Spider-Man twisted in midair to dodge. He is so cool. Wade ran forward and kept firing. He sent a few stray shots toward Osborn but Spider-Man used his web to grab the man and yank him out of the way. “That’s cheating, Webs!”

“Are there rules?” Spider-Man called back. He dropped to miss the next bullet and stopped the following shot toward Osborn with yet another annoying web. “I was pretty sure this was a free-for-all.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

Spider-Man’s next web hit Wade’s gun, but he twisted it to the side fast enough to keep the barrel from getting clogged. He grabbed the webbing and yanked hard enough to pull the spider across the room and straight into Wade’s waiting boot. He kicked the bleeding slash and reopened the wound with a fresh gush of blood. Wade saw the twist of the man’s face beneath his mask from the pain, but it didn’t keep the hero down.

Here comes the punch.

Dodge. Fire.

Deadpool followed through and avoided Spider-Man’s fist before he shot again. The hero escaped with another scrape to his collection as he dropped his head and body back like he was in a life-or-death version of limbo.

Behind him, the rat Osborn had gotten to his feet and made a run for the door and Wade wasn’t the only one to notice. Spider-Man made sure to stay between Wade and the running man, backing up so he could dive into the next shot.

Time to up the playing field.

Wade fired rapidly and randomly, emptying the clip in the general direction of Spider-Man and Osborn.

Spider-Man—as Wade predicted he would—dove in front of at least one shot headed toward Osborn and took a direct hit to the stomach. The man went down but had no intention to stay down. He was halfway to his feet when Wade went for round two of his attack and pulled the explosive out of his bag. He watched Spider-Man’s head whip up with the motion but the bullet wound kept him from getting up fast enough to stop it.

The compact explosive sailed over the hero’s head, landing between Spider-Man and Osborn with a contrastingly large boom.

The explosion took out the entire floor and target alike.

Spider-Man shivered from his place covered in rubble near the mutilated body of the target draped over the hole in the destroyed doorway. Wade shook out his own joints, popping each one as his healing factor went to work once more. Always in motion. Always keeping us together. Poor Spider-Man didn’t have the same luxury. His costume had been shredded badly enough to reveal his open wounds. He’d shoved his mask halfway up his face to breathe with wet breaths.

Blood pooled under him, the hero swayed, but he managed to sit up.

His eyes were locked on Osborn.

“Dammit,” Spider-Man shouted, smacking his already bleeding hand into the floor. Wade heard the crack from across the room and hopped over on one foot while the other snapped back into place. Spider-Man dropped his head, his breath heavy. “Shit.”

Language.

He seems more upset than usual.

“You didn’t actually like that walking scum, did you?” Wade asked, motioning his hand toward the body. “This feels like way too much self hatred for the usual ‘I failed to save the bad guy from the mercenary’ sort of thing.”

Wade had seen that many times.

The hero failed to save the bad guy.

They put on a front of feeling bad.

They got over it.

Most heroes were just like Wade under the surface of their shiny images and adorable speeches. They wanted to see scum wiped off the face of the planet as badly as he did but had images to maintain.

Spider-Man dropped his head lower and bit his lip. His arm shook in frustrated rage and no quip escaped to lighten the mood.

The hero was wrecked.

He actually cared.

Always knew he was one of the different ones.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Wade said. He walked over to Osborn’s corpse and searched his memory for the proof of kill he needed. Photo was fine. Send it in a text. Wade pulled out his phone and snapped a pic of Osborn’s one open eye and the half of his face missing from the blast. Spider-Man made a disgusted whine behind him. Wade heard the shift of rubble as the hero continued to claw his way forward toward the dead body. “I won’t ask why you care, though. I don’t think I want to know.”

Wade sent the pic and received a confirmation of acceptance from the client a few seconds later.

Someone was waiting by the phone.

That someone really wanted Osborn dead.

The client promised Wade a tip and he chuckled as he dropped the body. He really really wanted that guy dead. There was nothing better than a satisfied custo—

A thump sounded behind Wade.

He turned over his shoulder and saw Spider-Man sprawled on his side, one leg bent awkwardly under him from where he’d fallen a few feet from where he’d landed after the explosion.

“Spider-Man?” Wade put his phone away and strode closer to the unconscious hero. With the hero’s back exposed, Wade could see where a sharp piece of metal had pierced his side. Symbolic. Between the gunshot and the metal, the poor guy was losing a lot of blood. Spider-Man and his shallow breaths were still wet with it. “I guess that answers the healing factor question.”

Wade himself had already healed after that nasty blast.

It’d been closer to him than us.

I know that.

Wade knelt next to the still hero. He pulled off a glove and pressed his fingers into the exposed neck from the rip in his costume. Wade found a steady pulse, but it was weak enough to be concerning.

What are our bets for a bad guy getting to him before an ambulance?

Bad bet. We already have our fingers on the guy’s neck.

The pulse remained soft and slow. Spidey wasn’t dying yet, but Wade figured Spider-Man wasn’t getting up on his own any time soon.

We could just leave. He’ll be fine.

Wade kept his fingers on Spider-Man’s throat.

He felt the pulse.

We do need to leave.

The big explosion did the job but it also attracted attention.

Sirens were in the distance and the building alarms came into focus after he stopped blocking them out. Deadpool kept his fingers on Spider-Man’s neck and bit his lip under the mask.

He really did need to leave.

Spider-Man would be found by the authorities.

With a dead Norman Osborn.

In a city that runs “Spider-Man is a Menace!” news articles every other day.

They’d eat “Spider-Man kills Norman Osborn” up in a heartbeat.

Which is ten times worse when you remember he really, really didn’t want that guy to die.

“Shit.”

They also will find out his identity either way if they don’t arrest him.

“I get it,” Wade said. He pried his fingers away from the soft skin and crawled over the unconscious hero to put his boot on the end of the metal bar in the Spider-Man’s side. He used his full weight to snap the bar in half while making sure the part imbedded in the hero’s side stayed to keep the blood partway blocked. “I get it.”

He used a ripped piece of Spider-Man’s costume to secure the bar in place so it wouldn’t shift and lifted the man into his arms.

The alarms continued to blare in his ears as he hopped over Osborn through the hole in the wall and made his escape.


No apology would be enough.

The devastated look on Harry’s face would haunt Peter’s nightmares for years to come. His best friend’s knees hit the ground and he wailed, feeling the same grief deep in his chest that Peter had felt when Uncle Ben had been shot.

Peter’s eyes welled with tears of his own.

Norman Osborn hadn’t been a kind man.

He could even be an ass at times.

But he’d been loved.

“Harry,” Peter said. He stood in front of his friend, his mask in his hand and he fell to his knees before his best friend. I tried to save him. I couldn’t stop him. I wanted. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Peter’s mouth wouldn’t say what he wanted. He helplessly repeated the one word he could choke out: “Harry.”

“You did this,” Harry said. He looked up with furious, angry eyes that belonged to Norman Osborn. Harry shouted, “You killed him!”

Harry dove forward his hands meeting Peter’s throat.

“Up you go.”

Deadpool’s voice woke Peter with a start. The man’s large hand pressed on his shoulder, keeping him from jumping too high.

The mercenary spoke with a soft voice. “It was just a nightmare, Spidey.”

Peter turned his head to face the man. His mask itched where the fabric had been singed, but he could still feel it over his eyes and upper face. His protected identity was a welcome blessing, though Peter still felt uneasy as Deadpool sat on the side of the bed where he’d been tucked under the covers.

And everything hurt.

“It’s good to see you up. I was starting to get worried for a second there, Webs. On that note, I got the answer to my question by the way,” Deadpool said. He reached down and checked Peter’s pulse. His bumpy skin scraped against Peter’s and the mercenary hummed with an amused laugh under his breath. “Your healing factor is absolute shit.”

“Where are we?” Peter asked.  They were in a plain room with floral decor on the curtains and lampshades, but that didn’t tell him much. Peter had a good guess of where they could be, but he wanted Deadpool to confirm it. “Is this a hotel?”

“Nope! But you can expect excellent service from yours truly while you’re staying in my guest room,” Deadpool answered. “It’s normally for Al when I let her hang out here in my New York place, but I don’t think she’ll mind if you use it.”

“Al?”

“I’ll answer that if you ever meet her,” Deadpool said. He pulled his hand away and shoved it back into his glove. The man hopped up off the bed and brushed his hands against his costume. “In the meantime, how are you feeling? I bandaged you up but you’re still in rough shape.”

“Why am I here, Deadpool?” Peter asked. He tried to move his arm or sit up, but he felt too heavy to move. His energy had been zapped from him and Peter felt himself lucky he could find the strength to talk. “What’s the point of bringing me here?”

“I like you,” Deadpool said, shrugging hard enough to rattle the swords on his back. “If I left you at Osborn’s place, you’d probably have died. Still might, honestly. You bled a lot and I wouldn’t recommend moving too much.”

Peter could feel the truth in that statement through his lethargic body and the pain he felt with every breath.

“Go back to sleep,” Wade said, his voice almost a command. “I’ll wake you up if the nightmares come back.”

“I need to go home,” Peter said. He needed to see how Harry was doing. Peter had to call his Aunt May. He needed to tell MJ he was alright. Peter squeezed his eyes shut and steadied his breath. “I can’t stay here, Wade.”

“That’s the blood loss talking. We both know you can totally stay here for as long as I want you to,” Deadpool said. He reached over and pulled the blankets higher to Peter’s neck and tucked it under his shoulders. “Go back to sleep.”

Peter shivered from the repeated command.

There had been less kindness and more of a threat the second time around.

He shut his eyes and obeyed. Wade had the upper hand and Peter would need his strength if he wanted to get away later when the mercenary wasn’t looking.

“Good,” Deadpool said. He patted Peter on the head twice before he walked away from the bed. Peter heard the scrap of a chair across the carpet and felt the heavy thump that shook the floor when Deadpool dropped into it next to the bed. As Peter faded into another exhausted sleep, he heard Deadpool whisper, “I’ll make sure you keep breathing, so don’t worry.”

Peter met Harry again in his dreams, but this time Deadpool kept Harry and Peter separated as he sat between them.

Chapter Text

Peter had been with Deadpool for two days and still couldn’t stand on his own without falling over in pain.

Either his healing factor was on the fritz or he’d been hurt far worse than he’d realized in that explosion. Most of the injuries he’d sustained during his hero career were cured with a good night’s sleep and a few sore days, but he was still stuck in bed with a shockingly gentle caretaker.

“Easy,” Deadpool said, bracing Peter by the back as he helped him sit up. He gritted his teeth together as his mending insides stretched and bent. His skin crawled with every touch but Peter didn’t fight Deadpool while there was a real chance he could rip open the delicate stitches holding him together in a struggle. “That’s it. A quick bandage change and you can go back to sleep.”

Peter didn’t answer and kept his eyes on Deadpool’s hands. He watched the gloved fingers undo the bandages and reveal the wet, stitched wound on his stomach from where the bullet had entered. Peter exhaled slowly when he saw the wound and the clear signs of repair.

His healing factor was working—which meant if Peter had been a normal human he’d have been dead twice over with a wound like that.

“Sorry about that,” Deadpool said, gently poking the stomach wound. The man laughed and held his hand up, making a gun shape out of his fingers. He made a fake shot toward the wall. “I knew your hero instincts would make you jump in front of that bullet and shot anyway.”

Peter bit back his response. He’d take another five bullets if it kept Harry’s dad alive. Deadpool sensed his bad mood and went back to changing the bandages with a steady hand.

“At this rate, you’ll be back on your feet in a few more days and back out swinging in that city you love,” Deadpool said. He finished securing the last of the loose, clean bandages around Peter’s waist and ribs and pulled the blanket up to his waist. “Do you want to go back to sleep or sit up for a bit?”

“Up,” Peter said. He reached over with a shaking hand and grabbed a pillow, shoving it behind his own back with minimal pain. Peter wasn’t going to chat with Deadpool, but it’d be foolish to avoid answering basic care needs. “What time is it?”

“A little after five,” Deadpool said. He walked into the adjoined bathroom and washed his gloves in the sink. “Do you want dinner now or later?”

“I want a phone,” Peter said. He covered his face and put his hands under the mask to rub his eyes. The half mask needed washed but he couldn’t find the time. Deadpool had taken to hovering and barely left Peter’s side in his two days of confinement. “I do have friends who can pick me up and they don’t have to do it here. You can drop me off anywhere.”

“No can do,” Deadpool said. He returned to Peter’s bedside and patted him on the head. “My job, my gun, and my shot means it’s my responsibility to nurse you back into good health.”

“I want to go home,” Peter repeated. He motioned his hand down his bare chest and bandages in a sweeping motion. “I’m well enough to move so there’s no reason to stay here with you.”

“You’re still angry,” Deadpool said. He walked around and sat on the other side of the bed. He reached over and patted Peter’s leg through the blanket. “But you are in no shape to go anywhere and I don’t trust anyone else to treat you right in the mask. I said I’ll take responsibility and I’m going to do it.”

“The Fantastic Four and Avengers respect my identity and have better medical care,” Peter tried again. He felt the anger bubble in his chest and risked Deadpool’s temper to speak his mind. “And they aren’t murderers who kill people as easy as taking a walk.”

“I’ll give you a point for the second, but your argument is void from the first,” Deadpool said. He put his hand on his chest and tilted his head to the side. “My field training is not only top notch, but we both know they’re going to let your healing factor do most of the work. Whether you sit in my guest room or some lab, it’s all the same: sitting.”

“I see you ignored the part about finding your company repulsive.”

“I always do,” Deadpool said. He sat up against the bare headrest while the spare pillow sat behind Peter’s back. He crossed his arm on his chest and crossed his legs at the ankles. “Either way, this is my house and I make the rules. You’re not leaving until Dr. Deadpool gives you a clean bill of health.”

As soon as Peter found where Deadpool hid his web shooters and had the strength to punch him out, that would change.

“I can feel the glare of death through the mask and can almost hear your mental plotting,” Deadpool said. He turned toward Peter and motioned his hand toward his face. “And I can see it on those angry lips. You’re cute when you’re scary, you know that?”

“Deadpool,” Peter said. He reached over to grab the man’s uniform and twisted, dragging him closer. “You are going to give me a phone and I’m going to leave.”

“No, you’re not,” Deadpool said. He leaned over and pressed his fingers into the bandages under the blankets. Peter gasped and doubled over holding his gut at the wave of pain that raced through him from so little a touch. “You’re in no shape to get up and walk around. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of you and I enjoy your company. You’re staying.”

Peter bit his lip and curled in on himself. He breathed through his open mouth—how could a bullet wound still hurt so badly?

“Let’s watch some TV.” Deadpool opened a side table drawer and fished out a remote. “That’ll get your mind off the pain until dinner.”

Peter bit his lip and dug his fingers into his bandages as he steadied his breathing.

Ignoring Peter’s aching insides, Deadpool turned on the television mounted on the wall in front of the bed and flipped through channels. “Tell me when you see something you want to watch.”

He looked away from the television and refused to humor Deadpool. He wasn’t going to pretend to be his friend or play house. The man had killed Norman Osborn and he would be held accountable for it as soon as Peter escaped.

Just as soon as he could move without doubling over.

“It figures when I want TV to distract us there’s nothing good on,” Deadpool said. He flipped through three more channels before he stopped on a news station reporting on Norman Osborn’s murder. “We definitely don’t need to watch that.”

Harry Osborn walked onto screen as Deadpool lifted the remote.


“Don’t change the channel,” Spidey demanded, slamming his hand over Wade’s to stop him from hitting the remote. “Leave it here.”

Demanding, isn’t he?

It’s part of his charm.

I like it when he yells at us.

It’s been too long since we met someone who wasn’t scared of us.

For now.

“You really want to watch this?” Wade asked, nodding back at he screen. “We already know what happened to Osborn. You kinda lived it.”

Spidey let go of his arm and grabbed the blankets. “Be quiet.”

Wade snapped his mouth shut.

While he contemplated what could be so important about a news broadcast, the hero stared at the screen. If he leans farther any more he’ll rip his stitches open. Spider-Man breathed harder as he shifted to get a better look at the television, enraptured by the oh-so-entertaining content of a news show. Wade glanced at the TV again to pinpoint what exactly had caught Spidey’s attention—There was no way it was just the Osborn article—Or maybe it was about Osborn.

The mini one, anyway.

Harry Osborn: The offspring of his target.

Who had Spidey’s undivided attention.

“As many of you know,” Harry said, standing at a podium surrounded by reporters. “My father was killed two days ago leaving me in charge of Oscorp. I have my suspicions about who took my father’s life, and believe me, he will be found and brought to justice.”

Wade snorted and earned a smack from Spidey, though the arachnid didn’t look away from the screen.

“However, that is not the only crime of which this villain is guilty,” the mini Osborn said. He licked his lip and gripped the stands of the podium. “At the same time of my father’s death, my best friend Peter Parker went missing.”

Peter Parker?

Takes pictures of Spidey for the Bugle.

Wade snapped his finger next to him at the recollection. He remembered Parker! He looked the man up after seeing his name on the credit line for every single Spider-Man pic he cut out of the Bugle for his scrapbooks.

How can someone who works with Spidey keep company with scum like Osborn?

How could Spider-Man fight so fiercely to protect Norman Osborn?

“I do not believe it is a coincidence that my best friend went missing at the same time my father was murdered,” mini Osborn said. The man gripped the podium again and shifted his hands, barely containing his rage. “Or that he is known friends with Spider-Man, the last person spotted going into Oscorp on the day my father died.”

Oh no.

“I don’t know what you want from me and my family, Spider-Man, but you will return Peter to me alive or so help me,” Harry said into the microphone, snarling in a familiar way. The family resemblance is strong in that one. Mini Osborn smacked the podium. “I will stop at nothing to bring you to justice for both the murder of my father and for whatever you’ve done to Peter.”

Deadpool should have turned off the TV.

Didn’t we kidnap Spidey from the scene to prevent this?

“Harry,” Spider-Man whispered, his shoulders dropping. He fell back into the cushions and covered his face. “As if he didn’t hate me enough already.”

Why does Spidey care what mini Osborn thinks?

It’s not like he’s the one who’s friends with the—

Deadpool cut the thought off and tossed the remote on the bed toward Spider-Man. “I’m getting dinner. Enjoy watching people hate you if you want, but I recommend changing the channel.”

Spidey groaned and sunk into the bed, slumping under the covers and shoving the pillow behind him further up. He reached for the remote and turned off the television before tossing it on the side table.

The hero covered his face with both arms in a huff.

Being best friends with the mini Osborn would explain why he was so upset about daddy Osborn being our target.

It would.

Deadpool kept the bedroom door open and kept one eye on Webs as he went into his kitchen and pulled out a few pans to make a quick dinner.

And Peter Parker does take an awfully lot of good shots of Spider-Man.

Like he always knows where the guy is going to be.

He did.

Parker’s been missing for the same amount of time as Spider-Man.

“I get it!” Deadpool yelled. Spidey jumped in the other room before he jerked and rolled over. Deadpool winced and set the pan on the stove. He’d have to apologize later for startling the man when he was already in so much pain. Deadpool lowered his voice and shook his head. “I get it. There is a good chance we know who Spider-Man is now.”

Peter Parker.

“But I can’t know for sure unless I take his mask from him and check.”

Which would be a low blow for us.

Even worse than murdering Osborn in front of him.

He knew the risks of that! Spidey has no one to blame but himself for that!

Wade filled the pan with a light layer of oil and turned on the burner. He grabbed some vegetables and meat to fry and set them next to the stove.

Did anything change if he knew Spider-Man was Peter Parker?

Not really. We’re still keeping him here to make sure he doesn’t die.

It mostly proves that he has shit friends.

To go with his shit healing factor!

Wade dumped the finished meal onto a plate and grabbed some silverware. He carried it back into the other room and sat next to the bed in his chair. Spider-Man had slumped over on his side, holding himself and curled in.

“You need to eat something, buddy,” Wade said. “You can’t use that healing factor of yours without some energy to power it.”

“I’ll eat later,” Webs mumbled. He pulled the blanket over his head and huddled into a small ball under the covers. “Go away and let me sulk.”

Wade set the plate on the side table. “Don’t sulk too long or it’ll get cold.”

He left Spidey to eat alone in peace and returned to the couch. Wade pulled over his laptop and pulled up his favorite intel gathering program with a few clicks.

Peter Parker.

Wade wanted to know just how many people other than Osborn might be missing Spidey.

If it was only mini Osborn…all the more reason to keep him.

Chapter Text

“Okay, Webs I’ve got a scenario for you,” Wade said. He grabbed the chair next to the bed and flipped it around so he could face the back. Because that’ll make us look cooler. Wade crossed his arms over the back and waited for Spidey to sit up enough to look at him. “I wanted to pick your brain.”

Since it involves him.

Spidey didn’t answer, continuing to give Wade the cold shoulder. He figured out early that it hurt Wade’s feelings when Spidey didn’t talk to him and he had been correct in that assumption. As one of the few people who had a mouth as smart as Wade’s, Spidey always provided amazing conversation. But the spider that gave could also take away.

Anger did that to a person.

We can feel the glaring through the mask.

Man, I can’t wait to get that thing off.

Glaring in real time! So much more effective.

Though the mask is pretty good at glaring, too.

“Great! Glad you’re up for it,” Wade continued. He wouldn’t be the man he was if he didn’t have the amazing ability to keep talking in any situation. Like Spider-Man, but less likable. Wade tapped his finger against the wood of the chair. “So here’s the scenario: Let’s say that someone figured out who you were under that mask through a convenient context clue and an overnight research party.”

Wade suffered a moment of doubt when that sentence did not garner a response out of the spider-themed hero. Spidey didn’t give so much of a change of breath or twitch to give himself away.

But Wade was right.

Spidey was good.

Impressive.

Spidey just keeps being amazing!

“In that situation, would you rather have that person keep it to themselves and pretend like they didn’t know and act surprised when it eventually comes out later, or would you want them to come clean and tell you,” Wade said. Webs narrowed his head just enough to look threatening. Not confirmation. But close. “Both situations have their merit and I wanted to know your input.”

He’s still not talking.

We noticed.

“I mean, it’s clear which scenario I think is better,” Wade said, filling the silence that came from Spidey’s stony stare. “Or I wouldn’t be telling you this. Because this is me confessing that I know.”

“That you know what?” Spidey asked. His voice gave nothing away and had that hint of frustration Wade had come to associate with any time a person’s patience wore thin when interacting with him. “Because I’d rather you just tell me, too.”

“I thought so!” Wade said, shouting. He smacked the back of the chair with a laugh. “You’re the honest type.”

Spidey’s shoulders slumped.

He’s accepted that we figured it out.

And we haven’t said anything definitive yet!

“All this comes down to is I’m ninety-five percent certain that you’re Peter Parker,” Wade said. Spidey remained relaxed and even—still not giving himself away. He’s good at keeping his cool. Or resigned to the fact he was caught. “And the only reason it’s not one hundred percent is because I’m not throwing out the five percent chance that you’re a clone.”

“And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“Osborn,” Wade said. He shrugged. “Both of them. You care way too much about the two of them to not know them and Peter Parker’s been missing the same amount of time you have. Unlike that moron of a friend of yours, I know Spider-Man didn’t kidnap a guy, so it all lines up nice and neat.”

Plus, kidnapping is a thing we’d do, not him.

Why do people keep mistaking us for Spider-Man again?

“After that, it was simple research,” Wade said. “I confirmed things for myself without even going into my real sources for information like I would for a real job.”

We probably shouldn’t tell him any details though.

He’ll feel bad about how sloppy he was at covering his tracks.

Spidey tilted his head back and surprised Wade with his next question. “Where’d you get the clone theory from?”

The comics.

“Wild guess,” Wade said. He crossed his arms on the chair back and put his head in it. He poked Spider-Man in the side of the head, right next to the dark outline of his mask’s eyes. “So are you Peter Parker or a clone? I know it’s one of the two.”

“Do you?”

“Spider-Man,” Wade said. He waved his hand from his head down to his chest, indicating himself. “Who am I?”

“Deadpool.”

Answer enough.

Spidey reached up and tugged off his mask, revealing hazel eyes and a line that separated the dirt that got trapped under the fabric where Wade hadn’t dared to tread when he cleaned the man up with a washrag.

He’s pretty average looking, isn’t he?

Very boy next door.

“You looked better in glasses,” Wade said. He held his hands up in two circles and positioned them so they looked like a pair of glasses on Spidey’s face as he looked through them. “They worked for you.”

“They were expensive and I didn’t need them anymore,” Spidey said. He slumped into the cushions and crossed his arms over his chest. He’s breathing easier. The healing factor decided to get to work. “Who knew spider powers came with perfect vision?”

“You have to love bonus benefits.” Wade laughed threw his arms out and stretched, arcing his spine back. He dropped his arms back down and hung over the back of the chair. “Thanks for confirming, though. It was going to itch in the back of my head until I knew for sure.”

“Glad to help,” Spidey said. He rubbed his face, scraping off a few pieces of dirt that had been closer to his hairline. Poor guy hadn’t taken that thing off once. Webs had to be scared Wade would walk in on him. “Do you want my high school grades while you’re at it since you looked up my old photos?”

“I’ve already got that,” Wade said. That was the easy stuff to get. It had been way more difficult to get his hands on Spidey’s work schedule and cross reference it with his hero work and which cases would make sense for Peter Parker to stumble across and which weren’t. Wade drummed a small beat on the back of the chair. “But since you showed me yours, I’ll show you mine.”


Deadpool ripped off his mask and held it in his hand. His face stretched into a sly smile, tugging at the chunks of missing skin and scars. “You’ve seen my mug before, so it’s hardly a surprise, but it feels like more even ground. No costume for you, no costume for me.”

With that, the man got up from the chair and picked it up and flipped it back into place next to the bed. He stretched his arms out one at a time across his chest and yawned wide as he walked over to a drawer.

“I hope you don’t mind if I change real fast,” Deadpool said. He yanked a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie out of a drawer and threw them on his dresser. “Believe it or not, I don’t wear my uniform all the time at home, either. But you know how it goes. You were in a mask, so I should be in a mask.”

“Makes sense,” Peter said. “Only polite, right?”

Deadpool snickered and peeled off the upper half of his costume, revealing muscles larger than Peter’s head. His leather costume deceived most people, hiding his muscle tone behind the smooth lines. Without it, the muscle definition was visible to all who wanted to see it.

The scars and pocks in his skin turned Peter’s stomach in pity. There was a rawness to them and a wet sheen among it that gave it a sense that his wounds were constantly open and weeping.

Deadpool turned toward Peter, stretching a red patch that looked like exposed tissue. Peter covered his own sore stomach that had caused him nothing but pain every time he moved for the past two days. “Does your skin hurt?”

“All the time,” Deadpool said. He hid his chest behind a loose hoodie and grabbed undid his belt. The large hoodie protected his privacy as he swapped his pants out for the sweats. “But you don’t need to worry about it. I’ve lived with it for years and it’s not going anywhere.”

Peter thought of Aunt May.

In her old age, she’d developed her own chronic aches and pains that she brushed aside and told Peter “Not to worry about it.”

But he’d seen her small winces and moments where she’d rest against a counter with both hands as she caught her breath.

Deadpool hid his pain better.

The man walked with the grace and confidence of a cocky young man with no hint of the pain that he admitted plagued him.

“I appreciate that you care though, baby boy. It’s been a long time since anyone asked,” Deadpool said. He ruffled Peter’s hair with his hand and a laugh. “How about I make pancakes for breakfast to say thank you?”

“You’ve made pancakes the past two mornings,” Peter said. They were delicious and better than Aunt May could make. Every bite stirred a wave of guilt as he enjoyed them and mentally apologized to his aunt. “How about we try french toast this time around?”

Deadpool smacked the doorway as he walked out. “I think I can manage that, but they won’t taste as good as a sweet, sweet tall stack of buttery, thick pancakes.”

“Once I drown them in syrup, it’ll all taste the same.”

“That statement is untrue, but I’ll let you keep your delusions.”

Deadpool disappeared around the corner into the kitchen and hummed as he pulled out his pans. Peter watched through the doorway as Deadpool dug out a cast-iron pan and dropped it on the stove.

Peter wiped off his face and felt the grit of the dirt that had been trapped under his mask. He steadied himself and pushed back the covers, setting his feet on the ground. Peter touched the bandages around his gut and took a breath. He used the side table to pull himself to a feet and stood upright.

It hurt enough that he wouldn’t be attempting to fight anyone, but he could manage a walk to the bathroom to clean his face.

“The towels in the basket are clean,” Deadpool called from the kitchen. “Help yourself to my shampoo and soap.”

Peter closed the bathroom door behind him and took a shower.

By the time he was clean, his body was sore but he felt better having washed away the dirt and grime of the explosion from the places Deadpool hadn’t reached when he’d mopped up Peter’s sweat while he was asleep.

Deadpool helped him into the kitchen to sit him at the table.

Peter used the short time he had to look around the rest of the house for possible escape routes. Deadpool noticed, of course, and told him stories of the traps he had set up to keep his friend Al in the building when he wasn’t around. Every trap story sounded worse than the first and chipped away at Peter’s confidence that he could get out.

He ate while Deadpool talked, making sure to take seconds and thirds to give his healing factor a boost of energy and get him back to full health as fast as possible.

The french toast tasted delicious.

Chapter Text

After six days of confinement to Deadpool’s guest room with the occasional trip to the kitchen for meals, Peter was well enough to walk on his feet with only a sore ache in his gut to hinder him. 

He made it to the kitchen using his own power and no assistance on that seventh morning and eased himself into the seat that had become his over the week. Peter ate his fill of pancakes with butter and syrup as he contemplated his escape. The extra calories ensured he’d have enough strength for whatever plan he decided to put into action.

Out of all the scenarios he imagined, a simple run for it might be his best bet.

It was the least thought out and therefore the last thing Deadpool would expect from him.

Peter watched the door as he finished off his second helping. He should make a run for it while—

“You’ve finally got the color back in your face, Spidey,” Deadpool said, dropping another large stack of pancakes on the table with a loud clatter as the plate hit the wood. They spilled over onto the table cloth and he hummed under his breath as he sat down and ignored the mess. “And you’re walking without a limp.”

Peter grunted around another forkful of pancakes.

“On a scale of ‘I want to milk good old Wade’s bedside service for another week’ to ‘I could take on the Sinister Six’ where would you say your pain is at?” Deadpool asked. He went back into the kitchen and made up batter for another batch. “I need to know how much food I need to pick up at the store this afternoon when I go restock the old pantry.”

“I don’t know about fighting the entire Sinister Six, but I could probably punch Shocker on my way home,” Peter said, drenching his next pancake in syrup. “Maybe Doc Oc if he’s having a bad day.”

Deadpool snorted over his pan and grinned, once more stretching his scarred skin. He licked his dry lips and hummed as he poured the batter into the pan. Peter sliced the next gooey pancake into squares and kept eating, not sure what else to do. 

“I suspected that’d be your answer,” Deadpool said. He dumped the latest finished pancakes onto a plate and scrounged through his cabinets until he found few old takeout containers. “I’ll pack the rest of these up for you to go. That way you’ll being thinking of me when you enjoy your breakfast at lunchtime.”

“To go?” Peter asked around his next bite.

“Yeah, because you’re leaving?” Deadpool shoved the gooey food into the take out container and dragged it to the kitchen table to collect what was leftover on the plate. “I’m not going to complain if you want to hang around, but you’ve seemed pretty keen on leaving the second you were able enough.”

“Yes,” Peter said. He finished off his plate and leaned back in his seat while Deadpool whistled and finished putting the leftovers into a bag. Between the stories of kidnapping Al and watching Peter like a hawk, he had not expected the mercenary to let Peter go anytime soon. He was pleasantly surprised, but it didn’t earn the man forgiveness for what he did to Norman Osborn. “You know I’m going to report you for killing Norman Osborn, right?”

“Sure,” Deadpool said, leaning back. He shrugged and gave Peter a fond glance that communicated his amusement. “Go right ahead.”

Peter slid his foot back along the floor and grabbed the front of his chair seat.

It was too easy.

“What’ll it hurt? It clears your name and we’re all good,” Deadpool sat across from Peter and crossed his arms over the packed takeout bag. “I’m literally one of the only people on the planet who can get away with murder—most of the time—so it’s better they know it was me anyway.”

Peter tilted his head down at the table. Deadpool was a famous mercenary, it was true. He didn’t hide his identity or deny any of his crimes. The man was blatant and blasé about the jobs under his belt in a way most super villains wouldn’t dare to be.

Deadpool didn’t hide anything about what he did for a living at all.

Maybe he was right.

“Now you get it,” Deadpool said, tapping his own head with one finger. “I’m as untouchable as I am unkillable: 

“No cop is ever going to come within ten miles of my place because they know anyone who tries is a dead man. The Avengers want me as far away from them as possible so they’re never going to hunt me down and Logan doesn’t care about my jobs as long as they don’t involve his mutant buddies.”

The mercenary leaned back in his seat and averted his eyes to the table as Peter looked up. He reached up and wiped at the corner of his lip with his thumb. “I’m good at taking the blame, so don’t worry your little head about it.”

Peter gripped the chair seat harder.

The wood cracked.

“Now get out of here before I change my mind and decide you’re still looking too weak to be out of bed.” Deadpool stood and shoved the bag of wrapped pancakes into his arm as he pulled Peter out of the chair. “Your stuff’s in the bag by the door, Webs.”

Deadpool pushed Peter forward toward the door and walked behind him, stopping only to pick up a small bag near the door and add it to his stack of packaged pancakes.

“Don’t jump in front of anyone’s bullets but mine!” Deadpool shouted. “Rest up and I’ll see you later Spidey!”

He shoved Peter out of the door and closed it behind him.

Peter stumbled on the porch step, nearly tripping over the borrowed sweats that were too big. He set the food on the ground and unzipped the bag. His Spider-Man costume—or what was left of it after it’d been cut off—had been shoved into the bottom with his mask and a few painkillers and bandages with a “Just in case!” note attached to the top.

He memorized Deadpool’s house number and took note of the street as he turned away from the small home and walked down the sidewalk. He caught the rustle of a curtain in the window and a flash of red out of the corner of his eye as Deadpool watched Peter leave.

The next house down had another spying neighbor shaking their head as they looked between Peter and their mercenary next door.

Every step created a small ache in his stomach where the worst of his wounds healed. Peter found a bus stop at the end of the street and sat on the bench. He looked at the posted schedule and plotted his route.

He needed to go home and change his clothes.

He needed to report to the police that he was no longer missing.

And maybe at some point Peter could come up with a good cover story for where he’d been that didn’t involve Spider-Man.

But instead, Peter got on the bus that would get him closest to Harry’s place.


He looked surprised we let him leave.

“Can’t blame him,” Wade said, closing his curtain. Spidey had taken roost at the bus stop, waiting for his pick up back home. “We went a little overboard sharing about Al.”

It put ideas in his head.

He thought we wouldn’t let him leave!

He looked ready to fight us there.

I bet he’d rip open all his wounds trying, too.

He wanted to get away from us that—

“I get it,” Wade said. He cleaned up his plates from the table and dumped them in the sink. He smiled at the crack in his chair where Spidey had sat and picked it up, dragging it toward the garage. He set it next to his work bench to sand out later and went back into the house. “I get it. Spidey hated us before we killed his bestie’s dad. No amount of nursing him back to health or playing house is going to fix that.”

You think it would have helped if we told him Osborn was a monster?

Doubt it.

“He doesn’t care about Osborn. He cares about Osborn’s brat son.” Wade kicked his garage door shut and went into the guest room. He ripped the blankets and sheets away from the bed and inspected the blood stains from what seeped through Spidey’s bandages. He bundled them up and threw them in a hamper, leaving the bed clean to be made later. “The mini Osborn isn’t going to care if his dad was a saint or a devil—dead is dead to a kid.”

Better off though.

No one needs shit dads like that.

“Amen.”

Wade stood in the doorway and stared out over his small living room and kitchen. The quiet guest room made no noise behind him. No more soft breathing. No tiny grunts as his guest shifted to get comfortable. No snippy words. Wade dropped his shoulders.

Just quiet.

No Spidey.

“It was a temporary arrangement.” Wade shut the guest room door behind him, hiding the empty space from view. We let ourselves get too used to him. He sat on his couch and leaned forward. We knew it, too. Why do you think we shoved him out of the door so fast? Wade dug his fingers into the back of his head and pulled the skin. “He was a house guest until he healed up. That was all.”

It’s quiet.

Even Spidey’s glaring was loud.

It’s too quiet.

“I miss him already,” Wade whispered. Spidey had been good company even while being cruel. He was leagues nicer than Al or Weasel. Wade bit his lip. “I should have asked him to stay longer. Just to make sure he was really good to go.”

Get him back.

Wade jumped off the couch, nearly knocking it over in his rush. He grabbed his coat off the coat rack and threw it on, pulling his hood up. Wade ran down the sidewalk and slammed his hand into the glass of the bus stop.

Spidey was gone.

But we know where he’s going.

“Osborn.”

Chapter Text

Thanks to Spidey’s head start and Wade’s return trip to his house to get his gear meant that the hero beat Wade to the Osborn Penthouse.

Oh, they’re fighting.

Isn’t that Spidey’s friend?

A friend who’s in the anger stage of the grieving process.

“Shut up, I’m trying to listen,” Wade whispered. He shifted along the glass of the window and moved his microphone piece closer to the two arguing below him in the open sitting room. Wade let go of the suction cup that held it to the glass and touched the wireless headphone in his mask to turn adjust the volume. “Let’s see what friendship sounds like.”

“Harry, Spider-Man did not kill your dad,” Webs said, his voice hoarse and tired. The hero slumped on the side of the couch where he’d perched, still drowning in Wade’s clothes. Spidey hadn’t bothered to change and he looked ridiculous in the oversized t-shirt, sweats, and borrowed slip-ons. In any other situation, he’d look adorable. But bags lined his eyes and he looked like he’d been crying. “He didn’t kidnap me either.”

“Then where were you for a week?” Osborn asked, spinning on his heel. “You can’t honestly ask me to believe that a mercenary you don’t even know took you home to heal for a week because he felt bad you got caught in an explosion.”

He’s got a point.

“From what Spider-Man told me, Deadpool is…” Spidey trailed off, pausing to rub the bottom of his mouth. “Spontaneous. Who knows why he does what he does?”

Fair question.

“You’d believe anything Spider-Man says,” Osborn said. His own eyes looked wet, but the anger there was the dangerous kind. We’ve seen that look before. That was a man who could kill someone. Osborn sneered, looking away from Webs. “You’d defend him over anything.”

“Harry,” Spidey said. He got up from the couch and walked over to Osborn. He put both hands on the other man’s shoulders and squeezed, leaning in to press their foreheads together. Intimate. Osborn shivered and Spidey tugged him into a hug. “Spider-Man is my friend, but you are my best friend. This isn’t about protecting him. I just want you to know the truth.”

But only half of it. He’ll leave out the good parts about Osborn being evil.

Does he even know Osborn was dirty?

Good question.

“Pete, if what you said is true, then some asshole hired Deadpool to kill my dad,” Osborn said. He didn’t return Spidey’s hug. He’s the asshole. Spidey squeezed him harder, somehow keeping his super strength in check for the firm hug. “It’s easier to blame Spider-Man.”

Wade stayed very still.

Spidey’d be angry if he broke the glass and strangled the hero’s “friend.”

Two for one sale on Osborns!

That’d be fun.

“Shh,” Wade hushed himself. “They’re still talking and I missed it.”

Osborn’s shaking hands wrapped around Spidey’s back and hugged him closer.

Wade steadied his breath.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” Osborn whispered. “I haven’t been able to do anything but worry about whether you were okay or not. When I saw you were here and safe, everything else just poured out.”

“It’s okay,” Spidey said. He walked backwards and maneuvered Osborn to the couch. He sat next to him and rubbed the man’s back. “Your dad died. You’re allowed to be a mess.”

“Thanks, Pete,” Osborn said. He leaned against Spidey and reached up to wipe at the corner of his eyes. “You’re staying with me a few days, by the way. And don’t you dare argue with me, either, because you know I have the room.”

“I’ll stay one night, but I still need to let May know I’m alright and get the police to stop their search,” Spidey said. He huffed and kicked his backpack hiding his costume further under the couch. “But then I really need to go home and get my apartment straight. I’m pretty sure my rent was due while I went missing.”

We could have helped with that.

“Don’t worry, I took care of it,” Osborn said. Wade and Spidey sat up straighter at the same time. “I checked your apartment first when I noticed you were missing. Your landlord made a snide remark about your rent when I asked about you and I paid it off for the next year.”

Someone wants to be a sugar daddy.

“You did what?” Spidey said, his mouth dropping open. He stood up from the couch and shook his head, grabbing his hair. “Harry, why did you do that? You know I hate it when you spend money on me.”

And there’s someone who doesn’t want a sugar daddy.

He looks like he’d suck Osborn’s cock for free—who needs money?

“Shut up,” Wade said. Stop thinking about it. Spidey took a bullet for Osborn’s dad. He’d absolutely get on his knees if he thought it’d make that brat feel better. Spidey on his knees would be—

“Because I have the money and you never ask for help!” Osborn shouted, cutting off Spidey’s next protest and Wade’s thoughts alike. He stood from the couch and crowded Spidey’s space. His voice twisted. “Let me do this one thing for you. Let me take care of you for a few days so I don’t have to worry that another person I care about is going to die.”

Spidey dropped his shoulders. “Okay.”

If we keep sitting here, we’re going to see what you were picturing.

It might even be hot.

“I still need to tell Aunt May and go home and get some clothes,” Spidey said. He patted Osborn on the arm and covered his face as he exhaled. When he turned around, his face exposed his frustration for a moment before he wiped it away again to appease Osborn. “Then you and I can chill for a few days. Is that okay?”

“Sure, but I’m coming with you,” Osborn said. He shifted his weight before throwing his arms around Spidey, pulling him into a hug that put Spidey’s back to Wade. “I’m so glad you’re okay, Pete.”

“Easy, I’ve got you, Harry.”

They are so going to fuck.

Wade hit the glass.

Spidey jerked up and Wade ripped the microphone off the glass and slid down the penthouse wall and jumped to the nearest ledge on the next floor down.

He’d seen enough.


“Pete?” Harry asked. He held Peter’s arms and rubbed his upper arms. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry, about that. I got a sudden chill,” Peter said. He looked up toward the windows, sure that his spider-sense’s warning had come from that direction. He saw nothing, though, and had to breathe to calm his nerves. “Let’s go get my stuff so we can both get some sleep.”

“I’ll get my keys.”

Harry left the room and Peter collapsed back onto the couch. He tugged the bag out from under the couch and made sure to keep it close to his chest so Harry wouldn’t search it.

It was bad enough Deadpool figured things out, he didn’t need Harry figuring it out in the same day.

“Ready, Pete?” Harry asked. He held up a spare jacket and Peter gladly put it on over his loose clothes. “You want to see the police, Aunt May, or your apartment first?”

“I’m upset you have to ask.”

“Aunt May.”

Peter smiled and followed Harry to the door. They descended in the elevator to the bottom floor garage and got into Harry’s favorite car. The engine roared to life and Peter slumped in the leather seats, allowing himself to enjoy the opulence on his sore muscles.

Ten minutes into the drive, Harry broke the silence.

“I’m sorry about the apartment rent,” Harry said, voice quiet. He gripped the steering wheel and licked his lip. “I didn’t mean for it to sound like you couldn’t handle it yourself.”

“Then what did you mean?” Peter asked, almost glad to have a distraction from Harry’s dad. “You paid for an entire year.”

“I wasn’t sure when we’d find you.”

“Harry?”

“Your landlord was willing to evict you from your apartment while you were missing for a week,” Harry said. “I know how much it means to you that you have your own place and I wanted it to still be there whenever we found you. I figured paying ahead for a year would shut the guy up and make sure he didn’t get any smart ideas of throwing out your stuff or renting it to someone else.”

“Thanks, Harry,” Peter said. He reached over and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “But that means you’ll let me pay you back, right?”

“Not a chance,” Harry said. He snorted and turned the corner into Peter’s old neighborhood. “You sneak one penny into my wallet and I’m buying the apartment building.”

Peter stared out the window as they passed the houses. “Do you have that much money?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m sure I could find it somewhere.”

“Don’t embezzle money on my behalf, Harry.”

“Then accept my grief driven generosity and be happy your rent is paid up for a year,” 

Peter shoved Harry in the shoulder when they stopped, but didn’t answer. He was too tired to fight with his friend and maybe when everything calmed down he could get away with paying Harry back.

“Do you want me to come with you or wait in the car?” Harry asked as he pulled up in front of Aunt May’s house. “We probably should have called her first.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. He opened the door and held the backpack by the handle. “Come with me as a buffer.”

“Sure thing, Pete.”

Aunt May took it well, all considered.

She pushed the limits of his super strength with the ferocity of her hug and dragged him inside faster than Harry had when Peter showed up in his building’s lobby.

“Oh, Peter,” Aunt May said, holding his face. “However did you get caught up in that mess?”

The real question.

How did Peter Parker get abducted when it was Spider-Man that showed up on the scene?

He suppressed the guilt of knowing Norman Osborn couldn’t contradict Peter’s story because he was dead and told his aunt the story he’d told Harry. “I was there to ask Mr. Osborn if I could have a job.”

“Oh, Peter,” Aunt May said. She knew better than anyone how much Peter wanted to avoid abusing his friend’s status for his own gain. If he was there to ask Norman Osborn for a job or money, he had to be poor off—he was, but no one was supposed to know that. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Aunt May.” Peter held her hands and squeezed. “I’m alright and I’m going to be fine.”

“And you’ll have whatever job you want,” Harry said. He put his hands on the back of Peter’s shoulders and squeezed. “It’s not pity on my part, either. My dad adored you, Peter. I know he’d have done the same given the chance.”

“You’re a good boy, Harry,” Aunt May said. “Your father would be so proud of you.”

Harry’s grip almost hurt and Peter held back the wince. Harry forced out a soft, “Thank you, ma’am.”

Aunt May patted the back of Peter’s hands. “You’re staying with Harry the next few days, do I have that right?”

“Yes, Aunt May.”

“Good,” she said. She got up and put her hand on the table. “I don’t like the thought of you being all alone after all of this.”

Peter hugged his aunt goodnight for the night and followed Harry out to the car. He spent the next hour and a half giving his testimony to the police station and while he did mention Deadpool, the looks on the cops’ faces confirmed the mercenary’s earlier statements that nothing would come of it.

Assuming they believed him.

Spider-Man remained a suspect until they confirmed otherwise.

The police did not want to deal with Deadpool.

“I appreciate your self restraint, Harry,” Peter said as they walked up the stairs to his apartment. The elevator was broken once more and he lived too far up. His muscles burned and what was left of his wounds hurt so badly he contemplated asking Harry to stay the night in his apartment and going back to the penthouse in the morning. “I know the request to move in with you is on the tip of your tongue.”

“You said it, not me.” Harry patted Peter back, thankfully nowhere near an injury. “And the offer is open now more than ever.”

Peter reached for his doorknob and turned it—to find that his door was locked.

“I don’t have my keys,” Peter said. He’d tucked his belongings neatly into his backpack that he’d webbed to the corner of a roof for safe keeping. “I forgot.”

Harry paid for his apartment for a year. How much would a broken door cost in the grand scheme of things if Peter broke the lock ramming it open?

“I’ll get the spare from your landlord,” Harry said, stopping that thought in its track and speaking words of common sense. He rubbed Peter’s back one last time and trotted down the hallway. “Don’t move!”

“No argument here.”

Peter leaned against the door and rested his head against the door. He listened to Harry’s footsteps, counting them to stay calm. He was so close to changing into his own clothes and going to bed—his spider-sense roared so loud Peter flinched.

He made it an inch away from the door before it opened behind him and a hand covered his mouth, yanking him into the apartment.

The door slammed shut and Peter found himself trapped against a large chest.

Chapter Text

“Don’t be mad,” Deadpool said. His breath warmed Peter’s ear and his chest pushed Peter forward and back in a steady rocking motion as the man breathed too hard. Deadpool’s hand stayed locked in place over Peter’s mouth and nose, cutting off his oxygen. The grip around his waist squeezed too tight and his healing wounds burned. Deadpool dragged him further away from the door, rambling with a steady voice. “I miscalculated and let you go too soon before you truly healed. It was irresponsible of me, I know.”

Deadpool let go of Peter’s mouth to lock the door and slammed his palm back over his nose and mouth before Peter could finish taking a breath.

“You could have hurt yourself,” Deadpool said, his voice speeding up and jumping in pitch as a manic anger slipped into his words. “With those bedroom eyes you’ve been sharing with Osborn, you two might have tried the horizontal tango and reopened all those wounds of yours. Careless of me. Absolutely careless.”

Peter jerked forward, putting all his strength into breaking the other man’s hold. Deadpool knew he’d been with Harry which meant he must have been watching when they were at the penthouse. He should have trusted his spider-sense with the window. Peter growled into Deadpool’s gloves as he pushed to get free.

He heard a snap.

“Ouch, that one hurt,” Deadpool said. His arm cracked, but his grip did not loosen. Peter fought his vision blacking out as the lack of oxygen got to him. Deadpool’s broken arm did not deter him. “See? This is what I’m talking about. You’re in so much pain you’re not thinking straight and I’m the expert on that front.”

Peter squirmed harder and struggled. Harry was coming back with a key. His best friend could not be in the same room as Deadpool. Not the man that killed Harry’s dad. He had to break free. Peter’s chest burned as much as his stomach and back but he moved all the same.

He kicked Deadpool’s knee hard enough to snap it and the man almost fell over. It freed Peter’s mouth for another breath but the coarse fabric of the glove cut it off just as quickly.

“Spidey, I need you to listen very carefully,” Deadpool said. His voice cut through the static roaring in his brain from the lack of oxygen and his spider-sense fighting to yell at Peter to “Get out!” Deadpool straightened and squeezed him harder. “If you keep this up, you’re going to have a fight in the middle of your cheap apartment—which is shit, by the way. I’m pretty sure I’ve had better places than this in the city.”

Peter grunted and pushed his arms, fighting the grip. Deadpool’s broken bones should still be weak—they couldn’t have healed yet, right?

“That’ll not only ruin your stuff, but it’ll draw attention,” Deadpool said. “Do you want anyone else involved in this? Your neighbors?”

He stayed in the center of the room and turned them both toward his work desk. Peter’s picture of Gwen and MJ hugging he’d taken their senior year of high school smiled at him. A shot of Harry had been pinned next to it under a photo of Johnny Storm he’d clipped from a magazine. Underneath it all, the framed photo of Aunt May he kept on the desk had been moved, revealing a space in the dust.

Deadpool had been looking at his friends and family.

Memorizing them.

Peter’s breath picked up.

“That rich boyfriend of yours would sure hear a scuffle between the two of us with walls this thin,” Deadpool said. Harry would be back any moment with the key. Deadpool hummed and whispered in Peter’s ear again. “He’d come running before your neighbors, wouldn’t he?”

Spots gathered at the edge of Peter’s vision. He huffed into Deadpool’s glove and cursed the size of the man’s hands. Peter would never live it down if he died of asphyxiation from getting smothered with a glove.

“It’s not like I want to hurt your sugar daddy out there,” Deadpool said. He paused. Peter’s spider-sense rang louder. It cut through the “you’re going to pass out” warnings. Louder. Too loud. His head spun. Deadpool laughed, his chest knocking Peter forward. “Okay, that’s a lie. I want to rip his spine out and wrap it around his throat like a choker, but that’s a fantasy for another day.”

He couldn’t breathe.

“You asleep yet?” Deadpool didn’t loosen his grip. “It’ll be easier for all of us and you do need your rest, baby boy.”

He had to stay awake.

He had to protect Harry.

“The faster you close your eyes, the faster we leave and avoid seeing that rich boy of yours entirely.”

Peter passed out.

He woke up an indeterminate amount of time later under the covers of Deadpool’s guest room bed.

A large duffle bag rested next to him on the mattress. Behind it, was a suitcase Peter recognized from his closet. He sat up, wincing as his waist moved. He touched the bandages wrapped around his bare chest and felt the stitches underneath. Peter reached over to the night stand to grab the clock and his hand bumped against a framed photo.

Peter picked up the picture of Aunt May and looked up to see his cork board mounted above the night stand, complete with his photos.


“Deadpool!” Spidey shouted from the guest room—or rather, his room. Definitely his room. Al could learn to sleep on the couch if she ever came to visit. The door flew open and Spidey’s face twisted in anger as he zeroed in on Wade, sitting at his desk in the kitchen. “What happened to Harry?”

He asked about Osborn first.

The guy gets kidnapped and he asks about someone else first.

They did threaten to murder the guy, though. Wade sipped at his cup of coffee as Webs stomped over and breathed hard with gritted teeth. His expression wasn’t on the level of “I will kill a man” but it was definitely at “I am willing to break your arm again and again until I get what I want.”

Wade could survive a broken arm or two or three.

Might even be fun if he did it.

Spidey might like it rough, too.

“Your little Osborn prick is fine,” Wade said, waving his hand back and forth. “He came in when I packed up the last of your stuff and I knocked him out. I left him on the bed with a note and locked the door behind me.”

Spider-Man’s shoulders eased, releasing a fraction of tension in his relief, but the spider continued to glare. “Why am I here?”

We forgot how awful quiet could be.

“I told you,” Wade said. We missed his company. He leaned back in his chair, setting his coffee cup on the table. The edge of it sunk into a glob of maple syrup he’d missed cleaning. We couldn’t stop thinking about Spidey choking on Osborn’s cock. Wade shrugged and forced a smile, though he knew Webs couldn’t see it under his mask. “I made a mistake. You’re not well enough to leave yet.”

“Liar,” Spidey said. He stood straighter, his shoulders squared and face continuing to twist. Expressive. No wonder he wore a mask. Spidey slammed his hand on the table, hitting it hard enough that it shoved over an inch and sloshed Wade’s coffee out of the cup. “Tell me the truth. Why’d you bring me back here?”

We want him around.

It’s not complicated.

They couldn’t say that though.

He wouldn’t get it.

No one gets it.

“I get it,” Wade whispered. Spider-Man might understand loneliness but he didn’t understand Wade’s unique brand of it. No one stayed with Wade willingly. Al stayed because he trapped her. Weasel stayed because he knew better than to leave. He’s scared. People didn’t stay with Wade unless he made them stay. He wants to go back to Osborn. Wade would make him stay. “I get it. You’re upset.”

“That’s not the answer to my question.”

“I don’t have an answer you’ll like,” Wade said. Spidey has to stay. “You can beat the shit out of me if it’ll make you feel better. You don’t even have to pull your punches, but maybe do it in the bathroom. It’s easier to clean blood out of tile than carpet, even if it does stain the caulking.”

“Wade,” Spider-Man said. His breath shuddered and he swallowed thick, like there was something stuck in his throat. I know something we’d like to see in his throat. Shut up. He said our name. Spider-Man took his hand away from the table and dropped his shoulders. “Why am I here?”

Because we want you to stay.

“Because I want you to stay,” Wade repeated, though Spider-Man only heard it once. He stood, pushing his chair back with a screech across the linoleum floor. Wade tipped Spider-Man’s chin back with a bent index finger, sticking his thumb under the man’s lip. “I don’t need another reason.”

Spider-Man knocked his hand away with a swift smack. He exhaled and steadied himself before turning away. “I’m leaving.”

Wade watched the man walk to the front door, but his hand stopped an inch from the knob.

Curious.

Instincts?

Good instincts.

“What’d you do to the door?” Spidey asked. He stepped away from it, his eyes widening in a flash of fear. “Something’s wrong with it.”

A nasty shock.

Enough to kill a regular man.

Good thing Spidey’s not normal.

Shit healing factor aside.

But it’s enough.

“Try it and find out,” Wade said. He pushed his chair back in under the table and collected his cup. He walked into the kitchen with a whistle and set it in the sink. Wade turned on the water and grabbed a brush, washing out the cup with lukewarm water. He rinsed it off and set it in the drying rack. “I’ll be more than happy to tuck your unconscious body back into bed for you. I’d never leave you on the floor, Spidey.”

Spider-Man stared at the door. He reached his hand toward the knob, but stopped once more. A wince twisted his face and he stepped back a few feet. Maybe it was more than instincts. It was almost like he had a warning system. Neat. Spider-Man walked away from the door and headed back to the bedroom.

Well that worked in our favor.

Wade finished washing the rest of the dishes that waited in the sink. He whistled under his breath, listening to Webs pace back and forth in his new room.

He could get used to that sound.

Chapter Text

Intrusive thoughts and Wade had been friends for ages. They went hand in hand with his brain’s favorite hobby of rewriting itself as the cells died and regrew. Wade knew thoughts he didn’t want were never going to go away.

They could be managed though.

Distracted.

He had hoped that getting Spidey into his house would shift the subject matter away from the thoughts eating at him worse than usual.

We knew better, though.

The thought of Spidey fucking anyone is too hot to ignore, isn’t it?

“You can say that twice,” Wade said, staring out the window. His eyes were on the freshly mowed lawn he’d paid the brat next door to take care of on weekends to uphold his wholesome neighborhood home disguise, but he didn’t pay it much mind. “Stupid Osborn.”

Stupid Spider-Man hugging him so close.

Their foreheads touched!

That sort of intimacy leads to the best sex.

A cheap, but tender, adult flick ran on repeat in his brain: Spidey taking to his knees, dressed down in his civilian disguise using Wade’s spare clothes. His large hazel eyes locked onto Osborn’s face as he took the brat’s fat cock in his hands. The adoration in Spidey’s gaze enhanced the hotness of his tongue licking the length of Osborn’s dick.

Is it better or worse he’s sucking someone else’s cock while wearing our clothes?

Shh, this is the good part!

“You’re so good at this Pete,” Osborn said, calling Webs by the wrong name. His bony fingers dug into Spidey’s hair and nudged his head forward, encouraging the man to swallow his cock further down his throat. “Keep going, buddy.”

Obedient as only a daydream could be after meeting the real deal, Spidey moaned around Osborn’s cock and closed his eyes like he’d been given a treat. He pulled back to adjust his position a few times looking for the best spot to pleasure his friend, refusing to keep his mouth away from Osborn for longer than a blink. Spidey licked a line along the bottom of the cock as he moved back and forth, his throat moving with every swallow.

Osborn dropped his hand from Spidey’s hair to wrap it around the tender neck. His thumb drew circles on Spidey’s Adam’s apple and squeezed. “Good boy, Peter. Make your throat tighter for me.”

Spidey coughed around the cock, opening his mouth enough to let a line of drool drip from the side of his lip. Slicking up Osborn’s dick further, he kept sucking with the collar of Osborn’s hand still wrapped around his throat.

That could be our hand.

It could be our cock.

Wade palmed himself through his pants and dropped his head on the window. His breath fogged the glass and he closed his eyes.

He wanted so badly to pretend Webs was between his own legs, kneeling or standing. What he’d give to have the real Spidey want Wade the same way his fictional counterpart seemed so desperate to get Osborn off.

The harsh ring of his cell phone screamed out a familiar tune and saved Wade from another variation of his imagination figuring out new ways for Spidey to debase himself on Osborn’s cock.

Wade fished the phone out from the side pouch of his cargo pants and answered with a chipper, “Wolverine! Did you finally figure out who you wanted to use your free hit on? I still owe you and I’d like to get that taken care of sometime this century!”

“Shut up, Wade,” Logan answered back. He huffed on the other end of the line, loud enough to almost cover up the bar noise behind him. “Did you kidnap some photographer named Parker?”

He sounds tired.

Someone must have put him up to this.

Wolverine sure wouldn’t care about Spidey on his own.

“Why are you asking?” Wade got up from the window seat and scratched the back of his neck. He paused near the bedroom door, hoping Spidey was taking a nap instead of listening in. “Did you suddenly get a hard-on for photography?”

“Yes or no, Wade.”

“Depends on why you’re asking,” Wade said in a sing-song voice. “Share with the class, Professor.”

The growl that came from the other end sent a shiver down Wade’s spine.

The good kind.

Shame he’s as interested in us as Spidey.

“Wade, cut the shit. I got interrupted from a quiet night by Steve Rogers because some brat named Osborn showed up at the Avenger’s door demanding they take you down because you took his friend,” Logan said, growling into the phone. “And they shoved the job on me because we know each other and mutants are mutants’ business or some other bullshit. Did you actually take the guy or not?”

“What are you going to do if I did?”

“Shit, you did do it,” Logan said. He knows us so well. “Is Parker alive or dead?”

“Alive,” Wade said. He went into the kitchen and opened the pantry, looking for a good option for lunch. “He’s mine and in good hands, so you and the Avengers don’t need to worry your pretty little heads about his wellbeing.”

Logan slammed a glass on the bar on the other end. “Do I want to know why you took this guy?”

“Not really,” Wade said. He pulled out a package of meat seasoning and settled on tacos. Wade set a pan on the stove and turned on the heat and the oven below before grabbing a package of ground meat from the fridge. “But you should know I’ll fight you to keep him.”

Good job with the menacing tone at the end.

“You can’t kidnap people, Wade,” Logan said. Say it with a little more feeling. We might believe you! Wade heard cars in the background as Logan left the bar. “How much bullshit are you really going to put us all through to rescue this guy?”

“More than you want to deal with.” Wade cradled the phone on his shoulder and dumped the meat into the sizzling pan. “Let me put it this way: The guy’s keeping me company and perfectly safe. I’m not hurting him, but if you try and take him from me, I’m going to slaughter every person who comes within ten feet of my door.”

“Damn,” Logan said, exhaling. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

He knows us very well.

Wisdom comes with age!

“It happens on occasion,” Wade said. He added the water and seasoning, stirring the meat. It smelled divine and he half wondered if Spidey would come wandering out, lured by the smell. The food simmered while he shoved the taco shells in the oven. “Trust me, Logan. You’ll all be better off if you stay out of it.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Wade,” Logan said. “But I’ll pass on the warning.”

Wade loudly fake-kissed the phone. “I love you, too! We should catch up soon.”

Logan hung up.

He’ll drop it and mind his own business.

The Avengers probably won’t.

But Logan doesn’t know where we are and neither do they, so it’ll take them time to find us.

“Which gives me plenty of time to win Spidey over,” Wade said. He gathered up the taco topping essentials and dropped them off in bowels on the table. “Who doesn’t love a good taco?”

Maybe if we focus on him eating tacos, we’ll stop thinking about his mouth around Osborn’s cock and how delicious he looks getting fucked.

Wade smacked his head into the wall hard enough to crack it.


Peter’s spider-sense went off every time he got within touching distance of an outside wall or window in the house. He stared hard at the plaster of the walls, debating how badly he wanted to test whatever trap Deadpool had waiting for him.

He’d ignored his spider-sense before, but the pain he experienced when attempting to push through it concerned him.

It was one thing to take a hit from a punch or a football from Flash, but Deadpool used deadly force on a regular basis. Peter didn’t know just how far he’d go to keep Peter inside the house.

“Food’s done!” Deadpool yelled from the other room. “No hiding in the bedroom! We eat at the table in this family.”

Peter scowled at the wall and relented to his growling stomach. Deadpool was an asshole, but the man could cook and Peter wasn’t going to starve himself.

He jumped down from the ceiling and left the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. The kitchen table had been transformed into a taco bar and Peter sat, helping himself to a plate without a word to Deadpool.

His silence did nothing to stop Deadpool from speaking.

“Question,” the man said, plopping into the seat across from Peter. He fixed a taco and took a messy bite, spilling cheese and lettuce into the hand he put up to catch it. “Did you ever fuck Osborn?”

Peter coughed on a piece of taco shell. He smacked his chest to clear his throat and shouted, “Did I what?”

“Do the nasty with Osborn. Sleep with him. Make love. Fuck. Pick your euphemism for sex,” Deadpool said. He finished his taco and grabbed another shell to fix a second. “The guy’s hounding the Avengers to come rescue you, so I can’t help but wonder just how close you two really were.”

“Why do you care?”

“I’m a gossip at heart,” Deadpool said. He broke his taco in half down the middle with a sharp snap. He took a bite out of it, speaking around the crunchy chewing. Deadpool shoved the taco past his chapped and scarred lips with his thumb, licking off spare red sauce. Peter’s spider-sense turned to a steady buzz as the man stared distinctly at a spot behind Peter instead of at him. “He a good lay or what?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Peter said, slow, careful, and true. When MJ and Gwen had gone out with him, they hadn’t shared the details and respected Peter’s desires to never hear about his best friend’s bedroom prowess. He set his taco back on his plate. “Harry and are I just friends.”

His spider-sense remained active.

“Osborn never asked a cute thing like you out?” Deadpool asked. “I find that hard to believe.”

Peter shoved his plate aside and crossed his arms on the table. “I’m not his type.”

Harry’s type were Peter’s ex-girlfriends that doubled as pretty girls he hoped would impress his father.

“You could have fooled me with that show he put on in his penthouse when you went straight to him,” Deadpool said. He leaned back in his seat and ate another taco. His tense form and Peter’s screaming spider-sense gave away his attempt to look relaxed. “What a beautiful friendship you two share to look as intimate as lovers.”

“Is there a point to this?” Peter asked. “Isn’t it bad enough you kidnapped me? Are you going to do something to Harry now, too?”

Deadpool tapped a taco shell against the table. “Not planning on it, but my plans have had a nasty habit of changing these days.”

“Don’t you dare hurt Harry,” Peter said. He ignored the increased headache as his spider-sense continued to warn him against the mercenary across from him. “It’s one thing when you mess with me, Wade, but you stay away from my family.”

Deadpool clicked his tongue and stood. He ruffled Peter’s hair with the hand not holding a taco and his spider-sense went silent.

“I can’t promise anything if the idiot shows up at my door, but I won’t go after him,” Deadpool said. He took a bite out of his taco and walked with a slow strut to his bedroom. “I’ll be watching the best sitcom in the world if you care to join me.”

Peter folded his arms onto the table and cradled his head in the corner of his elbow.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Harry,” he whispered into the table. “I can’t lose anyone else.”

Chapter Text

Peter devoured two more tacos and decided to risk it.

He had to escape and make sure Harry was somewhere safe. If his spider-sense was to be trusted, Deadpool saw Peter’s best friend as a threat of some sort and he would not lose another friend.

As soon as he was out, Peter was going to throw on the spare Spider-Man uniform he had stashed and go straight to the Fantastic Four for help with Deadpool. He trusted the Avengers, too, but he was more familiar with Reed and his family--Plus, Johnny’s fire felt like a better threat against someone like Deadpool.

He exhaled as he approached the window. Peter checked over his shoulder to make sure that Deadpool was still behind the closed door of his room. He could hear the television through the door, even without his enhanced senses, and that should give cover for the moment.

Pushing past the agony of his blaring spider-sense, Peter touched the lock on the living room window.

The voltage that surged through his body made Electro’s handshakes feel like a shock of static.

Peter hit the ground gasping and hit his chest to force his lungs to work and his heartbeat to get back into rhythm. White filled his vision and he swore he smelled something burning at his fingertips from where he’d touched the metal.

A scarred pair of bare feet entered his blurred vision.

“I’m curious,” Deadpool said. He kneeled and patted Peter on the head before his fingers looked for his pulse. The naked, scratching fingers rested on his neck for a full minute as Deadpool listened to Peter’s erratic heartbeat. “Were you testing the trap or my word when I said I’d come pick you up off the floor?”

Peter’s breath shuddered and dug his forehead into the carpet.

“Let’s get you back in bed, Webs,” Deadpool said. He scooped Peter off the ground with ease and bridal carried him back to the guest room. Deadpool dropped Peter onto the mattress and tucked the blankets around him. He ruffled Peter’s hair and nudged the television remote near his hand. “Get some rest and sleep that off. When you get up, I’ll have pancakes ready.”

The man left with a whistle and confidence that Peter wouldn’t get out of bed and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

Peter rubbed his chest with his thumb through the blanket.

“I need to come up with a better plan,” Peter said, staring at the ceiling. He grabbed his chest and rolled onto his side, groaning into the blanket. “Just as soon as everything stops hurting.”

An hour or so later, he summoned the energy to grab the remote and turn on the television to the news and his own photo stared back at him on the screen alongside the top story of “Osborn heir on man-hunt for missing photographer.”

“Oh, Harry.”

Peter turned the television back off and tossed the remote onto the other side of the mattress and put his feet on the floor. He pushed out of bed and grabbed the chair by the bed. He dragged it behind him as he wobbled to the bedroom window and thanked every villain he’d ever fought for his pain tolerance.


A thump.

Sounds like someone just figured out we have bullet proof glass windows.

A frustrated snarl accompanied a louder thump from the guest room.

We should probably stop Spidey before he tries to punch the window and gets shocked again.

Definitely not good for his heart, healing factor or no.

Wade set the newest stack of pancakes on the table next to their cooling counterparts and ripped off his apron. He took two steps before backtracking and turning off the stove to prevent a burning pan and possible house fire.

No point in keeping Spidey here if he’s dead.

Corpses don’t last long as friends.

“Spidey,” Wade said, throwing the guest room door open. He caught the glorious sight of a chair shattering as Webs threw it into the glass window with all of his strength and a shout. Wade strolled behind the angry man and crossed his arms. “The windows are bullet proof.”

I thought we agreed he figured that out.

Stating the obvious is annoying and might distract him.

Oh, yeah!

“I made pancakes,” Wade offered. He patted Spider-Man on the shoulder and pointed toward the door. Wade threw his arm around Spidey and patted him. “You look like you worked up an appetite, so it’s a good thing I made like ten stacks.”

Webs tossed Wade over his shoulder and flung him straight into the window.

Ouch!

He hit the ground and watched his favorite hero in the world walk away from him, leaving him on the cold floor after a vicious electrocution.

“So that was a yes for the pancakes?” Wade asked. He wheezed and got off the floor, putting his hands on his thighs. Webs ignored him and stomped out of his bedroom, heading toward the living room. “Help yourself.”

That went well.

It did, really.

An angry Webs was a good Webs.

The man would beat Wade up, get all that anger out of his system (likely exhausting himself at the same time), and settle down and accept the inevitable truth that he lived with Wade now.

Or he’ll rest up and go back to hitting us again.

Good thing we can take it.

Wade straightened and stretched, stretching his limbs and double checking the damage from the shock had healed up. Wade collected the broken pieces of chair and held them under his arm as he left the bedroom.

“Spidey?” Wade dropped the broken wood near the garage door. The untouched pancakes on the table mocked him and he did a spin on his heel as he looked around the room. “Where’d you go?”

We didn’t hear another shock, so he didn’t touch an exit.

So where did our spider friend—oh, right.

Wade looked up and met angry hazel eyes staring down at him as Spidey crouched on the ceiling with his knees in his chest and his arms wrapped around him.

“I should mount furniture up there,” Wade said. “You think that would increase the home’s value?”

Spidey rolled his eyes and straightened out, with only his feet flat on the ceiling. He grabbed a hand full of pancakes off the top of the stack and walked back to his room, slamming the door shut behind him.

That was hot.

“Don’t remind me.”

Chapter Text

Contemplating the logistics of ceiling sex kept Wade busy while Webs sulked in his room.

He sat on his bed staring up at the popcorn pattern above his head and pictured bare toes digging into the rough surface. I doubt he’d notice. Spidey had to have enough callouses on his feet to protect them from the dangers of a popcorn ceiling.

And if he scraped his feet, we could kiss it better!

Maybe he could sit down on the ceiling and not worry about it.

His pants would protect him!

No.

He had to do the standing thing. Spidey had to stand straight up like gravity and him had broken up and if you flipped the panel it’d look like he was standing normally. That was the hot part of it all. Spider-Man was so at home on a ceiling and so comfortable walking upside down that no one could touch him.

That man loved clinging to walls and ceilings and surfaces that put him on a different angle from the rest of the world.

He looks at everything in a different way.

Probably why he used to be nice to us.

Saw us differently from the rest of the world.

Wade shivered and shoved his hand down his waist and let it drop over his crotch. He felt himself through his pants and stared at the ceiling.

Spidey would have to stand straight.

Which led to the dilemma of how to best fuck him while he was up there—or get fucked. Wade had never been all that picky.

If he stood straight up from the floor, Wade’s face would land around Spidey’s chest. Good for a bit of old fashioned feeling up and the potential for a hand job was there, but it wasn’t enough.

We could stand on a chair.

Brilliant!

A chair would fix everything.

Wade would stand on the chair and accept the praise as Webs congratulated him for figuring it out. He’d pet Wade’s head and shove his mouth closer to the prize he’d earned for fixing their height and access issues.

A soft cock would be waiting for him to get to work behind another borrowed pair of Wade’s trainers. Spidey looks so good in our clothes. They’re so big and loose and just waiting for us to stick our hands under them. He’d pull it free and shove the pants up to get to the good stuff. Spidey’s hands would stroke Wade’s sides as he sucked. Wade would feel the delicious cock swell up in his mouth and bounce against his tongue as he moved his head.

This is hot.

Too hot.

Keep going, keep going!

Wade groaned around Spidey, taking him as far as he could reach. The chair hadn’t been the perfect solution he’d wanted, keeping him an inch lower than optimal, but Wade was willing to work for it.

“That’s right,” Webs would whisper into his ribs. The man’s mouth was close enough that he could help out Wade’s own weeping and twitching cock if he stretched, but he remained a tease and pressed his cheek into a chest instead. Spidey nuzzled him and Wade whimpered as he nipped at Wade’s shirt. “You’re so good to me, Wade.”

That name.

Oh, if only he’d say it more often.

Only when he likes us.

Shut up. Shut up. This the good part!

Spidey’s breath hitched as Wade continued to lick and suck Spider-Man’s cock. Wade hummed around it and felt Spidey grow close to the grand finish.

His cool demeanor chipped away with every swallow.

Distracted, Spidey would lose his super-glue grip on the ceiling and drop—right into Wade’s waiting arms.

He’d catch Spider-Man, holding him upside-down against his chest. His legs would bend and Wade used the better angle to his benefit. Holding Spider-Man in the perfect spot, Wade would swallow all of that beautiful, fat cock until it knocked the back of his throat.

“Wade!” Spider-Man cried, his entire body squirming in Wade’s hold. He clutched and held tight to Wade, rubbing and trying to fuck the man’s mouth while he was upside down. “I want you. I want you so much.”

His face pressed into Wade’s waiting and hard cock that pressed against the outline of his pants. Spider-Man moaned over it, mouthing it through the fabric unintentionally. His breath wet the fabric, warming it in a way that felt so good Wade never wanted him to move again.

“Almost there, Wade,” Spidey said, still nuzzling and rubbing against him like. His body twitched as Wade grabbed his ass and squeezed, pulling him as close as Wade could. Spidey moaned into him as Wade rubbed them together. “Wade. Wade, please.”

Here it comes.

The moment is coming!

I think you mean “he’s coming!”

“Wade!” Spidey shouted, grabbing Wade and bruising him with every finger that dug into him. “Wade, oh. Wade, Wade, Wade!”

Keep saying it.

That’s right.

And—

Spidey came in Wade’s mouth and the man swallowed with a moan as the cock twitched.

The hero slipped away and righted himself, dropping his feet on the chair that Wade remained standing on. Spidey dropped his arms around Wade’s shoulders and leaned their heads against each other as he moved closer. Wade’s hard cock sat between them, swished between two warm bodies and desperate for more friction.

“You’re all mine, aren’t you Wade?” Spidey asked into his mouth. He kissed him, chapped lips against chapped lips and ran his fingers up and down Wade’s sides. “You’re never going to leave me, are you?”

“Never,” Wade said. “All yours.”

“Good,” Spidey said. He patted Wade’s cheek and kicked him off the chair, sprawling him back onto the bed. Spidey sat next to him and pressed his palm into Wade’s dick through his pants, pushing down in a way that almost hurt but felt so good Wade sucked in a breath. “Do you need help?”

That was enough.

More than enough.

Wade stared at his dirty hand, covered in leftovers of his climax, limp and satisfied against his sheets. The fake, daydream Spider-Man laughed and disappeared into the back of his head once more.

Wow.

Haven’t had a fantasy that nice in some time.

It was amazing what a bit of inspiration could do. Ceiling sex. Who knew that’d be the kick off for an amazing masturbation session?

It’s not even that weird of a thing for us.

“Definitely having that fantasy again,” Wade said, sinking into his bed. His sheets felt good against his aching skin and he rolled over onto his side and relaxed. “The chair is what made it.”

And it totally got us to stop thinking about Osborn shoving Spider-Man onto his knees and forcing his fat, weeping cock down Spidey’s throat.

Dammit.


“Fuck!”

Peter jerked at the exclamation from the other side of the wall behind him. He almost dropped the piece of the baseboard he’d pried from a corner on the wall with the window, but scrambled to catch it again and held it near his chest, putting himself on high alert in case Deadpool came into the bedroom.

He put the baseboard back into place and crawled to his feet. Peter snuck back to his bed and hopped onto it and attempted to arrange the pillows to make it look like he’d been relaxing. He waited for a full five minutes to make sure that Deadpool was still occupied elsewhere before he dared to go back to his information gathering.

Back on the floor, he pulled the wood carefully away from the wall and leaned down to go back to using his super strength to break the drywall closest to the floor. He’d used his spider-sense to hover his hand across the window and walls to figure out the full reaches of Deadpool’s electrical trap.

It had been thorough, but not thorough enough.

The field, or whatever trigger he was using for the trap, stopped about four inches from the ground. Peter took advantage and did his best to make a hole that he could see through.

If he was lucky, he could find something holding the electrical field up that he could disable and get the hell out of Deadpool’s house.

“Come on, almost there,” Peter whispered under his breath. He managed to get a hole the size of his hand made when his spider-sense roared. “Shit.”

Peter shoved the baseboard back into place to cover the hole and stood, crossing his arms and scowling to make it look like he’d been staring out the window.

The door opened a second later and Deadpool strode into the room, decked out head to toe in his mercenary gear and costume. The man wandered in and whistled. Deadpool did not look directly at Peter. His gaze fell instead on the tackboard over the side table.

He was looking at Harry’s picture.

The man grabbed the photo and yanked it. The edge ripped as it was pulled free and Deadpool drew it closer to his face.

“What are you doing?” Peter asked. He crossed the room and snatched the photo back from Deadpool’s hands despite the buzz of his spider-sense warning him to back off. “Was it necessary to tear it?”

“Would you ever fuck this guy if he asked?” Deadpool said, stabbing his glove covered finger into Harry’s face. “You into that friends with benefits thing?”

Peter scowled and turned to tack the photo back into place under Johnny’s magazine page. “Why do you care?”

“Yes or no, Webs.”

“I don’t know,” Peter said, glaring over his shoulder. “Harry’s never been interested so it’s never come up.”

His spider-sense buzzed louder as Wade turned and looked down at Peter. A few inches and his expanse of muscle added to his intimidating stance and Peter swallowed as he steeled himself.

Deadpool continued to stare at Peter through the mask. His breath moved his chest in a noticeable fashion as the man controlled his temper. Deadpool turned his head toward the photo again and breathed out. “So that might as well have been a yes I just heard.”

Deadpool was too calm.

No jokes.

Only anger and a blaring spider-sense.

“You killed Harry’s dad.” Peter ignored his spider-sense and grabbed the strap across his chest to yank the taller man down so they could see eye to eye. “You don’t get the right to glare at his picture or question my relationship with him. Whether I want to fuck Harry or not is none of your business. It will never be your business and you’re going to stay away from him.”

“Definitely a yes,” Deadpool whispered to himself. He grabbed Peter’s hand and twisted it away from his strap. Deadpool let go and grabbed a knife out his belt and flipped it in his hand. He threw it at the tackboard and it landed in the middle of Harry’s face. “I’m going out. Don’t wait up.”

Peter ran after him. “Deadpool! Where are you going?”

“I have something I need to do,” Deadpool said. He stretched his arms over his head and cracked his back and neck. He laughed and his tone lit back up into something more normal, covering up the animosity that continued to mess with Peter’s spider-sense. “Don’t you worry, baby boy! I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Deadpool,” Peter said. He grabbed the man’s arm and pulled, putting his strength into it to get the man way from the door. “Where are you going?”

“None of your business,” Deadpool said, repeating Peter’s words back to him. He jammed his elbow into Peter’s ribs near the still tender skin from his past injury. Peter wheezed and hit the ground. “Have a good night.”

“Wade!”

Peter looked up to see Deadpool exit through the front door and leave.

He’d missed seeing whatever the man did to get past his own trap.

“Come back,” Peter said. He ran for the door and stopped an inch from it, cursing as his blasted instincts informed him the electrical trap was functional and as deadly as ever. Peter screamed through the door. “Come back!”

He stood in the entryway and dropped to his knees.

Peter counted to ten and ran for the bedroom, ripping the baseboard away from the wall and punching through the drywall.

He had to get out.

Chapter Text

Drywall clung to Peter’s hair and face as he ripped out chunks of the wall. He couldn’t afford another shock and made sure to keep the hole three inches high as he moved his way along the baseboard to find a hole—any hole—in the trap.

“There has to be a way,” Peter said. He spit out a mouthful of dust and stuck his arm into the wall. He felt the outer wall of the building and punched, exposing the outside. “You’re a genius, Peter. Figure it out! How does this work?”

The field had to have components somewhere to let the electricity flow through. Peter wracked his brain for every piece of knowledge he had as he peeled away the siding of the outside wall, crushing the siding in his hand.

“This isn’t going to work,” Peter said. He put his hands on the floor and stared at the grass just outside the hole he’d made. Despite the flexibility his powers granted him, even Peter couldn’t compress to three inches. Pressing his face to the ground he looked up into the space between the walls. “I can’t get to that.”

Higher than he could reach with a fully extended arm, he could see the connecting nodes that kept the field running through the walls.

Safely tucked within the shield itself. 

He pulled back and stood. He looked out the window he’d failed to break earlier and—

“The walls aren’t bullet proof—just the glass!”

Peter cursed to himself and rolled up his sleeves. “I was throwing furniture at the wrong thing.”

He went into the living room and looked for the heaviest thing he could find. Seeing nothing appealing, Peter broken into Deadpool’s room—surprised to find it unlocked and unguarded.

“That’ll work.”

With a grunt, Peter lifted the metal weapon safe. His side ached with the movement and he steeled himself to bear it. When he saved Harry and took care of Deadpool, then he’d have time to rest and fully recover from his injuries.

But until then—

“I’m getting out!”

Peter threw the safe at the wall. It made a satisfying crack in the plaster, denting the entire wall and the board behind it. Peter waited for the safe to fall to the ground before he picked it up again.

Electricity sparked along the walls.

A few more hits like that and Peter would be out.

“I’m coming, Harry.”


This is exactly what we needed.

Get him, get him, get him!

“You don’t have to tell me, twice!” Wade shouted, leaping across the alley. He sliced his beloved katana into the flesh of the screaming man, once more glad his suit was red as it splashed with blood. He yanked his weapons free and kicked the target in the small of his back. “This is the stress relief I was looking for!”

Since fucking is off the table.

“Shut up!” Wade shouted, both to the voice and the screaming man. He sliced the man’s throat with his blade. The blood splashed on the ground and the man stilled. “At least that makes one of you quiet.”

One down.

Four more to go!

“Check,” Wade said, pulling out his list. He put a checkmark next to the dead man’s name. “I can’t believe I let my backlog get this bad!”

We were preoccupied with Spidey.

He takes up a lot of time.

Good time.

The best time.

“I get it,” Wade said. He folded the list and shoved it in a pack. While playing nursemaid, he’d allowed his job list to pile up. None of the jobs were particularly hard, so Wade had been fine putting them off until later. “Back to work!”

If we keep pretending our targets are the mini Osborn, we’ll be sure to get it all out of our system!

The perfect plan: Get work done and imagine some good things about Harry Osborn for once.

It’s not like the fantasies will get out of hand and make us want to do it to the real deal.

“Exactly!”

Spider-Man had made it very clear how he felt concerning Wade and harming his “good buddy” Harry. The burning jealousy in his stomach wasn’t enough to knock out his common sense.

Spidey’s too important.

He’s always an exception.

“Oh! I just remembered! The next target has a lovely shade of auburn hair—that’ll make it even easier to pretend!” Wade said, doing a twirl. He did a small dance in the alley before climbing a fire escape to the wondrous traveling road of the rooftops. “I love my work!”

“That makes two of us!”

What now?

That wasn’t you, was it?

Nope.

Oh, shit—

Wade’s ears rang as he coughed and cleared his throat. He shoved off the rubble from the explosion and sat up with a wheeze. In front of him, was a piece of shrapnel from the bomb with—

“A jack o’lantern face?” Wade picked up the piece and stood, brushing off his outfit to greet the man overing above him on a bat-shaped board. “You are either very early or very late for Halloween, buddy.”

The man with green skin cackled. With scaly skin, pointed ears, and short purple tunic, he looked like a green elf—with a scary face.

“Every day can be Halloween if you wish hard enough,” the man said with a high-pitched voice and a bit of snideness. “Enough people in this town wear masks all year round, don’t you think?”

Smart answer.

Do we know this guy?

Beats me.

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced!” Wade shouted. “I’m—”

“Deadpool,” the stranger interrupted. He pulled another small sphere shaped like a jack o’lantern—His bombs!—and tossed it up and down. “Trust me, I know who you are.”

“I guess that puts me at the disadvantage.” Wade shifted his foot back to brace himself. Wild cards are never fun. Wade pulled a sword free. “And what business do you have with me?”

“Let’s just say you’re not the only one with a list,” the stranger said. He cackled and threw the bomb at Wade’s head. He rolled forward to dodge and took a swipe with his sword at the hover board. The man moved out of the way with a laugh and threw another bomb. “And you’re number one!”

“I’d be flattered, but I’m pretty sure you’re trying to kill me!” Wade shouted. That never works well for people. But it was still rude! Wade pulled out his gun and shot—but the jerk dodged each bullet with fast movements and a flip. He’s better than we thought. Wade growled. “Who are you?”

“The Green Goblin.”

Nice name.

“Not the time!”

“We agree!” The Goblin shouted. He pulled a bag out from the back of the hover board and opened it to reveal an entire stash of his little bombs. “I’ve heard you can regenerate from the tiniest of parts—let’s test that theory!”

“We’re in the middle of the city and you’re going to throw those around?” Wade asked. He could come back from little bits but that hurt. “That’s irresponsible!”

“See if I care!” The Goblin laughed and three six bombs at Wade’s face. “Let’s see what you’ve got!”

We might be in trouble.

We’ve fought worse.

“Make up your mind!” Wade shouted as he ran into the street to dodge the the other madman. He’s chasing us. Wade could see that! “Why did I make your list again?”

“Take a guess!” The Goblin shouted. He threw another bomb, hitting a lamppost. The people around them screamed and ran in all directions to get out of the way. “We’ll see if you figure it out before I turn you into paste!”

I think he’s serious.

“He is very serious!”

Wade took shots where he could get them, but spent most of his time dodging civilians and flying pieces of brick and mortar. He rolled and took refuge behind a car to catch his breath.

“This…this is not good.”

You said it.

“It’s no fair hiding!” The man shouted from above. He continued pulling bombs out of his seemingly endless sack and gathered a handful. “But it’s fine because I found you!”

The goblin-man opened his arms and dropped the bombs—but they landed in a net of webbing.

The web pulled tied into a bag and returned to Spider-Man sitting on top of a bent light post. He swung the web and bag around like a lasso and tossed it straight up, so that the bombs exploded in the air above their heads.

“Mind if I join?” Spider-Man asked. “I had business with Deadpool first, so you’ll have to stand in line, Gobby.”

“Spider-Man!” The monster hissed. “Stay out of this!”

Do they know each other?

I think they know each other.

But more importantly—How did Webs escape Wade’s house?

Chapter Text

“The only person an Osborn can count on is himself.”

Harry took most of his father’s “words of wisdom” with a grain of salt, but that one statement had stuck with him over time. After the police, the Avengers, and the X-Men turned down his request for aid finding Peter, Harry decided that was one Norman Osborn saying that had been proven to be truth.

“If the heroes won’t help me find Peter,” Harry said, throwing open the door to his father’s study. “I’ll do it myself.”

Hidden behind a large family portrait in the back of the study, Norman Osborn hid the switch to his private lab. Harry had stumbled upon it during his last year of high school, but knew better than to snoop or let it slip that he was aware of its existence.

His father loved him, but Harry wasn’t an idiot. He knew that people who crossed his dad tended to…disappear. Harry was the family disappointment and knew he wasn’t exempt from that sort of fate if he crossed certain lines. Playing ignorant to his father’s shadier dealings had served Harry well in the long run.

But his father was dead.

“Let’s see what toys you were hiding, dad.” Harry slammed his hand on the switch and waited for the trap door to the stairs below his desk to open. He rubbed at his eyes, feeling the sore and dark bags that gathered under them from the lack of sleep. “I’m sure one of them will help me kill the psycho that took Peter.”

Harry followed the metal, clean staircase down to the room hidden beneath the office and inaccessible from the downstairs of the mansion. Stepping foot on the concrete floor below revealed a snug laboratory packed with server racks, computers, active experiments, and a wall covered in familiar looking gear.

“The Green Goblin.”

He stepped closer to the case that held the costume of Spider-Man’s most formidable foe and slammed a fist against the glass. Harry rested his forehead on the cool surface, staring into the face of the green mask and looked away to the side.

The distinctive glider that made the front of newspapers had been mounted on a large rack, surrounded by bags of bombs and gadgets in progress.

Norman Osborn had been the Green Goblin.

No wonder he didn’t have time for Harry. Between managing Oscorp by day and fighting Spider-Man by night, when would he have time to sleep let alone see his son?

“Spider-Man ruins everything.”

He stole his father’s attention.

(Did Norman Osborn really value his fight with the masked man more than his son?)

He took Peter’s attention.

(Who spends all his time taking pictures of that busybody freak when he could have just asked Harry for help if he needed money?)

“I really hate that man,” Harry said. He tacked that onto the list of “things he had in common with his father” alongside their looks and hair color. He exhaled hard enough to fog the protective glass holding the Goblin’s costume and closed his eyes. “But he doesn’t matter right now.”

Harry needed to save Peter.

He left the costumes and took a seat at the main lab table. He flicked on the monitor for the nearest computer and snorted at the lack of password protection. Norman Osborn had been nothing but confident. A quick search through the files revealed the plans and manufacturing information for the weapons the Goblin—his father—had favored.

But more importantly, he found the secret to the Goblin’s strength.

“That should level the playing field,” Harry whispered. He rolled the chair to the other side of the room where his fathers stored the chemicals and the manufacturing machines. Harry pulled up the formula’s information and bit his lip. “Thanks, Dad.”

Oscorp wouldn’t be the only thing Harry inherited from his father.


The transformation hurt.

The green goo of the Goblin Formula flowed through his veins and lit every nerve ending on fire. The pain had him screaming until the sounds tearing apart his throat turned into laughter.

Peter.

Harry forced himself to concentrate through the agony.

Peter.

He was doing it all for Peter.

To get Peter back.

The clarity helped him focus.

But the laughter didn’t stop.


“Mind if I join?” Spider-Man perched on a light post, interrupting the fight. Why did that arachnid always had to butt in where he didn’t belong? The “hero” continued, clueless to the change in actor behind his rival’s mask. “I had business with Deadpool first, so you’ll have to stand in line, Gobby.”

“Spider-Man!” Harry called back. The Goblin cackled in the back of his mind. Maybe we can get rid of two nuances at once. Another time. Deadpool had Peter. Deadpool was the focus. Harry kept the mercenary in his sights as he yelled at Spider-Man. “Stay out of this!”

“No can do,” Spider-Man said. He jumped from the post and landed on the car that hid his prey. “You’re destroying the city.”

“As soon as he’s dead, that’ll stop—no worries!” Harry shouted back, glad for the voice modulator built into the mask. He’d had enough dealing with Spider-Man in person thanks to Peter to be recognized otherwise. “Now get out of my way.”

“I would like to point out that I can’t die,” Deadpool said, holding up his hand. “I could have sworn you knew with the whole blasting me into as many pieces as possible comment, but now you’re saying stuff like that and I’m not too sure.”

“Be quiet!” Harry readied a smaller bomb behind his back. “I’ve yet to see whether your can die or not with my own two eyes. It deserves experimenting, don’t you think? Whether it works or not, I’ll still have the pleasure of ripping you apart!”

“I think I’ve missed something,” Deadpool said. He hopped onto the car and stood next to Spider-Man, crossing his arms and tapping his chin. “Because I don’t know you. Normally I’d assume you got me confused for Webs, since that happens more than either of us would like, but we’re both right here. So that’s not it. Did I kill a friend of yours? Is that it?”

“Wade, would you shut up,” Spider-Man hissed under his breath. “Stop provoking the Goblin!”

The comment was followed up with a jab to the ribs. Deadpool laughed and made an inane comment about having “that sort of fun later.”

Harry didn’t pay attention to the words.

He watched the body language.

The familiarity.

Spider-Man and Deadpool were friends.

“Enough talk!” The Goblin and Harry screamed together. “Both of you are dying tonight!”

With the two of them dead, he’d have no trouble finding his friend.

I’m going to save you, Pete.

“I promise.”

Chapter Text

Wow this guy is serious about killing us.

He might actually kill Spidey if we don’t step up.

Wade grabbed Spider-Man’s arm and tugged him out of the way when the loon on the glider swooped lower attempting to stab them both on the sharp bits. The hero used the momentum of his tug to spin around and use a web to catapult him back toward the glider. Spider-Man kicked the Goblin, but stopped in surprise when his leg was caught and the Goblin threw him into a wall, cracking the brick.

Oh, another strong one!

Why are we the only ones without super strength?

Spider-Man pushed off the wall, dodging another barrage of bombs and rolled to a stop behind a corner to catch his breath. Wade threw a trash can at the Goblin, covering him in trash and catching him off guard enough for him to turn around. Using that moment, he ran and grabbed Spider-Man, pulling him around a corner to hide from the masked man.

They could both hear the Goblin screaming that he’d find them and rip out their throats and hang them by their exposed spines.

“So, this guy wants to kill us,” Wade said. Spider-Man turned his head and glared through his mask, his chest heaving in exhaustion. He’s not fully healed yet. But at least Wade knew what his eyes looked like when he was mad. “You seem to know him. An old buddy or something?”

“What?” Webs asked, disbelief so loud in his voice it almost cracked. “How do you know about the Sinister Six but not my main arch rival?”

We have brain cells that constantly rewrite themselves resulting in minor memory loss and our access to the fourth wall is selective and reserved for only the funniest moments.

Probably shouldn’t say that.

“The name ‘Sinister Six’ sounds cooler?” It really does. “They stand out way more from everyone else in your rouges gallery.”

“The Green Goblin is green,” Spidey hissed. “You don’t stand out more than that—okay, so maybe Rhino or Cat’s catsuit are up there on the list, but he’s still green!

“I have missed our banter so much.”

“We aren’t bantering. Friends banter. We aren’t friends.” Spider-Man hit Wade in the arm, hard enough to bruise for a few seconds before the healing factor kicked in. “I’m still furious for what you did to Norman Osborn.”

But not kidnapping him!

Win for us!

“It still sounds like banter to me!” Wade said, putting a sing-song melody into his words. “So we must be friends!”

And soon to be more.

In our daydreams at least.

“Wade!” Spider-Man jerked up and grabbed Wade’s arm, zipping them both up the side of the building with his web shooters to escape the Goblin’s next wave of bombs. Seriously. How many does he have? Wade grabbed onto Spider-Man as they hit the roof of the next building over and started running. “What is up with Gobby?”

“This isn’t his usual?” Wade asked, jumping over a rooftop air conditioning unit. He looked over his shoulder at the screaming man as he crashed through a storage unit, shattering it. “Then again, I wouldn’t know.”

“I can’t put my finger on it, but something is off,” Webs said. He dropped and rolled behind the glider when it soared over head and used his webs to catch the engines. He yanked, sending the glider flying back. “I can’t tell if he’s off his game or on it.”

“Well, let’s make sure he’s that first one.” Wade pulled out his side arm and shot at the glider. Two shots later and it crashed to the top of the roof. The Goblin jumped off to escape the impact, rolling on the other side. He got up and screamed, running straight for Wade with fists. “Still fighting! I like that!”

He aimed his gun and shot, but the Goblin dodged.

Hey! Only Spidey should be able to do that!

He has to be enhanced.

Or a mutant.

The Green Goblin got close enough to throw a punch, hitting hard enough Wade had to take a step back. Natural or unnatural, the guy’s got super strength—that is for sure! Wade took the second hit to the face before he pistol-whipped the Goblin straight in the mask, knocking him over.

“It’s time for you to calm down, buddy,” Wade said. He kicked the man over and aimed his gun at this head. “Webs over there doesn’t like it when I kill people in front of him, but hey, I’ve done it before and I can do it again.”

“Wade, don’t you dare!” Spider-Man called. He used his webbing to secure the Goblin’s feet and hands to the roof, trapping him. “I’ll take it from here.”

“Your town, your bad guy,” Wade said. He put his hands in the air and stepped back. “I won’t step on toes, even if he was here to kill me first.”

Spider-Man shoved Wade back and squatted near the Goblin’s face. “You want to tell me what this is about Gobby? You’re not yourself tonight.”

“I don’t have to tell you a thing,” the Goblin said. Wade inched behind Spider-Man, slowly lowering his gun into a better shooting position. Spider-Man glared over his shoulder, somehow sensing his intent, and Wade once more put his hands up. The Goblin, however, took that same moment to make one last move. “Dead men don’t need information!”

The man ripped one of his arms out of Spider-Man’s webbing and grabbed something off his belt, slamming it into the roof where it let off a “click.”

“Move!” Spider-Man shouted. “Now!”

He grabbed Wade’s arm and the two of them raced to jump over the edge. They cleared it with enough time to miss the explosive blast that roared over their heads, covering the mad laughter. Spider-Man hooked himself onto the wall, catching Wade by the shoulder and slamming him close to the brick.

They breathed heavily as they waited for the Goblin’s next move.

If he’s alive.

That was a pretty big blast.

“You think he’s still kicking up there?”

“I don’t know,” Spider-Man said. He pulled Wade with him as he crawled back to the roof. Small fires spread across any flammable surface, including the ruined glider, but the Goblin himself was gone. “Gobby wasn’t the self-destructive type.”

“Want me to hunt him down?” Wade asked. He threw his arm over Spidey’s shoulder as they stared at the burning rubble. “I’ll give you a great discount for being my roommate.”

We’ll do it anyway.

But you should always advertise your services!

Mercenary work isn’t cheap.

“What do you say?”

Spider-Man grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back. The angry hero shoved him over to better restrain him. “Roommate? I had to break a wall with a gun safe to get out of your house!”

“Oh! I was going to ask you how you got out,” Wade said, gritting his teeth together. The muscles in his arms stretched and burned and his skin ground against the leather of his costume under Spidey’s iron grip. “I guess I have a new home project for the weekend, huh?”

“Shut up, Wade,” Spider-Man said. He leaned over Wade’s side, his warm body touching Wade’s. Oh, he shouldn’t do that. It felt good. Wade squirmed to inch away but Spider-Man yanked him closer. “I’m going to say this once: I am not going back. You are going to leave me alone. If I see you again, I will harass the Fantastic Four until Reed Richards designs a cage that can lock you up.”

“Yeah, we’re not going to do that.”


Deadpool acted fast enough that Peter registered the alarm of his spider-sense in time with the swipe of the mercenary’s leg into the back of his knees. He turned in time to catch the elbow drop to his back, but the force behind it still dropped him to the roof’s surface.

Underestimating Deadpool would always be his biggest mistake.

“But I will tell you what’s going to happen,” Deadpool said. He caught Peter’s arm when he went for a grab and spun, throwing Peter up and then back into the ground. He coughed as he hit, cursing the man’s battle experience and tolerance to pain. “We’re going to go home and clean up. I’m going to make pancakes. And you’re going to take a nap and cool off.”

“I am not going back with you,” Peter said. His wounds burned. He felt them tear open under his skin, so close to being healed but ripped apart once more from the Goblin fight and Deadpool’s attack. “Buy a doll if you want to play house so badly!”

Deadpool grew silent. His grip twisted on Peter’s arm, but he did not reply to the jab. He didn’t move. Deadpool stood there, staring down with heavy breaths. The katana on his back rattled as his body shivered and he dropped his head.

Peter’s spider-sense buzzed.

He didn’t dare move.

“I wasn’t playing house,” Deadpool whispered. “I don’t want a doll.”

Deadpool let go of Peter’s arm.

He scooted back and stood, fingers ready at his web shooters for Deadpool’s next move.

The mercenary looked Peter in the eyes and said, “I want you.”

The throaty, desperate declaration made Peter shiver. He took a step back and Deadpool took one forward.

He needed to leave.

Get help.

Real help.

Deadpool was above his level.

Peter turned on his heel to sprint, but Deadpool used his own perceptive skills to move in sync. He body slammed Peter into the roof and a hand disappeared into the satchel on his waist.

He yelled and used his strength to lurch up and throw Deadpool off, but he wasn’t fast enough. The mercenary dove again, using his bulk and size to his advantage. Deadpool went for Peter’s mask at the crown, ripping it back just enough to expose his mouth and neck.

A needle slammed through his skin and Peter sucked in a breath.

“I bet this burns right through your system,” Deadpool said, his voice heady as he pinned Peter to the roof using his full weight. “But I’m sure it’ll be long enough. Take a nap, Webs.”

Deadpool’s large hand covered his nose and mouth, once more suffocating him. Between the sedative—was that it? A sedative? A tranquilizer? His vision fuzzed. Deadpool whispered in his ear. Peter’s lungs burned. His eyes closed.

He woke up.

“This isn’t permanent.” Deadpool. His nervous voice shot through the haze as Peter turned his head, body slow to move. Deadpool’s boots paced on the concrete floor. “But you wrecked the upstairs and I have to fix that before I can let you free in our house again.”

Peter pushed up on his hands. He saw skin and no sign of red or the web shooters he hid under his sleeves. Peter shook his head and sat up.

Plain walls.

Concrete floor.

He dropped his head and rubbed the sleep and gunk out of his eyes. No mask, either.

“Webs?”

“Am I in a basement?” Peter asked. He couldn’t remember Wade’s house having a basement. But then again, he’d only explored as far as his—no, the guest bedroom—and the small living room attached to the open plan kitchen. “Where are we?”

“Home,” Deadpool said. Peter listened to his boots shifting on the concrete, grinding into the rough floor. “And again—this is temporary.”

Peter dropped his hands and looked around the small basement. Solid walls with no windows. A cot in the corner. A door that was cracked open enough to reveal a toilet and shower. Nothing else.

He moved to stand and heard the “clink.”

“So you know that stuff Wolverine’s claws are made out of?” Deadpool asked, taking another step back. Peter wrapped his hand around the chain that was connected to his leg and pulled hard. Not a link bent. Deadpool cleared his throat. “Same stuff.”

“Wade.” Peter hated the shake in his own voice. He followed the chain to wear it connected to the wall. He’d been wrong. Three walls were solid white and concrete. The one directly behind him was made of the same metal as the shackle and chain connected to his leg. “What is this?”

“Technically, it is a makeshift holding room for any unruly bounties or jobs I need to contain and keep prisoner in the event a client isn’t cooperating or fees need renegotiated,” Deadpool said, using a professional voice. His voice grew higher in pitch as he kept going. “But you’re not a prisoner! I just didn’t have anywhere else to put you while I fixed up the house again.”

Peter stood and walked to Wade, yanking up the loose sweatpants that clearly belonged to the other man. “Let me go.”

“I can’t.” Deadpool’s voice cracked. He shook his head and turned around. Peter made a grab for his arm, but the man broke into a sprint for the stairs. He skipped up them and Peter heard a door open with a slam. “I really can’t. I’m sorry!”

The door shut with a solid click and a lock.

Upstairs, Peter heard Deadpool shout and something break.

“How are you going to get out of this one, Parker?” he whispered to himself.

He couldn’t think of a witty response.

Chapter Text

Peter took a shower.

The adamantium chain had enough slack that he could easily stand in the stall of the small attached restroom without trouble, though it did not extend far enough to reach a window or the upstairs door. Peter let the water rush over his head, soaking his body. Deadpool’s shirt had been thrown on the floor alongside the sweats he’d ripped into shreds to take off.

He’d torn them off in an angry moment when he realized he couldn’t get them around his leg with the chain in the way.

Peter had been more careful with his boxers.

He gently stepped out of them, and let them hang around the chain on the ground just outside of the shower. The last thing he wanted was to be suck in Deadpool’s basement wearing nothing but his oversized t-shirt.

The faucet stuttered and Peter reached up to tap it to force the water through it again. The basement “holding cell” bathroom was barebones, as one would expect. But there was toilet paper, a large towel decorated with a unicorn, and a bottle of soap that doubled as shampoo, so Deadpool had some sense of hospitality even for prisoners.

Once clean, Peter turned off the water and reached for the towel. He took his time drying off and replacing the boxers and t-shirt.

He left the torn fabric leftover from the sweats on the floor and returned to the empty basement.

“Okay, super strength,” Peter said. He approached the wall and rolled his shoulders. “Let’s put it to the test.”

He stuck himself to the floor to create a strong hold and wrapped the chain around his arm and wrist for a better grip. Peter’s test tug earlier had given him an idea of the metal’s strength, but he wouldn’t know just how strong it was until he gave it his all.

Peter closed his eyes and exhaled.

He counted to ten and pulled, forcing his body to recognize the urgency of the situation. Peter needed his adrenaline and gritted his teeth as his muscles burned and he wrenched the chain away from the wall with all his might.

One broken chain.

That’s all Peter needed.

Reed or Mr. Stark could help him get the shackle off his ankle if he could get out of the house and escape. No more going to Harry or Aunt May. He’d go straight to the Avengers and demand to know why they decided a photographer wasn’t worth rescuing.

It may give away his identity, but he felt furious enough to risk it.

“Come on,” Peter growled. His muscles burned and his side ached. Peter’s healing factor screamed at him as he continually pushed it to its limits and yanked harder. Peter felt his muscles tear. He kept pulling. “Come on!”

He let go.

Peter hunched over, his breath heavy and labored as he leaned on his knees. He dropped the chain with a huff and sat on the ground again. Peter fell onto his back and covered his eyes as he caught his breath.

Nothing.

The chemical and physical properties of adamantium ran through Peter’s mind, reminding him of the foolishness of his actions. That stuff wasn’t going to bend. He knew that, but he had to test it. Adamantium was a tricky substance. Maybe it had been formed incorrectly or was impure.

“Deadpool wouldn’t have low quality adamantium,” Peter muttered under his breath. The man’s sporadic nature and spontaneous actions hid a smart mind under it and a skilled mercenary. “I need a new tactic.”

But what could he do?

What did Deadpool want so badly that he’d kidnap one of the few Heroes he’d said repeatedly was one of his heroes?

Peter put his hands on his chest and stared at the ceiling. “Think.”

What did he know?

He knew Deadpool liked him enough to feel guilty about hurting him. Peter had been near death and Deadpool did treat him out of a sense of obligation and desire to see Peter live.

Deadpool had let Peter go once.

He’d felt bad about kidnapping Peter and holding him hostage. The man had been lonely, but he had kept his word—until he took it back and kidnapped Peter from his apartment in a near panicked state.

“What changed?” Peter asked, staring at the ceiling. “Think, Parker!”

The thought hit him and sat up.

Harry.

Deadpool had spied on Peter when he went to see Harry. He kept asking about whether or not Peter had had sex with Harry. Deadpool had left to kill Harry because he’d been jealous.

“Shit,” Peter said under his breath. He’d been so busy worrying about Deadpool hurting Harry that Peter hadn’t thought about why Deadpool wanted to hurt Harry. “Deadpool wants to have sex with me.”

Peter knew that.

The man had offered on more than one occasion in their past meetings. Deadpool had no shame making his interest known. But Peter never gave it a second thought; Deadpool wanted to sleep with everyone.

So it was more than that.

“Deadpool loves me.”


Wade sat in the middle of his living room, staring at his broken coffee table. He’d thrown it across the room when it sunk in what he’d done.

We have Webs trapped in the basement, helpless and at our mercy.

Looking so, so good in our clothes. Wasn’t it nice dressing him up like a doll when—

Shut up.

“I need to think.” Wade stood and gathered the pieces of the coffee table. He threw them in the garage next to his workbench and the cracked chair on his todo list. Wade heard the water rattling through the pipes as Webs made use of the shower downstairs. Naked. Shut up. Wade returned to the main part of the house and went to his bedroom. “And I need to fix that.”

His gun safe sat in the middle of his backyard, left abandoned in the grass and surrounded by chunks of drywall.

At least his fencing kept any nosy neighbors from seeing the damage. The solid wood planks served him well. Loud noises and booms were a regular occurrence around his house, so he was in the clear.

We’d hate to have to move.

Especially after all the trouble we went through setting up that prison downstairs.

“Not a prison,” Wade said. “Just a temporary holding room.”

He disabled the security grid that failed and hopped through the hole in his bedroom wall. Wade grunted as he turned the safe back on its side and checked it for damage. Some of our favorite guns are in there. A dent on the side would need fixing, but it looked okay.

It looked better than his bedroom. The hole in the wall let in the wind and bugs, and Wade did not look forward to sleeping there that night.

We should sleep downstairs and keep Spidey warm.

He’s probably cold with nothing but our loose clothes draped across him. Our body heat and cock could—

SHUT UP.

Wade smacked his head into the side of the safe and groaned. He felt his skull crack and sucked in a breath, his chest heaving through the pain. The healing factor kicked in, of course, and repaired the damage bit by bit.

Once he felt whole, and the voices in his head took a hint and shut up, he cleared his thoughts and focused on getting the safe back into his house. Wade retrieved a hand truck from his garage and moved it back into place. He used the safe to cover up the hole and shoved towels into the spaces it missed.

“Good enough.”

Satisfied that he’d fought the draft, Wade collapsed onto his bed. He ripped off his mask and threw it onto the corner. His popcorn ceiling stared back at him. Wade rolled over onto his stomach.

He had Spider-Man chained to the wall in his basement.

“Why can’t I let him go?” Wade dug his fingers into the back of his head, sinking into the scarred skin. One finger caught in an exposed bit, digging straight into the muscle. “I keep making it worse. He hates me.”

He’ll come around.

“What makes you think that?”

What other choice does he have? He’s stubborn, but he’ll break. We can break him.

“I don’t want to break him.”

Hah. The way your cock twitched when he said your name in fear says otherwise.

You were at half-mast and ran out of there before he noticed.

“That didn’t happen.”

That crack of fear had hurt. Spider-Man saying Wade’s name should send a rush of excitement through him. The joy that someone like Spider-Man knew him. That they were something more than coworkers.

Wade sat up on his knees and glared at the mattress. The fear was wrong and Wade had put it there. His chest hurt. His skin hurt. His eyes watered. Wade worked off his costume top and dropped it on the floor.

Spider-Man shouldn’t be scared of Deadpool.

He was their exception.

The one that could get away with anything he wanted because Deadpool wanted his approval. His affection. Spider-Man was special.

Stop pouting.

He was never going to sleep with us, even before we killed Osborn.

“That’s true.”

Wade kicked off his boots and pants, shucking off his underwear with it. He stood naked in the middle of his room and walked to the bathroom. Wade ripped the old sheet off the mirror he kept in the corner for making sure his favorite dresses and outfits fit over his costume properly and stared at himself.

Ugly.

You wish he were that shallow.

Your looks have nothing to do with why Spidey wouldn’t touch us with a ten foot pole and you know it.

Wade put a hand on his chest. “You’re right.”

He threw the sheet back over the mirror and stepped into the shower. Wade took a cold shower, gritting his teeth under the icy water as it cooled his heated skin. He gently cleaned the exposed portions of his skin and worked through the stinging sensation.

It’d be nice if we had someone else to help, like to get the areas on our back.

Small, gentle hands.

It would be nice. There were spots on Wade’s back that he knew still had bits of dirt sealed into a healed wound. Having someone around that wouldn’t mind a little blood when Wade opened it back up to clean it out would be amazing.

Spidey was the first to show concern about our pain in a long time.

He even asked about it!

And then Wade kidnapped him and shackled him in a basement as thanks. He turned off the water and stepped out, dripping onto his tile floor. Wade opened a drawer and pulled out a shirt and sweats. He dressed and sat on the edge of his bed. He should let Spider-Man go.

After all that trouble?

You want the silent house again?

“No.”

The silent house had been worse than all of Spider-Man’s glaring. Then all of Spider-Man’s fear. Waded hated being alone. No one stayed. He’d kidnapped Al. Weasel stayed friends out of fear. Logan and the other Mutants put up with him. They liked him on occasion, but they wouldn’t live with him.

If Wade wanted to keep Spider-Man, he’d have to keep Spider-Man—with shackles if required.

There we go.

Isn’t it nice to admit that?

“I get it,” Wade whispered. He rubbed his eyes and sucked in a breath. “You win.”

We win.

Because he is going to break. He’s stubborn, but we’re worse. We can wait him out. Spider-Man’ll have no choice but to cooperate or he’ll be stuck in the basement for the rest of his life.

He could choose to stay down there over being with Wade.

Wade snorted and bit his lip. He could see it now: Spider-Man choosing four bare walls and a leaky shower over the plush mattress and hot running water of his bedroom out of spite. How long would he really stay down there before he decided Wade’s company was better than isolation?

How long until he’ll do anything to come back upstairs?

It wouldn’t come to that.

As soon as the walls were fixed and Wade figured out a better Spider-Proof security system, he’d let Webs back into the main house.

He wasn’t a prisoner.

Spider-Man was a house guest.

A temporary house guest.

Once Spider-Man accepted he was home living with Wade, he wouldn’t be a guest.

You can’t be a guest in your own house!

He’d be family.

He’ll be ours.

“Mine.”

Chapter Text

You can’t avoid him forever.

He’s got to eat.

Wade stared inside his fridge, looking for something filling he could cook. He’d declared he’d bring his future-roommate pancakes, but Spidey ate as much as he did. His—while greatly inferior to Wade’s own—healing factor that gave him incentive to eat more than a regular person.

And Wade had left him down there without food all night.

He’d want something more substantial than a stack of pancakes. All that butter and syrup were calories, but maybe not the good kind. Wade grabbed a wrapped pound of hamburger from the top shelf and slammed the door shut with the back of his heel.

“He’s going to think we’re trying to starve him,” Wade said, turning on the stove. It is a popular tactic to break someone. He’d meant to bring dinner down after he showered. We really did mean to! But his warring conscious, decisions made aside, made him a coward. Wade found a pan and unwrapped the hamburger. “Hopefully a big meal makes up for it.”

If not, Spidey could hit him a few times.

He doesn’t have to know we’d get a kick out of that.

Wade couldn’t say that was still true. He had a fantasy or two once upon a time of a rough Spider-Man taking his frustrations out on Wade. He’d be fine with a beating if it gave the other guy an outlet for his anger and calmed him down. But Spidey being mad at him became less and less cute by the passing hour. The closer it came to true hatred, the scarier that thought became.

He reached for his favorite seasoning mix and prepared the meat before dumping it into the tray. The cooking gave Wade an out to his thoughts. He concentrated on the sizzling meat and the quick salad side dish to go with it. Wade finished preparing the meal and set it out on a large tray.

Grab a TV stand.

So he doesn’t have to eat on the floor.

Wade grabbed a TV stand and put it under his arm. He exhaled as he made his way to the basement door in the garage. He juggled the stand and food tray to one side to get the door open and made his way down the tall stairs.

“Spidey? I uh, dropped the ball a bit on the whole food thing last night but I made something great to—”

Wade stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

Is he trying to tempt us?

Because he looks like he’s trying to tempt us.

Spidey sat on the edge of the cot, his legs bare without his pants. He wore nothing but a large oversized shirt that hid whether or not Webs was wearing boxers. Even his feet were bare, showing off every single toe. Wow. Wade wished he’d had his mask on. So Webs can’t see our jaw dropped. He swallowed and forced himself to walk forward once step at a time.

Oh, the possibilities.

Imagine Spidey looking like that and slipping off the bunk. Walking closer to Wade, looking amazing in that oversized shirt. Spidey’s collarbone revealed through the gap in the collar. His hands rubbing up Wade’s clothed thighs, in such contrast to Spider-Man’s bare legs. Kneeling. His hot breath on our cock, mouthing us through the fabric. Spidey with teasing eyes and mumbled words as he asks, “Do you mind?” before revealing that he wasn’t wearing anything under that shirt.

His own hard cock to match Wade’s arousal.

A strong hand ripping Wade’s pants and boxers down, while the other wrapped itself around Spider-Man’s arousal through the t-shirt. He easily took care of them both. His wet, teasing tongue lapped the head of Wade’s cock. Spidey enveloped it inside a warm mouth; happy for taste—

Food.

Wade brought food and the real Webs stared him down from the cot, eyes thoughtful. He didn’t appear out of sorts that Wade had been blankly staring at him for what had to be two minutes. More like five. Webs sat on the bunk patiently. Not angry or containing any promises of paint or retaliation in those hazel eyes.

Webs just watched Wade.

Nothing more.

What does that mean?

He didn’t know.

“You brought food?” Spidey asked, breaking the silence. He pointed at the tray and stood from the cot. He walked closer, making the chain scrape on the ground. He stopped a foot from Wade and said, “It smells good.”

Wade handed it to Spidey and held the TV tray with both hands.

Where’s the anger? The shock of last night wore off, right? He took a shower.

There are so many warning bells ringing it’s hard to think.

“Is that for me, too?” Webs asked, nodding at the TV tray. “I can take it.”

“Yes.”

Wade gave it to him. Webs gave the tray a flick and set it up next to the cot. He set the tray on it and picked up the fork to cut into the noodle-hamburger mix.

More warning bells.

“So, I can’t help but notice you’re calmer,” Wade said, potentially sticking his foot in his mouth. Nothing new there. He cleared his throat and hovered in the middle of the room. He laughed and scratched the back of his head. “That’s good.”

Suspicious.

“Fixing the upstairs is going a little slower than I’d like, but you will be out of this basement soon!” And into our pants. No. Wade glanced around the room but didn’t see the sweatpants Spidey had been wearing. He took a step to the side and spotted torn fabric in the bathroom. “Would you like us to bring you anything? There’s no cable connection down here but I’m sure I could rummage up a DVD player or something.”

Spidey dropped his fork and knife on the empty plate—Wade knew he had to be hungry—and wiped his mouth off with the provided napkin. He stared at the floor and got up, leaving the tray behind as he walked back to Wade in bare feet. He narrowed his eyes as he stopped and his hands clenched into fists.

Here it comes.

This is going to hurt.

“Wade,” Spider-Man said. His fists tightened. Wade braced himself for a super-strength powered punch. Spider-Man looked him in the eye. “Are you in love with me?”


Peter asked.

Deadpool looked like a broken computer failing to process a task—wide eyed, mouth open, and terrified.

He wasn’t surprised when Deadpool sprinted up the stairs cursing under his breath, forgetting to close the door at the top. Peter listened and heard a howl of frustration, somewhere in the middle of the house.

“So, yes then.” Peter rubbed his temples, fighting the oncoming headache. He may have been too blunt bringing everything out into the open. Peter retrieved the TV Tray and dirty dishes, carrying them over to the bottom of the stairs. The chain let him get up two steps before it grew taut. He called up the stairs, “Wade! You forgot the dishes!”

A normal topic could distract him from the panic.

“If you don’t take them upstairs, the food is going to crust on the plate! That’s hard to clean!” Peter yelled up the stairs. A thump answered him, but that could have been anything from Deadpool tripping to throwing something. “You don’t have to answer the question! Just take the plates before they attract ants or something!”

Deadpool’s head popped in the doorway at the top of the stairs. He pointed and yelled, “You take that back! There are no ants in this house!”

“There will be if I set this plate on the ground.” Peter crossed his arms and glared at Wade. An entire stairwell split them, but at least they were talking. “You would be amazed where ants can get in. Trust me. I know bugs.”

“You’re an arachnid,” Deadpool said, grabbing the doorframe. “You aren’t an authority on six-legged creatures!”

“Are you going to get this TV tray or not?” Peter asked. “I don’t want to stare at dirty dishes all night.”

Deadpool’s grip tightened on the doorframe and he stared at Peter, eyes open and wide without the mask. His scarred face twisted as his expression debated whether or not to go downstairs—like he thought it was a trap.

Peter hadn’t planned a trap, but it did give him an idea. He may not know insects inside and out, but he did know spiders and their webs.

“Please, Wade?”

“Dammit,” Deadpool said. He dropped his head and skipped down the stairs, two at a time. “I’ll get them.”

Peter walked backwards down the steps to let Deadpool reach the bottom and give him the illusion of space. When the other man reached for the TV tray, Peter struck.

He grabbed Deadpool’s wrist, holding tight.

“Wade,” Peter said. Deadpool trembled under his hold, but didn’t fight the grip. “You don’t have to answer the question, but I would appreciate it if you did.”

He let go of Deadpool’s wrist and let his arms fall by his sides. Deadpool stared at the ground and held the back of his head with both hands. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out, labored and heavy.

Peter waited.

Ten minutes later, Deadpool answered a soft, “I don’t know.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t know,” Deadpool repeated. He inhaled, his breath shaking. “I don’t know.”

Peter reached a hand out, but hovered it close to Deadpool’s shoulder. Not touching. Not yet. Not when Deadpool looked ready to break apart with skin already barely holding him together. “Wade?”

Deadpool’s shoulders hunched. He dug his fingers so hard into the back of his head that the skin split. A trickle of blood ran down before he let go and the skin patched itself back together.

“I don’t know!” he shouted. Peter’s spider-sense sprung to life and he jerked back, putting himself out of arm’s reach. Deadpool looked up, eyes wide. Peter missed Deadpool’s mask, hiding the pain in them with bright lenses. “Not the answer you wanted, is it?”

Peter kept his mouth shut. No wisecrack would calm Deadpool down—too many real emotions were on the line.

“Why couldn’t you have asked an easier question?” Deadpool took a step closer. A louder buzzing. Peter winced as a headache pounded behind his eyes as his body continued to warn him. Deadpool’s lip curled as he threw his hands out. “Couldn’t you have asked: Wade, do you want to fuck me? I could say yes to that!”

“I know,” Peter said. He swallowed and weighed his words. “This whole situation feels bigger than that and I just want to know what’s going on in your head.”

“That makes two of us,” Deadpool said. He snarled and licked his lip. “And what if I was in love with you? A horrible monster like me loving a Hero like you. You’d be disgusted, wouldn’t you?”

His spider-sense said “Answer carefully, Peter.”

Deadpool looked coiled to spring. Peter was the stronger one between the two of them, but Deadpool could regenerate. That man could go on forever—fight forever—and Peter was chained to the wall while his spider-sense told him to run.

“I’m not disgusted, Wade,” Peter said, making sure to keep his voice even. “I promise.”

“Then why are you backing away?” Deadpool asked. The spider-sense continued to ring in his head like a siren. Get away. Move. Run. Deadpool shouted, “Why are you scared?”

“I’m not scared,” Peter lied. He took a step back and cursed under his breath as he proved the lie with that single movement, but his spider-sense would not shut up. He couldn’t think through the wave of instincts telling him he would die if he didn’t leave. “Calm down, Wade.”

“You are not supposed to be scared of me,” Deadpool said. He stomped closer and Peter took another step back. Deadpool yelled in frustration and threw his hands out, fingers turning in as he gritted his teeth. “No! No! That! I hate it when you’re scared of me! Stop being scared of me!”

“Then stop trying to hurt me!” Peter screamed back. “And I won’t be scared!”

“I’m not trying to hurt you!” Deadpool shouted. “I don’t want to hurt you!”

He may believe that.

But Peter’s spider-sense knew better. Deadpool was a threat and Peter couldn’t get out. How long could he really fight if Deadpool went after him for real? He’d already proven he could outlast Peter’s strength and the pain. He’d taken him down twice when Peter had the advantage.

Deadpool had all the power.

“You do,” Peter said, wincing with the increase of the warning after the accusation. “Maybe you don’t realize it, but you do.”

“I don’t!” Deadpool stepped forward and grabbed Peter by the arms. He lifted and screamed in his face. “Don’t think you know my head better than I do! You can’t possibly know what’s in here!”

“I do,” Peter hissed back. “Put me down.”

“Stop looking at me like that!” Deadpool whined. His grip tightened. It squeezed the muscles and Peter winced. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

His spider-sense screamed.

His muscles burned; he felt the bruises grow.

“You’re going to kill me, Wade, if you don’t stop,” Peter said, growling through gritted teeth. His heart raced. He might die. He might actually die and not a one of his powers could save him from a hurting mercenary. “Please put me down before you do something you can’t take back.”

“Stop trying to be in my head,” Deadpool said, voice low. Angry. Peter’s spider-sense kept ringing. Kept yelling. He wasn’t safe. Deadpool pressed their foreheads together and his breath washed over Peter’s mouth. “How could you possibly know what I’m going to do?”

Peter had to convince Deadpool he was telling the truth.

That he could know Deadpool better than Wade knew himself.

“I have precognition!”


Spider-Man’s shout echoed in Wade’s ear.

What did he say?

Precognition.

“Explain,” Wade said. Put him down. Spider-Man’s breath shuddered as he kept his gaze with Wade. He’s still scared. Terrified that Wade would hurt him. Kill him. He dropped Spider-Man and backed away. What was he doing? “Please.”

Spider-Man relaxed.

The fear dripped away.

Like flipping a light switch.

Like he…actually knows we aren’t a threat.

But was he before?

“Spidey?”

“One of my powers is a warning system,” Spider-Man said, eyes dropping to the ground. He put a hand on the back of his neck and rubbed it into his skin. “Precognition is the closest thing I can think to call it, though it’s not that specific since it doesn’t tell me the details of the event that’s about to happen—just that something is going to hurt me. Whenever something means me harm, I get a tingle or a buzz in the back of my head—almost like an alarm. The more of a threat, the louder it is—even to the point of being painful.”

We’ve seen it.

“The door,” Wade said, whispering. “When you reached for the handle you stopped because you knew it was going to shock you.”

Those good instincts of his are better than we thought.

Why can’t his healing factor be like that?

“It’s very useful,” Spider-Man said, speaking up again. He ruffled his own hair and laughed, putting his hand over his stomach. “It’s how I dodge bullets and predict when someone’s going to throw a punch. I know it’s coming before it happens, so if I get hit by a thrown ball by a bully or one of Doc Oc’s arms, it’s because I either let it happen or someone was faster than I could react.”

Like taking a bullet for Osborn.

Do not talk.

Let him finish.

Wade bit his lip until it bled to keep from speaking.

“I call it my spider-sense,” Spider-Man said, half cracking a smile. He caught himself before his eyes found Wade again. “A minute ago, it was screaming in my head. That’s how I knew you were going to kill me.”

“And now?”

“Quiet.” Spider-Man dropped his hands by his sides and turned his face away from Wade. “Your killer intent can flip on and off so fast my spider-sense has a hard time keeping up with it. It’s kinda stressful, Wade.”

“How many times have I wanted to kill you?” Wade asked. He’d hurt Spider-Man before, but he’d never wanted to kill him. But if what Spider-Man said was true…he wanted to kill him at least once without knowing. How many more times? “You know, right?”

“I don’t know,” Spider-Man said. He rubbed his arms before he jumped up and landed on the ceiling. He rested his elbows on his knees and let the chain hang down, knocking against his side. “It warns against threats of any kind. Anything that can hurt me, it tells me. The severity increases, but there’s a fine line between wanting to beat me bloody me and flat out kill me.”

Well, that’s helpful.

Sounds annoying.

Shut up.

“When I’m fighting, sometimes I have to ignore it because it’s a constant buzz,” Spider-Man said. “I’m always in danger. It gets me in trouble sometimes because I miss the spikes of warning that tell me someone’s about to get the upper hand.”

“Yeah?” Wade asked. He swallowed and glanced up. Spider-Man looked very small on the ceiling, holding the oversized shirt close so it wouldn’t fall off. “Seems like a waste of a tool.”

“Maybe,” Spider-Man said. He met Wade’s gaze again and licked his lip. “You’re the first person I’ve told that my spider-sense exists.”

“Really?”

“It’s the one power that gives me a real edge in fights and puts me one-step ahead of everyone else. I’m fast, strong, and flexible, but my spider-sense moves me before I can think to,” Spider-Man said. “It’s a raw instinct that allows me to fight the way that I fight. If people knew about it, they could find a way to block it or shut it down. It’s better for them to think I’m skilled without assistance.”

So why’d he tell us?

We are the worst sort of person to have that information.

There was only one way to find out.

“Why tell me?” Wade asked. “After everything I’ve done, why give me that edge?”

“I want you to trust me,” Spider-Man said. He dropped his head into his knees before jumping back down to the floor. He stood in front of Wade and pressed his lips together. “I am not disgusted by you, Wade. I’m angry that you killed Norman Osborn. I’m frustrated that you are keeping me here. I’m scared that I won’t get through to you before things go too far, but I’m not disgusted by your feelings.”

He won’t return them, though.

Which is the part that hurts more.

We’d be better off if he was disgusted and hated us.

“I get it,” Wade whispered. He reached up and touched Spider-Man’s cheek, running his thumb across the skin. “Is that spider-sense yelling now?”

Spider-Man shook his head.

It should be.

“I’m sorry,” Wade said. He let go and turned around. Wade collected the dirty dish and the TV tray at the bottom of the stairs. “I need to fix the wall.”

“Wade,” Spider-Man said. He followed Wade to the stairs, cursing when the adamantium chain halted him at the second step. Wade continued to climb, tray under his arm and plate hanging by his side. Crumbs scattered on the steps. Huh. Maybe we will get ants. Spider-Man yelled, “Wade! Come back!”

Wade shut the door.

He dropped the plate on the coffee table and tossed the TV tray on the couch. Wade went into the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed.

“It’s weird.”

What is?

“Knowing why Spider-Man was never scared of us before.”

Why is that weird?

We always knew he was different.

“I thought he trusted me not to hurt him.”

What are you getting at?

“It was never about trust,” Wade said. He dug his palms into his eyes and felt the scream of frustration burn at his throat. “He didn’t have to trust us because he knew! His instincts told him!”

Isn’t that good? He always knew our true intentions.

It wasn’t the same.

It isn’t?

“It’s not.”

Does that change anything?

“I don’t know.”