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Sex, Lies and Arguing About Chores

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An hour ago Wade had changed into his suit in the alley behind the apartment, casting furtive glances up at the windows, willing Peter not to look out. It had crossed his mind that he could have found somewhere more discrete to make his transformation into Deadpool and he had wondered if part of him wanted to be found out, to get it over with and know now how Peter would react. He also wondered which part of him that was, there were so many it was sometimes hard to keep track.

But no one did see him and now he is across town, crouching in a condemned apartment block, squinting through his binoculars at the newer, shinier apartment block opposite. This area is up-and-coming.

This is his third condemned apartment block this week, they were almost starting to feel like home - he's lost track of the nights spent lying amongst the dust and broken furniture of places like this - but now he has an apartment! A bedroom, a kitchen, a couch, a hot roommate. All that good stuff. Wade smiles to himself at the thought of his afternoon with Peter; it's been a long time since anyone has put up with him for as long as this. Sometimes other supers will tolerate him for a while but it always ends in tears, or blood. Peter actually seems to like him, or he does a good job of pretending. Wade could get used to that.

[Yeah that's probably not a good idea chief]

“Fuck off I’m working,” Wade growls and, as if the words were his cue, a young man in a suit and dark overcoat enters the living room of the opposite apartment. He has blond hair and a handsome, if somewhat bland, face. He puts down an expensive looking briefcase, takes off his coat and jacket, throws them over the back of an uncomfortable looking chair, kicks off his shiny shoes and sits down on the arm of the cream leather couch. He flicks on the huge TV and flips channels disinterestedly while he loosens his tie.

Wade puts down the binoculars and picks up his rifle, bracing it against his shoulder as he watches though the scope, the cross-hairs hovering above the man’s head.

There is a dossier on Wade’s phone and as usual he has only glanced at it but a glance was enough. The pictures of the aftermath of this killer’s handiwork would haunt the dreams of anyone who didn’t already have worse stuff up there. There aren’t supposed to be people like that but if anyone knows that’s bullshit, it’s Wade.

The man runs his hand over his smooth, straight hair and stretches his shoulders. The bell must have rung because he smiles a small smile, gets up and opens the door that leads to the hall. On the other side is a woman of indeterminate age, cheaply dressed in a short red pleather dress and a black and white fake-fur coat with more than a hint of skunk about it. Her short hair is bottle blonde and brittle, her face a mask of cheap make-up. He greets her and gestures in welcome, her smile behind his back as she follows him is thin and chilly.

“Oh let’s do this.” Wade grins.

The woman walks over to the giant window and she stares out of the window. For a split second her eyes seem too yellow in the glow of street lamps and all of a sudden the blinds lower like narrowing eyes, obscuring the huge windows and Wade lowers the rifle, hissing through his teeth. Shit. Plan B.

“Fuck. We’re gonna have to do this the old fashioned way.”

He drops the rifle back into the Hello Kitty bag and shoves it under a pile of wood. He has everything else he needs stashed in his pouches and strapped to his body.

He goes back to the broken window and looks down into the darkened street. With a shrug he takes a flying leap out of the window, aiming roughly for a pile of trash by the wall and takes off running the moment he hits the ground, not stopping to take account of injuries sustained. Something in his knee crunches unpleasantly, making him wince slightly as he runs, but it will heal. No time now.

He runs for the entrance way to the apartment building, pell-mell through the glass lobby, ignoring the yells of the security guards, through the door to the stairwell and up four floors without a pause. He stands by the door to the corridor, not even a little out of breath, draws a gun from his thigh holster and pulls the slide back as quietly as he can. He opens the door slowly and looks out into the nondescript hallway with its mass produced ‘artwork’ and pale pink and grey walls. How do people live in places like this without going nuts? It must be like living in an office block.

“Oh well, let's give them a night to fucking remember,” he says with a grin as he strides down the hall and kicks down the door to the apartment he'd been watching.

The door explodes in a shower of splinters - shoddy workmanship – and Wade pauses for a moment until he hears a muffled yell from a room to his left. He kicks his way through that one as well and finds the blond man lying naked on the rug by the bed, while the woman kneels over him, pinning his arms to the floor. She has driven a long silver knife into his chest, blood bubbles up and pours down his flank in crimson rivulets.

Her head snaps around to face Wade as he enters, her eyes flash gold and she hisses. With a growl she is up and hurling herself at him before he can make a move, he flails as she wraps around him like a murderous octopus and they both crash to the floor. The woman, or whatever she is, is unnaturally strong, fighting like a banshee, clawing and gouging and making a sound that he's pretty sure will be featuring in his nightmares for a good while. The man lying on the rug is making a wet, choking noise that sounds distressingly unhealthy.

Wade manages to fling her off, sending her crashing into the TV at the foot of the bed. Broken glass flies but scarcely seems to slow her down before she's back on her feet and throwing herself toward him again. This time however she doesn’t stop, she runs past him and out to the living room, Wade lets fly two rounds in her direction but she’s way ahead of him, darting out of the open door faster than anyone in 6 inch Lucite heels should really be able to run.


Wade follows her to the door and fires twice more down the corridor just for the sake of it but she’s long gone. He drops his head back and gives a groan of frustration.

“Fuck! Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuuckkk!”

Back in the bedroom he looks down at the man coughing blood onto the floor; that can't be good. He kneels next to him and frowns at the knife in his chest, the blood drooling from his mouth. He can already hear sirens in the distance, courtesy of the gunshots.

“Well this is a fine mess you've gotten into isn't it? Bet you weren't expecting that,” he says conversationally. The man coughs stickily, “Well that's easy for you to say,” Wade nods. He pauses, looking around at the minimalist, beige room, “Man, do you have something against comfort? Doesn't look like anyone even lives here. This is like some kinda Patrick Bateman shit right here. If I hadn't had the dossier – which I totally did actually read by the way – sort of – I’d have figured you for a serial killer purely based on the interior décor. Did you even try not to be such a cliché?”

The man's eyes are wide and he tries to speak but nothing comes out, Wade sighs and presses the barrel of his gun against the man's forehead, “This feels kinda redundant to tell the truth,” he admits, “That whatever-the-hell-that-was pretty much did the job for me. Shoulda let you two take each other out – you kinda deserved each other - but you’re supposed to be my hit and I need to get paid so I can make it fucking rain for my baby boy. Well he ain't mine yet but I've got dreams y’know. Anyway, I still gotta keep a roof over my head, so…”

By the time the police arrive and storm into the apartment, the man who'd gutted his way through a slew of women over the last few months is already dead from a combination of a gunshot wound to the head and the attempted removal of his heart with what appears to be someone's bare hand.

When the police find the boxes of ‘souvenirs’ hidden in the freezer they become a lot less interested in finding the man's killer.

Wade is long gone. Back in the abandoned building he collects his Hello Kitty bag and strips off the blood soaked suit. He puts the sweatpants and hoodie back on and does his best to clean up most of the other, more visible blood before he heads for home.


Peter swings back toward his apartment with arms that feel like lead. His shoulders scream and if it wasn’t for the pain he's pretty sure he would actually be asleep in mid-air. He hasn't had a night this busy for a while, he’d caught five muggers, foiled three minor robberies and beat the ever living shit out of an attempted rapist, dropped them all off at the police station and received nothing but suspicion and resentment in return, as usual. As he escorted the victims home he tried to reminding himself that they were what mattered, not the appreciation – or lack of it - of the police.

As he approaches home he slows, there is a light on in his apartment so Wade must be back. Quickly he drops down to the alley behind his building and changes quickly into his regular clothes, stashes his suit and mask in his backpack and slings it over his shoulder.


“Hey Petey!...Holy shit what happened to you?!”

Peter freezes in the doorway, eyes wide – what has he forgotten, how has he given himself away? Wade was lying on the couch, playing with his phone and ignoring the TV when Peter entered, he is now sitting bolt upright and staring at him with a panicked expression. Peter raises a hand to his cheek tentatively and feels something warm and sticky, he pulls his hand away and sees dark, partially clotted blood. Crap! Quick, think of something! Why am I covered in cuts and bruises?

“No big deal, I kinda got mugged,” he says trying for casual and immediately regretting it when Wade’s expression darkens.

“What?” Wade’s voice is low, almost a growl. Peter’s heart thumps against his chest. What the hell? Wade is right in front of him now, glaring at the wound on his cheek. He looks furious. His jaw is clenched as he reaches out and grips Peter’s jaw carefully, turning his head to see more clearly, eyes scanning for further injuries, “Who did this? What did he look like?” he demands, “I will fuck him the fuck up.”

Peter swallows hard, shit, shit this was a bad idea. Abort! Abort!He smiles and shrugs, trying to hide his wince at the pain in his shoulders lest he set off another wave of whatever the hell is going on here.

“I don't know…didn't get a good look at him, he had a hoodie on. It's fine, it doesn't feel as bad as it looks.” he can’t bring himself to meet Wade’s gaze.

Wade still looks furious but conflicted, as if he's torn between roaming the streets looking for the (imaginary) mugger and never leaving Peter alone again. In the end he takes Peter by the wrist and drags him back to the couch.

“You gotta take it easy ok? Sit down, relax, I'll…um…” he looks about, “You got first aid stuff?”

Peter nods, still a little disoriented by all the attention. He points to the bathroom, “Cabinet,” he says, trying to get up, “I’ll get it.”

Wade’s already there, “S’ok, sit,” he says firmly. Peter sits back down.

Wade comes back with arms full of supplies, trailing half unrolled gauze and cotton wool balls. “Wow, you've really got all the bases covered,” he says as he unloads alcohol, suture, sterile needles, scalpel blades, bandaids, tape, bandages and god knows what else onto the coffee table.

Peter clears his throat, trying to think of a reason why a man who works as a journalist would have what is essentially a field surgery kit in his bathroom. He decides to just nod and say nothing.

Wade takes one of the cotton wool balls and pours on some alcohol, he holds it up, “Might sting,” he says apologetically. Peter nods and watches Wade as he presses the wool to his wound, blotting at the almost dried blood carefully. It does sting, a bit, but Peter's well used to it by now although the ethanol fumes make his eyes water. Wade is focussed on his work, he bites his lip as he concentrates. His teeth seem weirdly perfect against his scarred skin. Peter watches him and feels something flutter in his stomach.

It is so strange to be the object of such singular focus. He can't remember the last time someone paid this much attention to him. Most of the time he relishes the anonymity, wants people to ignore him, forget him, that's part of what having a secret identity is about. The closer they look the more likely they are to see through the disguise. But sometimes it's hard being alone and knowing that he should stay that way because, in the end, not being alone always brings pain and danger and suffering and death.

Wade is surprisingly gentle for someone so huge and so brash. He moves carefully, patting at the wound, creating a growing pile of bloody cottonwool, until he is satisfied that it's clean. He looks up when he's done and Peter, caught unawares, finds himself staring into bright blue eyes inches from his own. He blinks in surprise and almost chokes. As he takes in his unexpectedly extreme-close-up view of Wade’s face, his eyes, high cheekbones, strong jawline, wide mouth, Peter realises, with a degree of shock, that Wade is actually beautiful. Like, behind the scars and wounds that hide him he is genuinely, properly, intimidatingly gorgeous. This is something of a revelation.

Neither of them move for whole seconds.

Wade’s focus is no less intense now, his eyes are slightly narrowed like he's trying to figure something out.

Peter swallows hard, he's pretty sure he can hear his own heartbeat, he wouldn't be surprised if Wade could hear it. He's sure he's seconds away from grabbing his brand new roommate by the back of the head and kissing him like his life depends on it, when Wade smiles and sits back.

“Don't think you need stitches, not that deep.”

Peter nods and doesn't trust himself to speak for a moment. He knows the wound is already healing, by tomorrow it will be almost gone – another thing he’ll have to explain. See, this is why it's dangerous to let people get too close. He’ll notice the healing.

“Thanks Wade,” he says after a moment.

“S’ok…you sure you don't know who did it?” he asks, sounding dangerous again.

“No, sorry, didn't get a good look really. One strung out white dude in a hoodie looks pretty much like another you know?”

Wade nods, “Well, if you see him again point him out.”

Peter nods, finding himself feeling scared on behalf of a man he made up. He really wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of Wade. He sighs, “I'm beat man, I'm gonna go crash. Thanks for the assist.” He gets up, patting Wade’s shoulder as he passes.

Wade looks up at him, a thoughtful expression on his face, “Ok Petey. Sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite.”

Peter laughs, “I'll have you know we don't have bed bugs in this house,” He sniffs hautily.

As he walks to his room he passes Wade’s hold-all, as he glances down at it, smiling at the Hello Kitty design, he notices something that makes him yelp.

Wade looks over, “S’up?”

Peter points at the large red stain on the side of the bag which is dangerously close to ruining the carpet, “What the fuck is that!” he exclaims, trying not to sound too horrified, because he's pretty sure it's blood.

Wade is up and vaulting over the back of the couch before he can take another breath, he grabs the bag, holding it aloft and checking for other stains, “Shit! My bad!” he says.

Peter stares at him in mute horror, “Is that…?”

Wade looks almost embarrassed, “Yeah it’s blood, I mean…it’s rat blood. It got on my work clothes, I put them in the bag and…”

“Rat blood!” Peter looks at him incredulously, “What the fuck do you use to kill them? A fucking chainsaw?”

Wade shakes his head, a tiny smirk in the corner of his mouth, “It was a bit of a tricky one…more than I was expecting. Had to get creative.”

Peter shudders, he dreads to think what that consisted of, “Nice,” he says, making a face, “Well just…please don't get rat blood on the carpet in the future – I can't believe that's a thing I'm having to say by the way - and please, please don't wash your work clothes in my machine. There's a laundry at the end of the block.”

Wade grins, “No probs Petey.”

Peter yawns and realises he is far too tired to deal with rat blood, injuries and inappropriate crushes.

“Good night Wade.”

“Night Petey.”


After Peter’s gone Wade lets out a relieved breath, throws his bag in the kitchen sink and stands alone, staring out of the window. Fuck! Way to nearly give the fucking game away on the first day.

[You really are a useless sack of shit aren't you]

{That was totally amateur hour big guy}

“I really don't need you assholes to tell me that.”

{Nice job grossing him out with the rat blood though}

“Yeah, well I figured it would be less mentally scarring than admitting it was human blood.”


[He’s gonna find out one of these days though and then…so long apartment, so long new friend, so long everything…you'll be back sleeping on trash in alleys and it'll just be the three of us again. Like it always is in the end.]

“Fuck you.”

Wade considers the last hour, the utter rage he had felt when Peter said he’d been mugged. The thought of it still makes his hands clench into fists at his sides. He is going to find the asshole who did it if he has to kill every skinny white guy in a hoodie between here and Jersey. He hadn’t expect to react so violently but it had felt almost sacrilegious. How could someone harm Peter? Peter is perfect.

{But it did mean we got to help him. We got to sit close to him, stare at that beautiful face…and, is it just me or did anyone else think he looked like he…was kinda into us? When we were patching him up?}

There is silence from all three of them for a moment while they consider this possibility. Wade replays the moment he and Peter had looked at each other, the flush on Peter’s skin, his dilated pupils. Then the hand on his shoulder as he passed that lingered a split second too long. He had definitely been aware of something different there. Is there a chance that Perfect Peter is into him?

[Fuck no! Have you seen him? What the fuck would he want with you?]

Oh yeah. Good point.