Aw, Sugar, You Make My Teeth Rot

Peter wakes up the next day and automatically knows something is off. His stomach rolls uncomfortably and the base of his skull buzzes with something like a vague warning. His mouth is dry and his bones ache just vaguely enough for him to remember how much beds hurt to sleep in due to the newer enhancements and additions to his body.

He sits up, feeling his face and realizing he still has his mask - and suit - on. He sits for a second, trying to remember why he fell asleep fully clothed and in a bed. His memories come back almost reluctantly, and he squeezes his eyes shut, resting his head on the wall behind him. His stomach twists some more, and he feels sick and naseaus. This was going to be an awful day. He clenches his fist. This apparently is an awful idea, because immediately he rolls over and gags.

He stands up, stumbling to his door and shoving it open. He groans again, searching for the bathroom. He was going to vomit, and he was sick, and this was awful, and what had caused it? He opens a door. Deadpool's lounging on the bed. He covers his mouth, sick intensifying. A small whimper as he turns to find a bathroom.

The next door he opens is thankfully one to a bathroom, and he all but collapses onto his knees by the toilet. Bile leaving his mouth. He vomits until he dry heaves, and then he flushes the toilet and just sits there for a moment. He sighs. Kind of what he gets for sleeping in clothes, and on a bed. Stressing a body out as its sleeping is definitely a no-go. Especially one with a very particular, very weak, and very sensitive stomach.

No, seriously. If he sleeps wrong, he throws up. If he eats even a little bit of something be cant, he throws up. If he does anything more than he can or should, he throws up. Peter curls up a little bit, waiting out the last of the sickness.

"You okay there, Spindley?" Deadpool asks. Peter flips him off, because that seems like an appropriate response. "When and where, Webbie Debbie?"

"Shut up," Peter grumbles, wiping his mouth and standing up. "This is totally your fault."

"My fault?" Deadpool yells, scandalized, "How is this my fault?"

"I had to sleep with my clothes on. And my mask. And I had to sleep on a bed. Stressed my body out!" Peter responds, before his stomach grumbles at him. "Shut up," he hisses to it, "You are not getting fed until youre as stable as I was before everything hit the fan."

Deadpool's still talking - he never stops - and Peter doesn't listen in. Instead choosing to sigh and walk over to the doorway, intent on getting out.

Deadpool's body language shifts immediately once Peter gets about three feet away from him, and Peter holds his hands up. It doesn't do much to hinder him. If he'd had wanted to hurt Deadpool, he could do so with his hands tied behind his back and he had no doubt Deadpool possessed the same level of skill. But the gesture was meant to comfort the merc, and nothing more.

Deadpool relaxes ever so slightly. Peter sighs, and he steps back until Deadpool relaxes more. "You can walk away first."

"What do you mean, Spindle Pindle?" Deadpool questions, cocking his head to the side. Peter sighs, letting his hands fall to his side.

"You get tense whenever I walk anywhere closer than three feet from you. You're uncomfortable with my pressence, and that's understandable." Peter shrugs at that, "So, you walk away first. Go downstairs, I'll wait."

Deadpool stays silent, which is a rare occurrence for him, before walking away. Peter watches, and blinks a few times. He snaps his fingers, listening as Deadpool's footsteps and heart beat make their way downstairs. Peter giggles. Why was Deadpool downstairs? How did he get in the bathroom?

Peter follows after the merc, and once he reaches the kitchen, he stretches. Arching his back and pulling his arm up, one stretching up and the other reaching behind his head to grab the other's shoulder. His spider legs stretch out into near straight lines, and he goes on his tippy toes. Peter hums happily.

"That feels absolutely wonderful," Peter almost purs, turning to Deadpool. Deadpool's a little tense. Strange. Why was he tense? Was it Peter's fault? He's also watching Peter, and Peter can actually feel Deadpool's eyes trace his body. Peter giggles. Spider sense was immensely amusing.

"I have my first favor, by the way," Peter confides, "But I won't tell you it now - it'll upset you. I don't particularly wanna upset you, yet. Now, there was something I said I'd do today..." Peter tries to remember, frowning. He can't remember. Frustration claws at him.

"Well, Spin Bin, I know yesterday you said you were gonna go out and buy some food," Deadpool chimes in. He's still tense, as though Peter's presence is what is causing his unease. Peter blinks.

"Am I causing you unease by being this close?" Peter asks curiously, head cocked curiously to the side. Deadpool tenses rather unintenntionally. Peter smiles. "I am! Oh, that's wonderful! I mean, it's not, I'd love for you to trust me but I know why you don't and oh its so wonderful to know things!"

Peter hums, crawling ontop of the counter separating them, noting with a scientific interest that Deadpool tenses noticeably, though his heart rate stays just as calm. Although, if he listens really closely, it does pick up just a beat or two. Peter hums again, placing his hands on the edge of the counter and gripping, pulling his legs out from behind him until he's sitting on the counter. Legs hanging over the edge inches from where Deadpool stands.

"I make you uncomfortable," Peter notes, "The closer I am, the more you tense. Is it because you're afraid of what I'll do with those favors? Or is it because you think I might harm you? Perhaps it's a distrust?"

Deadpool is silent. Peter sighs, leaning his head back and grumbling incoherent gibberish. Stupid him, fucking all this up. Stupid proposition. Although, his regret doesn't go to far. Deadpool is very interesting. In every aspect. 

"Deadpool, tell me something," Peter demands, voice just a bit warmer than ice, "Do you think I can harm you?"

There's a small pause, "Depends on the definition of harm," Deadpool says cheerily.

"At all," Peter states a little dryly, leveling his mask back to stare at Deadpool's mask's own set of eyes. He wonders, vaguely, what color Deadpool's eyes are.

"Probably," Deadpool replies. Peter nods.

"This deal we have - will you honor it?" Peter questions curiously, bringing his hands up to Deadpool's shoulders. They tense even more, muscles coiled up and ready to spirng. Peter brings his hands away, watches them relax. He brings them back, the muscles tense. He gets caught up in the sensation of it, tense, untense, tense, untense, tense, untense-

"Yeah," Deadpool responds, "'Course I will, Spin-Fin. I'm a man of my word."

"Mm," Peter hums thoughtfully, and brings his hands down again. The muscles tense, and Deadpool makes to step away. In a moment of brief panic, Peter clutches onto the shoulders tightly, to keep him in place. There's a small sound of pain and Peter's hands fly off immediately, and he gets up on the counter, stepping away until his head hit the hanging pots behind him. They clatter and he makes a pained sound, stepping forward.

Deadpool tenses and Peter hurries to step back again, but he hits the pots when he hurries to do so his spider sense zings his spine and he curls up to avoid repeating the cycle. "I didn't mean to," he mumbles, "I really didn't."

"Oh-Kay, Web-Pleb," Deadpool responds, and Peter bites his lip, blood and venom dripping down his chin.

"We should go get food," Peter says suddenly, perking up as he plops down from the counter, and he's so close to Deadpool for a brief second he can feel his breath through the mask, before he slips to the side and walks over to his door, grabbing the cloak.

"Right," Deadpool responds agreeingly, and his voice dissolves to background noise as he begins his usual ramble.

~

Peter is sitting in the shopping cart, curled up and giggling like an actual seven year old as Deadpool throws a few things into it. He keeps glancing at Peter uncertainly, and Peter meets every glance with his own, a smirk, and a giggle. He even sing songs nursery rhymes and gets excited when they pass the snacks and candy isle.

"Oh my god," Peter gasps, "Deadpool, Deadpool, we have to get Oreos!" He points at the Oreos for emphasis.

"Baby Boy," Deadpool begins, "I can't believe I'm saying this but I don't think we have space for Oreos."

"What?" Peter shrieks in horror, and he moves some things around. He points to the space he's made, which is just barley big enough to fit a box of Oreos in it. He points to it. "We have space!"

Deadpool sighs and passes the Oreos along, although he and Peter do stare at in longing as they pass. Peter complains and Deadpool rambles and when they finally get to the cashier, she looks like she can't decide whether or not to be horrifed, weirded out, or amused by the two well-known mercenaries.

Peter giggles when the plastic bags get loaded back on the cart and he leaps out of it, grabbing the five plastic bags without a second thought. Landing on one foot and watching Deadpool put the cart away. He giggles. Deadpool is fucking hot.

"You're hot," Peter states in a conspiratorial whisper, before giggling again and making his way over to a nearby PetCo. He buys three hundred crickets and giggles as they hop around in the bags. Deadpool had somehow gotten hold of the plastic grocery bags between Point A and Point B, but Peter doesn't care.

Deadpool's rambling and Peter's constant giggling fill the silence as they walk. Peter makes a sharp turn, however, and Deadpool stumbles to follow him as Peter nears a food truck. He's curious and tense, unsure of how Peter's mood will swing if he says or does anything, remembering keenly the warning from the night before. Peter is openly excited, ordering something in a happy voice, and the driver of the truck is terrified and nodding along hurriedly.

Deadpool makes his way over and watches as Peter stuffs the cricket bags in his belt and is handed twenty sticks of fried grasshoppers. He hums happily, throwing the driver an obscene amount of cash before skipping over to Deadpool.

"Hey, Deadpool," He giggles, and he's struck with how the Spindler is literally a seven year old, mentally, at the moment. He wonders if this is what it's like to hang out with him. Except he's more obscene, and inappropriate, and talkative, and-

Peter skips away and holy shit, he's got the ass of a god. Peter giggles, apparently Deadpool had said that out loud. Peter doesn't seem to mind and he even arches his back a little more. In order to illicite a reaction from the merc. Who just whistles appreciatively as they had back to Peter's safe house.

Peter seems to be uncomfortable the moment he renters it, fidgeting and biting his lip almost unnoticeabley more, snapping his fingers. His giggling stops, and although his smile remains it's clearly more forced. He makes no move to harm or attack, though, so Deadpool risks walking past him to stock up Peter's kitchen.

He's still rambling, and Peter doesn't seem like he's going to tell him to stop so Deadpool doesn't. Peter crunches on what must be the fifth fried grasshopper, pulling himself up to sit - and then lay - on the island counter with fifteen sticks of fried grasshoppers and five empty ones.

Peter's kitchen is nice. It's small, but nice and has the latest models of almost everything. It's modern, but it fits perfectly into the color scheme of the rooms around him and doesn't do much to strain or over stimulate his eyes. It's got a row of counters, on one end a fridge. There's a stove about two counters down, followed by a sink, and on the other end of the row there's a dish washer. About two or three feet away there's an island counter/breakfast bar, above it holds hanging pots and pans. It's an open flook plan, so the island is the only thing that separates lichen from everywhere else. And the tile floor.

Peter hums, bending his knees up as he bites a chunk off the next grasshopper and spreads his arms out wide next to him.

"Deadpool?" He calls, and he can hear the muscles tense. The sound is frankly more pleasurable to hear then he'd like, but he forgets the fact in mere moments.

"Yeah, Bab Boy?" Deadpool asks curiosuly, but there's a level of caution that has never managed to leave in his voice.

"I've decided on twenty favors." Peter rolls on to his stomach, letting his legs hang off the edge of the counter. 

"Oh," Deadpool responds, and his grip on the handle of the fridge tightens. Peter frowns.

"Is that not good?" Peter asks, a small level of panic in his voice. "I'm trying to make it better-"

"It's good, baby boy," Deadpool responds. Peter relaxes.

"Oh, okay!" He responds with childish pride and happiness as he bites off another grasshopper chunk. He throws the empty sticks into the trashcan. "Hey Deadpool, wanna try one of these?"

"Sure, baby boy," Deadpool responds, and holds out his hand. He's a little hesitant, Peter can tell. But clearly curious. Peter hands him the grasshopper stick.

Deadpool raises up the bottom half of his mask rather hesitantly, and Peter can literally feel the discreet glances Deadpool makes his way as he pulls it up. Spider sense was great. Deadpool apparently doesn't get what he's waiting for - which is apparently a good thing - and seems to relax in slight relief before he bites a chunk of the grasshopper off.

His mask seems to emote as he gets serious and contemplating and Peter finds that he sort of wants the man's approval. Deadpool smacks his lips a few times, and Peter stares.

"This is almost as good as your ass," Deadpool comments. "Gimme another."

~

They ended up going back out to get some more.