Chapter 1
Wade is loud and flamboyant and obnoxious. He repels the people he leaves alive, because anyone left alive after crossing his path is anyone he is actively choosing to let live; Wade is scary—he knows how he willingly or unwillingly presents in and out of mask, with his scarred, gruesome face and gleaming, glinting teeth and claws and knives.
Wade can be scary when he means to be as Deadpool, and he can be scary when he doesn't as Wade.
That is to say, he could count the people who tolerate his presence on one hand if he really wished, but it's too depressing of a thought he only entertains right as he edges the cusp of his lowest point. (At that point, it wouldn’t matter anyway with how he talks himself into believing that they, after all, don’t truly tolerate him. It’s sometimes the final push to swing from the edge of that mental cliff, to dive right into dark places that should be left unexplored.)
So when Spider-Man rests his head on Wade's shoulder, he can’t help but go stiff—can’t help but go completely still in a stark contrast of his boisterous personality. Wade finds himself freezing with tensed muscles and an abated breath, the weight of another person just — touching — a touch, lacking any purpose past the seeking of touch for the sake of touch.
It is an unspoken exchange without the attachment of any strings that Wade finds himself faltering at the confrontation of; it is an exchange without perverted violence or twisted expectations, and Wade finds himself nursing a curdling uncertainty.
It is foreign, he realises. This is a foreign, unfamiliar concept that has him unreasonably on edge; it is something he has long since lost the understanding of, and something he has long since forgotten the feeling of because of the loss.
But Wade also understands the different roles that he plays, the implications of the dramatics he wears more not than often, the infamous confidence he boasts with his reputation, so—so, so, so, so.
So when Spider-Man tilts his head up, the whites of his masked eyes peering up at him, and asks, "Is this okay?" — in a hushed, quiet voice, Wade lies.
"Yeah, it's…this is okay," Wade lies, like the lying liar that he is and always will be. He lies to Peter and lies to himself, and lies to the world and the winds and the stars that hear him. He lies in the way he doesn't tell the truth.
Because Wade lies in the way he often lies to Peter, crossing out the words, sometimes-I-shoot-myself-in-the-head-when-it-gets-too-loud-too-much, from his mouth when he promises that, I-don’t-kill-anymore. Because Wade lies in the way he sometimes talks at the mirror, but still hesitant to even look himself in the eyes; everyone-deserves-nice-things-sometimes, and people-don't-hang-around-people-they-don't-like, and it's-alright-to-be-happy, when his head feels fuzzy and bright with sudden and strange serotonin.
He lies in the way he doesn't outright lie.
He isn't lying when he say he doesn't kill anymore, not when he isn't a person and not when he can't die—not from a bullet or several to the brain, not from deep wounds almost shredding him apart.
He isn't lying when he says people deserve nice things, but he-is-not-most-people and he-is-too-evil and he-has-done-too-much and he-has-lost-any-rights to deserve such things.
He isn't lying when he says that people hang out with those they enjoy hanging out with, but deep down he knows all the people whom he calls his friends are acquaintances or work-buddies at best, and enemies at worst—they accept his presence and tolerate his company to serve a greater purpose beyond him.
He isn't lying when tells himself that it's alright to be happy, but he means this for other people, because with all his sins and faults that cling onto his skin past the grave, he shouldn’t have any rights at happiness.
So when Peter had asked, “Is this okay?”
“This is okay,” Wade had lied, in the way that lies of omissions and lies of not-truths are lies.
Because Wade knows that if he were the average man, this would be okay. If he were the average person, he wouldn’t think a single thought more. If he was anyone else but him, he wouldn’t have had to lie without lying.
Wade has to lie and not-truth because Wade is not the average man or even person, in the way that Wade is not a person, in the way that weapons are not human. Wade lies because it would be okay for anyone else, and Wade lies because Peter does not understand that he is not anyone else, because Peter — inexplicablyunreasonablyunfathomably — absolutely refuses to understand this.
This is all to say, that when he exclaims, "This is more than okay! In fact—," he is indeed lying, but also not.
This is all to say, that if his mouth proceeds to wax poetics about how many times he could die to sit like this with his hero again, then his mind starts circulating thoughts about how many times he should die; the running commentary in his mind is disconnected to the one from his mouth, clear in how his thoughts can't stop circling back to how broken and ungrateful and disgusting he is—for the nagging discomfort, the tightness in his chest, the way he struggles to keep his breaths even—for how those reactions spring up at just the small-but-heavy and slight-but-long touch from his favourite hero.
This is all to say, that if Wade had answered the question honestly, he'd end up admitting that he just doesn't know if this was okay, and with his luck? The words would bleed into a small and vulnerable voice he can't control. So he lies and lies and lies like the damned liar he has built his career-personality-lifestyle off of being.
(He should be normal. Why isn't he normal? Why can't he be normal? Why is he so selfishbrokendisgusting and worthlessungrateful and youshouldhavetobegforthis and howcouldyoutakeadvantage and cantevenenjoysomething and didntevenearnitbegbegbegbeggetonyourkneesunthankfulungratefuldisgracefulstupidmuttpieceoftrashpieceofshitdontdeservethisdontdeserveHIMdonddeserveanythingyoufucking —)
Peter chuckles, a small noise loud enough to break Wade's rambling in pieces until they’re a faded teetering, quiet slowly enveloping the space encompassing their beings; the distraction reaches in and dissipates the tirading voices in his head, shoving them all into the background until they're unintelligible, vague sounds again.
Wade opens and closes his mouth, trying to fish for words over the oblivious head of the other man.
In the end, he manages to whisper a fragile, thank you, that earns him an inquisitive hum he doesn't answer. Can’t bring himself to answer.
But at least his soft appreciation was genuine; at least he managed to mutter an honest gratitude; he can comfort himself in the knowledge that at least that wasn't a lie.