And this was it.
At least, with arms straining beyond what should have been physically possible and a massive eighteen-wheeler moving too fast against his palms, he couldn’t see any way that this wasn’t it for New York’s beloved Spider-man.
Peter hadn’t intended to stop the truck in such a hands-on manner, wouldn’t if he’d had more than a split-second to jump into action, but the impossibly large vehicle had been hurtling towards the thousands of people already gathered in Times Square, readying for the New Years Eve celebrations later that day, and he knew he had to either act immediately or deal with the consequences. Mid-patrol and already suited up and without any time to wait for Wade to return, he dove down from the fire-escape, landing directly in its path, only a weak thirty feet away from the advancing blur of metal. Digging his boots into the ground, he only had a moment to ready his body before he was met with the full force of the massive vehicle, his teeth positively chattering at the overwhelming blast of pressure against him.
He could feel pavement straining beneath his heels, and then physically cracking and fissuring as the truck relented forth. The street had been preemptively boarded off for the night’s celebrations, so while Peter didn’t have to worry about colliding with other cars, he really didn’t have much time or distance before the truck slammed into the unaware crowds of festival-goers.
With a surge of adrenaline and a low grunt he locked his arms, using as much force as possible against the eighteen-wheeler’s hulking grill. The vehicle stuttered, if only for a short moment, its overall speed beginning to slow, just slightly, engine roaring in protest as Peter inflicted every bit of counter-weight he could muster. He watched as buildings flew past him in his peripherals, a smooth blur of windows and brick.
Too fast. It’s going too fast.
The cold December wind ripped through him, slicing at his ribs, his thighs, leaving him feeling as though completely exposed despite his suit. His joints were screaming, in need of some sort of reprieve from the intense strain, but the pedestrian shrieks of panic and concern drowned out any thought of quitting. He would push until his body gave out, would hold his ground until the damn thing flattened him if it meant protecting the likely thousands of people in jeopardy. He’d create a net of webs if he could, take some of the tension off his aching bones, but there was no way he could risk moving his hands to shoot a web. Whether he liked it or not, he was committed to his position- he’d either stop it with his bare hands, or get plowed trying.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut, the grill beneath his palms denting inwards, losing its shape. The truck screeched, an awful sound that shook Peter to his very core. He couldn’t feel his hands, couldn’t feel his arms, his shoulders, his ankles- he could only press forwards, could only push and push and push as the vehicle urged him backwards, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough.
He could feel the truck gradually decelerating, a victim to Peter’s superhuman strength, but each additional second forcing the vehicle to stop was another second closer to his body giving out. Spider-man was known to contend against literal beasts- against monsters and mutants, guns and swords and maces, three, four, five times his size, and never had he felt so hopeless, left so incapable at the hands of such a force. Peter wished he could make eye contact with whoever was driving, wished he could see the monster trying to steamroll an entire crowd of innocents eight hours before the new year.
This was it- he couldn’t save the crowd, could only hope that someone had caught sight of the forty-tonne death machine hurtling towards them at a slower-but-still-very-much-deadly rate, had alarmed them, gotten the crowd to safety. He hadn’t been able to stop the vehicle, but he knew that, at the very least, he had probably hindered the truck enough to buy the endangered some time, just enough time to run, save themselves. He couldn’t afford to look back over his shoulder to check if the crowd had escaped, couldn’t spare the menial energy it would take in fear of blacking out entirely as a result - Peter could hardly breathe, blood trickling down from his nose, into his mouth, seeping into the spandex of his mask and making him sick to his stomach. The heavy scent of burning rubber made his vision dip, his adrenaline wearing out much too soon.
At least, he thought, looking down at his straining shadow below him, he’d have the pleasure of dying under the sun, of dying doing what he loved (and, admittedly, sometimes loathed) most. At least he knew relief was coming, that there’d be peaceful asylum only moments away.
In the back of his mind he could imagine what he’d look like after the fact, his body broken, bones and face most likely pulverized into the pavement, individual parts indistinguishable from one another. He’d seen Wade in poorer states, but it was almost always alright when it was Wade- it was heart-wrenching to see the mercenary in pain, but he always got better, even when he would’ve preferred not to. Wade was hard to read at the best of times, but a sinking feeling in his chest told him that his patrol-partner would be devastated if he returned to find Peter lifeless. He could hardly bear the idea- Wade had suffered so much loss and pain and torture, in no way was it fair that he’d have to lose Peter on top of everything else. Deadpool didn’t allow himself close to anyone anymore, Peter having been the one exception in what appeared to be ages, and the thought of Wade being alone again in the world both shattered his heart and fortified his resolve.
He drove himself to push again, to exert as much brute force forwards as he could with the agonizing extent of pain searing through his bones.
So profoundly zeroed-in on putting every last ounce of effort into slowing the vehicle as much as possible before crumpling, Peter hardly reacted to the unsettling groaning of his arms, knowing that the bones were close to snapping and muscles close to tearing, that it was probably some miracle that they hadn’t already. The blood pounding in his ears cancelled out all other noise, his spider-senses going completely haywire and then suddenly silent as his consciousness started to sputter.
Peter couldn’t stand to watch as his body began to fell apart, closing his eyes and missing the panicked flash of crimson hurling towards the truck, the horrified scream of his civilian name, the violent spray of blood painting the truck’s windshield.
The truck stopped abruptly, emergency break finally halting the vehicle with hardly any distance to spare, but Peter hadn’t noticed that, either. Equating the release of pressure against his palms to his body finally, finally giving out, he slipped out of awareness and dropped to the ground. A pacifying blackness claimed his vision, and he welcomed it with little resistance.
Wade hadn’t seen the commotion so much as he’d heard it. He’d taken a quick bathroom break from patrolling, deciding he’d rather bust into some random apartment and relieve himself than hold it during a chase. He knew Peter, the fantastic Spider-man himself, was more than capable of taking care of himself, had been patrolling the city on his own for years before Deadpool had waltzed into town. There shouldn’t have been any issues, he should have been able to take care of his personal business and continue with patrol like any other day.
In retrospect, he should have known that any time thousands of New Yorkers were gathered together there’d be no such thing as an ordinary day, or, to more adequately put it, a moment without chaos.
He’d been humming something J-Lo, dancing with himself in the mirror, when he first heard the screaming.
He tried to ignore it, assuming it had just been coming from the party crowd a couple blocks down, but an unusual twinge of panic sent him bursting through the small bathroom window impulsively, glass slicing through the air around him as he tried to catch sight of what the hell was going on.
It took under a second for Wade to catch sight of the huge eighteen-wheeler flying down Ninth Avenue, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull at the sight. His stomach wrenched with nausea when he noticed the painfully familiar body of Spider-man nearly flattened against the hulking grill of the moving vehicle.
He was easily a solid sixty feet away from the scene, but even from where he stood he could see the raw power quaking through Peter’s entire being, without a doubt using every ounce of his strength to try and stop the killer hunk of metal on wheels.
“Fuck me sideways- I’m coming Spidey!” Wade shouted, mostly to himself, throwing his body from the window and dashing as fast as his legs could manage towards the speeding vehicle. He paid absolutely no attention to the fallen row of pedestrians left in his trail, shocked people who’d simply been in his way and definitely deserved to be knocked to the ground for slowing his pace. He muttered some apologies, occasionally- Peter would hate that he pushed some civilians down, but Wade knew Peter would hate it even more if he didn’t at least apologize- that was, if Peter made it out alive enough to be able to hate it.
It was a thought that made his head pound.
The truck was progressively slowing down, its speed dropping from 80 to 70, 70 to 60, but whatever asshole driver was manning the fucking thing wasn’t getting the hint, wasn’t ceasing his throttle. Given the chance, Wade knew the damn maniac would crush his poor little spider without an inch of remorse.
Panic clutched at Wade’s chest- if it had been him picking fights with forty-tonne metal death traps, there’d hardly be a thing to worry about. He’d lose a couple limbs, maybe splinter some ribs, pop his skull like a cherry, but he’d be fine, he’d regenerate, he’d recover with time. But it wasn’t Wade, it was Peter- and Wade knew from experience, from just over half a year of playing nurse for the spider after every rough control night, that Peter, despite having a healing factor of his own, could most definitely not survive the aftermath of his pretty little head popping open.
His lungs were beginning to burn as he finally neared the truck, his body very much not adoring the strenuous exertion or speed. The vehicle’s rusty body was only inches away, his gloved fingertips just hardly able to brush the textured exterior. He caught a glimpse of the driver in the side view mirror, a larger man with a manic look in his eye, greasy skin, a balding head. The driver hadn’t seen him, though, too busy staring forwards, mouth hung open as he drove forwards without any regard for Spider-man, who’s heels were absolutely wrecking the pavement- an exhibit of just how fucking strong the kid was. In any other circumstances, Wade would’ve made some sort of crude comment about how ridiculously sexy Peter looked, leaving mammoth fissures in his trails, and Peter would definitely have slapped him, webbed him to a wall, maybe, probably blushing furiously beneath the spandex mask. To his dismay, the web-slinger hadn’t even noticed him catching up to the truck, so intoxicated by the need to stop the truck from massacring an entire crowd of people that nothing else mattered.
With one last flare of speed (and a colourful array of profanity as his legs protested in pain) Wade was able to pull himself onto the body of the truck, jamming his fingers into the passenger side door, attention stuck on Peter’s straining body before tearing the door straight from its hinges.
The driver, who’d been too focused trying to fucking run Spider-man into the fucking pavement finally turned to look at him, an ugly howl erupting from his dry lips as Wade threw his body inside, heels first, and landed a solid blow against the driver’s jaw.
Just as Wade thought things might have been in his favor that day, the driver only grunted at him, hardly budging from the kick- which most likely meant he was probably some sort of newly realized mutant, consumed with the urge to abuse his powers or some bullshit like that. Without so much as easing up on the gas pedal, the driver pulled what appeared to be a semi-automatic glock from who knows where, one hand still gripping the wheel, urging the truck forwards. Wade hardly had time to react before the large man aimed straight at Peter, who’s head hung towards the ground as he kept his stance, not allowing his body to falter despite the impossible amount of force contending with him.
Wade barely shouted the vigilante’s name in warning, his protective instincts (that he swears hadn’t existed before meeting Peter) kicking into overdrive,speedily disarming the driver and shooting him point-blank without more than a second thought. Tossing the now very un-alived driver over his lap and out of the moving vehicle, Wade only spared glance at the still-pushing Spider-man or the quickly approaching crowd of people who had, for the most part, not moved an inch, before yanking on the emergency break. He cringed at the awful squealing it produced, but wasted absolutely no time sitting in the halted vehicle.
He pounced from the truck as fast as humanly possible, nearly twisting his ankle upon landing, and rushed over to where Spider-man lay alarmingly still against the snow-dusted road.
“Spidey!” He called, forcing as much lightheartedness into his voice as he could muster, given the absolute distress pounding in his ears. The screaming had stopped, and although the stomach-turning odor of burned rubber and spent gasoline dampened the otherwise crisp winter air, he could see that the crowd in Times Square still hadn’t budged, hadn’t noticed that his best fucking pal had nearly offed himself saving their ignorant asses.
The curious eyes of the few pedestrians who had been around to witness the chaos bore into Wade’s back as he knelt over the fallen hero, peeling off a leather glove to find a pulse, feel breathing, anything- relief kissing his spine when he felt feeble, but steady, thank god, movement just above Peter’s collarbone.
“Hey Pete,” The merc soothed, curling his arms beneath the still-alive-but-only-slightly vigilante, “Gonna take you back to my place, got it? Not totally the way I hoped finally getting you in my bed would go, but that’s alright, we’ll make it work, we’ll make it work.”
Wade was already halfway down the street with Peter in his arms when a squadron of police cars arrived, officers evacuating their vehicles in favor of analyzing the scene. Under most circumstances, he would’ve run as soon as the sirens sounded, but Spidey was in no shape to be jostled- just the gentle movement of Wade’s loitered pace had him tensing and untensing in pain, definitely unconscious but definitely still feeling every bump, every awkward angle.
He tried not to bare his shoulders when a duo of cops approached him, an intimidatingly tall woman and a shorter balding man. “Boys- Girls? Po-po, the peeps in blue!” He tried animatedly, tilting his head to the side as they stared in horror at the unconscious Spider-man cradled in his arms. It wasn’t not common knowledge that the two of them routinely teamed up, but it also wasn’t something anyone was particularly glad about, with Peter being mostly adored by the greater population and Deadpool being, well, Deadpool- the deadly and probably clinically insane mercenary who was only just starting to adhere to some loose moral concepts.
“I’m just taking Mr. Spidey here, s’all good, just a scratch or two, he’s pretty tired, I think, but I’ll fix him! Besides, he owes me some takeout tonight, we’ll all be good, everything’s going to be all good, just need to-” He continued, forcing a smile into his voice. Another couple of officers that weren’t busy dealing with the carnage of the incident or questioning witnesses approached Wade as well, looking as though they didn’t trust him for a second- which they didn’t, and had no reason to. Wade was totally at peace with that.
“Sir-” The huge female cop began, dark eyes hardening beneath the visor of her cap. Her hand hovered over the holster strapped to her hip, caution bright in her trained stance. Wade bit back a groan, reinforcing his grip on the boy in his arms. It was his fault for not being there in time for Peter, but he believed that if they had been doing their jobs, paid some attention to what was going on in the city they were supposed to protect instead of relying on a kid, Spidey wouldn’t have had to nearly kill himself trying to stop a runaway trucker.
“Look, you mean piece of legal ass, I’ve gotta give this spider some attention, not the kind I’d prefer to be giving him but some’a that good Canadian hospitality, gotta take him back to mine and get him all fixed up, you see?” He stared down at Peter sadly, the only reason he was relatively able to keep his calm being the soothing respiratory movements of Peter’s chest against his own. He’d always resented law enforcement and their busted morals, even more busted than his own somedays, but he wasn’t about to pick a fight with them, not with a dying Peter in his arms.
While Wade would’ve liked to believe that the officers let him go without any further issue because he was a badassbloodthirsty mercenary with a penchant for murder, he knew it was probably because of the bitter edge to his voice, the way he was guarding their beloved hero.
//
For an indeterminable amount of time, Peter felt nothing.
And eventually, after who knows how long floating through a bleak void, feeling gradually returned- small points of comforting warmth, of sharp pain, of steady unseen movement, rung through his empty body, anchored him to what he could only hope was reality. Once he could distinguish his feet from his hands, chest from his neck, a deep noise rumbled against his cheek. He could feel the vibrations well into his heart, urging his blood to keep pumping, lungs to keep breathing.
Soon the vibrations became words, indecipherable at first.
“Any moment now Petey,” a voice mumbled, somewhere tangible, close- if he could move his fingers he’d try to reach out and touch, hold it close.
“I can see my window now, we’re just going to climb up on there and put you back together-”
Peter hung onto the voice greedily, almost able to ignore the aching in his bones that got progressively worse with each syllable. Although not entirely certain, Peter swore he could hear a profound sadness underlying what was being spoken, and yearned to comfort it, to eliminate anything that made the lovely tenor sound as broken as it did.
“But don’t worry sweet cheeks, gonna use the stairs, wouldn’t use your little web spurters- spurters, Spidey, you spurt webs, good god-”
His vision was still blacked out when the gentle swaying movement that had soothed his initial confusion changed into something more hurried. He startled, ears adapting to more and more sounds that weren’t just the rumble of a man’s voice- a siren, somewhere, perhaps a child speaking, boots against creaking wood, heavy breathing. Unable to make sense of any of it, of why he was suspended in nothingness in the first place, Peter blanked out again.
When his consciousness resurfaced for the second time, the first thing he took note of was the scent enveloping him- leather and warm spice, crossed with something neutral, something familiar. Unable to react in any meaningful way, Peter allowed himself to relish the soothing fragrance.
His entire being ached, pain radiating from the tips of his toes to the sensitive nerves in his molars, his body completely drained of all energy. He felt useless, like a plastic bag in the wind, or a house of cards caving in- like whatever all that other nonsense Wade was constantly singing about feeling incapable.
Images of the red-clad mercenary flashed against his eyelids, and he wondered whether or not he knew what happened to Peter, where he was. He’d last seen him shooting the lock of some random apartment window, words toppling out of his mouth at a mile a minute; “A bathroom break is gonna solve all my problems, Petey, just you watch- that porcelain princess is gonna be the woman’a my dreams. But hey! Don’t worry, she ain’t never gonna steal me away from your sweet ass- Oh! did I tell you what I saw the other day? The fattest donkey that ever did walk mama’s earth crossed my path, you know what they say, don’t you?”
If Peter could smile at the thought of his masked partner, he would- but control of his bodily functions still wasn’t something he’d gotten back. At least, not until he felt his mask lift from his face, effectively shocking him straight back into full-blown awareness. Without so much as quick scan of his surroundings (or any consideration for his injured state) Peter flung himself up, latching onto the ceiling in an attempt at keeping his identity a secret from whoever was trying to unmask him- he’d been Spider-man too long for some careless nurse to ruin what semblance of a normal life he had left.
Staggering pain or not, Peter wasn’t about to let his body give out again, eyes darting towards the nearest window as he wound his aching muscles. He was ready to jump, needed to get out before-
“Peter- What the fuck!?”
And that heartwarmingly familiar timbre was all it took to slaughter every inch of panic throbbing through his veins. Peter dropped instantly, the temporary immunity from his aching muscles vanquishing along with the adrenaline rush. He cried out, an anguished sound that had Wade soaring through the air to catch his falling body.
Peter landed roughly, the leather of Wade’s suit not acting as the softest cushion he’d ever felt. “Watch it, baby boy, I’m just tryna get this mask off so I can run it through the wash or something- it’s covered in blood, y’know? Oh, sorry-” Wade lay Peter down onto his bed, where the kid had previously been before he’d lost his shit and stuck himself to the ceiling. “Here ya go, snug as a bug- arachnid? Arachnid doesn’t rhyme, we know you’re not a bug-boy but a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do, so,” The merc gave a noncommittal shrug, “Snug as a bug, you are.”
For a moment, Peter could only offer the man a weak smile. His entire frame protested with every breath, his muscles completely limp at his sides, and he’d more or less accepted his death, but Wade’s ramblings made all of it ostensibly disappear, if just for a moment. Mask up just past his mouth, Peter could only stare as Wade returned the smile, a gesture much softer than the mercenary would ever allow anyone else to know he was capable of. Moments like these, where the notoriously brutal Deadpool exhibited nothing but uninhibited tenderness and care, were what made Peter trust the man like he did. The other Avengers, Stark especially, didn’t understand, wouldn’t let themselves understand, and he was often mocked for ‘harboring criminal relations’, but he knew better. He knew Wade, and he knew better than them, regardless of their notions of who Deadpool was. The mercenary in his presence made his heart speed up and his ever-rushing brain slow down, delivered a rare bubble of safety and warmth that Peter rarely felt anytime else.
“Found you in a real kerfuffle, Spidey,” He began again, grabbing a glass of water from the nightstand and bringing it to Peter’s lips. Wade gently peeled the Spider-man mask up so it was folded just above Peter’s lips, not wanting to remove the entire thing without express permission. His gloves had been left somewhere back on the streets, so he was stuck working bare-handed and had to try damndest to avoid contact so that Peter wouldn’t be subjected to the god-awful texture of his skin. Peter took a sip, tired eyes trained on Wade. “Big ol’ DP here saved your sweet little cheeks, though- s’all good now, we’re all good. No one got hurt, thanks to you, except you, you got hurt real bad, think a tendon or two snapped in your arms, can tell you from experience that that’s no fun. I’ve got some painkillers and stuff here, everything from that shit girls take on their periods to straight up morphine, so take your pick, if anything keeps hurting you outta tell me, you hear? I know you got that healing factor of yours too but that doesn’t mean you gotta be in pain while it works it’s magic.”
“Is any of it ethically sourced?” Peter accused, his voice stale. Wade grinned in response, white teeth glinting maniacally and giving Peter the answer he wanted . “Yeah, no thanks, ‘Pool. But hey, look at me, getting better every second;”
In an attempt to demonstrate, Peter moved to pull his mask the rest of the way off. His arm protested angrily at being lifted almost immediately, and he gasped sharply as an unforgiving zap of pain shot down into his fingertips.
Wade could only shake his head, eyes glowing with endearment beneath his mask. “Let me help you there, Pete. You can pretend to be big and strong and capable another day, alright? Alright.”
The former mercenary removed his mask the rest of the way, tossing the blood-soaked spandex off to the side before leaning back to reinstate an appropriate distance between their bodies. The last thing he wanted was Peter to feel suffocated on top of all the injury, decided that if he was ever gonna respect personal space it’d be right then and there.
“Let me take care of you today, cos you almost went and offed yourself, you know that?” He paused with a grimace, voice sweet, “Just- no reason for difficulty or-let me do this. Take care of you. And then you can take care’a me, if you’re catching my drift? No? I’m saying we should fuck because, I mean, it’s not like you’re not already in my bed, and this totally something I’ve been fantasizing about since I first laid eyes on your smokin’ bod, and I’ve got years worth of supplies that I gotta go through before they expire- hey, does lube expire?”
And that was Wade, Peter knew, constantly fluctuating between tender and crude, sweet and bitter, warm mornings and frigid nights. The man was a walking contradiction, a mystery bag of emotions and opinions that never ceased to enamour Peter.
Instead of answering, Peter glanced around the vaguely familiar bedroom- dark walls, old shag rug, crimson curtains pulled almost entirely over every perceptible window. It lacked the personal touches of an apartment that’d been inhabited by the same person for nearly two years, and something about the barren state of the room made Peter sad. He’d only been to the apartment a couple of times before, typically whenever one of them got injured (Peter, always Peter because frankly, it didn’t matter much if Wade got hurt) during patrol and couldn’t wait to travel all the way to Peter’s apartment. They’d entered through the bedroom window once or twice, but since the occasional visits were always medical-based, Wade would hurry him to the bathroom to patch Peter up, knowing Peter often wasn't capable of doing it on his own.
“Before all this happened”, Wade had said one night, gesturing to his face as he delicately stitched up a gash above Peter’s eye, “I wasn’t so durable, had to learn how to look after myself, didn’t have much choice but to learn how to do all this.” It had been later in their partnership, only a handful of months prior, and Peter could remember being shocked at just how delicate the mercenary was capable of being when he wanted to. He’d given Wade a hug that night, had told the man that he had been the first to see Spider-man without a mask. Wade had chuckled, made some comment about feeling honoured, and then the two of them parted for the night, Peter’s chest light and filled with warmth the entire way home.
Looking at Wade, who was prattling on about something trivial, Peter couldn’t stop his heart from quickening its pace, and knew that if his arms weren’t more or less out of commission, he’d be forcing himself not to reach out and touch. To his dismay, the Deadpool mask was still pulled over the top half of his face, hiked up just enough for Peter to see his sturdy jaw, the attractive bow of his lips. It was no secret that the other man resented his appearance, but Peter didn’t mind- the scars were noticeable, of course, and frequently made Wade a beacon for negative attention, but it never truly bothered Peter. On the contrary, Peter was completely endeared by them, completely endeared by everything Wade was and wasn’t, and didn’t want him any other way.
Because that had been the truth, hadn’t it? For months, but probably much longer, Peter found himself genuinely wanting Wade in every way he could have him. The merc was his best friend, his most trusted comrade, and in secret, he yearned for companionship, for more than just the occasional bump of shoulders and one-armed hugs.
A wave of exhaustion washed over Peter, his eyes increasingly heavy as Wade jumped subject to subject, only noticing how tired the younger boy was when he let out a beast of a yawn.
“Gotta let that healing factor kick in, huh?” Wade asked, to which Peter could only nod in response.
“Alright, well, we’ll talk more about everything later. You get some sleep, let that body take care of itself. If you need anything, all you gotta do is ask- got it?”
Wade made to leave the room, but Peter, whose eyes hadn’t left the minimal amount of exposed skin beneath the partially removed Deadpool mask, felt his chest tighten of Wade leaving, of being alone and suspended in the awful blackness again.
“Could you- Do you think it’d be okay if you stayed here?” Words out in the open, Peter found himself regretting asking the entire minute Wafe didn’t answer, didn’t so much as shift where he stood. He was almost worried that Wade would laugh at him, mock him for needing comfort or whatever, his throat closing anxiously in preparation to just tell Wade to go, that he’d be okay. But before he could attempt to take back his question, Wade gave a thin nod before dragging a stool over to Peter’s bed side and taking a seat.
Wade stayed silent as Peter drifted back into unconsciousness, only settling closer to the bruised body when he was certain the injured man had passed out.
“I can’t remember much of what happened after grabbing the truck.”
Some hours later saw Peter burrowed under a heavy duvet, back and neck supported by half a dozen pillows Wade had seemingly pulled from nowhere, suit exchanged for a cozy pair of sweats and a thick pullover Wade lended him as well. Night had fallen, pink lampshades giving the compact bedroom a hazy, dream-like atmosphere.
The near-unbearable soreness of his hard-working healing factor had left Peter miserable and restless, but the cocktail of painkillers Wade had prescribed him made him feel slightly better, albeit a tad bit loopy.
“I’m not surprised, Spidey-boy,” Wade responded, electric blue eyes glowing in the faint light. He’d taken the mask off upon Peter’s request, watched in awe as Peter didn’t flinch, hadn’t ever flinched- Peter was the only person who’d never reacted to the sorry state of his skin, and each time he unmasked, it never ceased to awe him. “Your body totally gave up the moment the truck stopped, completely unresponsive from there on out. Was almost worried you were dead, hardly had a pulse.” Peter watched quietly, noted the almost imperceptible change in Wade’s voice, something raw and scared snaking in.
“Did I stop the truck? I remember it going fast, like, way too fast,” Peter glanced down at his arm, where the muscle had torn, “I remember feeling like I was gonna explode trying to stop it, but there were so many people in trouble, I couldn’t just leave-”
“And you didn’t,” Wade interrupted, soothing his palm over Peter’s throbbing hand in a rare gesture of comfort. “I don’t know how long you were resisting that truck for before I showed up, but I shot the driver and pulled the emergency break as soon as I could catch up to y’all. I’m certain that if you hadn’t been there to slow it down first, it wouldn’t have stopped in time. Probably saved hundreds of people tonight, Pete. Can’t say I would’ve done it the same, probably would’a bust through the window and shot up the interior the second I caught wind 'a that fucker, but hey. Whatever bakes your boat, sweetums.”
Wade’s hand gripped his own protectively before releasing, his eyes going a little fuzzy when Peter all of a sudden scowled up at him.
“You shot the driver? What happened to-”
“He was gonna shoot you first, Spidey. Didn’t have much of a choice.” Wade stood, stretching his arms above his head, cracking his jaw, distracting himself from the devastatingly intense look Peter was giving him. “He pulled a gun on you, we were so close to all those people- had to do what was best for the you, for all those people, you know?” He sauntered over to the curtained-window, face turned away.
“Thought you were dead, lying almost entirely under a mangled truck, blood everywhere. Was like a scene outta one a’those Final Destination films, made me squeamish and everything- nothing makes me squeamish, baby, I’m Deadpool for fucks sake, and yet seeing you like that? Fuck me in the asshole, Pete, because that was awful, didn’t know what to do with myself for a hot minute, seeing you putting everything you had into saving some dumbass simpletons, nearly completely helpless to do anything but watch. ”
The room stayed quiet for a moment, Peter struggling to absorb all of what was said and Deadpool silently wincing in humiliation, hating himself for admitting weakness.
“I’m sorry.” Peter said, finally. The utterance was short and coarse, because Peter knew if he spoke too fast that his brewing emotions would spill over and out; the last thing he wanted was to scare Wade away with his rampant emotional woes.
Still facing the window, the mercenary sighed, a sound so burdened and exhausted that Peter could feel it echoing against his ribs, pressing against his heart in a way that made his head spin. “No, I’m sorry- I shouldn’t have- I could have-” He stopped, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling, “I’m trying to be better for you, baby boy, sometimes it’s just a little hard, but I should have been there sooner. If I’d just stayed on patrol like you-”
“Wade, don’t- ”
“Don’t don’t me, Pete! You nearly died- almost dead , as in defunct, departed, un-alived , and that can’t fucking happen, you can’t just fucking die on me trying to save people that don’t matter nearly as much as you do, you can’t think there’s nothing wrong with that, mister, ‘cause no one’s ever gonna be as smart or sweet or drop-dead gorgeous as you are, don’t tell me not to apologize, don’t tell me not to apologize, don’t tell me because I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Pete, I’m so fucking sorry, I’m,”
Carefully, so as to not jostle any still-healing limbs, Peter removed himself from Wade’s sheets and limped over to where he stood, his leather-clad shoulders mercilessly taut. If he were anyone else in this situation, he’d run from the notoriously lethal mercenary apparently seething with raw anger, but he was Peter, and this was Wade- and if Peter knew absolutely anything about the man he considered his closest confidant, he knew that Wade wasn’t a senseless brute. The man was fucking terrified and internalizing every inch of his fear, a result of having absolutely no healthy coping mechanisms for emotional stress besides anger outbursts and heavy artillery.
Peter pressed his forehead into Wade’s shoulder blade, lethargically, as to not startle the man in his state of distress. Wade flinched inwards, but with nowhere to escape, he continued to stand still, torn between leaning into the contact or literally jumping out the fucking window.
“I got you,” Peter mumbled, resting more of his weight against the solid torso before him because fuck, did the searing pain in his ankles get exponentially worse the longer they had to support his weight.
If his spider-senses hadn’t been so attuned to the mercenary, and if he’d not been pressed against him, Peter wouldn’t have noticed the faint shivers darting through Wade’s body. “I got you, and you’ve got me. I’m here because of you, I know you know that. You can’t hold this against yourself, you saved me, saved all those people too, brought me back here, took care of me- You can’t take this out on yourself like this, Wade. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions like that, and I’m sorry. This isn’t something you need to be alone with.”
The man was holding his breath, trying to keep his frame as still as possible, trying to make sense of what was happening, why Peter was touching him, comforting him. Nearly two years of being buddy-buddy, of Peter keeping safe distances and drawing boundaries Wade always so desperately wanted to cross, Wade was unsure of how to process any of what was being said, or whether or not he should take any of it seriously in the first place. If it was just something Peter was saying just for shits and giggles, just an act , god forbid, because he thought that was what Wade wanted, he was certain it’d destroy what little sanity he had left.
Through purely self-preservation methods, Wade shifted away from Peter in favour of compressing his chest against the window pane. “Don’t you worry about me, Spidey, no need to make yourself uncomfortable tryna whip this big ol’ loser back into shape- that reminds me, did you hear about the biggest loser? I was rooting for Daniel the whole way, years back, but the show’s been shat on all around now, people complaining about poor dieting methods that the producers forced onto those poor contestants who just wanted to lose weight and instead of a life of health and longevity they got what? Anorexia, that’s what! Awful, just awful if you ask me. I mean, you wanna put people through some pretty shite torture, makin’ em starve themselves is a decent way to do it, trust me, feelin’ your stomach chew itself up for whatever good eats it can find is brutal, absolutely-”
Slipping out and around Peter, Wade didn’t even spare another glace in Peter’s direction as he strolled out of the room. The door squeaked shut behind him, harmonizing with a groan of frustration on Peter’s end. He swore at himself for scaring Wade away, not for the first time, before hobbling towards the door. He wasn’t going to let Wade off so easy this time, wasn’t about to watch as he slipped right through his fingers, again. A history of Wade disappearing, randomly and inconsistently, had Peter spent- all he wanted was closeness with the other man, regardless of how fervently he denied himself of it in the first place.
It wasn’t the first time Peter had caught a glimpse of Wade’s startling level of emotional vulnerability, but this time he wasn’t about to let anything go unsaid, especially after nearly dying, nearly losing the chance to tell Wade about what he’d been feeling altogether. He was determined to hunt Wade down, which wouldn’t be hard given the tiny apartment, and force the man to listen whether he wanted to or not.
Determined, yes. Successful, though- not so much.
Only a moment of hobbling towards the door saw Peter collapsing in pain, his ankle rolling beneath his weight as he slammed into the floor. “Fuck me,” he hissed through grit teeth, eyes screwed shut.
When he opened his eyes again, only a millisecond later, Wade was propelling himself through the doorway and dropping down next to Peter without a second thought, having heard the fall from the room over.
All Peter could assemble was, “I fell, ankles not doing so well,” forcing his face to stay neutral despite the burning sensation eating up his limbs.
“Idiot, you little- Pete, c’mon, I leave for two whole seconds and you’re already halfway dead again, my fucking fuck,” Wade exasperated, liberally tossing his hands into the air before sliding them beneath Peter’s downed state. He rose unceremoniously, as though carrying Peter was akin to carrying a small critter, avoiding any and all eye contact as he placed Peter back into bed.
“I’m gonna get some ice, honey-buns, don’t you move an inch!” A quick scan over Peter’s out-of-commision ankle and Wade was out with a wink and a plastered-on smile. He returned as fast as he’d left, light blue ice pack sitting heavily in one hand and a handful of jolly ranchers in the other. “Let me just…”
Peter hissed when the frigid surface of the ice pack made contact with the inflamed skin of his ankle, but the shock of pain soon became much-needed relief. “Thanks,” he whispered awkwardly, entirely unsure as to how to say what he so desperately wanted to. He figured, though, watching as Wade dropped the candies onto the bedside table and then turned on his heel to leave again, thinking about it first would mean losing the chance.
A charged, “Please don’t do this,” had Wade frozen in the doorway, Peter’s voice so hushed that he’d initially thought it was just another voice joining the chorus in his head.
Peter continued. “You always just run away- just- just don’t run this time, please.” Struggling to shift himself backwards against the headboard so that he was propped up instead of lying down, the injured man could only stare at the still-rigid merc. It was a rare occurrence that the infamously blabber-mouthed Deadpool halted all speaking, so his silence was damning to the indoor air. Peter’s next words came out in a rush, his lungs contracting as though he’d just finished crawling up the Oscorp tower. “I keep- we keep? We keep playing this game, this stupid back and forth where we keep getting close and recoiling, close and recoiling, close and- you get the point, I know you do, you’re so much smarter than you’d ever let anyone believe, but I can’t- I can’t keep doing this. I want to be close to you, I want all of it, why can’t you see that I keep trying? I want it, Wade. I want this.”
He said nothing more, because he wasn’t about to keep pouring his heart and soul onto the floor only to have to mop up the mess himself if Wade decided he wanted no part of it. Peter had laid himself bare, every inch of his vulnerability out in the open, and it was up to Wade to either hold him or stab him.
Another minute passed, and then another, and another, until Peter could no longer keep track of just how long they were stuck in the dreadful silence. The two were trapped in a never-ending tableau, it seemed, both parties too paranoid to move, to advance, in fear of scaring the other away once and for all. All Peter wanted to do was cry, bury himself so deep into the comforter that he’d never have to face Wade or anybody else ever again, but he was paralyzed, a victim to his own anxiety of losing one of the last people he had in the world. He found himself wishing that the truck had just flattened him earlier, had just ended him against the pavement because he knew death couldn’t be as painful as this, what could only be incoming rejection if Peter knew anything about relationships. He forced his eyes shut, unable to stare at Wade’s stiff back any longer.
And then, as though the dark age of tension had never been there in the first place, the bed dipped in next to Peter, sound and warmth and life gushing back in through the windows as two shaky arms encircled Peter’s shoulders.
“Pete,” Wade exhaled into Peter’s hair, nose buried against the hazel curls, “You don’t mean that.”
Peter could hardly believe he wasn’t hallucinating the contact, that the self-proclaimed ‘emotionally incapable house of power’ that was Deadpool was holding him so tenderly, so sadly, and oh, did the desolate admission both shatter Peter’s poor 22-year-old heart and set every nerve ending into hyperdrive.
He didn’t pull away with his response, instead nuzzling further into the careful embrace, “You’re an idiot.” his voice was syrupy, thick and heavy as it settled across their entwined skeletons. The mercenary was far from relaxed, every solid muscle tensed nearly to a point of quivering, every heartbeat intense, but he held Peter despairingly, as though he was afraid that once he let go, that would be it. “How could you think that I wouldn’t- that I don’t-” He struggled to find the right words, never having been particularly gifted in the field of expressing feelings, nevermind expressing feelings to Wade Fucking Wilson of all people. “You’re my best pal, Wade.”
Lips moved against Peter’s scalp, but no words were spoken. Wade had fallen silent again, yet something about the way he kept himself wrapped around Peter was indicative of him actually listening , silently, patiently- if that wasn’t a miracle, he wasn’t sure what was. A newfound stroke of confidence dragged across Peter’s chest, bubbled into his throat.
“You’re my best pal, Wade Wilson, and if you think for a second that I only hang out with you because you make patrol a little easier on the ol’ Spidey-senses, you’re so unbelievably wrong, so so wrong, because you’re so much more than a work friend, buddy.”
With a pause, Peter shifted his weight backwards, head tilted up towards Wade, who’d still yet to move an inch, “I trust you, man. I trust you more than I think I’ve ever trusted anybody, which I guess isn’t saying all that much, but... You’re what I have, you’re who I have and it’s so much more than enough, so much more than I could’ve ever wanted. Do you think I’d give you my identity, something I’ve been fighting for years to keep a secret from everyone, both on Peter’s side and Spider-man’s side, if I didn’t trust you with my life?”
Dark eyes wet with tears, Peter could only keep gazing up at Wade, refusing to avert his eyes so as to let the older man know that right now, he was the only one that mattered, the only person that ever mattered.
“You hated me at first, you know.” Wade rebuked, staring out towards the curtained window. Night had fallen, New Years had probably come and go, the celebrants Peter had saved the lives of probably partying still, carelessly enjoying their lives, entirely oblivious to the miracle that was Peter Parker. “Couldn’t stand me one bit,” he persisted when Peter made to shake his head, mouth surely open with an interjection on the tip of his tongue. “I remember,” Wade paused, chuckled harshly, “That you wouldn’t even come near me, kept as much distance between the two of us as possible. You knew I was some morally corrupt monster. Am a morally corrupt monster. Just because you got used to all my shit so I’d fix you up after a bad day doesn’t mean-” A downwards glance, quickly over the planes of Peter’s cheekbones, “What I’m trying to say- I’m trying to say you don’t need’a lie to a big dope like me. The comfort doesn’t mean anything, just saying things doesn’t mean anything.”
Understandably, Peter grew frustrated, bringing his left arm (the less pained of the two) up to Wade’s face, throbbing palm molded firmly against his scarred jaw to try and force eye contact. Although typically not one for being demanding with anyone other than criminals or super-villians, Peter wasn’t a total saint either, and was going to make Deadpool listen to him, fucking hear him, regardless of what it took.
Arms gone limp at his sides, no longer curling into Peter’s personal space, all Wade could do was watch with electrified eyes.
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Peter accused, staring the other man down with an intensity that sent a chill zipping up Wade’s spine. “No one in their right mind would say that shit just to say it, for fuck’s sake. If you want to choose to believe that I’m a liar, that I’ve been using you for the occasional stitching and that’s it, then that’s on you, Wade. That’s on you. Because I know that I’m being honest, that everything I’m saying is the truth and nothing but the truth, so if you wanna discount it because you’re too insecure to believe that I might actually love someone like you? That’s your problem, mister.”
An angry siren wailing from somewhere below was the only thing to be heard, the otherwise secluded bedroom dead silent once again. Both men were equally stuck on the shock of what Peter had said, the implications hanging in the air like a dead man. Because, Peter knew, even though he hadn’t meant to say it, it didn’t mean he didn’t mean it, just that he didn’t necessarily plan to admit it like that . And Wade, the poor soul, was both completely devastated and elated, drowning in the fear that his fucked-up-ness had finally driven Peter away, and positively soaring on the high that was Peter saying that he fucking loved him- Wade Wilson, Mercenary Extraordinaire, morally-bunk shitstain, the man who’d been romantically pursuing Mr. Peter Parker from the second he had laid eyes on his spandex-clad ass.
Glancing down at his lap, head hung, Peter was finding it difficult to breathe. His body ached, biceps and thighs and chest alike, but he was too focused on Wade, on losing the man, to devote any smidge of energy into attention towards the physical soreness. “I’m sorry if that was too much. I didn’t mean to scare you or anything.” His eyes welled with tears that he desperately tried to will away, not in the mood to frighten Wade even more because he had the emotional control of a pubescent teenager.
Hopelessly uncomfortable with the silence, Peter could only try to distract himself, could only reminisce about Deadpool’s previous tyrannical ramblings, how he’d go on about nothing for hours on end, train of thought never running out of steam. It wasn’t until he’d encountered how crushing Wade’s silence could be that he found himself grieving his voice, his constant, over-the-top responsiveness. Whether it was shameless flirting or rants about Rihanna, Wade didn’t stop- shouldn’t stop, because while Peter was unsure how to handle the steadfast conversation at all hours of the day, this horrible quiet was so much harder to deal with, so much more confusing.
At least when Wade spoke, whether it be in tenderness or vulgarity, Peter could read his voice, analyze his mannerisms. He could find an edge to hang on to, some indicative crack or fault in the other man’s speech that would give him even the smallest hint as to what was going on in his head. Wade said nothing, hardly inhaling as he kept his body thoroughly rigid.
Peter wanted to scream.
Locked within the confines of his mind, Wade could only gape as he tried to process what Peter had meant, if he’d really meant what he said, if it was even fucking possible that the younger man man knew what he’d just said, what that could mean for the two of them. Of course Peter hadn’t, Wade reasoned with himself, because in his mind, there was no possible way that any single one of his affections would be returned in such a way. He already had trouble believing that Pete wanted him around as more than just a patrol partner.
Even after almost two whole years of being the instigator, the flirter, the affectionate one always, always , desperate for Peter’s attention in any way he’d give it, Wade never actually believed it would go anywhere, mean anything. He was used to his affections being unrequited, used to the rejection that only came with having a mug that looked like a week-old slab of ground pork.
Above everything, though, Wade just wanted to say it back, say something back, at least, but couldn’t find the words, couldn’t find it in his paralyzed system to force even just a couple of syllables out. Because regardless of his utter disbelief of Peter’s literal love admission (a thought which made his heart jitter each time it came up), regardless of the fact that he genuinely would have thought himself dead and in some sort of sexy spidey heaven if it were possible, all he could feel was happiness- real, actual happiness that he’d not truly felt in as long as he could remember.
It wasn’t until Peter’s face fell apart in front of him that Wade was finally provoked from his trance. Without any further hesitation, Wade pulled Peter back against his chest, the younger boy’s cheek and temple colliding against hard muscle. Hooking his chin over Peter’s head, Wade could only hope he wasn’t about to get super-thrown straight through the wall for the sudden contact, waited a pregnant minute before he spoke just in case Peter wanted to pull out. He almost chuckled at the boner-killing thought of Peter pulling out. Almost. But this was more important, and serious times called for serious behaviour, even if he was nearly a complete stranger to acting accordingly.
“I think I’ve been in love with you and that fi-i-i-i-ine body ‘a yours since I found myself acquainted with it, Pete. But you know that,” He broke off, warring with his words. He had no idea how to communicate, was completely overwhelmed with being put on the spot. But this was Spidey, his best companion, closest confidant, and it didn’t matter if he was overwhelmed by a little communication because he knew that Peter needed it- that he’d most definitely lose the kid if he didn’t speak up now. “You know that. I know you do- but you weren’t ever supposed to- you weren’t ever supposed to, you know, feel any of it back. I mean,”
He swallowed, a war of conflicting emotions roaring through his jumbled brain. Wade wanted more than anything, more than every pound of takeaway food out and every piece of artillery in the world, to have Peter like that , but his mind couldn’t fathom the thought that the younger man had actually wanted him back. He was well acquainted with rejection, especially when it came from pretty young boys that could always do so much better , that he was immediately on the defense, experienced instincts screaming at him to run, trying to convince him that everything Peter said was a front.
“Don’t give me that, Wade,” Peter mumbled into his suit, the movement of his lips only barely tangible through the thick leather and eliciting a shudder out of Wade. “You can hate yourself and believe I’m lying to you, believe I’m just out to hurt you or some bullshit like that, but I’m not-” he pulled back, just enough to make eye contact, “ I’m not. ”
And for someone who typically planned his every move and reaction, who had trained himself to be careful and calculated in every situation, Peter didn’t let himself think as before he slid forwards and kissed Wade, his eyes tight and chest tighter. Wade was solid against him, unresponsive for a staggering amount of time, Peter beginning to regret his boldness when the mouth against his own finally, finally , moved in tandem.
Just like the rest of his face, his skin, his body, Wade’s lips were textured, rugged in a way Peter hadn’t ever experienced before, and it was almost like kissing someone with a beard- hot, for one, with just the right amount of blunt roughness to ground him, secure him to the chest against his, to the muscled arms around him. Wade kissed him so unrealistically soft, pressure against Peter’s lips almost non-existent. There wasn’t a doubt in Peter’s mind that Wade was holding himself back out of fear (or something else insecurity-related), and so didn’t hesitate to push further, let Wade know what he wanted without having to break contact.
His arm jerked in pain as he raised it up to wrap around the base of Wade’s neck, using the hold as leverage to pull closer, press his lips tighter to Wade. Peter was greedy for more, now that he had gotten a single taste of Wade against him like this, not even his aching body could stop him, prevent him from finally getting what he wanted, feeling Wade like this, so close, so perfectly close.
Wade’s hands coiled around Peter’s hips, strong fingers holding the younger man steady as he pressed closer and closer, every perceivable part of their bodies touching in one way or another. Wade’s mind, for the first time in as long as he could recall, was absolutely blank, utterly overwhelmed by the experience of hugging, holding, kissing Peter Parker- of being fucking kissed by Peter, not by virtue of forcing the contact onto the younger boy (not that forcibly kissing the kid was something Wade would ever do- Deadpool was many things, but he wasn’t a complete asshat. He knew what consent was.)
Peter only parted when the aching in his arm became too much to bear. Neither of them spoke at first, their mouths all of a sudden grieving the feeling of the other’s, Peter dropping his arm to his side as he bumped his forehead against Wade’s.
“ I want you, Wade. ” Peter urged, his breath puffing across the uneven planes of Wade’s cheek.
Wade, still completely hypnotized by the euphoria of kissing the sweetest person alive, tightened his grip on Peter’s hips, completely unwilling to let go anytime soon. “Okay,” He said plainly, eyes darting away from the other man’s face.
He didn’t believe Peter.
“I need a little more than an ‘okay’, Wade.” Peter nuzzled forwards, shifting his weight gingerly until most of it sat atop Wade’s lap. “Please.”
The supple vulnerability behind Peter’s words was stunning, resonating deep within Wade’s chest and inspiring a pulse of confidence to shock his system. “I want you too, Baby Boy.” If the scarring over his cheeks wasn’t present, Wade was sure the blush prickling beneath his skin would’ve been painfully evident. He was great at being brash and shamelessly flirtatious- admitting actual feelings, on the other hand, was much harder than it had any right to be. “You knew that already, didn’t have to go and make me say it.”
Peter’s responding chuckle was light and heartfelt, relieved in a way that made Wade’s heart clench. “I didn’t make you say it!” He clamoured, rubbing his cheek against the textured skin of Wade’s.
“Honey, with the way you were lookin’ at me? How could I have said no to you?” Wade grumbled, voice husky as he yanked Peter tighter against his body. The other man curled in instantaneously, as though seeking intimate contact with Deadpool of all people was something natural- which, for Peter, it seemed, was.
Despite the unrelenting throbbing of Peter’s muscles, and the heavy leather-spandex combination of Wade’s suit, the two men stayed tangled together until the synchrony of their breathing lulled both of them into slumber. Waking up would bring conversations of what was to happen with them going forwards, of what everything meant , of how they’d balance their respective lives with a relationship in tow, but neither of them felt the need to worry about any of it, the sanctity they collectively felt in each other’s arms overpowering any concern or doubt that maybe should’ve been present.
They weren’t perfect, nor were they destined to have an easy life together given their individual circumstances, and yet, they had each other, and the safety of being together to keep them going, regardless of what obstacles stood in their way.