Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Deadpool watched from the shadows as Spider-Man swung in a wide arc, twisting and turning in a ballet of acrobatics and speed. The masked vigilante landed on top of an old warehouse—because his villains still always chose warehouses, apparently—and waved a corked glass vial in the air. A blue liquid sloshed around wildly.

“One little sip, man! That’s all it takes,” Spider-Man shouted towards the empty roof.

Deadpool hadn’t heard that warm timbre in years—his voice sounded deeper and raspier than he remembered. He leaned in, eager for more. 

The roof trembled as an animated mountain of a green jelly-like substance burst from the vents, towering over Spider-Man. It roared, flinging bits of goo that stuck to the spandex of the vigilante’s suit.

“Eugh. Looks like I’m in a sticky situation,” Spider-Man cringed.

Deadpool rolled his eyes at the same time that the green goo man bellowed again.

Spider-Man snorted, sounding smug as he said, “Yeah, you’re right. That was a low blow.” He jumped to the top of the nearest metal spire, getting as close to eye-level with the green goo man as he could with the monster’s staggering height.

He still hadn’t picked up on Deadpool’s presence, preoccupied enough by the villain of the week that even his enhanced senses were not privy to the mercenary’s thundering heart and watchful gaze.

Deadpool slinked out from the concealment of an industrial fan, making his way to the spire's base. He looked up, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face as his gaze landed on Spider-Man’s red and black-clad backside—still as perfectly defined as ever.

{Damn. We’ve missed those sweet spandexed cheeks.}

Spider-Man uncorked the vial and tilted it towards the goo’s mouth. “Open up! Here comes the airplane!” 

Deadpool, forever the opportunist, decided at that moment to reveal himself. "Ooh!" he gasped. “I didn’t know you were into Mommy-play!?"

Spider-Man jolted, body jerking forward as if he'd been hit. The vial flew from his hand, sailing through the air. He shot a web to catch it in a panic. He managed to grab the base of the glass, but the blue liquid splashed onto the ground as the vial tipped upside down. The cork was still tightly clenched in his other hand.

Whipping around, he hissed, “Seriously!? What the hell are you doing here?”

Deadpool’s smile fell into a pout. “Hello to you, too, Grumpy. I see your people skills haven’t improved since we last talked.” 

Spider-Man held up a finger in a wait gesture and turned back towards the roof, eyeing the villain. The green goo monster had already switched its focus to the metal water tanks, trying to smash them with its gelatinous fists. Luckily, it seemed like the tanks were doing more damage to the goo than the monster was doing to them.

Spider-Man faced Deadpool once more, jaw clenched. “I know this isn’t something you’re capable of understanding, but I’m trying to do some good here. Leave.”

Deadpool fiddled with a pink and blue belt on his waist, the colors bold like cotton candy. He huffed—he had an agenda, and they were running late. “Yeah, yeah, you’re busy playing hero. Booger-Man, awesome. Hey, have you ever been to New Jersey?”

Spider-Man climbed down the spire and crossed his arms. “Deadpool, I’m serious.”

“You act like you’re solving global warming or getting Elon banned from America. I have something more important for us to do!” Deadpool grabbed Spider-Man’s wrist and yanked him into his chest.

“Really? A hug?” Spider-Man started to push away from Deadpool but the mercenary tightened his grip. “Ugh, why do you smell like beef—”

“Hold that thought.” Deadpool shifted, his hand going to his belt again. He let out a grunt. “That’s it—” A loud pop rang out and the ground disappeared. After a brief weightlessness, they were free-falling through a cloud of cerulean smoke. 

Spider-Man yelped. “What the—”

“Yay! My teleporter still works!” Deadpool cheered. 

With a sudden lurch, they were swept into a thick netting, dangling upside down above a concrete floor. Their bodies pressed together tightly, chest to chest, like two sardines in a can. Spider-Man kicked around wildly but the tight netting didn’t allow for much movement. Deadpool could feel the friction like bolts of electricity, the warmth of the vigilante’s body against his making his head spin.

Spider-Man smelled the same as he always had, a mixture of earthiness and some sort of mechanical oil. Deadpool resisted the urge to huff in a deep, creepy sniff.

{And they say chivalry is dead.}

“Of course you would drop us right into a trap!” Spider-Man kept kicking, bucking his hips back and forth as if the netting would loosen with enough force.

Deadpool moaned. “Baby boy, please stop squirming. Unless you want my gun to start shooting blanks all over the place. And by gun, I mean—”

“Shut up!”

“What!? How would you feel if I shimmied all over your spandex parts? I bet you’d release your webbing all over my—”

“Shutupshutupshutup!” Spider-Man thrashed again, shoving an elbow into Deadpool’s gut.

Deadpool grunted. “B-T-W, yelling is also one of my kinks.”

“You’re disgusting,” Spider-Man decided. He shook his head as much as he could with the restricted movement. “Like, seriously. You know they make self-help books now? I'll even loan you my library card.” 

Spider-Man was still as feisty as ever. Deadpool scoffed, the bickering rolling off his tongue easily, “And I have a great self-help book for that ridiculous paradoxical self-hating superiority complex you have.”

“Yeah? Well you can shove that book right up your—”

“I suggest starting with the anger chapter!” 

BANG!

A bullet whizzed by their heads.

“Would you two shut the hell up!?” bellowed a deep voice that had been victimized by one too many cigarettes. It belonged to a goon who stood beneath the net trap with a large military-style weapon in hand.

Deadpool glared. “We’re having a moment here, Captain Camel! Go take a smoke break!” Then he stage-whispered to Spider-Man, “Total homophobe, that guy.”

Spider-Man scoffed. “Deadpool, stop. Where are we? Why did you bring me here?”

“Ugh. It’s always ‘Why are you putting me in mortal peril?’ with you, and never ‘How are you doing, hot stuff?’ or even, ‘Is that a new suit material? You’re looking extra yoked today.' Just something nice for once, I dunno.”

“I’m going to kick so hard when we get out of here that your eighth great grandkid will have a boot-shaped dent in their forehead,” Spider-Man grit. Then he paused. “Wait—what happened to the leather?” 

Deadpool tried to shrug but his arm was pressed too tightly against his side. “I realized the Dominatrix vibe just wasn’t for me—too many whips and chains, not enough guns and grenades. I only roll in Kevlar now." At Spider-Man's confused head tilt, he added, "I found Daredevil’s suit guy.” 

Spider-Man hummed. “How is the Devil nowadays? Wait, don’t answer that. I’m still mad at you—”

“Enough!” The goon below them growled. “For years, I have been building my underground army of misfits and rejects—”

“Uh-uh!” Deadpool interrupted, “Can we, like, put a rain check on the villain monologuing? I haven’t even told Spidey my brilliant master plan yet!”

The goon scratched his head, face scrunched, but remained silent.

“You?” Spider-Man snorted. "You have a plan?” 

{Hater!}

Deadpool gasped. “Hey! Don’t make me channel my inner Abby Lee Miller. You WILL be at the bottom of the pyramid next week. Right next to Bounty Hunter Wolverine and that bitch with a bob who messed up my Starbucks order this morning.” 

The vigilante sighed. “Deadpool—”

“Anyways, I came to you so we could work together! My plan is for you to make all the plans!”

Spider-Man took a deep, measured breath like he was one more sentence away from strangling him with his bare hands. “I thought I made it clear that I want nothing to do with you. You’re unhinged. You can’t be trusted. Our last mission with the Avengers—”

"Okay, okay, I get it," Deadpool huffed. "My therapist—and probably everyone I’ve ever put in the hospital—says I have a serious issue with this whole 'moral compass' thing. So, I need you to teach me! I want to be a good guy now! And you’re like, the bestest good guy, so you’re most fit for the job!”

He desperately hoped Spider-Man didn’t have some weird ability to sniff out half-truths. What Deadpool wanted was Spider-Man back in his life, and that could never happen unless he aligned himself more with the vigilante’s moral code. But Deadpool wasn’t a good guy, and Spider-Man was one of the most irritatingly smart people he’d ever met. He would've seen right through Deadpool’s bullshit if he had shown up claiming to be some sort of reformed hero.

Still, Deadpool knew Spider-Man had a soft spot for idiots wanting second chances. If Deadpool pretended to have a newfound urge to ditch his ruthless mercenary ways, he figured it might just be enough to get Spider-Man to take him on as a passion project. Some distant part of Deadpool even thought there might be some truth to it. He didn’t give a shit about Spider-Man’s 'no killing' nonsense, not really—but it made the vigilante happy, and that was something Deadpool could get behind.

Spider-Man thrashed side to side. “No way! I need out of this thing so I can never see you again.” 

Deadpool moaned at the movement. “Alright, that’s it. I need to get out of here.” He put pressure on his arm, dragging it further from his side. “Stop wiggling! I’m gonna—I’m gonna—”

“Wait! Dude, ew, not right now—” Spider-Man frantically shifted away.

CRACK!

A noise akin to an elephant sitting on a bag of tortilla chips cut through the air as Deadpool bent his arm at an angle that a contortionist would gawk at. He grunted, retrieving his knife from his back holster. He swiped at the netting to slice a large enough hole for the two of them to fall through. Gunfire started raining towards them from all angles, revealing a gaggle of cronies that had been in hiding.

“Jesus, ‘Pool!” Spider-Man yelped. He twisted mid-air, landing silently with his hands between his legs.

Deadpool landed face first, adding another crunch to the cacophony. “You’re welcome,” he said, voice muffled by concrete.

Spider-Man grabbed Deadpool’s shoulder with an iron grip, yanking him into a standing position. “Come on, you—you Canadian idiot!”

He ushered them through the warehouse, shooting webs into the faces of gunmen as they passed. He briefly let go of Deadpool’s shoulder to backflip off a wall, incapacitating three men in one sweeping kick as he twisted down. 

Deadpool reached for his katana with his good arm before he could think better of it.

Spider-Man stopped him with a sharp look. “Seriously, dude? You just said you want to do better.” He slammed his elbow into the temple of the last man chasing them and the goon crumpled to the ground.

Deadpool holstered his weapon with a huff. “My bad. Old habits die hard, jeez, sue me.” 

Spider-Man shot a web at Deadpool's face, but the mercenary dodged it with a quick side-step. Behind him, he heard a grunt and spun around just in time to see a gunman drop to the ground, webbed in the face. The gunman’s weapon was still aimed at Deadpool. Without missing a beat, Spider-Man shot another web, striking the barrel with precision.

Deadpool had thought Spider-Man was aiming at him out of anger, but it turned out the vigilante had anticipated his flinch. He turned back to Spider-Man, hands on his hips. "What was that for?"

“This is serious, Deadpool.” Spider-Man stood rigid, hand still aimed towards Deadpool’s face.

{Hot.}

Deadpool chuckled, though he felt his heart rate uptick. “Hey, you know, Spidey, I really could totally turn my life around and become a vigilante like you. Maybe I’ll start by not killing anyone today. Just brutally injure, maybe paralyze. That’s gotta count for something, right?” 

“There’s more to it than that.” Spider-Man stayed in a position ready to fire, trembling almost imperceptibly. 

Deadpool waved his hand. “Yeah, yeah. I’m just saying. If I tried—and I am totally willing to, trust me—I could be pretty good at it I think. I just need your mentoring!”

“You murdered innocent people,” Spider-Man bit. “Or have you already forgotten why I want nothing to do with you anymore?”

Deadpool stepped forward so that he towered over the vigilante. Spider-Man seemed to have shrunken down since they last met, body dwarfed entirely by Deadpool’s shadow. Still, Deadpool knew the man could take him down easily if he wanted. He was willing to take the risk.

“I already apologized,” Deadpool said. “And it won’t happen again. I told you—I’m doing things your way now.” 

The silence stretched on uncomfortably long, and with each passing second, Deadpool felt more and more like a fish flayed open with his guts on display.

He stepped back and popped a three-finger salute, willing the tension away. “Scout’s honor! I’ll even let you eat my cookie. OOH—or, I can show you how to tie a knot. Yeah, slip knots are my specialty since I’m an easy-way-out type of guy, but we can Bing which ones the kids are hip to these days.”

Spider-Man clenched his fist. The metal of the web shooter creaked under the pressure. Then he deflated like a balloon, arm falling to his side. “I really can’t stand you.”

[...]

{No comment.}

[Enough with the lover’s quarrel. I think we’re forgetting something.]

Deadpool perked up. “Oh, shoot! I forgot about the children!”

“The chil—Deadpool, what the hell?” 

Deadpool took off in a sprint and Spider-Man followed, hot on his heels. The mercenary flung open a metal door and they raced down a dimly lit stairwell. As they turned the corner, they encountered another armed man on the landing. Deadpool swiftly neutralized the threat with a well-aimed kick to the man’s chest.

After three sets of stairs, they stumbled into a damp basement. Yellow, flickering fluorescent lights lined the ceiling. The far wall housed a series of holding cells made of rusted metal bars for containment and straw-lined flooring. Each cell had one cot each, and they were all empty, doors wide open as if thrown open in haste.

“Dang it!” Deadpool stomped. “Someone else saved them first.” He grabbed his belt, looking down wistfully. “Stupid teleporter. It was in the shop for like a week so we’re a little late.”

Spider-Man was panting, hands on his knees in an uncharacteristic display of fatigue. He looked up sharply. “Huh?  Didn’t you say we’re in New Jersey?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Dude! Ever heard of this thing called a cab!?”

Deadpool frowned. “But then where would I put all the kids?”

Spider-Man stood up fully as he exclaimed, “You call the cops! You don’t just—take them home!” He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a deep breath. “Whatever. I’m over this. Let’s bounce.”

He looked around briefly before yanking open a hefty metal door with a slit for a window, revealing a steep staircase attached to the exterior. 

“You can bounce on my—” A web hit Deadpool’s mask, right where his mouth sat beneath. “Okay, yeah, I deserved that.” 

He expected Spider-Man to shoot a web into the air and launch into the night like the show-off he remembered him to be, but the vigilante began a slow ascent up the concrete stairs.

[Weird.]

{Aww, I wanted to see his sexy mid-air acrobatics again.}

Deadpool hurried after him. “In the mood for a late-night stroll, are we?”

“Not now, Deadpool.” Spider-Man took too short of a step, kicking the concrete and stumbling forward.

Deadpool grabbed the vigilante’s upper arm to steady him. His fingers clamped around it entirely. “What’s wrong? Out of webs? Pulled a hammy? Sudden fear of heights? Come on. You’re setting off my Deadpooley senses.” 

Spider-Man tried to pull away. “Stop. That’s my thing.” 

The vigilante trembled under his grasp. Deadpool tightened his hold. “Spidey.”

Spider-Man looked forward as if he hadn’t heard him. Deadpool pulled on his arm so that they faced each other, the vigilante complying with surprising ease.

Deadpool frowned. “Okay, seriously, what hurts? Is this some sort of zombie movie moment where you’ve been infected all along but have been hiding it for some plot-hole-ridden reason? Because I don’t even know if I can be a zombie or if I’m immune and I don’t want to test it. Tonight. Definitely later though once I get done with my evening wank. I can’t risk my schlong necrotizing off halfway through. That would be such a boner killer, you know?”

His eyes scanned over the vigilante’s suited body for any sign of injury as he rambled. The man looked relatively unscathed besides a small cut on his arm, which exposed pale flesh riddled with goosebumps. His suit looked somewhat ill-fitting, baggy in some places and all sharp angles in others, but did not sport any blood, holes, or broken limbs.

Deadpool loosened his grip and Spider-Man slumped forward with the lack of support. 

“Webs?” The nickname slipped off Deadpool’s tongue as he stepped closer, prepared to sweep the man off his feet bridal style.

“Sorry,” Spider-Man cleared his throat. “I just—you kidnapped me right before dinner and then I had to save your ass, so…” He gestured vaguely to his stomach.

Deadpool remembered how the vigilante had an enhanced metabolism—something he had revealed once in confidence. Plus, running on empty practically came with the job—criminals didn’t exactly pause for lunch breaks.

“Why didn’t you just say so?” Deadpool squeezed the vigilante’s arm. “Come on, I’ll buy you tacos! I can smell the Mexican in the air. I’m like a bloodhound when it comes to those sultry spices but with more blood and less hound.”

[And tacos are our favorite, according to the fanfic community.]

{Meh, pretty sure our real favorite food is chimichangas.}

Spider-Man shook his head. He tried to pull away again, but Deadpool didn’t let go.

“Stop!” Spider-Man snapped. Then, quieter, he mumbled, “Please. Just… drop it. I’m fine.”

Deadpool clicked his tongue, feeling the trembling under his fingers. He knew what it was like to have low blood sugar, having something of an enhanced metabolism himself. “Mm-mm, no lying. Your rules. Or is that Captain America’s thing?”

Spider-Man shrugged. He looked down, his normally stick-straight posture curving inward. 

[Usually Spidey has a clever comeback when we say something patronizing.]

{I don’t think I like him without his quips.}

Deadpool patted his head. “Now sit your perky butt down and Daddy Deadpool will come bearing nourishment.” He pushed on the vigilante’s shoulders until the man complied. It took less effort than he anticipated. Spider-Man went down with a thump, back flopping against the metal balusters. 

Deadpool booked it up the rest of the stairs. The warehouse happened to be located around the corner from a dingy bar, drunken patrons ambling about outside.

A small line formed at the window of a rusted red food truck parked on the curb of the establishment. The heavenly smell of hot kitchen oil and queso wafted out, and Deadpool gravitated towards it like a moth to a flame.

He pulled out Bea, the sharp metal glinting in the blue and purplish-pink neon lights of the bar’s fascia sign. The line dispersed with haste at the sight of the weapon.

“Hola, padre,” Deadpool greeted the food truck worker, whose eyes widened with recognition, “quiero uno de todo.”

He pointed at the taco shells with the tip of his katana.

The worker assembled the tacos with impressive speed, only pausing occasionally to sneak a nervous glance at the sharp blades. It didn't take long before Deadpool was bounding down the warehouse stairs, merrily swinging a plastic bag full of food.

Spider-Man rested against the balusters still, arms wrapped around his knees. 

[Wow, he stayed.]

{I’m surprised he didn’t run away when he had the chance.}

[It’s hard to say no to free food.]

“So,” Deadpool dropped down next to Spider-Man with unadulterated glee, “I got beef, chicken, and vegetarian. I couldn’t remember your favorite so I got them all.” 

[His favorite is chicken. He told us once.]

{How could you forget? Too many holes in the brain?}

“Thanks,” Spider-Man grumbled. He looked into Deadpool’s masked eyes through the lenses of his suit. For the second time that night, the two were close enough that Deadpool could feel the vigilante’s warm puffs of air on his face.

{Now kith.}

Deadpool looked away quickly, licking his lips. He dug in the bag for a taco. “Psssh. No big. Can’t have the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man fainting on my watch. Although, I would totally love to nurse you back to health. I already have the costume just begging to be worn.” He handed a chicken taco to the vigilante. 

Spider-Man waved his free hand dismissively. “I wasn’t going to pass out.”

Deadpool snorted. “Yeah, and I’m not the world’s sexiest merc in Kevlar.” He paused from digging through the bag to lean in conspiratorially. “Spoiler alert: I totally am.”

The vigilante shoved him. “I think you’re the only merc in Kevlar.” 

“Still the sexiest!”

“Yeah, you got me there.” 

Deadpool gasped, pressing the palms of his hands to his cheeks.

Before he could shout, however, Spider-Man cut him off, “On a technicality!”

The mercenary ignored him and flopped against the concrete steps, sighing dreamily. “Spidey thinks I’m sexy.”

Spider-Man shook his head. “Yeah, well, I also think you’re annoying."

{Told you so.}

Deadpool’s chest clenched but he huffed out a half-hearted laugh. He straightened up to unwrap a taco of his own and he took a bite so large that the remainder crumbled in his hands, pieces falling down the front of his suit and onto the ground. 

Spider-Man still hadn’t unwrapped his. 

“Did I give you the wrong one? White insisted you like chicken. No, wait. Don’t tell me you’re a taco hater now,” Deadpool mumbled around the food in his mouth.

“Nah,” Spider-Man said too quickly, “I just…” Then he looked down at the taco, shrugging.

Deadpool gulped down the remainder of his bite, unchewed pieces of hard shell scratching his throat. “I know I’m an alleged mass murderer and all, but I think you’ve got me beat in villain points if you seriously don’t like tacos anymore.”

"Alleged? You know what..." Spider-Man groaned. He set the taco on his lap and buried his face in his hands, voice muffled by the spandex of his gloves. “Okay, fine. Screw it. I earned it for putting up with this today.” Quieter, he mumbled, “Of course this happens when I can’t afford therapy.” 

Deadpool patted the vigilante on the back, ignoring the last part. “Sure, sure, that's the spirit. You can even have two tacos if you want. Carpe diem, and all that jazz.”

Spider-Man choked out a laugh. It sounded wet. “Right.”

He finally lifted the bottom of his mask to rest on his nose, revealing swollen, cherry-red lips. His pallor skin had a doll-like quality, unblemished aside from patches of natural pink blush reaching down his cheeks, and his jawline had a sharpness that rivaled Bea and Arthur’s refined edges. 

[He’s beautiful…]

{He’s a twink.}

Deadpool's gaze dropped to his lap as he absentmindedly picked at the crumbled taco shell. It had been so long since he'd seen any part of Spider-Man’s face, and the sight was a mix of painful familiarity and strangeness. Years before, the vigilante’s skin had been sun-kissed, cheeks full and youthful. But now, there was no mistaking it—Spider-Man was aging, and Deadpool hadn’t been there to witness it.

A cold wave of nausea washed over him as the cruel reality set in: while he would never age or die, time moved on relentlessly for everyone else. And even worse, there was no way to undo the two years they’d lost—the two years it took for Deadpool to swallow his pride and finally admit that he needed Spider-Man in his life like a fish needed water.

They sat together in silence. Spider-Man ate with an agonizing slowness—he picked out certain pieces of the taco innards with a deliberation Deadpool couldn’t decipher. It first looked as though he weeded out particularly saucy chunks, but then he targeted a chunk of cheese that had no sauce at all.

This, too, made Deadpool’s chest clench with a crush of devastating nostalgia. Spider-Man had always been eager when Deadpool brought him food before their falling out, demolishing meals with an appetite that rivaled his own. But at that moment, Spider-Man poked at his taco as if it may be poisoned—as if Deadpool could not be trusted with a task as simple as providing food.

Winning Spider-Man over would be much more complicated than a single somewhat successful mission.

-

The sun peeked over the skyline as they finished.

Spider-Man pulled himself up, using the railing for support. He aimed his webshooters at the nearest building.

To Deadpool's relief, the vigilante looked better, no longer shaking with exhaustion. He still had his mask rolled up to his nose, exposing his glistening lips.

“Hey, Spidey?” Deadpool called without meaning to.

Spider-Man turned, head tilted. “Yeah?”

Deadpool's throat clenched, snuffing out any words he'd been prepared to utter. For the past two years, he had thought about what he would do when he finally stood before Spider-Man, but now that he had the vigilante's full attention, the task felt impossible. His mind went blank—he couldn't even hear the irritating bicker of White and Yellow in his ear.

Some distant, animalistic part of his brain briefly considered grabbing Spider-Man and kissing his stupidly perfect face just to see what would happen, but the civilized part of him knew by the vigilante's timid stance that that would most likely end in a spandex knee to the groin. 

Spider-Man cleared his throat, staring at him expectantly.

Deadpool pulled a busted-up figurine of the two of them holding hands out of his fanny pack, the object nearly slipping through his fingers before he shoved it forward. The mini Spider-Man had a missing arm. “I want you to have my lucky charm.”

“Seriously?” Spider-Man took it hesitantly. He turned it around and back, inspecting it. 

Deadpool nodded. “It’s from Walmart… World’s finest.” 

The vigilante huffed and he pulled his suit open at the waist. “Wow, a family heirloom. I’m honored.”

{No way...}

Deadpool squealed. “Baby boy, are you putting that in your pants!? I always wanted to get into your drawers, but not like this!”

"Er…” Spider-Man rubbed the back of his neck. “Idon’thaveanypockets.” He tucked the figurine into his suit hastily and then he flew off, disappearing into the light of the rising sun in a blur of black and red.

Deadpool couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. Of all the things that had changed, Spider-Man's awkwardness was not one of them.

Chapter Text

Two weeks, dozens of Mexican take-out boxes, and one particularly humbling breakdown in the Target toy aisle over a Spider-Man Squishmallow later, Deadpool diagnosed himself with a brand new, totally terminal disease. So new that not even WebMD could help him.

[I don’t think ‘Spidey Withdrawal’ is a real medical condition.]

{Code blue! Code blue! Where is McDreamy!?}

It had to be a disease, because two weeks without Spider-Man after finally getting him back hurt worse than demon pox—don’t ask, it involved fang bites in unholy places—and that was one thousand percent not an exaggeration. 

He had tried his best to be a good little vigilante. Really, he had.

He helped old ladies cross the street. He put the fear of God into jaywalkers. He even went blind temporarily after rescuing a seriously temperamental, claw-happy cat from a tree. 

But when Weasel asked him to take on a job to eliminate a wealthy, no good, piece of dirt CEO, he couldn’t resist. 

[Aren’t they all pieces of dirt?]

{Free Luigi!}

While he thought of himself as something of a neo-revolutionist rather than a stone-cold murderer, he decided to avoid Spider-Man until he completed the hit, knowing that the vigilante wouldn’t share that sentiment. Unfortunately for Deadpool, the job took longer than one of that caliber typically would, because the CEO also happened to be a real slinky motherfucker. 

So there Deadpool stood, scanning the rooftops in the middle of the day for any sign of the rich douchebag, totally not thinking about a certain spandex-clad twink instead, when he saw it: a motionless heap of black and red.

{Is that…}

Deadpool thought he might be hallucinating at first—not out of the cards, given his track record.

He squinted. No—his vision wasn’t failing him. That heap was definitely Spider-Man, sprawled flat on his back next to a rooftop stairwell. He didn’t do so much as a twitch to acknowledge Deadpool’s arrival. 

Deadpool’s breath caught in his throat—Spider-Man didn’t even appear to be breathing.

{Does this mean we get to try mouth-to-mouth?}

He rushed to his side, knees skidding on the concrete as he dropped. “Spidey! Are you alive?” When Spider-Man didn’t respond, he reached for his mask. 

The vigilante jerked his head to the side. “Stop,” he croaked. He clamped onto Deadpool’s arm, attempting to shove him away but not putting enough force behind it. 

Deadpool pulled back, hands twitching uncertainly over Spider-Man’s crumpled form. He scanned him for injuries but didn’t find any. “Who hurt you? Can I please get a free pass to kill them? Just this once?” 

“Why are you here?” Spider-Man slurred, head swiveling dazedly.

"Classic angsty superhero avoidance.” Deadpool's voice wavered as his heart hammered against his ribs.

He brushed his fingers against Spider-Man's neck to feel for his pulse and the vigilante flinched away. Deadpool frowned. "You’re not secretly bleeding out from a gunshot wound you hid just to look like a badass, are you?” The odds were slim, but he wouldn’t put it past him. He gave him another once-over, just to be sure.

Spider-Man grunted with effort as he heaved himself into a sitting position. “Go away. I don’t want you here.”

{Ouch.}

"Oooh, Emo Spider-Man was not on my 2025 bingo card," Deadpool said.

“Really?” Spider-Man drawled. “Check again. It should be right next to ‘B6: Spider-Man kicks Deadpool’s ass into next Tuesday because he wouldn’t leave him alone.’”

He grabbed onto the exterior of the stairwell, dragging himself up as if he had the body mass of a semi-truck. Deadpool offered his hand for support and the vigilante ignored it. His knees buckled slightly and the metal creaked as he tightened his grip. 

“I haven’t even done anything annoying today!” At Spider-Man’s glare, Deadpool amended, “Okay, fine. I haven’t even done anything annoying today yet!”

Spider-Man rubbed his temple, a tired sigh slipping through his lips. “Deadpool, I really don’t need the incessant chatter of a deranged psycho killer in my ear right now.”

“Hey!” Deadpool pointed. “Don’t make this about me. For reals, what were you doing lying on the ground like that? Yellow thought you were a goner!”

Spider-Man sagged, arms wrapping tightly around his torso. All of his brief bravado fizzled out. "Star-gazing?" he said softly, almost embarrassed.

Deadpool squinted at the clear, blue sky, eyebrows raising to where his hairline should be. "Oh wow, that was so convincing. I almost believed you for a second—oh wait, no, I didn’t. But A+ for effort.” He aimed a stern look at the vigilante. “Seriously, Spidey, what’s your damage?" 

Spider-Man sighed again and pushed off the metal wall, lifting hips first with shoulders following. He stepped onto the lip of the roof. 

Deadpool’s stomach plunged into his boots as the vigilante stumbled like a drunk uncle on Super Bowl Sunday, flailing his arms to avoid teetering over the edge. 

{I can’t watch.}

Spider-Man caught himself on a cracked lightning rod and forced himself upright. “Look! I’m fine—” 

“But—” a woman’s scream cut Deadpool off.

Spider-Man whipped his head toward the sound. He took a quick look back at Deadpool and put his hands up, apologetic. “That’s my cue,” he said, and without waiting for a response, hurled himself backward off the roof.

“Hey, wait!” Deadpool called, arm extended over the ledge as if he could catch him. 

Spider-Man vanished, a strand of webbing trailing around the building and disappearing into an alleyway below.

Deadpool cursed under his breath and began his descent down the fire escape, boots clanking against the rusted metal. “Jesus. Is every superhero this self-sacrificial? Seriously, who is supposed to save them when they act like this?”

[Not self-sacrificial. Reckless.]

{I thought you hated superheroes?}

“Well, yeah, I do, but he’s hot. Hot ones get a pass. That’s why Thor is on my Fuck, Marry, AND Kill list.”

[You don’t even know what Spidey looks like.]

"Ugh. Would you two stop with the jibber jabber? It’s getting kind of old." He jumped to the ground in the alleyway, rolling his shoulder where the last step clipped him on his way down. 

A woman leaned against the wall of a grimy restaurant, cigarette hanging loosely from her fingers. She eyed him up and down. “You some sort of schizo?”

Deadpool put his hands on his hips. His fingers twitched with the urge to reach towards his holster instead. “Uh, do you have some sort of death wish? ‘Cause I’m feeling like a genie.”

She scoffed and flicked her ashes at his boots. “Whatever. Freak.”

Deadpool’s jaw clenched but he stayed still. It was bad enough that he had been working a mercenary hit all week. He really didn’t think his fragile truce with Spider-Man—if he could even call it that—would survive that and a maiming.

{You’re losing your touch.}

[Shh. Anything for love.]

Deadpool reached towards his katanas without intention. “It's pathological admiration, White, not love. And don't worry, Yellow. Spidey said I can’t kill people—he never said I can’t non-lethally dismember them.” 

To Deadpool’s satisfaction, the woman flinched back. She threw her cigarette down and squashed it under black non-slip shoes before scurrying inside. The pungent odor of old fryer grease hit him in a wave before the door slammed shut. 

[Happy?]

{This is totally why Spidey is so mean to us.}

“Oh, hush.” Deadpool smacked the side of his head. “He should be proud—that lady would be a kebab right now if I weren’t trying to get in his good graces.”

The telltale grunts and shouts of a street fight drew Deadpool’s attention. 

{Speaking of.}

He sprinted to the next alley over, where Spider-Man clung to the brick wall above two men in black hoodies.

A sobbing woman burst out of the alley, nearly bowling Deadpool over as she rushed past. Her top hung shredded and loose, the torn fabric barely clinging to her bra.

Deadpool unsheathed a katana for real, vision blurring with fury. Rude people, he could handle. But sexual assault? For a moment he forgot about playing hero, attention honed in on one objective: flay open the sacks of shit responsible for that woman’s attack.

Spider-Man’s head jerked up. “Deadpool, wait—”

One of the lowlifes took advantage of the distraction and lunged, knife aimed at Spider-Man’s stomach. Spider-Man noticed in time to curve away, but his moves were sluggish. The knife plunged deep into his thigh. 

Spider-Man froze for a beat before webbing up the man’s outstretched hand. He kicked him in the chest with his good leg, sending the man sprawling towards the concrete. His accomplice yelped before taking off towards the other end of the alley. 

Deadpool threw his katana for a well-aimed impalement through the back, but Spider-Man webbed the blade to the opposing wall before it could strike. 

He let go of the brick and collapsed like a sack of potatoes. His hands shook violently as he leaned over to get a look at the knife still sticking out of his thigh, buried handle deep. Blood pulsed around the edges, soaking the spandex of his suit. 

Deadpool flew to Spider-Man's side and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tight. “It’ll be okay, baby boy. You’ll survive this.” 

He snorted. “Then why are you holding my hand?”

“It helps me focus.”

Spider-Man shook his head, ripping his hand away. “Help me take this thing out.”

“Are you sure…? The first rule of Getting Stabbed 101 is definitely to not take the stabby object out—”

“Wade!” Spider-Man snapped.

Deadpool hadn’t heard the vigilante use his real name since before their falling out. His heart flipped, pulling a collegiate-level triple back tuck. “Is this some sort of BDSM thing? You know you’d need my consent to be involved, right? Not that I’d ever say no to anything sexual with you, but—”

He clenched his fists. “Would you just shut up and do what I asked for once? You and your flaming Canadian dumpster fire of a brain are so fucked—”

Deadpool didn’t wait to hear the rest. He gripped the handle of the knife and yanked it free.

{Ouch. Hope Spidey has some mo’fine hidden in that suit.}

Spider-Man hissed through clenched teeth, breaths labored as he threw his head against the brick wall. The waves of crimson gushed out of his leg with newfound intensity, an inky pool forming beneath them. 

Deadpool clapped his hands together, slightly breathless. “Awesome. Now what?”  

Spider-Man coughed. “Now hopefully my healing factor still works.” 

“Hopefully!? Just like hopefully the MCU will acknowledge the deep-seated romantic love between Steve and Bucky that has been brewing for over a century? Well, we see how that turned out!”

“Shut up…”

Deadpool couldn’t put a lid on it if he tried, the words spilling out faster and faster. “I mean, seriously—what straight man drops everything for his male BFF and lowkey betrays all his teammates? Or, you know, whatever! Okay, so I didn’t follow that plot too well, but my gaydar was blaring!”

“My guess…” Spider-Man wheezed a shallow, rattling breath, “is bisexual.” Then he slumped over, careening to the side.

Deadpool grabbed the vigilante’s shoulders to prop him back up. “Frick! Please don’t let those be your last words. Also, this conversation is NOT over! I need to know your fan theories!” 

Spider-Man’s head lolled from side to side. 

{Good job, idiot. Your yapping killed him.}

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Crap, my CPR certification has expired. Okay, winging this!” Deadpool hoisted Spider-Man up, slinging him over his shoulder—and immediately overshot, nearly sending him headfirst into the sidewalk. Deadpool grabbed his calves just in time and yanked him upright, flopping his stomach awkwardly over his shoulder. “Shit. What the hell? He weighs less than a Chipotle burrito.”

{Ew, and he’s bleeding out.}

[We are right around the corner from our apartment.]

{Not at all for plot purposes…}

“Right!” Deadpool squinted at the green street sign, noting the familiar name. His apartment was about a three-minute walk away. 

He sped down the sidewalk as nonchalantly as he could, doing his best to ignore the open-mouthed bystanders as he carried an unconscious and bloodied superhero. You know, typical Tuesday activities. 

Deadpool sprinted up to his door, panting. He shuffled in his pocket to get his keys, accidentally hitting Spider-Man’s head on the wall as he turned to get a better angle. “Shit—sorry!”

He kicked the door open and dropped Spider-Man onto the couch, a limp arm thudding against the floor. Blood seeped into the cushions, fast and dark before Deadpool could even grab a towel. 

Swearing under his breath, he sprinted to the bedroom for his sewing kit—the same one he'd used the week before to patch up bullet holes. He didn’t own a first aid kit: they were useless for a guy who grew limbs back like a starfish.

{Starpool.}

[Really? Starpool? Right when the plot is thickening?]

[...Deadfish?]

“At ease, soldiers. It’s time for Doctorpool to clock in.” Deadpool cracked his knuckles and rolled his neck. “Alexa, play Hit Em Up by 2pac.”

Music thudded through the apartment. Deadpool dropped to the floor and ripped the spandex wider, eyes darting over the ruined flesh. The vigilante’s skin was ashy except for the angry, scarlet swelling around the wound—still as gapping and jagged as it had been in the alleyway. 

[So much for that healing factor.]

{Not everyone can be as talented as we are.}

Deadpool strung the needle with a hot pink spool of string. His hands moved automatically—a muscle memory left over from the military days.

{We should open an alterations business after this.}

He worked with surprising precision, punching the needle through the bloody, inflamed skin. As he finished the last loop, he looked at Spider-Man’s limp form—breaths falling out in shallow puffs, chest barely moving.

[You’re scared, aren’t you?]

Deadpool ripped his gaze away, grabbing the nearest kitchen rag and muttering, "Totally sterile, totally fine. No OSHA violations here. Promise."

He plastered the rag to the wound with a roll of clear packing tape. He frowned—Spider-Man’s legs were shockingly thin for someone who backflipped off skyscrapers for a living.

{He’s pretty much an athlete. They’re supposed to be skinny.}

[Not that skinny.]

{Hmm… Pancakes could solve that problem.}

Deadpool leaned over him, finally letting himself really look. Spider-Man was a ghost of the man he remembered from two years ago. He used to resemble a Greek statue—now he had a fragile frame like a gust of wind could topple him over. Deadpool felt a headache blossoming as he tried to make sense of it but couldn’t, a piece of the puzzle missing.

[Think.]

{Maybe he’s canonically poor. We’re basically in a recession right now.}

[If by poor, you mean starving, then sure.]

{So how about those pancakes?}

The voices were talking over each other, sounding louder and louder until they blended into an agitating hum. “Okay, fine," Deadpool groaned. "But only because it’s the only food I know how to make.” 

He stumbled to the kitchen area situated behind the couch, keeping an eye on the vigilante as he cracked open a box of powdered mix. 

“Now,” Deadpool said aloud, grabbing the milk from the fridge, “why was Spidey acting so weird before the fight? Scratch that—what is going on with him in general?” He glanced towards the couch, frowning at the sharp jut of the vigilante’s bent elbow.

[I think you know.]

{Brain eating amoeba?}

“No, probably not… Maybe an alien? No, no, that can’t be right.” He poured an indiscriminate amount of milk into the powder.

{It’s happened before.}

“Well, yeah, but it didn’t make him act like—” Deadpool waved his hands wildly, flinging pancake mix off of his stirring spoon, “—that! Also, that was a different universe, I’m pretty sure. Ugh, I can’t keep track anymore.”

[Hmm…]

{Rickets?}

[Nah…]

{Drugs? METH!?}

Deadpool poured the first pancake onto the skillet. He paused. “No way. He wouldn’t—” he looked over at the couch again, where the vigilante had begun softly snoring. “I mean, maybe. But meth? That’s not even one of the cool drugs.”

[Since when has Spider-Man been ‘cool’?]

“Take that back!”

[Just saying…]

{Tsk.}

Deadpool scraped the skillet, popping a slightly burnt pancake off. He flipped the uncooked side onto the hot surface and smoke filled his nostrils.

[He reminds you of Vanessa, doesn’t he?]

Deadpool stiffened. “That’s enough.” 

He worked through the rest of the mixture in silence. Once he finished plating the pancakes, he took them over to the couch, waving them in front of the vigilante’s mask. “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey! Except not really. Wakey wakey, pancakey pancakey just doesn’t have the same ring.”

Spider-Man stirred. “Hm…?”

“Oh, goody, that worked!” 

“Deadpool…?” The vigilante looked around the room in a daze.

“The one and only! In this universe, anyway.” Deadpool pursed his lips. “Maybe.”

Spider-Man sat up fully, more alert. He hissed as he brought his leg down. “How did I get—”

Deadpool threw up a hand like he could shield himself from Spider-Man’s fury. “Don’t ask. You’ll probably see it on the news. Pleasedontbemadatme. Anyways, are you hungry? You look hungry.” He thought about what White said—about Vanessa—and shoved the plate forward with a little more force than necessary.

Spider-Man had began shaking his head before he even finished asking. “Um, no thanks.”

Deadpool patted the vigilante’s knee. “Sure, Katniss. What district of the Hunger Games are you repping this year?”

“Dude, what the fuck?” Spider-Man yanked away from Deadpool’s touch. 

“Are you mad at what I said or just hangry? Gets hard to tell when you’re shooting for gold in the Hunger Olympics.”

“I don’t—What are you talking about? I literally ate this morning.”

Deadpool squinted at his empty wrist like he had a watch. “This morning, as in… 12 hours ago? Jesus, Spidey, with your metabolism, I don’t know how you’re not on life support right now.”

Spider-Man looked at the pitch-black window and paused. He crossed his arms, head tilted petulantly. “Yeah, well, I’m still not hungry. So.”

“Come on, Twiggy!” Deadpool pleaded as he shoved the plate forward again. He needed to prove White wrong. “I labored over these pancakes just for you! Grandma’s recipe!” 

Spider-Man twisted towards the kitchen and narrowed his eyes at the box of pancake mix. “Your grandma is Aunt Jemima?”

“Yes, and now I am swooping in like an ethnically diverse knight to feed you. Prince Charming, anyone?”

“Why do you care?” Spider-Man huffed.

{Good question.}

[We can't handle more heartbreak.]

Deadpool waved the plate in a sad little circle. “They’re getting cold…”

Spider-Man dropped his arms. “Fine.” He grabbed the plate roughly, pulling it to his chest. He shoved his mask up to his nose and dug the fork into the pancake as if it had personally insulted his mother. 

He took a bite so miniscule that Deadpool wasn’t sure he even got a crumb. He chewed way longer than a morsel of that caliber required, and when he swallowed, it looked as if he were forcing cement down his throat.

“There, happy?” Spider-Man set the nearly-full plate on the coffee table with a clink.

Deadpool did a double-take. “Wait—what? No, seriously, what the actual fuck? A hamster would eat more than that. Like, a baby hamster. On a diet.”

“It tasted funny. The butter, you know…”

“What butter?” Deadpool threw his hands in the air. “You think I can afford butter? In this economy?”

Spider-Man stood and reached his arms above his head. He leaned into a deep stretch, each rib showing through the spandex of his suit, once again reminding Deadpool of a time when he would’ve seen smooth muscle rippling through the fabric instead. 

“Look,” Spider-Man said, “I appreciate your help with my leg and stuff—even if it was your fault. I gotta go though.”

Deadpool sputtered. “My fault—!? Wait, where are you going?”

Spider-Man, already halfway to the door, at least had the decency to look sheepish. He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “Um. I have work in the morning.” 

“Your superhero gig doesn’t pay!? Then why the fuck do you have such a stick up your ass about it?” 

{Maybe a hero's life isn’t for us, after all.}

Spider-Man huffed in that irritatingly righteous way that he usually did before a yawn-inducing spiel about morals and justice. “I have a responsibility, ‘Pool. Something you apparently don’t understand.” He kept it short that time—evidence of his exhaustion. 

Opening the door, Spider-Man stepped into the hallway. He paused and glanced back over his shoulder. “But, um. Thanks. Again. For helping me… and stuff. I’m fine, but… thank you.” Then he slammed the door, leaving Deadpool staring at nothing but cold mahogany.

He sat there for a moment, the silence pressing on him like a dense fog.

“Yeah,” he scoffed, scooping up the plate. He dumped the stack of pancakes into the trash, the heavy splat too loud in the quiet room. “He’s fine, he says. ‘Cause this is fine. Totally.”

[But you know better.]

Chapter Text

Deadpool’s legs were about to fall off and not in a fun way.

He had been running for at least two hours, pursuing a teen boy he caught stealing a bike outside of a department store in Queens. He thought it would be an easy-peasy catch-and-go that he could brag to Spider-Man about later. What he hadn’t known was that that teenager also, apparently, and much to Deadpool’s fucking chagrin, had superpowered stamina.

{There has got to be something strange in New York City’s water.}

[Radioactive rat feces?]

After passing the same hot dog cart for the fourteenth time, he seriously contemplated getting out his gun and giving up on vigilantism altogether. The only thing stopping him was the mental image of a very disappointed Spider-Man shaking his heroic, bug-eyed head at him. 

{And your asthma attack.}

Wheezing, Deadpool pointed his finger in the most menacing way possible. “Slow down, you filthy animal!” 

The teen boy sped up, hurdling over a construction cone. “Kiss my ass!” he shouted over his shoulder. Then, to add insult to injury, he cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, “What are you? Some sort of Temu Spider-Man!?” 

“I… will… catch… you!” Deadpool panted. He doubled over, hands on his knees. “Jesus, I’m getting old.”

[You wish.]

“That’s it,” Deadpool huffed, drawing his gun.

“Deadpool…?”

He swung around to see Spider-Man standing with his hands on his hips. 

{Speak of the devil!}

“Why are you terrorizing children?” the vigilante asked, mask crinkled in a frown. He looked out of place on the bustling sidewalk.

“It’s not what it looks like!” Deadpool flailed his gun in the direction of the teenager. A group of tourists gasped, cowering away from the aim of the barrel. “He stole a bike and I was trying to deliver sweet, sweet justice, Spidey style. You know, since I’m your mentee and all. This sucks, B-T-W. Think I might put in for my retirement. Do you offer a pension plan?”

“Uh…” Spider-Man stood on his toes to peek over Deadpool’s shoulder. “Where is the bike?”

Deadpool shrugged. “I dunno. The kid left it in some alleyway once he saw me coming.”

“‘Pool…” Spider-Man pinched the bridge of his nose.

{What now?}

[I think we’re doing this wrong.]

“What?” Deadpool pouted. “I didn’t kill, bludgeon, or dismember him! I even said ‘please’ before I knew he was a runner.” 

“Deadpool—” a stray basketball soared towards Spider-Man’s head from behind and he ducked. It ricocheted off the brick building and he caught it, bouncing it once as he said, “Next time, just return the stolen property. Not everything warrants punishment.” He turned and tossed the basketball across the street to a gaggle of wide-eyed middle schoolers. 

{Yup. I’m filing this moment away for later.}

“But—” Deadpool started.

Spider-Man was still looking at the children. “Stay in school!” he shouted. They all had their phones out, snapping pictures.

Deadpool frowned. “Wait, but—”

Spider-Man turned to him, patting him on the shoulder. “You did a good thing. Your heart was in the right place—” he glanced at Deadpool’s gun, still hanging loosely in his hand “—I think. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“I am still trying to be a good guy, you know,” Deadpool said. He slumped onto a concrete stair, plopping his chin onto his free hand with his elbow digging into his thigh. 

The vigilante hummed, fiddling with his webshooters. “Sure you are.”

He was so not listening.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

Spider-Man sputtered, head snapping up. “I didn’t say that!” 

Deadpool pointed his finger at the vigilante’s face. “Yeah, but you were thinking it! I know that look!”  

“You can’t even see my face!”

Deadpool huffed and popped the safety off his gun. “Okay, fine. I’m just going to go shoot a whoooole bunch of people because apparently that’s all I’m good at—”

“Deadpool,” Spider-Man sighed. “Fine. Do you want to patrol with me?” 

Deadpool gasped. “Am I dreaming? Please tell me I’m not dreaming!”

{Spidey is way too clothed for this to be one of our dreams.}

Spider-Man rubbed the back of his neck, not looking all too enthused with his offer but shrugging anyway. “Yeah, well, you can’t just keep running around doing…” he waved a hand “...whatever this is.”

“Oh my god,” Deadpool squealed. “I’m totally dreaming. Or hallucinating. Or dead, again.” He looked around the corner, half expecting to see Shiklah in her silky nightgown.

{I still think he has a brain-eating amoeba…}

“Come on,” Spider-Man hooked a thumb over his shoulder, “There’s some commotion down on 68th and Tremont.”

Deadpool leaped to his feet with a bounce. He skipped next to Spider-Man, who carried on stiffly.

“I can’t believe I’m Spidey’s sidekick. This is so weird—I’m having a good day and I haven’t even murdered anyone!”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“Oh, absolutely! To breathe, to eat, occasionally when I’m dead…” Deadpool grabbed Spider-Man’s hand and patted it. “Honestly, sweet cheeks, I say a lot less than I could, so I’m really doing you a favor. I am not a one-man show in here—and trust me, Yellow is one hell of a chatterbox.”

{Don’t bring me into this.}

Spider-Man ripped his hand out of Deadpool’s. “Yellow? Do I even want to know?” 

Deadpool hummed, tapping his chin in thought. “Nah, I don’t think the plot calls for it right now.”

Spider-Man scoffed and darted around a fallen metal trash can. “So, what, you’re like a chronic over-thinker?” After they passed the can, he flung a web over his shoulder to pull it upright again. 

Deadpool, caught off guard by the disbelief in the vigilante’s voice, snipped, “Why does everyone think I’m stupid? I can’t help that even my thoughts have thoughts.”

“You’re not stupid,” Spider-Man said too quickly. “And, uh, I think I get what you mean. Sometimes I wonder if I might actually be crazy, dude. ‘Spider-Man Gone Mental’ —wouldn’t that be a great headline?” The vigilante snorted, though Deadpool could hear a hint of resignation in his tone.

{We’re cooked if Spidey’s screws are loose. He’s the most sane person we know.}

[About that...]

Deadpool side-stepped a homeless man’s leg. “No worries, Spidey. We can be totally Girl, Interrupted coded together.”

A sharp laugh erupted from Spider-Man’s chest. “Yeah, roommates in the psych ward… I think you’re Polly and I’m Janet.” He pointed to a red, white, and green sign that read Italo’s. “Hey—have you ever tried this pizza place?” 

Deadpool's mind went blank, caught up in the chime of the vigilante’s laughter. His heart stuttered and he cleared his throat, voice stilted as he joked, “Why? Are you asking me on a date?”

Spider-Man turned his attention to him, silent for a beat too long.

“Add a movie and I’ll be there,” Deadpool rushed, cheeks burning. He had never been more grateful for his mask. 

“Oh, stop.” The vigilante snorted, shoving Deadpool’s arm. “Come on, dude. I just said that because I like pizza.”

{Doesn’t look like it.}

They rounded the corner, reaching their destination far sooner than Deadpool would’ve liked. 

A small crowd had formed outside of an electronics store, bystanders ambling about with phones directed towards the front window. It appeared to be an armed robbery—a masked man stood inside with a gun pointed toward the cashier, yelling threats that were muffled through the walls.

Spider-Man shooed people away. “Get out of here, guys. Jeez, what happened to self-preservation?”

Deadpool kicked in the glass door, a bell chiming as it flew open. “Get on the ground, motherfuckers!” He fired a couple of rounds into the ceiling for good measure.

The cashier screamed, ducking further under the register counter. The robber dropped to his knees with his hands up, gun abandoned on the tile. He whimpered when Deadpool faced him.

“Jesus, DP!” Spider-Man hissed, crawling through the front door and along the ceiling. “Maybe less theatrics, okay? We’re trying to stop them, not give them incurable PTSD!” 

“Yes, sir! No PTSD, sir!” Deadpool saluted. He put his guns in their holsters with a flourish. “Now what, lieutenant? How about that pizza date?” 

“Now—” Spider-Man webbed the robber’s hands together with smooth efficiency, hand swirling in a circular motion as he wrapped it around and around, “—we round everyone else up.” 

“Who—” Something hard swung into the side of Deadpool’s head from behind, a loud crack ringing out. He turned around to see a second robber running away, baseball bat in hand. “Ouch! Damn it! I’m so going to maim you!” 

“By maim, you mean nonlethally, right?” Spider-Man raced further along the ceiling, catching up to the robber before he could reach the back door. He swung his legs down to kick the man in the shoulders. 

“I don’t know, I’m getting pretty lethal urges right about now.” Deadpool rubbed the goose egg on his head. “Anyways—pineapple on pizza. Yes or no? Please say no. Unless you’re a freak who thinks tropical fruit belongs on pizza.”

“Um.” Spider-Man shot another web to stick the robber’s hands behind his back as if they were handcuffs. He dropped from the ceiling and grabbed the man by the shirt collar, dragging him to the front of the store and depositing him in a heap against the other crony. “Guess I’m a freak then.” He stiffened and pointed to the robbers. “Don’t tell anyone I said that!”

Deadpool balked. “I always knew you were a secret weirdo! Except I was hoping it was more in a secret-fantasies-of-having-an-orgy-with-Team-Red way and not a dubious-food-choice way.”

Spider-Man sighed. “It’s a classic. I’ve also tried pickles on pizza. I’d kill for that right now.” 

{This totally beats our numerous crimes against humanity, including the unspeakable things we’ve done to suede furniture.}

Deadpool picked up the baseball bat that had been used to turn his head into a T-ball stand. He tossed it, letting it spin in the air before catching it. “You’re a monster, Webs. I thought you were supposed to have morals?” 

Spider-Man tilted his head towards the front window. “I hear sirens. Vigilante rule number two: Don’t stick around for the boys in blue.” 

{Did anyone else catch that rhyme?}

-

They perched on the rooftop above the electronics store, watching as cops assessed the scene with a series of exasperated eye rolls. One officer walked in, electric saw in hand, apparently assigned to de-webbing duty. Deadpool wondered if they had a Spider-Man Protocol. Spider-Man made their lives easier, sure, but Deadpool admittedly had never seen any material as inconvenient as his webs—flexible, yet nearly impenetrable. 

“Where do you get that stuff?” Deadpool asked. His fingers twitched with the need to stay busy and he unsheathed Arthur. He began wiping the blade with a microfiber cloth from his fanny pack, polishing off old blood stains.

Spider-Man hummed. “I make it.”

“Like, out of your body?”

Spider-Man choked, hacking a loud violent cough before clearing his throat. “Jesus, no. I mean in a lab.”

Deadpool paused and turned towards him, eyebrows raised. “A lab? I thought you weren’t working with Tony Stark anymore.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not the only one with a lab, you know?”

“You have a lab?”

Spider-Man snorted. “Yeah, I can barely afford to keep the lights on in my studio apartment but I definitely have a state-of-the-art lab somewhere. Nice one, ‘Pool.”

Deadpool scoffed and went back to wiping. “Well, I didn’t know you were poor!” 

{Dare I say ‘told you so’?]

“Yup,” Spider-Man said, popping the ‘p’. “Stereotypical college student, blah blah blah.” He crossed his arms, squeezing at his biceps in the way Deadpool had seen him do before, the last time he opened up. The night they had tacos.

Deadpool could see his own masked reflection in his katana blade, white eyes staring back at him. He felt ugly even with his face covered. He flipped the blade to the other side and continued polishing. “Let me guess—law degree?”

Spider-Man reared back. “What? Dude, no, ew. Biochemistry.”

“I don’t know, you love to argue about morals so I figured you’d be good at it,” Deadpool said.

“I can’t stand you,” Spider-Man huffed. He leaned back on his hands, shoulders slumping as he relaxed his posture. 

Deadpool slid the katana back into its sheath and matched his position, looking out toward the streets. The cops were nearly done, criminals already sitting in the back of cruisers and webbing being shoved into large, clear evidence bags. “What if I buy you pineapple pizza? Then will you like me?”

“Probably not,” Spider-Man said. 

“What about your most favoritest food? Even if it’s a Chinese delicacy—I will hop on the next plane to Shanghai.”

[Now this is just desperate.]

Spider-Man tapped his chin. “Hmm. I’ve been thinking about a sandwich. Like, a really good sandwich, with salami, ham, pickles, and mayo. Oh—and smooshed really flat. Obviously.” 

Deadpool nodded. “Right. That’s super obvious.” It wasn’t.

Spider-Man gestured outwards. “I grew up here, you know? In Queens, I mean. There is a really good deli called Delmar’s around the corner from my apartment. I miss it.”

“If you live nearby, why don’t you just go there?” Deadpool asked.

[You know why…]

{Crippling poverty?}

Spider-Man shrugged and pinched at his thigh, pulling the skin. “I don’t know. I could. I don’t know why I don’t.”

[He’s lying.]

“I could buy it for you. Early birthday present,” Deadpool said. 

The vigilante laughed but it sounded strained. “My birthday isn’t even for another few months.”

“Hanukkah gift?”

“It’s April. And I’m not Jewish.”

Deadpool hummed. “Ooh, Earth Day, then! Nothing says ‘save the planet’ like unnecessary consumerism.”

Spider-Man snorted. “That’s not—no.”

“How about for 4/20? Blaze it!”

This time the vigilante scoffed. “Drugs are bad, Wade.”

{Guess we can rule a meth addiction out.}

Deadpool leaned in. “Be honest. Is it the money thing? Because, buddy, you gotta let Tony Stark put you on the payroll. Or I can go up there and slap some financial sense into him.” At Spider-Man’s sharp look, he added, “Non-lethally!”

Spider-Man crossed his arms in that righteous way that looked all lawyer-like. “Don’t do that.”

Deadpool groaned. “I’m trying to butter you up like a Cheddar Bay biscuit and you’re being more stubborn than my boner when I watch too many episodes of Golden Girls in a row.”

“Just drop it,” Spider-Man snipped. “I don’t need your help. Or Tony’s. Or anyone’s. I can take care of myself.” 

Deadpool held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Be like that. Just don’t come crying to me when you’re tragically destitute and forced to fight crime in a knockoff suit from Temu. Which totally wouldn’t look anything like my suit, by the way.”

Spider-Man shook his head but didn’t argue.

He perked up suddenly. “Do you hear that?”

“Uh…no?” Deadpool strained his ears but could only pick up the unintelligible chatter of pedestrians and the occasional honking of a car horn.

“Something is happening a few blocks away. Let’s go.”

-

Deadpool didn’t follow politics too closely, given that he broke laws in his pass time, didn’t pay taxes, and wouldn’t exactly label himself as a pillar of liberty and justice, let alone qualified to vote on such topics, but he knew some fucked up shit when he saw it.

“You’re coming with us,” a gruff man ordered, hand wrapped firmly around an older woman’s upper arm. He had what appeared to be a police uniform on but with the addition of bold white letters that read ICE across his chest.

“Please, I’m a citizen,” the woman cried, accent thick. “My documents, let me show you—”

“Not interested,” the man growled. He twisted her arm behind her back, pulling handcuffs from his pocket.

Deadpool and Spider-Man were standing on a balcony above.

“Hey, ugly!” Spider-Man yelled, “Why don’t you try putting the ‘ICE’ in ‘nice’ for once?”

The man looked up, squinting. “This isn’t your fight, hero. Stick to the muggings and carjackings.”

Spider-Man’s jaw clenched, visible through the mask. 

{Fuck ‘em up, Spidey!}

He leaped over the railing and landed in front of them with a gentle thud. “See, that’s where you’re wrong.” He twisted a webshooter on his wrist casually, but the threat was evident. “Anything that involves the people of New York is my responsibility. You’re hurting her, so now I’m going to hurt you.”

{We get to watch this for free?}

Deadpool had known he had it bad for Spider-Man for a while. Years, really. But that moment ignited an inferno in his chest that he knew would burn eternally—the fiery licks of lust and affection tickling his ribcage as he listened to those stupidly virtuous words spill out of his mouth like lava. 

The man gripping the woman seethed. He eyed Spider-Man for a moment before wisely deciding that that was a fight he couldn’t win. He shoved the woman forward, Spider-Man catching her by the shoulders.

“Fine,” the man spat. “But you better watch your back. Who knows what legal status is hiding underneath that mask.” He disappeared into the pedestrian traffic, a whisper in the wind.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” Spider-Man asked. He pointedly ignored the man’s words.

Deadpool jumped over the railing, startling the woman. 

“Ah, Dios mío!” She smacked him across the chest with her rattan purse. 

“Oh—lo siento, señora,” Deadpool said, sheepish. The woman huffed, brushing herself off. 

Spider-Man titled his head. “You know Spanish?”

“I know a lot of languages, mi amor. It’s one of my many talents—I can also juggle while playing the harmonica.” He had picked that skill up while imprisoned in a Saudi desert, all the way back in his military days. Boredom—a powerful impetus for new skills. 

{Imbécile.}

“Young man,” the woman called, drawing Spider-Man’s attention. “Come. I want to thank you.”

“No ma’am, it’s okay, really. Just doing my job—”

“Then I pay you,” she pushed. She grabbed his hand and started leading him towards the building stairs. “This—this man grabbed me as I left mi apartmento. We are right here.”

She reminded Deadpool of a part of his past that he normally kept locked away in a deep chasm of his brain. The fire that burned for Spider-Man dimmed a bit when he thought of the soft laughter of Maria and the bold ranting of Ellie. He could’ve had them both and a white picket fence to match, but he had let that life go. No matter how hard he craved it, it would always remain out of reach. He couldn’t be loved—not when he looked how he did and made enemies like he did.

[Then why won’t you let Spider-Man go?]

“I can’t accept money, ma’am,” Spider-Man was shaking his head.

“Food, then,” the woman said, not missing a beat. She led them to the elevator. Deadpool bet that she made amazing food, just like Maria’s abuela. His love for Mexican cuisine started with that relationship—it reminded him of domestic nights in a dimly lit dining room, enchiladas passed around on a floral platter.

Spider-Man relented and they entered the elevator together, but not without releasing a long-suffering sigh.

The woman clicked her tongue, turning towards Deadpool. “Ah. Tu novio es tan terco.”

Deadpool’s heart skipped. “He’s not—”

At the same time, Spider-Man started, “I’m not—”

“Wait, you speak Spanish?”

Spider-Man shrugged. “I have a minor in it.”

{Of course he does. Ugh, I love it when he speaks nerdy to us.}

The elevator dinged and they shuffled out into the hallway decorated with stained red carpet and peeling ivory wallpaper. The woman’s door was at the very end. She fumbled with her key, hands shaking as she fished it out of her purse. 

“Here, let me,” Spider-Man said. He gently took the key from her grasp and unlocked the deadbolt.

“Sweet boy,” the woman said, setting her purse on the entryway table. “Do you like tres leches?”

“Oh, uh, no. I’m—I’m diabetic,” he rushed. 

Deadpool did a double-take. He tried to catch the vigilante’s gaze but he was staring stubbornly into the room. Diabetic? Yeah, right. Deadpool didn’t think he could catch a common cold, let alone diabetes. 

[He’s not even good at lying.]

{Should we start a GoFundMe for acting classes?}

The woman cooed. “Pobrecito. I have a diabetic tía. Type 2. She still eats a lot of sugar, though—no regard for her life, that one.”

She meandered further into the apartment towards a small kitchenette situated in the back. 

Bright fabrics and religious memorabilia decorated the living space. Deadpool brushed his hand over a candle with a picture of Jesus on it—the same one Maria had on her fireplace mantle. He felt unsteady and leaned into Spider-Man’s shoulder, and for once, he didn’t pull away from his touch.

“What is your name, ma’am?” Spider-Man asked.

“You can call me Ms. Torres,” she said.

“Ms. Torres, we appreciate this, really, but—”

She clicked her tongue again. “It’s no trouble, young man.” Ms. Torres walked back over with two plates in hand, each with a slice of tres leche. She handed the smaller piece to Spider-Man. “So you can keep your sugar down,” she explained.

Deadpool dug in, eager to get done and get out. The nostalgia rolled in his stomach like a tsunami wave, violent and unrelenting against his insides. He felt the warmth of Spider-Man’s arm still pressed against his, but it did little to quell the emptiness creeping in—especially knowing how the vigilante felt about him. His physical touch was as much a comfort as it was a reminder that as much as he craved a meaningful relationship, he failed at maintaining them again and again.

Spider-Man’s hands trembled as he picked up the fork. He dug into the cake, metal clinking against the plate, and pulled up a crumb about two prongs wide. He placed the fork in his mouth gingerly and then slammed it back down on the plate like it stung him.

“It’s great, Ms. Torres,” he said with a pained smile. He rolled his mask back down. “We have to get going—those ICE agents won’t beat up themselves!” He laughed but it sounded incredibly awkward, even for his standards.

Deadpool nodded too fast. “Yep, you know us. Two hero peas in a hero pod.” 

Ms. Torres frowned but opened the door. “Gracias, again, boys. Please, come by anytime. My door is always open.”

“Thank you, Ms. Torres,” Spider-Man said. Deadpool could tell he meant it, despite his haste.

They left the apartment in silence. Once outside, Spider-Man stopped and leaned against the building, letting out a deep sigh. “So…”

“So.”

“You good?” he asked.

“Yeah, you?”

Spider-Man shrugged. “Yeah.”

Deadpool relaxed next to Spider-Man, brick pressing into his back through his suit. “Man, that lady was nice, but she could not take a hint.” 

An unexpected sound jolted Deadpool into focus—the gentle twinkle of Spider-Man’s laugh, ringing through the air like windchime. He carried on a beat too long in a way that would’ve been annoying coming from anyone else. With him, Deadpool found it endearing. 

Spider-Man rubbed his eye through his mask. “Yeah,” he breathed. “No kidding.”

The suffocating clench of loneliness on Deadpool’s insides eased up. He realized with a pang that he felt different with Spider-Man than he did with Maria—comfortable with the vigilante in a way he never managed to with her or any other partner. Spider-Man was flighty, angry, and reserved, and Deadpool didn’t deserve him, but he couldn’t stay away. He felt a magnetic pull, grounding him like gravity keeps him on the earth. At that moment, Deadpool knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that White was right about at least one thing—he was so, helplessly, irrevocably in love. 

{Shit.}

Chapter Text

Snowflakes fell from the sky like ashes from a roaring fire, swirling in their intensity. The cool air seeped through the Kevlar of Deadpool’s suit with a sharp bite. It was the middle of April, but the weather more closely resembled a frosty December day. New York City around Christmas time was beautiful in the abstract—Deadpool reminisced about twinkling lights in trees, shiny wrapping paper topped with a curly bow, and cheap felt Santa hats that itched his bald head. They had none of that right then, but the snow still softened the squalor that marred the streets, even in a city as filthy as this one. 

“This shit gets me horny, Webs. I love winter,” Deadpool said.

Spider-Man snorted. “Yeah, well I don’t. I give you permission to kill whoever is responsible for this." His teeth clinked together as they chattered and he rubbed his hands up and down his arms aggressively to generate heat.

“Who said someone made this happen? It could just be unseasonably cold.” Deadpool rolled up his mask, sticking out his tongue to catch snowflakes.

“‘Pool, come on. It’s the middle of Spring.” Spider-Man swatted around his head as if the white flakes were a swarm of bees. 

Deadpool caught a large chunk of snow. It tasted fresh in a way unlike the city’s usual precipitation. “So? Global warming goes both ways.”

{He’s got a point. The flavor lacks the distinct note of garbage and urine. Totally unnatural.}

Spider-Man stared at Deadpool, probably glaring behind the mask.

Deadpool groaned. “Okay, fine, you little Grinch. Let’s find Santa so I can beat him up for bringing Christmas magic to April.” 

If Spider-Man was happy about the concession, he didn’t show it. He nodded jerkily, arms returned to their position around his torso. Wispy white clouds escaped his mask in short puffs as he breathed too fast. His shivering increased to such a ferocity that Deadpool was surprised his knees didn’t buckle under the force.

“You good, Webs?”

“C-cold.”

{Oh, god. Do spider-people have thermoregulation?}

[Probably. But people with no meat on their bones don’t.]

Deadpool grabbed Spider-Man’s arm, skin icy under the thin spandex suit. “Webs, I know this is your summer suit, but you gotta line this thing with fleece or something.”

“S-sorry.”

Deadpool shook his head. “Let’s get you warm.”

He dragged the vigilante down the rooftop fire escape and towards the bustling street, marching them up to a street vendor selling tourist merchandise. He ignored how the crowd parted, wide eyes taking the sight of them in, and slammed a wad of cash in the vendor’s hand. 

Spider-Man stayed silent, arm muscles rigid against Deadpool’s palm. 

Deadpool shimmied an I ♥︎ NY beanie on the vigilante’s head and tossed a red scarf around his neck. He frowned. “What else…”

[A coat?]

Deadpool snapped his fingers. “Aha!” He turned towards a bystander with a black puffer jacket. “Can I—”

The man started taking it off as soon as he made eye contact. “P-please don’t shoot me, Deadpool, sir.”

“What? Jeez. I’m not that evil.” He took the coat anyway.

He grabbed Spider-Man’s wrists one at a time to shove them into the sleeves and he complied like a puppet on a string. This concerned Deadpool more than anything—Spider-Man never accepted help without a fight, even under distress.

He had enhanced abilities—super strength, super agility, his freaky psychic sense—but his greatest power, in Deadpool’s opinion, was his indomitable spirit. He always got back up when kicked down. He always kept trying when the odds were not in his favor. And he always argued for his right to be a masochistic idiot even when on the brink of death.

{He must be really freaking cold.}

[He needs food. Warm food. Lots of it.]

The snow began falling with a newfound intensity, coating the city in a blanket of angry flurries. Deadpool could hardly see in front of him. He led Spider-Man to the nearest business, which was a brightly lit McDonald’s, the golden arches shining a beacon through the blizzard like a majestic, Americana-themed lighthouse.

{Hear me out: Ronald McDonald.}

He pushed Spider-Man into a booth in the far back corner, partially hidden by leafy, faux green foliage to avoid curious glances. 

The restaurant was nearly empty anyway. Most people were outside laughing and playing in the blizzard, kids making snow angels on the concrete and adults pelting each other with snowballs.

Deadpool ordered just about everything on the menu that was warm and plopped the heaping tray in front of Spider-Man.

He flinched at the sound. “What..?”

“Eat up, bug boy.”

{Arachnid boy.}

“I can’t,” Spider-Man said. He pushed the tray forward.

“Uh, why not?” 

“Because.” Spider-Man crossed his arms.

{Not this again.}

Deadpool took in a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose. He had a lot of things he wanted to say, ranging from What the fuck is wrong with you to Please take care of yourself because I can’t stand to see you suffering, but he figured none of those would go over well. Spider-Man was one stubborn son of a bitch. He felt an emotion blossoming in his chest that he couldn’t place, hot and heavy like… 

{Anger?}

[Fear.]

He leaned on the table, hovering just over Spider-Man’s hunched form. “Spider-Man. I have tried so hard to be patient with you. You know what that means, coming from me? I don’t know if you’re sick, stressed, or have some goddamn parasite, but even my blind roommate would be able to see that you haven’t been eating.”

[What about a fourth possibility?]

“Deadpool—”

“Nope. Not finished. I don’t know what is going on and I’m not asking you to tell me. But, please, just try.” The for me hung in the air, unspoken. 

The silence between them stretched on uncomfortably long, with nothing but the beeping of the restaurant’s machines in the background. 

Spider-Man rolled up his mask, hands trembling. His lips were blue. He picked up a spoon and dug into some plain oatmeal, not bothering to blow on the steaming sludge before shoveling it into his mouth.

Deadpool sighed, collapsing onto the opposite bench.

The vigilante plowed through the food until nothing remained but empty wrappers. He still shook, but in the way he always seemed to those days, rather than from a near-hypothermic state. 

“You ready?” Deadpool asked as Spider-Man downed the remaining dredges of his coffee.

“Uh, yeah, one sec. Just have to hit up the bathroom,” Spider-Man said. He slid out from the bench.

Deadpool’s heart skipped. “Oh—sure. Right. Okay, I’ll clean this up.”

Spider-Man titled his head. He hesitated for a beat before nodding and disappearing into the bathroom.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Deadpool mumbled to himself.

{What, that he reminds you of Vanessa?}

[You should go check on him.]

“No!” he hissed. “Stop it.” He dumped the tray into the trash with too much force. Several wrappers bounced to the ground and he cursed under his breath as he picked them up. 

A bright blue flash shined through the window, momentarily blinding him.

“What the…” Deadpool looked out the window as he blinked spots out of his vision.

In the sky, Iron Man was wrestling a guy who looked like the kind of knock-off Santa Claus that you’d see at a discount mall. Captain America flew by and yanked a metal device off the man’s wrist. He smashed it against the ground, and the snow lightened up immediately. 

As the blizzard cleared, the sky gave way to dark thunderclouds rolling in, soft droplets of rain falling instead of blissful snowflakes.

Deadpool scoffed. Of course Spider-Man was right.

-

“Man, I could just punch that guy right in his stupid face,” Spider-Man huffed. He kicked a rock on the roof and sent it flying into the left nostril of the giant J. Jonah Jameson plastered on a billboard. Next to the man’s face in bold red letters were the words: SPIDER-POOL: WANNABE TERRORIST DUO?

The phony Santa Claus had been taken into custody, much to Spider-Man’s pleasure, and he didn’t even gloat to Deadpool about correctly calling out the snow as nefarious activity. The Avengers released a statement to confirm that the weather-controlling device had been destroyed, and with that, the temperature returned to normal levels for a balmy Spring day. The snow melted, creating large, murky puddles all over the roofs and streets. Thunderous clouds still loomed overhead, giving the world a dark blue hue.

Spider-Man insisted on patrolling. Deadpool wasn’t really in the mood—he felt uneasy, though it could’ve been from the low pressure of the incoming storm—but he went along anyway. He told himself that he did so to keep an eye on the vigilante.

{You’re just whipped.}

He threw a pocket knife, the blade landing squarely between Jameson’s eyes with a twump. “What’s his problem, anyway? He doesn’t even know you.”

Spider-Man let out a strangled laugh. “Yeah, no, of course not. That would be weird.”

“Sorry I’m ruining your little goody-two-shoes reputation, Webs,” Deadpool said. “Sorta. Not really. Are we almost in the ‘lovers’ stage of ‘enemies to lovers’?”

Spider-Man snorted. “What if you’re not my type?”

Deadpool gasped. “That’s not possible. I’m everyone’s type. Well, you know, besides people with two functioning eyeballs who can see my horrifically mutilated, chewed-up looking—”

“You’re not ugly,” Spider-Man said.

Deadpool pursed his lips. “But—”

“You’re not ugly,” the vigilante repeated. “And your muscles… are nice.” 

“You know, for a straight guy, you give a lot of mixed signals.”

Spider-Man picked up another rock, inspecting it closely. “Who said I was straight?”

[Is this real life?]

{CALLED IT!}

Deadpool sputtered. “I’m going to need some elaboration—”

Spider-Man’s phone began ringing. He dug in his waistline to fish it out. 

“Are we talking just ‘sorta not’ straight or—” Deadpool was silenced by the vigilante holding up a finger as he listened intently to the voice on the other line.

“But—” Deadpool tried.

“Sh!” Spider-Man hissed, sharp like a librarian. 

[We are doomed to always be interrupted by a pivotal plot point.]

Deadpool put his gun to his temple. “Fine. I’m taking a forever nap until you tell me.” Without missing a beat, Spider-Man, with his back to Deadpool, shot a web that disarmed him, the gun flying out of his hand.

{It’s not like we have a chance with him anyway. He wouldn’t date a murderer.}

[Unless—]

“Alright,” Spider-Man interrupted Deadpool’s thoughts, tucking his phone back into his waist, “That was my friend. Looks like there is strange activity at an art museum about half a mile from here. We should check it out.” Spider-Man’s tone turned hard, all of the previous lightheartedness gone. 

They moved quickly to the location, slipping in through a backdoor that opened into a dimly lit hallway. Spider-Man tilted his head forward, signaling for Deadpool to follow. They crept silently through an archway into a shadowy showroom, rows of red-clothed seats fanned out in front of an empty podium. The museum appeared closed, devoid of patrons.

As they neared an opening that led to the main lobby, footsteps echoed just around the corner. Spider-Man grabbed Deadpool by the arm and yanked him into a supply closet. He used more strength than necessary and Deadpool stumbled backward, stepping on something hard. A feminine yelp rang out and he pulled out his gun, swiveling to the source.

“Any last words?” Deadpool hissed at the same time that Spider-Man exclaimed, “MJ!?”

Deadpool lowered his gun and looked at the vigilante incredulously. “You know her?” The woman in front of them stood with her hands on her hips. She had messy orange hair tied into a ponytail and she held a bulky camera against her side. She looked like a regular person, albeit clearly on some sort of mission. Her face twisted into something serious when she looked at Spider-Man—a mix of frustration and concern. 

“Uh,” Spider-Man swallowed, “Yeah, you could say that.”

The woman—MJ—rolled her eyes. “Pe—, er, Spider-Man. What are you doing here? I told you to call for someone else.”

Spider-Man crossed his arms. “No, you told me someone was in danger and that they needed backup. You didn’t tell me you were the one in danger.”

“I’m not. They’ve got a hostage. They don’t know I’m here.”

“And why are you here?” Spider-Man prodded.

“Hellooo,” Deadpool waved in front of her face. “Who is ‘they’? I want to be included!”

MJ’s gaze darted between the two. “Is this the guy you’ve been talking about?” She looked Deadpool up and down. “He’s taller than I expected.”

{Spidey talks about us!?}

[We will never recover from this.]

“MJ!” Spider-Man whined.

She laughed quietly, a fond look on her face before she quickly morphed back into seriousness. “We can discuss this later. I called you because I was here trying to do an investigative piece on some of the artwork in Wilson Fisk’s estate auction. I told the museum director I was here on behalf of The Daily Bugle but she started to get suspicious. When I slipped away to look around without her, a bunch of guys in these weird masks broke in. I was able to hide, but they’ve got her tied up.”

Spider-Man nodded. “Okay. You sneak out the back. It should be clear to the door through the showroom but keep an eye out. Deadpool and I will search the building and secure the hostage. Call 911 once you’re safe.” 

“Got it,” MJ said as if they had been through this scenario a hundred times before. She put her hand on his upper arm, gently squeezing. “Hey, thanks for coming. I know you’re going through a lot right now… Are you sure you’re okay to fight?”

Spider-Man stepped backward and her hand fell to her side. “MJ, not now.”

She frowned and glanced at Deadpool. A look of understanding dawned across her minkish features. She bit her lip like she had much more to say, but she nodded curtly before sliding out the door, closing it behind her with a soft click.

Deadpool whistled. “Awk-waaard.”

[She knows something you don’t.]

“I don’t want to hear it from you, either.” Spider-Man looked around the room, eyes landing on a large vent near the ceiling. “Come on. Maybe we can sneak up on them through there.”

He crawled up the wall with ease and pried the vent cover off with sticky fingers, bolts flying to the ground. Meanwhile, Deadpool had to hastily stack boxes to reach the opening. He groaned as he pulled himself up, shimming a bit to slide further once his belly was planted on the metal. The vent creaked with his weight. 

“Hurry!” Spider-Man hissed.

“I’m going as fast as I can! Muscles this beefy are heavy, you know. Oh, wait, you’re built like a damn spaghetti noodle with legs so you actually wouldn’t know!” He kept his voice at a whisper, not wanting it to project through the entire ventilation system.

Spider-Man crawled down the vent and around the corner. Deadpool pulled himself up the rest of the way with a final heave, scurrying to catch up.

They stopped at an opening that overlooked a room to the side of the main lobby. Two men in ornately painted wooden masks stood guard with semi-automatic guns. They paced back and forth, surveying for threats. 

“Stay here,” Spider-Man ordered. He eased the vent opening off, lowering himself on top of the metal trusses. He waited until both men were facing away before launching a web. He caught them at the same time, spiraling them into cocoons with rapid speed. He started with their mouths so they were silenced before they could call for help. When he finished, he crawled back into the vent opening. The two men were left dangling from the trusses behind him.

{Am I supposed to be this turned on right now?}

They moved further along the vent.

“Does that little cocoon move ever make it to the bedroom?” Deadpool blurted, not expecting an answer.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”  

{Oh he has no idea how bad we’d like him to tie us up and—}

“Stop it!” Deadpool hissed.

Spider-Man froze. “Huh?”

Deadpool noticed too late, slamming head-first into the man’s butt cheeks.

“Oh,” His face burned. He backed up as if electrified. “Not you. Yellow is acting up again.” Then, quieter, he grumbled, “Hush, you two. I do NOT need a raging boner right now.”

Spider-Man let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snicker.

{Oooh he totally heard that!}

“That’s it. Once I get out of here I’m going to go somersault off the Empire State Building.”

“Make sure you do a flip,” Spider-Man said.

Before Deadpool could retort, they arrived at another vent opening. The metal of the ductwork creaked loudly again, shaking beneath them. 

Spider-Man waved for Deadpool to follow as he lowered himself into the empty room. “I don’t think it will hold both of us much longer,” he explained.

The vigilante landed silently, but Deadpool was not used to taking a stealthy approach. He dropped from the ceiling with a loud thump. “Oops.”

A commotion started up in the lobby—the burglars were alerted of their presence. The two of them ran towards the action, Spider-Man adjusting his web-shooters and Deadpool pulling his gun from his holster.

In the lobby, five masked men stood armed around a beefier-looking perpetrator—the ringleader—who had his hand gripped on the shoulder of a middle-aged woman. She sat on her knees, arms bound behind her by rope. The man held a gun to the back of her head. 

“Let her go now and no one gets hurt,” Spider-Man growled.

The ringleader laughed and pushed the gun further down, shoving the woman forward. She whimpered. “You think I care if any of these idiots get beat up? Everyone knows you’ll let them walk away. That’s what makes you weak,” he spit.

Deadpool aimed his gun. “Unfortunately for you, I’m not so nice.”

“Deadpool, no!” 

Deadpool fired a round and it bounced off the man’s shoulder, clinking to the ground with a metallic ring.

The ringleader cackled again, high-pitched. “So you do want to play dirty?” 

Not even Deadpool could have predicted what happened next—the ringleader pulled the trigger, the gun still on the hostage’s head. Blood exploded into the air, covering the wall and glass display cases in a crimson shower. The woman fell to the ground in a heap. A dark puddle formed rapidly around the bits of her skull that remained attached to her body.

“Holy shit balls!” Deadpool yelped.

The room froze. Spider-Man stood rigid, staring at the woman’s body. Even the ringleader’s cronies looked around, unsure of what to do next.

Deadpool broke the spell by firing rapidly at the ringleader. He no longer aimed non-lethally, but the bullets continued to bounce off. 

Spider-Man rushed forward, punching with more force than Deadpool had ever seen him use before. The men crumpled as he worked his way through them, and he dodged the occasional knife jab without a glance.

Deadpool continued to advance on the ringleader. “Why. Won’t. You. Die,” he grit, words punctuated by his gun firing.

“Haven’t heard of vibranium?” The man walked backward, inching closer and closer toward the exit.

“Oh, goody, I have just the thing!” Deadpool holstered his gun and pulled out both katanas.

The door behind the man flew open. “Police! Get down on the ground, now!” 

The ringleader dropped to his knees, hands up. 

Deadpool still held his katanas above the man, ready to strike.

A hand landed on his wrist. “Don’t,” Spider-Man croaked. “Let them handle him.”

Deadpool hesitated. He wanted to cut the man up slowly, tortuously, beginning with his entrails and ending with his vital arteries. The man ruined Deadpool’s hero streak. He upset Spider-Man. And though tertiary to his concerns, he took a civilian’s life. It irritated Deadpool to a degree beyond murderous. But the slender hand on his wrist trembled, and one glance at Spider-Man made it clear that the vigilante needed him more, his panicked breaths coming out in short, shallow gasps. 

The police were closing in on the ringleader with reinforced handcuffs at the ready. Deadpool sheathed his katanas roughly and stomped forward, ripping the wooden mask off. The ringleader looked up at him with a shit-eating grin. “Next time I see you,” Deadpool hissed, gripping the man’s chin, “Spider-Man won’t be able to save you.” He let go, shoving the man’s head to the side as he did so.

Deadpool grabbed Spider-Man by the shoulders and ushered him outside to the alleyway next to the museum. Rain poured down in droves, bouncing off their suits in a steady thrum.

Spider-Man tugged at his mask, dragging it away from his skin as much as possible without taking it off. He wheezed as he struggled to get in gulps of air. 

“Spidey, deep breaths,” Deadpool urged, tightening his grip. 

The vigilante shoved his hands off. “Don’t touch me.”

Deadpool’s reached out again. “You’re panicking. Let me help you.”

Spider-Man shook his head too fast. “No. No. Stop. You’ve done enough. I never—I never should’ve trusted you again.”

Deadpool’s heart plummeted to the soles of his shoes. He knew what was coming next. “Webs…”

“You’re irresponsible,” Spider-Man gasped. “You always do this. You-you just act! You’re not careful. You hurt people. You’re a killer.” 

Deadpool had been waiting for the hammer to drop—he knew the vigilante had been far too kind to someone as reprehensible as him. But still, the fallout hurt, and he felt nauseous as a heavy pool of dread settled in his stomach.

He stayed silent, trying not to make things worse, but this seemed to fuel Spider-Man’s fire. The vigilante grabbed him by the collar and pulled him so that they were eye to eye. The warm hue of the street lights glinted off his lenses, flooding them with red. “I stopped talking to you for a reason. Remember what you did two years ago?” When Deadpool failed to respond, Spider-Man shook him hard, rattling his brain. “Answer me, Deadpool!”

The rain came down harder, stinging Deadpool’s skin with its ferocity. The water drops blurred his vision. “I was doing my job.”

He never did get a chance to explain himself—to explain why he had intercepted Spider-Man, who had been single-handedly extracting a bomb from an office like a self-sacrificial idiot. He had pushed the vigilante out the window moments before detonation, the explosion wiping out the entire floor, including himself. By the time his body regenerated and stitched itself back together, Spider-Man had removed his toothbrush and Playstation controller from his apartment and blocked his number.

Spider-Man laughed, devoid of humor. “Your mistake took out an entire building. Forty-three lives gone in an instant. That’s not just collateral, Wade! We’re talking about people. Real people with real families who loved them. Do you know how much it hurts to lose—” He choked up. 

“Spidey…”

Spider-Man pulled away as if burned. “Go.”

“I do know. That’s why I did that. I couldn’t lose—”

“I never want to see you again,” Spider-Man said, barely audible above the thick symphony of droplets falling on their heads.

“You don’t mean that,” Deadpool pleaded, desperation seeping through. 

Spider-Man turned so he was looking out towards the end of the alleyway. He sounded vacant. “I know how you feel about me. I’ve known it all along. And—” his voice wavered. “At one point I thought maybe I felt that way toward you too.” He looked at Deadpool, gaze intense even through the mask. Tracks of rainwater ran down his cheeks and pooled off his chin in a steady stream. “But now I know that I could never love you. I refuse to. You hurt innocent people, and I won’t let you hurt me too.” 

Then he was gone, with nothing but the remnant of a web to show that he had ever been there in the first place.

Chapter Text

The smell emanating from Wade could be described as nothing short of biological warfare. His armpits alone neared classification as an offense against the Geneva Convention, and something diabolical wafted from the corner under a heaping mass of garbage. Wade hadn’t moved from his spot on his bed in days except to go to the bathroom and snatch his takeout from the doorstep goblin-style.

“Ugh,” a man gagged as the bedroom door swung open, bright light pooling in.

Wade groaned, face buried into his too-flat pillow. “Leafmearone.”

“Good morning to you too, dickhead. I was just checking to make sure you’re still alive.” The man’s gravely voice sounded familiar.

Wade forced his head up to look but his vision was blocked by his hoodie. He shoved it back roughly. 

Weasel, his best friend on account of having no other friends, stood in his doorway, face scrunched. He kicked an empty tub of chocolate ice cream when he walked in further. With a yelp, he jumped back, hand to his chest. “Jesus, I think I just saw a mouse!” 

[Definitely a rat. Come on, this is New York we’re talking about.]

Wade huffed. “Yep, I’m still kicking. Unfortunately for me, I’m immortal—trust me, I’ve put it to the test a lot this week. So you can go now.” He flopped face-first into his pillow.

“Dude,” Weasel started, disgust still evident but voice lined with something akin to pity. “You’re a mess. This is bad. Even for you.”

{Okay, ouch. At least we aren’t built like a neck-bearded incel.}

Wade raised his hand enough to flip the bird.

Weasel wadded through a pile of laundry and tripped on an empty two liter of Mountain Dew. After regaining his footing, he shoved a pizza box off the bed near Wade’s feet, unceremoniously launching it into a tower of take-out containers. 

As he sat, a loud crunch startled him into jerking straight up. “What the—” he shifted the blanket. A crumpled, messily stapled stack of papers decorated in crayon sat beneath, the cover revealing poorly drawn Spider-Man and Deadpool masks with a large heart in between. “What the fuck is this?”

Moving faster than he had in days, Wade shot up to snatch the papers out of Weasel’s hand. “Get your filthy mitts off of my fanart! Don’t think I don’t know where you put those hands, you little freak!”

“Dude!” Weasel groaned. “Alright, get up.” He ripped the black-out curtains open, midday light tearing across the room.

“I am up.” Wade crossed his arms. 

Weasel scoffed. “I meant up out of bed, jack wagon.” 

When Wade didn’t comply, Weasel grabbed his blanket and yanked it off. Wade tried to reach for it but was too slow, leaving his legs exposed to the cool air. He flopped onto his back so hard that he bounced and groaned loudly. “I hate you, mom!”

Weasel rolled his eyes. “It’s time to get over this little breakup with your boyfriend or whatever weird parasocial shit was going on between you two.”

Wade looked out his bedroom window, focusing on a grey and green pigeon on the ledge as it picked at its feathers. “Not my boyfriend.” 

Nor would he ever be. That much had been clear.

“You’re this upset because he got mad at you but you’re not even worried about him now? You got some fucked up priorities, man.” Weasel picked up an empty cup and sniffed it, retching at whatever heinous aroma he had subjected himself to.

The pigeon flew away, wings flapping wildly. 

Wade turned to Weasel with his brows furrowed. “Worried?”

Weasel looked at him with the most serious expression the man was capable of. Wade hadn’t seen that face since he first revealed his little makeover a la Operation X. “Uh, yeah, dude. Spider-Man hasn’t been seen in, like, two weeks. I thought you knew that.”

[Should we kill ourselves again now or later?]

{SPIDEY’S MISSING!?}

Wade’s heart skipped but he waved his hand in the air. Spider-Man was okay. He had to be. “Psssh. The guy is taking a vacation. So what? He’s probably fourteen margs deep on a cruise in the Bahamas right now.”

{Has Spider-Man ever even left New York?}

Weasel eyed him wearily. “He hasn’t missed a day of patrol in years.”

[He’s got a point.]

“Then he really needed that vacation.” Wade swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched, joints snapping like firework poppers. He cracked his neck to the side a little too forcefully and tingles ran down his spine. “Now, did you come here for something useful, or should I kick your ass? I’ll go easy on the torture since you’re my least-worst friend. Just a bit of light enucleation. I’ll even let you pick which eye.”

Weasel plucked the Deadpool mask up from where it lay abandoned on the floor. He unstuck a cheese puff from the cheek. “Come on.” He chucked it at Wade’s chest. “You’ve got people to kill or… save, or whatever it is you do now.”

Wade’s face reflected back at him in the white lenses. A deep frown cut across his rough skin and his empty eyebrows pinched together, a wrinkle formed between them. 

He’d never felt uglier. 

{Translation: Unloveable.}

“Who knows,” Weasel chanced. “Maybe Spidey will see you being all heroic and shit and forgive you.”

A humorless laugh erupted from Wade’s chest. “Yeah, not in this timeline.” But a traitorous part of him latched onto a feeling suspiciously similar to hope. He tightened his grip on the mask and pulled his eyes away from his reflection. “Okay, fine. I’ll go. But only because all this sitting around is making my butt get big.”

Weasel rolled his eyes but his shoulders fell from where they were hunched towards his ears. “Just—shower first, or else criminals will be wishing you had killed them.”

-

Deadpool spent the next few hours trying to remember the lessons Spider-Man had given him during their time together on patrols. He ended up on the receiving end of more than one purse to the head as he tried to help old ladies cross the street. Apparently, a six-foot-two mercenary built like a linebacker did not have the same charm as an arachnid-themed do-gooder in a onesie. Yellow wouldn’t stop going on about how they were being profiled, but Deadpool couldn’t blame the people who didn’t trust him.

He switched gears and focused exclusively on diverting crime reported on police scanners since he didn’t have Spider-Man’s fancy super senses to locate it himself. After two muggings, one car-jacking, and an attempted sexual assault, he was finding it hard to continue to aim non-lethally. He knew that Spider-Man was no idiot, but damn if his raging justice boner didn’t grate on Deadpool’s nerves.

Some people deserved to be eliminated.

He decided to call it a night before he did something he would regret.

The sun had begun to lower beneath the skyscrapers, the sky a harmonious mixture of persimmon and plum. Deadpool hummed as he contemplated it, chin resting on his hand. His legs dangled off the same roof ledge that he and Spider-Man had been on together just weeks ago. 

He half expected to see the vigilante waiting for him up there as usual, but as had been the case all day, he was nowhere to be found.

[This is kind of gay, even for us.]

{Definitely gay. Like, gayer than Elton John gay.}

Deadpool sighed heavily, a deep whistle reverberating through his chest. “Spidey would’ve loved this. Just the two of us, a day of plating up several servings of non-lethal whoop-ass with a heaping side of public servitude. Then we finish off the night with us staring into the sunset together, inching closer and closer. The camera pans up and the end credits roll…” He reached out to grab at an imaginary pink pulsing heart above his head, hand swiping through the image.

[Er… I think you’re head cannoning a bit too hard.]

After another dejected huff, Deadpool stood up, and the large billboard facing the back of the building caught his eye. Like last time, it had a red-faced J Jonah Jameson looking like a baby that had just annihilated its diaper; however, the picture of Spider-Man photoshopped next to him had been updated. Instead of Spider-Man and Deadpool trapezing through the city together, it depicted a moody image of Spider-Man in the rain, gaze aimed somewhere in the distance. The headline read: SPIDEY-POOL: TROUBLE IN PARADISE?

He recognized that moment from the night of the argument. 

The edges of Deadpool’s vision blurred with fury. “That motherfu—” 

Then he saw it. In little white letters in the corner of the billboard, a name not meant to catch attention: Peter Parker. 

[That’s no coincidence.]

{Is that the photographer!? I bet he knows where Spidey is.}

Deadpool yanked his phone out of his pocket. He speed dialed Weasel and the man answered after two rings. “I need an address.”

Weasel grunted. “Uh, okay, hi, asshole.” 

“Peter Parker,” Deadpool snapped, frowning when he realized he liked how the alliteration rolled off his tongue. 

A scoff sounded across the receiver, muffled by the rapid clicking of a mechanical keyboard. After a beat of silence, Weasel said, “Jeez, there’s not much on this guy. I think his information has been wiped. Like, professionally.”

Deadpool deflated. 

“But,” Weasel chimed, “I do have a location.”

Deadpool perked up again. The address pinged on his screen as a message and he jumped off the roof, not wasting time with the fire escape. 

-

Peter Parker lived in Queens. This made sense, Deadpool realized, as he rounded the corner and noticed the bold crimson lettering that read DELMAR’S DELI-GROCERY. Of course Peter lived near Spider-Man. Whatever their relationship was, it had to be a close one for them to share such intimate moments as depicted in Peter’s photography. 

Maybe they grew up together. Maybe they moved so they could be near each other, or—and Deadpool wasn’t quite ready to accept this as an answer—maybe they even lived together. 

Peter had been photographing Spider-Man for years from what he could tell from the information Weasel sent him. In fact, he may have been taking pictures for him since he started out as a vigilante. If they’re not best friends or brothers, they could be dating, and that…

{No. Just… No.}

Deadpool felt a little sick at the thought of having been a little more than obsessed over a taken man for the past several years. 

But Spider-Man had flirted back, right?

{I’m a witness!}

[Yeah, that was real.]

Deadpool walked past the deli before stopping. Spider-Man had said he really wanted a sandwich from there. He knew he’d run into him eventually—hopefully soon, if he managed to get enough information out of this Peter Parker guy.

[You think you can bribe him with food?]

{Surely a sandwich is enough for him to forget the numerous atrocities you have committed. Not.}

Deadpool pushed through the glass door, the chime of a bell signaling his arrival. 

“Salve—” a stout man behind the counter greeted before stopping short. He hesitated at the sight of Deadpool in his suit. “Er, what can I get for you, mio amico?”

“I need something with salami and ham and pickles and mayo,” Deadpool counted on his fingers as he listed the ingredients. Then he added after a moment of consideration: “Smooshed reeeeally flat.” He hoped it was correct, anyway, but his memory was choppy from one-too-many blows to the noggin. 

The man smirked as he began assembling the sandwich. “Please tell me you’re not who the kid is running around with nowadays.”

Deadpool narrowed his eyes. “Come again?”

The man quickly backtracked. “Ah, nothing, nothing. Just a particular order, is all. I thought maybe—” he waved a hand. “Nevermind. You want this toasted?”

The rest of the interaction was brief after that. Deadpool tucked the sandwich safely in his fanny pack for later.

He found Peter Parker’s apartment in no time despite the brick building being dimly lit and borderline abandoned. The entryway definitely hadn’t been updated since the seventies. The lobby elevator had an OUT OF ORDER sign plastered on it, and Deadpool bounded up the stairs two at a time.

He checked his phone to confirm the address before he rapped his knuckles on a chipped door that read 268 in gold lettering. A thump sounded on the other side, followed by a groan and shuffling. The door swung open to reveal a puffy-eyed man with brown curls sticking in all directions. He was rubbing his face with his fist, gray sweater reaching over his palms. 

{Ah, fuck. He’s beautiful.}

[Doesn’t he seem familiar?]

“I told you I don’t have the rent until—” The man finally looked up. His eyes went wide. “What—”

“Hiya Petey,” Deadpool said, tone venomous. “Got a second?”

Peter took a step back and slammed the door shut.

“Not fair,” Deadpool pouted. “Come on, Petey-Pie. Is that any way to treat your secret admirer slash stalker?”

“Go away,” he yelled through the door.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sweet-ums. You have information about a certain big-bootied bug that I need.” Deadpool leaned in close. “Now open this door, or I will tell the whole apartment that Peter Parker is bunk-buddies with Spider-Man.”

Silence.

Deadpool sighed. He tried to be the bigger guy, but Peter left him with no choice. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “PETER PARKER SUCKS SPIDER COC—”

The door flew open. Peter glared at him, honey-brown eyes boring into his with a fiery rage as he motioned towards the room harshly.

“See, your critical thinking skills from that big fancy college degree are paying off! Well, besides the part where you’re probably in crippling debt and can’t find a job that pays more than $13 an hour unless you have ten years of experience and made a soul-binding deal with Dormmamu.” At Peter’s exasperated look, he added, “I’m just guessing you have a degree—you look like a raging liberal nerd.” 

Peter poked his head back and forth down the hallway before closing the door and locking the deadbolt. “What do you want?” 

He lived in a dingy, shoebox apartment. In the back left, a short row of kitchen cabinets sat on a section of yellowed tile that separated the area from the rest of the studio. A stack of headache-inducing-looking chemistry textbooks took up most of a small wooden dining table, and on top of that pile, sat a pamphlet titled SO YOU FEEL LIKE A FAT COW. 

[Are we just going to gloss over that, or..?]

{Yeah, hey, wait a minute…}

Behind the table, the microwave hummed, cooking something that Deadpool couldn’t distinguish through the dark glass. 

Peter was staring expectantly. 

His life looked even more sad than Deadpool’s, but that’s not what brought him there. “Hey, as much as I like seeing that mouth work, I ask the questions.” 

His targets usually never resisted this much. He felt a flicker of irritation and his hand twitched towards his knife holster on instinct, though he didn’t plan on using it. 

Peter tracked the movement anyway, shoulders tensing. “You can ask but I can’t guarantee you’ll get an answer.”

Deadpool hummed. “I see why Spidey likes you. You have the same… je ne sais quoi that makes my lady bits tingle.”

Peter’s face was that of a man mentally speed-running ideas on all the ways one could murder someone with their bare hands.

DING! 

The microwave broke the spell of their standoff. 

“Ohh! Snack time!” Deadpool flew to the kitchen.

“No—!”

He wrenched the appliance door open. A singular protein bar greeted him, chocolate coating gooey from the heat. “Ohhh. Okay, this is sad. What in the Eugenia Cooney is this?” He turned towards Peter, who had his hands on his hips. “Baby, do we need to stage an intervention?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Okay, seriously? Did you just come here to harass me, or…?”

“You’re pretty feisty for a civilian, for reals,” Deadpool said as he reached for the plate in the microwave. “No wonder Spidey chose you as his fuck bud—” The dish ignited his fingers with a searing heat that he hadn’t expected. “Sweet mother of Mary and Joseph!” He dropped the plate, sending it flying along with the protein bar, which landed in a pathetic brown mush on the antiquated tile.

Peter’s collected demeanor crumbled. He covered his mouth, already red-rimmed eyes watering.

Deadpool knew that look. 

That was the face of someone approximately ten seconds away from a complete breakdown.

Ah, crap. 

He started backing toward the door—he came to interrogate and maybe lightly threaten Peter for information on Spider-Man’s whereabouts, not to be a crisis counselor. Whatever the fuck was going on with this emotional display was not his problem.

But as he watched Peter fall brokenly to his knees, barely controlled tears rushing out over a fucking morsel of food, Deadpool’s feet stopped themselves. He looked at his WWSMD bracelet and sighed heavily. “God damn it. Ugh.”

[The Grinch’s small heart just grew three sizes.]

“Shut up,” he growled. He reached Peter in three big steps and kneeled, hand hovering over his back hesitantly before putting it down. He could feel every notch in his spine. “Hey, buddy. Kid. Kiddo. Big fella. Or- or little fella, if this is actually some eating disorder shit. Hopefully not. Gah.”

Peter sniffed. “Go away.”

“Yeah, no can do. Not to brag but I’m something of a hero now. Totes Spidey-coded.” Deadpool, in fact, did want to leave. Instead, he started rubbing circles on Peter’s back. “Now spill. What’s got you all emotional the same way I am after watching Titanic?”

Peter looked up at him, brow quirked.

“What? It’s a sad story! Rose was being a selfish bitch because we all know she could’ve fit Jack on that door. That’s the real heartbreak.”

Peter snorted. “Um. I-It’s nothing. I’m sorry. I’ve had a… bad week.” He paused. “Well, month. Year.” He rolled his eyes. “Life.”

“Wow, samesies! I usually just cope by shooting myself.” Deadpool smacked his forehead. “Not that I recommend that! Gosh. I am so not cut out for this.”

Peter moved to stand but his knees were trembling. He fell back to the floor with an oomph. His face had gone ghostly pale at some point during their conversation, and he rubbed at his sternum with bony fingers, face scrunched in discomfort.

Deadpool grabbed his shoulders. “Petey, I need you to be honest with me so I can help you.” He thought of Spider-Man and how he seemed to be struggling financially, unable to adequately feed himself. It was a long shot, but he really didn’t want to deal with the alternative.

Peter nodded jerkily so Deadpool marched on. “Is this—are you—well, are you poor?”

[Wow, I thought we were finally going to see the ‘aha’ moment here.]

Peter blinked at him dumbly.

“No offense but this place is kind of a dump and you look like a Great Depression survivor and are having a menty b over a snack, so. My gut tells me it’s mental illness but I’m really kind of hoping it’s not because I am so not the one to give advice. But, you know, if it’s a money problem, I’ve totally got money. Lots of it.” He pulled out a stack of cash from his back pocket. “Do you want fifty, a hundred—never mind, just take it all.” He shoved the cash into Peter’s hand. 

Peter pushed it into Deadpool’s chest. “I don’t want your money. And I can afford food.”

“So it’s—”

“Yeah.”

Deadpool sat down with a huff. “Well shit, kid.”

“Yeah.” Peter wrapped his arms around himself.

“This would be a great time for White and Yellow to say something useful,” Deadpool grumbled. For once, words would not come easily to him. 

Spider-Man would find a way to make Peter feel better, probably. He would have a story to tell to let him know he’s not alone and that the world is full of sunshine and rainbows, or something. The guy was so full of hope and virtue that it made Deadpool sick sometimes, but he admired him for it all the same. 

Unfortunately, Deadpool was not Spider-Man, nor could he ever be. 

Peter wiped his cheeks with his sleeve, sniffling.

Deadpool cleared his throat. Okay, mental breakdown. Eating disorder. Spider-Man would say something anecdotal, surely. Here goes nothing. “I had a girlfriend, once.” 

Peter’s eyes widened, big and doe-like just like hers.

Deadpool looked away. “Her name was Vanessa. I met her before I got all ugly and murdery. She had a smoking hot bod—the kind you see in movies and catalogs. A real babe, Petey.” He twisted the WWSMD bracelet on his wrist. “I was a total loser compared to her. I couldn’t believe my luck, scoring a ten out of ten like that—with a real good personality too.”

Peter’s focus shifted to his sleeve. He picked at the hem. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I was an idiot. I thought she was perfect. Hell, I still do. So I assumed she thought that way about herself, too.” Deadpool swallowed thickly. “I was so, so wrong.”

At this, Peter froze.

“Have you heard of bulimia, Peter?” Without waiting for a response, Deadpool continued. “She was—she tore herself apart, damn near. No amount of compliments or- or cat calls or anything could convince her to stop. I don’t even think it was about her weight after a while. Maybe it never was.” He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the silence pressing on his lungs. “I can kill a lot of people and a lot of things, but that illness… I couldn’t do a damn thing.”

“Did she ever recover?”

Deadpool smiled, bereft of humor. He wasn’t sure if he should be honest, but he was tired of pretending. “No. She died. Heart gave out right over the toilet.”

He could hear the hitch in Peter’s breath and he met his gaze. “Do you want to live, Petey?”

Peter hesitated, and that told Deadpool more than words could. 

“I don’t know,” he decided after a beat, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I have to, but I don’t know if I want to.”

“Well,” Deadpool patted his knee. “I want you to. I know I’m just a big dummy in a suit who came here to bully information out of you, but still.” 

Peter huffed out a laugh.

If Deadpool could help someone in the way that he had failed to do so for Vanessa, then he might be able to let go of some of the guilt that clawed mercilessly at his insides each day. But he doubted some random mercenary would be enough to invoke change. Maybe nothing would be. In a futile attempt, Deadpool added, “And, hey, speaking of. I bet Spidey would be real disappointed if something happened to you.”

Peter’s small smile fell. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Anyways.” Deadpool stood, knees cracking. He felt dizzy. Detached. Still floating somewhere in the ether while his body went through all the motions. “Can you believe I made it through that spiel without a single sexual innuendo? The author is such a sadist.”

Peter grabbed the counter to pull himself up. “That was… something. Um. Thank you, Deadpool.”

Deadpool shrugged and looked at the wall over Peter’s shoulder, unwilling to make eye contact lest he be reminded of Vanessa again. “Hey, no biggie. My tragic loss is your tragic gain, yadda yadda.” He looked around. “Do you have a toilet in here? Daddy really has to tinkle.” 

Peter pointed to a wooden door next to the kitchen.

Deadpool ripped off his mask as soon as he got in the bathroom, chest burning as he greedily sucked in gulps of air. 

His breathing evened out after a few more weighty gasps. Enough time passed that he figured he should flush the toilet for the illusion of using the bathroom. He turned the tap on and splashed his face, reveling in the way the cold water soothed the heat in his cheeks. 

Eyes shut, he gripped both sides of the counter with force. What the hell is wrong with me?

A sharp sting radiated from his palm. He jerked his hand away as his eyes flew open. 

On the counter sat a small, red, black, and blue figurine of Deadpool and Spider-Man. He turned it to the other side, revealing a missing arm—the same arm missing on the figurine that he had given to Spider-Man. 

The room tilted. He stumbled back, bumping into a lidded wicker hamper that threatened to topple over. He grabbed a corner to steady it, not wanting to cause a commotion, and a flash of blue and red caught his eye. A spandex sleeve poked out just barely—Deadpool wouldn’t have noticed it if his senses weren’t alight with electrifying anxiousness. He lifted the lid, hands shaking, and saw it. 

Spider-Man’s suit. 

He slammed the lid shut. 

Flashes of moments with both Peter Parker and Spider-Man raced through his mind at breakneck speeds. Peter’s anger when he arrived, as if they had met before. Spider-Man’s offhand comment about being a college student—a biochemistry major. Peter’s textbooks. MJ’s slip-up. Peter’s voice, familiar in its warmth.

Damn it. He had been so oblivious. 

Peter and Spider-Man were the same person. Of course they were. Fuck. And Peter had an eating disorder, which meant that Spider-Man had an eating disorder, Deadpool realized.

[Finally.]

He couldn’t do this again. Not after Vanessa. 

He tightened his fist and the figurine cracked in two, splitting the characters apart where their hands conjoined. He shoved the pieces in his pocket and pulled his mask on.

When Deadpool stepped out of the bathroom, his eyes landed on Peter’s face, still red and puffy. He hadn’t noticed before, but his cheekbones casted shadows over his cavernous cheeks and his jawline jutted out sharp as a knife. Peter’s clothes were baggy, but his too-defined collarbones peeked out at the neckline.

Deadpool felt sick. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Peter asked, standing from where he sat at the ratty kitchen table. Two steaming mugs of tea waited for them. “Was it the soap? I knew Nilla Bean Cupcake was a bold choice…”

“I-I have people to do and things to see,” Deadpool tried to joke, but it sounded flat even to his own ears. 

He cleared his throat and unzipped his fanny pack, holding the sandwich out. “I was planning on giving this to Spidey, but something tells me I won’t be seeing him for a while. Could you pass it along?” 

Not that Peter would eat it. 

Fuck, he felt so stupid.

Peter picked it up as delicate as if it were a feather. “You—you got this for him?”

“Sure did.”

Peter searched his masked face, looking for an expression he couldn’t see. After a moment of hesitation, he nodded. 

Deadpool nodded back once and then he flew out the door, heart pounding as his mind struggled to process his newfound revelations.

Chapter Text

On Deadpool’s more macabre days, he liked to imagine what his tombstone would say if he could die. 

He could see it with stark clarity: a gray vertical stele, granite—the economical choice. It might say Wade Winston Wilson, or Deadpool, or both. It would have his date of birth and a death date some untold time in the future. 

The middle would contain an epitaph in a tasteful serif font, but it would vary depending on which poor stupid soul felt the obligation to pay for a grave marker. Weasel would probably choose comic sans, while Peter would go for something elegant and loopy. 

Deadpool thought the epitaph might say something like:

Accomplished mercenary. Loving ex-boyfriend. World’s okayest dad.

But Yellow often burst his bubble with a more realistic expectation:

Murderer. Loser. Loner. 

Gone and forgotten.

{Don’t forget murderer!}

Whatever. It didn’t matter. He would be dead, theoretically. “Fuck it. Right?”

[But you do care.]

Deadpool sighed, letting his normally ramrod straight posture slump as his shoulders curled inwards. He stared at the cemetery from his spot on the roof ledge. 

It didn’t make sense to sum an entire existence up into brief descriptors or even a heartfelt elegy at a funeral. It made even less sense for existence to end as abruptly as it often did. He knew, from experience, how little it took to kill someone—a single well-aimed gun shot, a lucky stab, the grill of a car to the chest. 

[A heart attack.]

One moment in time was all it took to put an abrupt stop to the impetus of life. 

He thought back to all the times he had died, only to wake up hours later, feeling nothing but disappointment that it hadn’t lasted. It wasn’t until he met Peter that he had felt relief when that first gasp of air tugged through his lungs, dragging him back to the land of the living. 

A new emotion churned in his chest: he realized he felt grateful, even, that his innumerous deaths hadn’t been permanent, because otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to experience all that he had with Peter.

“Are you… pondering?” A deep voice rumbled behind him with an air of disbelief.

Deadpool turned towards the source—a man in a maroon Kevlar suit and a helmet with pointy horns. “Daredevil.” 

The man nodded in acknowledgement. “Deadpool.” 

“You’re a philosopher, right?” Deadpool asked, collapsing further into himself. He didn’t even have the energy to inquire why the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen had approached, nor did he care. They had an uneasy truce, working together occasionally but unable to fully reconcile their juxtaposing morals. 

More importantly, Peter liked him, so Deadpool tolerated him when he had to. 

Daredevil sat beside him with a grunt. He rubbed at a purple and blue bruise blooming along his stubbled jaw with one hand, the other hand holding two red and gold billy clubs. “Philosophy major. In undergrad.”

Deadpool sat up straighter. “What would that fancy degree have to say about mortality?”

Daredevil chuckled. He set the billy clubs down, the metal clinking softly against the concrete ledge. “You’re going to have to be more specific.” 

A soft mist began to fall, penetrating the warm summer air with a crisp draft. Deadpool crossed his arms to savor the heat. Flashes of images clouded his thoughts for a moment—Spider-Man with streaks of droplets racing down his mask, catching in the carbon fiber grooves, the fiery reflection of street lights dancing in his lenses, his gloved fist wrapped tightly around the collar of Deadpool’s suit, shaking him.

He blinked in rapid succession, forcing himself into focus. “You know. Life, death. The fun stuff. I’m asking for a friend, obviously. Not for me. That would be totally self-serving. I’m not a narc. Well, I kind of am, but only because I’m so sexy.”

Daredevil regarded him silently, head tilted. “All my pleas to get you to stop killing haven’t finally gotten through to you, have they?” 

He had even more persistence in spreading his moral agenda than Spider-Man did. 

Deadpool scoffed. “Have you considered a career as a Jehovah’s Witness?”

Daredevil crossed his arms.

Deadpool poked at a hole in his suit at the thigh, spreading the frayed edges. “I don’t feel bad about killing the fuckers who deserve it.”  

And he really didn’t. Bad people lost their right to a happy ending the moment they decided to hurt someone else. Deadpool was certain of that much. 

That was why he had tried to take his own life so many times. It was the right thing to do.

“What about the ones who don’t deserve it?” Daredevil’s voice sounded like a rumble in the wind. He had an uncanny ability to act like an actual Devil on his shoulder—a manifestation of his darkest consciousness—because, okay, yeah, he did occasionally kill people who didn’t deserve it, whether that be a result of collateral damage or misinformation. 

“I never said I was a hero,” Deadpool muttered. He eyed a small bronze grave marker surrounded by decadent florals and unlit candles. Gone too soon, it read. 

How many people’s lives had ended untimely, when they had so much more life to live? 

How many hadn’t ended soon enough?

The universe was a cruel, absurd thing. Because, really, how did Deadpool sit there, alive again after so many unsurvivable experiences, as undeserving as he was, while the people he loved—the most pure, kindhearted people—flirted with death as if they owed it money?

Maybe it was his penance for all he had done wrong in the absence of the punishment of mortality: he would forever be drawn to people who looked into the abyss with too much longing in their eyes. 

A hand landed on his shoulder. The grip felt heavy but tender. “Wade, what is this really about?”

{Flashback time?}

[The author loves a good flashback.]

“Well, since you’re asking…” Deadpool pulled a wrinkled packet of papers out of his back pocket. The front cover displayed a messy crayon depiction of Spider-Man and Deadpool masks separated by a large pink heart, a greasy finger print in the corner from where Weasel had desecrated it. Deadpool flipped to the first page and felt his mouth upturn in a rueful smile as he imagined the figures coming to life. “It started two years and three months ago.”

-

2022

The pungent stench of barley assaulted Deadpool’s nostrils. It emanated from the glass bottle of malt liquor that Spider-Man swung in the air, tawny droplets splashing every which way. The vigilante moved his arms animatedly as he recounted some story, though Deadpool hadn’t a clue what it was about. 

His eyes were instead drawn to the defined curvature of spandex-clad muscles, contracting and relaxing with the push and pull of movement. 

The two men faced each other as they sat cross legged on the roof of a run-down bar. Spider-Man had insisted on being on a roof—just like always.

Spider-Man took a swig of his beer, his mask folded over his nose. His wet lips reflected the red of the bar’s neon sign when he pulled away, impossibly ripe looking—plump and vibrant like a decadent cherry—until he wiped the lingering beer off with the back of his hand. A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. 

“What’s going on in that buggy head of yours?” Deadpool asked.

Spider-Man huffed. “Arachnid.”

Deadpool rolled his eyes. “Tomato, potato.” He scooted closer until their knees bumped together.

Spider-Man peeled back a frayed edge of the bottle label. His frown deepened. “I should be happy,” he mumbled. “Here, with you. I like this. I like us.”

“But…?” 

Spider-Man shook his head. He seemed lost. 

Deadpool had witnessed this before—had witnessed the vigilante retreat into himself, leaving a hollow shell behind. He put his hands on the man’s cheeks, gently forcing his chin up with his thumbs. “Hey, come on. Don’t leave me now.”

A small upturn graced Spider-Man’s lips. “I’m tired, ‘Pool.” 

“Me too, baby boy,” Deadpool said. He knew tired like he knew how to wield a katana—he could dance through the motions with his eyes closed, living each day on auto-pilot with professional ease. He carried tired like a weight on his back, pulling him down but grounding him all the same. He felt the kind of tired that couldn’t be fixed with sleep.

He hoped it wasn't the kind that Spider-Man felt. 

The vigilante had moved forward at some point. Deadpool could feel the heat of his breath against his lips, which were exposed—he too had his mask rolled to the bridge of his nose. He could smell the alcohol on the vigilante’s puffs of air, potent and demanding.

“Do you want me?” Spider-Man breathed, almost too quiet to hear.

Deadpool’s heart skipped a beat. God. Of course he did. He wanted him more than he wanted to exist. His hands felt on fire where they came into contact with the vigilante’s face, electric with passion and lust and something he hadn’t yet distinguished. 

But Spider-Man swayed forward, beer clinking against the cement as he set it down crookedly. Behind him were the remains of dozens of empty bottles. He was very obviously inebriated, and acting far more emotional than he ever did sober. 

Deadpool refused to take advantage. His morals were messy and few and far between, but there were some lines even he wouldn’t cross. 

A steady thrum of music spilled out from the bar below, beating in Deadpool’s ears at the same pace as his heart. He ran his thumb over Spider-Man’s lips. “I can’t.”

Spider-Man gripped his wrists, locking him in place. “Can’t, or won’t?”

It took every ounce of willpower for Deadpool to pull away. He shook the vigilante’s hands off of him. “Go home, Webs.”

Spider-Man hung his head. “Yeah, okay.” 

His tone had a note of finality, as if Deadpool had answered exactly how he expected.

“Can you drink and web sling, or does that count as an OVI? I can call you an Uber,” Deadpool offered, standing. He put a hand out for support. He ignored the nagging feeling that he was making a mistake. 

Spider-Man grabbed his hand after a moment of hesitation. He allowed himself to be pulled up, stumbling slightly as he cleared his throat. “I got it. I’ve swung home in worse conditions.”

Deadpool scoffed. “Let me walk you home, at least. There could be big baddies lurking in the dark. Like me, but not as flawlessly charming.”

Spider-Man snorted but it lacked its usual mirth. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Deadpool.” He dove forward, yanked in the direction of his web. He just barely missed the front of a brick building before disappearing around the corner.

Tomorrow came faster than Deadpool bargained for. 

He had been commissioned by Tony Stark to aid in a mission—something about needing a disposal member of the team, yadda yadda. Deadpool only agreed because Spider-Man would be there too. They patrolled together on occasion, but he would never pass up an opportunity to see those sweet cheeks in action.

The mission itself was fairly simple: secure an alien bomb in a blast-proof container and bring it to the Tower to disarm. 

Where it all went awry was when Tony realized the bomb had a clock ticking—and they were about to run out of time.

“That thing is gonna blow,” Tony hissed, tapping in the air at a screen no one else could see. “Friday says we have 90 seconds, tops.”

“Shit, there’s still people in there!” Sam Wilson said, landing next to him with the blast-proof container in hand. They had agreed to convene on a roof at a safe distance from the bomb until they had a more concrete plan, the building within eye-sight.

“Where’s Spider-Man?” Clint asked. 

Deadpool’s stomach dropped. He could guess exactly where.

“I got it, guys!” Spider-Man’s voice cut through the comms, far too cheery for the situation.

“Spider-Man,” Tony growled, voice deadly, “Get out of there. Now.”

“No can do, sir. I can’t let these people get hurt.”

Deadpool could see the outline of a red and black suit kicking through the window of the building.

“That thing is powerful, Underoos. It’ll take you out with it.” If Deadpool didn’t know any better, he’d think he heard fear in Tony’s voice.

The comm stayed silent for a beat until a small voice cut through. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Tony scoffed. His thrusters powered on. “Spider-Man, get your ass over here before I come get you myself.” 

“Hey, Cap,” Deadpool said, elbowing Sam’s ribs. He pulled the blast-proof container from his hands. “Give me a lift?”

Sam seemed to understand his plan without needing an explanation. He grabbed him at the armpits and they took off in the air toward the building, arriving just as Spider-Man swung out, arms wrapped around a glowing, obsidian stone with an earth-like band of technology strapped around it.

“Now!” Deadpool shouted.

Sam let go and Deadpool dove toward Spider-Man, intercepting him mid-air. He had hoped to grab the bomb and throw it in the box in one fluid motion, but Spider-Man twisted it to the side, just out of reach. 

They plunged through the glass a few stories down and landed hard on the tile floor, knocking the air out of Deadpool. 

The bomb skidded away and Spider-Man lunged for it. “Let me get this out of here, ‘Pool!”

Deadpool could hear the timer now, the beeping getting faster and faster. He launched forward, grabbing Spider-Man at the waist. They rolled away from the bomb, Deadpool landing on top of him with his knees straddling his sides.

“That container,” Spider-Man gasped, “it won’t work.” He punched Deadpool in the nose, a sickening crack cutting through the air. He slid out from beneath him and lunged for the bomb again, scooping it into his arms.

“So, what, you’re just going to use your body to contain it?” Deadpool spoke through the metal tang filling his mouth. His heart was racing in rhythm with the beeping, the shrill increasing with each second wasted on fighting. He stepped forward and Spider-Man took a step backward. 

“This—I can smell it. It has a chemical that this box isn’t rated for. Tony didn’t—he didn’t know,” Spider-Man insisted.

Deadpool reached for the bomb clumsily, desperation growing. Spider-Man yanked it back, his reflexes always a beat ahead of his. 

“You can’t just—blow yourself up!” Deadpool exclaimed, unable to hide the plea in his voice.

“It’s okay. I’m tired, Wade. Remember? Let me do this,” Spider-Man said. He started backing toward the ledge of the shattered window. “I need to do this.” He sounded so certain, like he had known this moment would come eventually.

“Webs, I…” 

Spider-Man paused, chest moving up and down too fast as he forced air into his lungs.

Deadpool had missed all the signs. He had ignored the twist in his gut that screamed at him that something was wrong, even when Spider-Man drunkenly spilled his feelings on the roof. He ignored it out of a sheer refusal to see the truth, to see that Spider-Man could hurt enough to want it all to end, because everyone Deadpool had ever cared about had abandoned him by ending their life in one way or another.

The beeping reached a crescendo. They didn’t have much time.

“I’m sorry,” Deadpool decided. He slammed the sole of his boot into Spider-Man’s chest, sending him flying out the window. He caught the bomb as it flew in the air, the vigilante letting go to instinctively shoot a web to catch himself.

Deadpool only had one thought on his mind as he shoved the explosive in the box and threw his body over it:

I can’t lose him too. 

-

“In the end,” Deadpool sighed, folding down the last sheet of paper in the packet, “it was my fault that all those civilians died. That’s why Spidey hates me.”

Daredevil pursed his lips. “Really? It sounds to me like Tony Stark dropped the ball. I mean, he sent you on his mission without doing proper recon. He should’ve figured out what was in that bomb before showing up with a useless device to contain it. Also, why didn’t they start with evacuating the building?”

Deadpool shrugged. “I don’t think he had time to form a plan. Bombs don’t usually come with much warning.”

Daredevil didn’t seem pleased. “He’s an Avenger. He should’ve done better.”

“You’re really good at pinning the blame on someone else. Do you have a day job as a judge or something?”

Daredevil smirked. “Or something.”

The rain had stopped. Slivers of sunlight broke through the dark clouds, illuminating shadowy portions of the cemetery. 

“I think Spidey was on a suicide mission,” Deadpool muttered. “I mean, he really gave it the ole college try. And I think maybe he’s still trying, just… in a roundabout way.”

The smile fell from Daredevil’s face. He fiddled with his billy clubs, the metal clinking as he tapped them together. “I’ve—” he sighed. “I’ve been there, too. And I pushed people away, just like he’s pushing you away. Don’t let him. Tell him how you feel until he has no choice but to listen. We’re stubborn, he and I, but if you really care about him, he’ll have to see it eventually.”

Deadpool didn’t know what to say. He looked at the sky, blinking bright spots out of his vision. When he turned, he found the spot beside him empty. 

{He’s so creepy.}

-

It took four days for Deadpool to gather the courage to dial Peter’s number. He had to retype it several times because his hands were shaking so bad that he kept hitting the wrong key. He finally got it right, then spent another half minute hovering his thumb over the green phone icon before closing his eyes and tapping it too quickly. 

The call went straight to voicemail.

He hadn’t been expecting much else, but it still stung. 

Deadpool wasn’t even sure if he really wanted to reach out, heart preemptively aching over losing Peter the way he lost Vanessa, but he was nothing if not masochistic. 

{And ugly!}

[Not helpful.]

Spider-Man still hadn’t returned to the streets. Journalists were starting to pick up on his absence, and theories ranged from Deadpool killed Spider-Man on a hit to Spider-Man was backpacking in Alaska. He saw one particularly absurd one that implied that Spider-Man was actually Spider-Woman (or, as some suggested, a Spider-Woman at birth) and would be out on maternity leave, perhaps with Deadpool as the father. Internet conspiracy theorists quickly dismissed the pregnancy rumor on account of him being far too flat in the abdomen to be carrying a baby.

{Unless he has one of those tilted uteruses.}

The only news source that hadn’t reported on his absence was The Daily Bugle, and the implication was not lost on Deadpool.

Before he could reach the point of kicking down Peter’s door to check on him, his phone rang.

Deadpool dove over the couch, landing belly-down on the kitchen counter. He grabbed the phone from next to a pile of unopened bills and it slipped from his grasp. He bounced it back and forth in his hands before getting a solid hold, answering without checking the caller ID. 

“Baby boy—”

“Deadpool,” a gruff voice cut through.

“You’re not my sweetums,” Deadpool pouted. He pulled the phone away from his ear to check the name: Tony Stark.

“Yeah, well, your sweetums is currently not answering anyone’s calls and he punched a hole through the droid I sent to his apartment. What did you do to him?”

Deadpool slid off the counter. “Why does everyone assume it’s my fault?”

Tony scoffed. “Cut the shit, Deadpool. That kid talks about you like you created the moon and stars. I don’t know what he sees in you because quite frankly I think you’re a piece of shi—”

“Okay, okay. Jesus. I get it. Wow. You’re a mean, little man. Did you know that? Emphasis on little.” Deadpool opened the freezer absently, picking up random containers and inspecting the labels.

“You know what? Never mind—”

“Wait!” Deadpool shifted the phone to his other ear. He grabbed a tub of chocolate ice cream with his free hand. “Alright, I’m sorry. I can’t get through to Peter either. We had an… argument.”

The line fell silent. For a moment, Deadpool panicked, unsure if his assumption that Tony knew Peter’s identity was correct.

He could hear shuffling and then a heavy sigh. “You know his name too?” 

“And then some,” Deadpool admitted, shoulders slumping with relief.

“Damn it. Look—” the sound of a wine bottle popping open filtered through the receiver, “I don’t understand it, and I don’t approve of it, but for whatever reason, Peter trusts you. I’m worried about him. He won’t tell me anything, but I can tell something is wrong.”

[Understatement of the century.]

Deadpool sat on the couch with a huff, tub of ice cream on his lap. The center cushion still had a faint blood stain from the night he had to stitch the stab wound on Peter’s leg. “I’m not the one who can help him.” He didn’t even know if he wanted to be—it would open himself up to a fresh wave of grief if he failed. 

[You’re already grieving him.]

“Do you love him?” Tony asked in the same tone one would ask about the weather. As if he thought of love as a casual, fleeting thing that would come and go like the tide against the shore, waxing and waning in its intensity. Deadpool wondered if Tony had ever really loved anyone, or if he just thought he had, because love to him did not feel like that at all.

Deadpool didn’t fall for people often, but when he did, he fell hard. He couldn’t help it—these feelings were weaved into the coding of his DNA, the only atoms that weren’t turned inside out by Operation X. In fact, he had endured unspeakable atrocities toward every fiber of his being, not a single nerve untouched, and, still, he thought love might be the most painful thing he’d ever experience. 

“Well?” Tony prompted.

Deadpool did love Peter. He had known for years—even when he didn’t want to accept it—that he would love Peter until the heat death of the universe if time allowed.

But he didn’t know if he had the steel to admit that to Tony. 

The declaration, for all its veracity, would feel too real once spoken into the air, as if the utterance itself would be what solidified its permanency—as if he could run from what he refused to acknowledge.

Deadpool shoved a heaping scoop of ice cream into his mouth. “What should I do?” he asked, muffled around the spoon.

“Find him. Apologize. Use protection. Live happily ever after,” Tony said. “Simple at that.”

{Simple as that. What a joke.}

Deadpool hung up, a budding migraine in his temples.

-

It turned out that Deadpool didn’t need to do much searching, because Peter found him first.

“Hey,” Peter said, sitting next to him on the lid of the metal water tank.

He looked like shit—he didn’t have his mask on, revealing messy brown curls sticking in all directions and inky splotches etched under his eyes. His lips were cracked and pale, and soft, translucent hairs sprinkled his jawline and neck. Deadpool couldn’t remember what they were called, but he had seen them on Vanessa in her final year.

“Hey,” Deadpool said. He didn’t have his mask on either. He clenched his fist, crushing it in his grip.

They overlooked the roof that Peter had been chasing the green goo man on, months prior.

“I never did catch that Jello thing,” Peter huffed. “I think he lives in the sewers now.”

Deadpool cracked a smile. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” he said, shrugging. “I’m glad you were there.”

A heavy silence settled between them, punctuated by the occasional buzz of an insect and rumble of a passing car. The evening sun cast a golden hue that reflected off the metal, the air dancing with bright rays of light. 

[Say it.]

“I’m sorry,” Deadpool started at the same time that Peter blurted, “Please forgive me.”

“No, me first—” Deadpool said, overlapping Peter’s, “I’m more sorry—”

“Let me explain—” 

“No, ‘Pool—”

“Peter,” Deadpool stressed. 

Peter’s mouth clicked shut. He stared at him with wide eyes, lashes fluttering around the honey pools of his irises. 

Deadpool swallowed. “I’m not good with words. Um. Not with serious ones, anyways. But—”

“Then don’t speak,” Peter said.

“What?” Deadpool gripped his mask tighter, regretting taking it off when he thought he’d be alone. He felt naked.

Peter’s chest shuddered as he took in an uneven breath. His cheeks were flushed, splotches of crimson reaching down towards his jawline. He looked…

{So fucking nervous.}

He wrung his fingers. “Use your mouth for… for something other than speaking.”

Deadpool blinked. “Are you asking me to kiss you?”

Peter shrugged, eyes flickering down toward Deadpool’s lips. 

[You should probably talk this out first.]

White had a good point, but Deadpool never made a habit of listening to the boxes. He rushed forward, hand sliding to the back of Peter’s neck as he pulled them together.

Their lips collided with too much force, and it hurt a bit where their teeth clinked, but Deadpool loved every moment of it. The pounding of his heart in his ears and the tingle of electricity on his skin turned the rest of the world into static, and for a brief moment, it felt like time couldn’t touch them. 

Deadpool didn’t know who pulled away first. They rested their foreheads together, panting.

“Much better than words,” Peter breathed.

Deadpool shook his head. He planted a kiss on his cheek before sitting back. “You’re a bad influence.”

Peter scoffed like he definitely didn't agree, but he didn’t say anything, instead tracing a finger along a scar on Deadpool’s chin.

Deadpool grabbed his hand and pulled it down. “Petey-pie, I can’t be the hero you want me to be.”

“Wade—”

“No, listen to me, baby boy. I’m a fucked up mess. I hurt people. I’m scared as shit that I’m going to hurt you more, and I’m scared as shit to watch you hurt yourself.” Deadpool’s palms were sweating. “But I keep wanting you. Even with all the—” he waved his hands around, “—jacked up bits. And I kept trying to be better for you, but I messed up anyway.”

Peter smiled weakly, bottom lip wobbling. “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have blamed you. The bomb, the museum… you couldn’t have known.”

Deadpool’s breath hitched, but he had more to say. “And when I found out your identity—totally an accident, by the way—I just—I panicked. Vanessa…”

“Yeah,” Peter sighed. “When you left, I went into the bathroom and the figurine was gone. I wasn’t sure if I should reveal my identity after you told me about her, but you figured it out anyway. I’m—”

“You better not say ‘sorry’ again,” Deadpool said, pushing his shoulder into his. 

Peter huffed a laugh. “I am, though. You said you’re a mess, but I cry over food like twice a week. Isn’t that some shit?”

Deadpool hummed. “I’m no psychic, but I’m sensing some therapy in your future.”

Peter snorted. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”

The iron grip of unease on Deadpool’s chest loosened. He knew they weren’t done with the conversation, but their problems didn’t accumulate in one evening, so he doubted they could be resolved in the waning light of the day’s setting sun, the last wisps of gold already fading into the shadows. 

Deadpool stood, brushing dust off the back of his pants. “All this angst in the plot is making me hungry. Want to come back to my place for pancakes?”

Peter looked at him, lip worried between his teeth for a beat before a smile spread across his face. “Only if they’re Aunt Jemima’s.”

Deadpool grabbed his hand to pull him up. “Obviously, baby boy. Gotta keep the family tradition alive.”

“Obviously,” Peter chuckled, the sound like a wind chime in a soft summer breeze.

[Congrats. You did it.]

{Here comes the happily ever after…}