Aw, Sugar, You Make My Teeth Rot

Peter yawns, stretching as he rolls the office chair back a little bit. He looks up at the cieling, which is perfectly white and spotless. A true testament to how rarely used this safe house is. He had gone to the lab after he and Deadpool had went to go and buy some more fried grasshoppers.

Deadpool had completely tensed the moment Peter had opened the lab door, as if just seeing the room had brought him physical harm. Peter hadn't minded, knowing and understanding the reaction. But he'd said goodbye and had went to go see if he could maybe figure out a way to make his venom something like a gas.

Which had lead to a lot of painful needles in his mouth as he extracted the venom, and even more painful as he'd poked at his fingers with the same needle. Not necessarily for any scientific purpose, truth be told, he'd just gotten frustrated and had used the small pinpricks of pain to ground him. The little dots of pain had quickly enough, as his healing factor had only increased with the new additions and enhancements he'd gotten.

Much to his surprise, however, one of the places he'd poked had not healed. It was in fact, full of venom. A small gland of venom that never fully formed. He grins, watching as it finally closes up. Inspecting his hands, he wonders if he can make something that'll make the venom gland fully form, or at least pump out venom fully. Preferably, however, he'd like it to form under his finger nails. The venom gland was on the middle segments of his fingers, and he figured he could probably make something to slip under his nails and pierce the venom gland.

Peter enjoyed science. He enjoyed it because it was a constant, but it also challenged him. It kept his mind focussed. He rarely forgot what he was doing, and his mind seemed to change less and swing less between one emotion or mental state to another. He inspects his hands some more. The object would have to be incredibly thin, and the process would probably be immensely painful. Peter grinned.

Pain was okay.

~

Peter screamed. This hurt far worse then he thought he did, and he forced himself to keep his hand perfectly still despite his spider sense shrieking at him and the pain ripping through him like a tidal wave. The tissue underneath his skin was hard, and it took a very slow and very painful process to get such a thin piece of metal thrthrough it. Not only that, but it had to go under his nail.

Peter let out another gutteral and somewhat blood curdling scream as the machine his hand was in very, very, infuriatingly slowly put the thin piece of metal under his nail and into his finger. His eyes tearing up as he forced himself to keep his hand there. The pain was grounding, and he found himself laughing in between screams.

The door opened somewhat slowly, as though the person opening it was cautious but also trying to get in quickly. It's small squeak stopping abruptly as the person opening the door took in the sight before him. Peter, leaning over a desk with one hand splayed on it, and the other forcing the wrist to stay down as a strange contraption pushed a piece of metal thinder then a needle I under his nail and into his skin.

He screamed again, and felt bones bruise as he clutched onto his wrist tightly. His eyes snap over to the door, and he's very, very aware of his unmasked face. Which is twisting into a deadly expression as he catches sight of his guest, who radiates the smell of horror.

"Get out," he growls, and tears force themselves out of his eyes at the worst moment and he chokes on another scream, which only uses to emphasize his next set of words. "Get out!"

Deadpool dosen't move, somewhat frozen. Peter growls again, but it's washed away as amother flood of pain hits him. He screams, and he's so distracted by the intrusion that he doesn't control himself, and he crushes his wrist. Burning hot, searing pain rips through him. Mixing with the already awful pain of having thin metal inserted into his finger, he let's out a choked scream which turns into a pained gargle and sob, and he rips his mangled wrist and hand away as the metal finally hits his mark, clutching turns he broken bone gingerly as he turns and throws up everything he's eaten the past day.

Chunks of rancid greyish and chunky vomit spew out of his mouth and he can identify half digested chunks of grasshoppers and crickets. His stomach tries to force air and acid out somewhat briefly. He takes a shuddering breath, inspecting his wrist. Wiping his mouth, he realizes he hadn't splint it in time and stumbles to a nearby cabinet, grabbing one of the many splints in it and resnapping his wrist. Teeth digging sharply into his lip to swallow down the small cry he otherwise would have made. The splint comes on and he sighs, staring at the pile of vomit on his once clean floors. Though, in other safe houses vomit stains weren't an uncommon sight, as his stomach is extraordinarily weak, and most experiments cause stress or pain one way or another.

"Well," Peter says cheerfully, "At least there won't be anything to vomit next time!" He inspects his fingers. Only one has the device in it, a hollow thing of metal. It aches and he knows it'll never stop aching, but venom flows in small dribbles out from under his fingernails. He looks up at Deadpool, smile taking on a quality that makes the fear he can smell thicken to almost choking qualities.

"Now," He mumbles, "What do I do with you?"

Deadpool's heart rate picks up noticeably. His body tenses, his fingers twitch. He's ready for a fight. Peter lazily hums, tapping at the nail of the finger, sending a dull shock of bruise-like pain everytime. Tap tap tap tap tap.... His pupils dilating over and over again. Buzzing fills his ears. The black spider second pair of eyes above his original ones moving around in frantic directions.

He becomes obsessed with the body language he's reading as he focuses on breathing. Rational fighting with spider. Deadpool'so fingers twitch and his arms are ready to grab any weapon closest to those twitching fingers. One foot moves slightly to postiotion itself. There's slight movement under the eyes of the mask that show he's looking for something. Escape, probably. His body is all tense and heavily coiled muscle. Ready to spring with deadly force and intent.

The eyes rest on Peter, and his spider sense alerts him of which specific part Deadpool is looking at. The low buzz wonders from different points of his body - attack openings. Peter leaves himself open, because he knows that he doesn't need to be defensive yet. He keeps tapping his fingers, the pain providing a steady raft to float on as his thoughts quickly fall into a disorganized tidal wave of mania and panic.

"Get out," Peter half growls, taking steps forward. His legs taking him a few steps before the spider ones pick him up and take him the rest of the way forward as he leans in close to Deadpool's face. Deadpool grabs his weapons instinctually.

It's almost instinct. Peter snaps his mental web, for a reason he doesn't quite know. But it snaps back at him with such force he's blinded for a half a second, and his body flies back. He stumbles three feet, four feet, five feet as he lands on the floor a foot away from the vomit he'd just expelled.

Peter let's out a hiss of pain as his hand slams down to the ground, sending a jolt up his still aching wrist and finger. He squeezes his eyes shut against the rush of dizziness, and literally sees stars.

[Woah!]

[[What in the fuck?]]

"I can hear you two again!" Peter snaps, and he stands up, inspecting himself. "Shut up or that pretty little contraption in the corner is going to come uncomfortably close."

There's a silence as Deadpool looks at the corner of the lap. The contraption isnt easy to identify as one specific thing, but it looks like heavy pain is induced to cause it's purpose. The boxes, for once, remain silent.

Peter places himself on a desk, letting his legs swing over the edge. "I have a deal for you," he half-purs. "You forget this face and I, in turn, forget you came in here. You walk out, I throw a small tantrum, Yada yada. All in all, I don't snap and take out all of my lovely science experiments and play with you in some sickening, but frankly rather fun, half twisted version of the game Operation." Peter inspects his nails. He really should paint his nails red.

"Or," he begins cheerily, "You can come in here, and we can see if I'm willing to forgive and forget. If you do risk this, I'll get rid of five favors." Peter smiles happily. He liked this. The propositions would be out of the way, meaning Deadpool might like him more and he got to play with the merc. "Once you come in, however, you can't leave until I say so! Feel free to consult your boxes."

[Um, get out! Now! Now!]

[[Yeah, abort! Abort! Never feel concerned for the screams again! Leave! Leave!]]

[WHAT DO YOU MEAN, STAY?]

[[He has a point?]]

[Sure, but five favors is not a big enough price for that! The risk is huge!]

[[Wade's right, it's not like we can't heal from what he does!]]

[What he does doesn't matter! We still don't want him to do it!]

[[Yeah, but five favors! Gone!]]

[But trama!]

[[I'm sure a little more won't kill us more than it has.]]

Deadpool closes the door behind him, shaking ever so slightly.

[We are fucked.]

"Interesting," Peter murmers, "You chose to stay." He doesn't speak after that for close to five minutes and Deadpool nervously chatters. It's frankly wonderful to be able to hear the other side of the conversations the merc never seems to stop having.

Peter sighs, wandering over to the cabinet to put the splint back and find something to clean the vomit. His mood gone, he's not sure he particularly wants to play with the never silent merc. Perhaps taunt. Maybe smell the fear, but playing with the merc is an option that's kind of left him for now. The mood gone, he really just wants to clean the mess up and start on another finger.

He begins cleaning, tuning the boxes and Wade out. Wade. That was his name. Peter wrinkles his nose at the smell of vomit, forcing himself and a gag back as he cleans it up. He grumbles incoherently to himself, and it isn't until he's done cleaning that he realizes he's been talking to Wade and the boxes. Though they can't hear him.

Peter inspects his nails again. "Should I paint them red?" He calls curiously, showing his hands out to Wade.

"Mmm, yeah Spin-Doll, sounds great," Wade says all to agreeingly. Fear is a factor and Peter sighs.

"Tell me the truth. Lies are agravating."

"I think you should paint them white." Wade almost says it to quickly. Peter looks at his hands.

"Oh my gods," He whispers, awed. "You're totally right."

~

They've painted his nails from black to white. Peter's pretty happy with this, and Wade is a little less fearful now that the initial horror has worn off. He's still cautious and hesitant, but Peter seemed happy and not like he was ready to conduct evil scientific research on mercy like himself with healing factors so good very few can outshine it.

Unfortunately, Wade learns about five minutes after they complete the painting of nails, a happy Peter, is not always a safe one.

Peter's smile takes on a cold and dangerous edge, and he looks up from his nails to peer at Wade through his masks eyes. Wade shivers, and the boxes seem to realize something distantly important.

[Did you feel that?]

[[He can't hear us anymore.]]

[[Shit, that means we don't make another appearance after this except in refference!]]

Peter has gotten closer. His unmasked face inches away from Wade's masked one, and his pretty hands reach up to touch the edges of the mask.

"What colour..." Peter drawls, eyes taking on a cruelly curious look. "Are your eyes?"

Deadpool's hands fly up to grip Peter's wrists. Shaky fear replaced by steel. No one sees under his mask.

"Not a color youre going to see."

The response is wrong, he soon realizes as he watched Peter's face twist into an unpleasant scowl. He's so close to the other merc's eyes. And face. But the eyes are captivating. One pair is black, but looks like there's black film covering a ball in a socket and the other pair - more human - is introverted. Irises so black they'll swallow you whole and pupils a pretty yet intense shad of chocolate brown he feels like he's suffocating. The spider eyes, the black ones, are iridescent, he notes.

"But I want to," Peter responds petulantly, but he doesn't sound like a childish adult anymore. He sounds like what he us - a mercenary. A dangerous, and rather mentally unstable one. "And you owe me fifteen favors."

It's a threat. Wade can almost hear between the lines. If you make me waste a favor on this, you'll regret it. But he's adamant on the mask rule. No one sees under the mask.

"Then use one," He responds coolly. His own voice sounding exactly the same. A dangerous, and rather mentally unstable mercenary. There's a brief silence.

"Choose." Peter growls, eyes challenging. "Mask off, or I get to have fun."

The way he sounds fun make sit sound like Wade is decidedly not going to be having much of it. He's almost tempted to reply with the latter anyway, but he'd rather tramatize a - jesus, how old was Spindler? He looked like a teenager. "How old are you?"

"Twenty, why-" Peter's eyes lose the edge, curiosity following before snapping back. "Now choose."

"First one," Ware grumbles. Peter's eyes light up, and he tugs insistently on the masks edge. The mask comes off.

"Pretty eyes," Peter coos, and he giggles. Wade waits for a comment on his, well, to be frank, complete ugliness. Peter doesn't even seem to register the scars. "We're they always so pretty?"

"They were more Blue before," Wade finds himself answering, "Now they have that sickly green complexion."

"I don't think eyes can have complexions," Peter confesses, frowning in such an adorable way Wade forgets to be scared. Peter hums, and then begins to push Wade back into that chair from before. The fear comes rushing back.