Before you read this, I have a few things to say.

The first thing you should know, is that I'm only about 70% content with this three-part Spideypool fic. There was an outline, and it matched the outline more or less, but I'm new to this fandom and I'm so not sure I got the characterization right. Criticism is beyond welcome.

Secondly, being new to this fandom means that there is a lot of information to take in, things to choose, tropes to follow or ignore. Unlike Marauder fanfiction, which I wear like second skin, I don't understand these characters as deeply as I'd like to. Unlike Marauder fanfiction, I'm pretty much allowed to pick and choose. I chose to tie into canon, but not in a way, I hope, that you'll expect. I also chose to accept the fact that the white box is in fact a different entity, which is why both Deadpool's thoughts and the yellow box are in italics, but the white box is not.

Good luck.

Edit (19/4/16): turns out, instead of having one continuous dinner, they have two separate ones. oops. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Changes

{Part 1}

"You don't have any clue, do you?" he says angrily. "You don't even care enough to find out. This entire thing – "

"Wade – "

Wade curses at him, spewing words in languages Peter doesn't even recognize, the words flowing as if reciting the words to a poem or singing a song. His encore? "Go fuck yourself, Parker. I never needed you anyway ."

Peter Parker had several things weighing on him the summer after graduating college.

For one, he found himself suddenly with a lot of free time, and he wasn't a fan of free time. He liked going to class, and not only because it helped him keep busy. He had a job, but it wasn't full time, and besides, taking pictures of Spider-Man wasn't the hardest thing to do when you, in fact, were Spider-Man.

And then there were his actual duties as Spider-Man. He wasn't officially part of the Avengers, which didn't stop them or the Fantastic Four from asking him to help them whenever they wanted to, but even without those missions, he still had patrolling regularly and the trouble some of his major adversaries would get him in.

And lastly , around the end of spring Peter had heard rumors that Deadpool was back in town.

This was quite possibly the worst of them all, because Deadpool had a habit of interfering with Spider-Man as much as he possibly could. This meant that if he didn't figure out what Deadpool was up to sometime soon, he might find the Merc with the Mouth stuck up his ass yet again.

Which is why, at that very moment, Peter Parker was following Deadpool around New York.

It was not a good day to follow someone around. By the time Peter found Deadpool, it was early evening, and the air was clear, though cold; this meant that Peter could not count on the cover of fog or rain or darkness to disguise him , nor could he pretend to be simply taking a stroll, as people were rushing out of the cool air and not to it. The only advantage Peter had over Deadpool at this moment in time, in fact, was that Deadpool couldn't disguise himself as a normal citizen. Which honestly, in New York, didn't matter all that much.

Deadpool stopped to buy a hotdog from a street vendor and Peter leaned against a wall, debating the idea of giving up and going home. Deadpool may have been up to something sinister, but so far, all evidence pointed to the contrary – he hadn't done anything but walk the streets and buy a hotdog. Peter closed his eyes, counted to five in an attempt to relax, and looked back in the direction of where Deadpool had been only moments before.

He was gone. Deadpool had disappeared. Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT.

In a quick sprint, Peter took no time at all to reach the hotdog vendor. Deadpool was nowhere in sight – perhaps he had simply wandered off when Peter hadn't been looking?

Thinking he saw a glimpse of red and black, he hurried to an alleyway nearby. Nobody around.

His Spidey sense was tingling, but even when he looked up, he couldn't see anything. Maybe Deadpool wasn't here at all, and his Spidey sense was just in overdrive? Peter sighed and turned around –

Oh. There he was.

Blocking the entrance to the alleyway was Deadpool . Taken aback, Peter looked him over, and concluded that he looked largely the same as the last time he'd seen him. Still taller than him, still muscular, still covered head to toe with his red and black uniform. Deadpool's mask, though seemingly similar to his own, showed, somehow, far more of Deadpool's expression than his own ever showed of Peter's. Right now, for example, Deadpool was both annoyed and curious, raising an eyebrow and pointing a gun straight at his face.

"You've got thirty seconds to explain to me why you're following me, kid," said Deadpool, his hand unwavering , "and if I don't like it, there's not going to be much left of your pretty face."

Peter thought quickly, not doubting Deadpool's willingness to shoot him. He could pretend that he hadn't been following him, but Deadpool would see right through that. He could, of course, tell the truth – but Peter had managed to avoid Deadpool finding out his secret identity thus far and felt no need for this to change.

"I'm a photographer," he said, the half-truth spilling out before he could stop himself. "I usually take pictures of Spider-Man. You might have seen some of my stuff, in the Daily Bugle – "

"If you wanted to photograph me," said Deadpool, brightening, "you could have just asked."

"Yes, well," Peter stammered. "Um, I was actually – "

Shit.

"I was hoping," he continued, "that you would lead me to Spider-Man. You've been seen with him before, and – "

"Yeah, Spidey and me are best buds," Deadpool said, still cheerful. He lowered the gun and placed it back in its holster. "Sadly, I haven't seen him in a while. Sorry, kid. We're both out of luck."

"Oh, okay," Peter said, not pointing out that it was unlikely that someone you haven't seen for a while would be your "best bud". "Then I guess – "

At this point Peter was quite rudely interrupted by a shower of bullets all around them. "Get down!" Deadpool yelled at him, jumping on a nearby dumpster. What is he doing, for God's sake? Peter wondered silently. Cursing his choice of outfit, Peter crouched behind that same dumpster, looking for the shooter. In his backpack, under the camera he would have taken out had Deadpool had time to ask for proof, was his Spider-Man costume. He considered putting it on only to realize that the bullets had stopped.

"What's going on?" he yelled. There was no reply. It was quite possible he hadn't said a thing. There was a terrible pain in his leg, and when he looked down he saw that it was bleeding. Have I been shot? he thought, suddenly dizzy. He didn't remember getting shot, but it was obviously a possibility. The pain was shooting up his right leg, and he fell on his side, only to realize that his left hand was hurting as well. He knew he would heal soon, but not soon enough. The pain was excruciating, and his vision was starting to fade.

He could have sworn that as he was blacking out, a pair of strong arms were picking him up…

"Wade, please – "

"Did you ever even think?" Wade Wilson spits at him. Literally, there is spit flying towards Peter's face, but Peter's too upset to even care. "Did you ever even ask yourself – did you even think? Of course you didn't. And everybody saying that I'm selfish – "

It was long dark by the time Peter came to in a small, unfamiliar apartment. The place smelled like pizza and dirty laundry, but not overtly so; it struck his as a more permanent scent, sticking to the place after years of use, rather than anything more recent and tangible. His stomach growled, and he tried to sit up – only to feel the stabbing pain in his arm . It could not have been long since the shooting, as he had not fully healed yet. His arm was bandaged and so was his leg. He looked around, trying to assess his situation – could it be that Deadpool had taken him in? It didn't seem likely, but then again, the man was quite literally insane. He was hardly predictable.

The couch he was sitting on was lumpy, but not because it was cheap but rather because it was old, well used. The was a TV screen with various gaming consoles on the opposite wall and a large window on the wall to Peter's left. The blinds were partially open, and the orange light from the street outside colored the dark room in stripes. To his right was a bare wall and an open door, through which he could see only a narrow hallway. In the far left corner was a pile of games, but he didn't pause to look at the titles.

Peter turned towards the door and tried to stand. The pain in his right leg was faint, but undoubtedly there, and he carefully shifted his weight, leaning to his left as much as he could. He could see his backpack in the hallway, still zipped tight – but whoever had brought him here might know he's Spider-Man.

In the hallway, Peter could see that he would have to pass by an open door in order to get to the front door. He debated climbing out of the window, only to realize that, in his current state, he was most likely to fall and injure himself further. Risking the front door was his only option.

Somebody was humming . This raised the probability of his "host" being Deadpool by about 700%. He reached the edge of the open doorway and risked a glance towards the source of the humming – oh.

It was definitely Deadpool . His back was turned so he was facing away from the doorway . Still wearing his suit (plus an apron, minus the mask), Wade Wilson was humming Wrecking Ball (which was oddly appropriate) and messing around in his kitchen , possibly attempting to cook eggs or make meth. From his particular vantage point, Peter couldn't really tell. Besides, after glimpsing only the barest bit of Deadpool's scarred skin, Peter had already rather quickly glanced away, facing the walls of the hall once again.

Relax, Peter, he told himself firmly. It's only Deadpool. Who knows how many times you've had to handle him and you're still here. Just relax.

So he took a deep breath and took a step towards the front door.

"I hope you're not leaving before dinner," said Deadpool, still without turning around.

Shit.

"Wade, I didn't mean to – " says Peter, and desperation filters into his voice .

"If I'm such a bad person, why do you even bother being with me? If you can't stand the things I actually I do – "

"So what's your name, sweetheart?" asked Deadpool, leaning back against the counter . His mask was back on, and from seemingly nowhere he had once again produced a gun, but at least this time he wasn't pointing it at Peter. "You obviously know who I am, what with following me around and all. Figure, since I saved your life, you might as well tell me at least your name."

"Who was shooting at us?" Peter said instead.

Deadpool shook his head. "Nuh-uh. No information from me 'til I know who I'm dealing with."

"Peter," he said, quickly, before he could change his mind. "Peter Parker." He thought about it for another moment and added, "Thanks for that, by the way."

"For what?" asked Deadpool.

"Saving my life."

"It was no problem," said Deadpool nonchalantly. "C'mon. I made eggs and toast for dinner. I have four types of jam."

And, mostly because he didn't want to get shot, Peter joined Wade Wilson for dinner. And, considering the meal consisted of eggs and toast, it wasn't bad.

Deadpool talked. A lot. Peter knew he had a mouth on him but – wow. He really was the Merc with the Mouth. After a long discussion of why the prequel Star Wars trilogy was an abomination, the exhaustingly details rehashing of Deadpool's seemingly infinite amount of weddings, and an explanation of why he preferred one specific hot dog stand in New York to all others, Peter finally gathered up the courage to ask:

"So – why were we being shot at, again?"

"Oh, that?" Deadpool waved at him dismissively. "It was… it was a misunderstanding."

Peter raised an eyebrow.

"Well," said Deadpool. "I had shot one of their friends earlier that day. By accident. I thought he was somebody else. He didn't die, but these… people decided that, well, they wanted to get me back. It's fine. I've dealt with them."

"Dealt with them," echoed Peter. "Do you mean that you killed them?"

Deadpool squirmed under his gaze, apparently suddenly uncomfortable. "Well, honey," he said. "I prefer the term 'un-alived'. But yes, they're not walking around anymore. I thought – "

"You thought what?" asked Peter.

"That you knew I was a mercenary, sweet-cheeks."

"Yes, well – " That doesn't mean I approve of what you do.

"Are you done with your dinner?" asked Deadpool cheerfully, interrupting him. "How are you feeling?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," said Peter, wondering at Deadpool's sudden change of tone. "Can I – can I go home now?"

"Well, I suppose," said Deadpool. "Though I really am quite curious. I didn't open it, but – " He frowned. He sounded as though he had been interrupted, only nobody had spoken. "Yes, exactly," he said. "Then we agree. What's in your bag?"

Peter isn't sure what the point of the argument is anymore. He feels so exhausted and just wants them to end this and go to bed. Sure, he made a mistake, but surely, it could be forgiven. He could fix it. They would fix it, and all would be forgiven, and they'd kiss and make up –

"You don't get to make decisions for me, Parker," he says. "We're supposed to make them together. It's part of the deal."

"I know," says Peter. "I know. I'm so sorry. I just tried to – "

"To change who I am?" cried Wade. "You knew what you were getting into. I never tried to hide that side of me. You knew all along. Stop pretending you didn't . And you know what else – "

Shit. "What makes you think there's anything important in the bag?'

"Because of your reaction right there," said Deadpool. "Parker, sweet cheeks, you're not a very good liar. C'mon, just show me what's in the bag. Pretty please."

Peter, not knowing where his bravery came from, said, "I'd rather not."

And to his surprise, Deadpool nodded. "Fine. Whatever. You can go if you want to. But like I said – I made dinner. And people say I'm a good cook!" He paused , then amended his previous statement: "Well, only one guy really. And he's gone now. Poof. We're no longer together. It was a good run while it lasted, though. Sold really well. Well enough for me, at least."

Peter shook his head, not quite believing what he was hearing. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

Deadpool shrugged. "Sometimes even I don't know. So. Breakfast for dinner?"

Peter shook his head. He just wanted to go home. "Where are we, anyway ?" Deadpool rattled off an address, and Peter was pretty sure he knew how to get home from there. "I think I'm going to – "

"Stay for an awesome eggs-toast-and-bacon dinner?" Deadpool said hopefully.

Peter thought of getting home, and of how Aunt May doesn't even know that he's been unconscious for as long as he has, and of warning someone that Deadpool is in town, and he thought of his deadline at the Bugle. And then he thought of following Deadpool around, and getting shot and being saved by Deadpool, and Deadpool digging out the bullets and bandaging him, and how he didn't push him over the whole 'what's-in-the-bag' thing, and he thought of his shame at getting a glance at Deadpool's skin. And then he thought of his growling stomach and at the fact that he had used a lot of his calories on healing himself, even if only partially.

And then he said, "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll stay for dinner."

And he stayed for dinner. And Deadpool didn't take his mask off, not completely, and Peter didn't look at him because it was weird. This is weird, right? Me knowing who he is and him not knowing who I am? Being around him without him flirting with me constantly?

It was weird.

But he had to admit, even though it was hardly a gourmet meal, Deadpool was a good cook. And a strange conversationalist.

Peter didn't really have to talk, or even look up at Deadpool; he just started talking and didn't stop. At a certain point he was talking about turtles, and at another point he was talking about camping trips. Peter, even though he did try, couldn't keep up with the word-vomit; but what he did here was honestly not that boring. Sometimes it made no sense. Sometimes it was gruesome. But it was all interesting to an extent.

And Peter had to admit that he found Deadpool himself fascinating. This wasn't something new, just unexplored; he'd always found him to be both annoying and interesting. It's just that when they were in life-or-death situations, the annoying part tended to eclipse the morbidly-fascinating part. The Merc with the Mouth had that name for a reason, and boy, did that get on Spider-Man's nerves.

But Peter… Peter thought Deadpool was something else. In a way, they were the same; both spitting witty one-liners, both dedicated to their ideology, both freaks. But Peter Parker was intellectual; Wade Wilson was random. Peter Parker was moral; Wade Wilson was fanatic. And –

He wasn't going in that direction right now. Comparing who's the biggest freak will only lead him to suffering.

It took Peter a second to realize that Deadpool had asked him a question.

"Huh?"

"I asked, whatcha thinkin' 'bout?"

"Just tired," Peter lied quickly. "I really think I should get home now. Thank you for the food, it was really great."

"You can't just walk home, though," said Deadpool. He had rolled his mask all the way back down just as Peter looked at him, but he was sure that was a coincidence. "You were shot earlier today. You should at least get a cab, if not go to a hospital!"

Peter couldn't exactly explain to him that he'd already almost completely healed. But he couldn't tell him that his sloppy clean up job was good enough either; Deadpool had a healing factor, but he had to know that he was hardly the best doctor in New York. And then it occurred to him –

"Why didn't you take me to a doctor in the first place?"

That seemed to give pause to Deadpool, who, after a while, said slowly, "We didn't think of it. It was – it was a lot of pressure."

"Yeah, okay," Peter said.

"I'm going to call you a cab."

Deadpool called a cab. When the cab arrived he walked down with Peter, offering to give him a helping hand what with his limbs having been shot just a few hours earlier. Peter didn't take him up on his offer, instead opting to pretending to limp as he walked down the steps and climbed into the cab. He silently wished he'd remembered to wince more when he'd been eating, but he had been so hungry and it had escaped his mind.

Deadpool waved him goodbye, and after a moment of hesitation, he waved back.

As the car started moving, the cab driver asked: "Is that one of those masked heroes or something? He save your life?"

And without hesitating, Peter said, "Yeah."

Deadpool was doing it. He'd said the worst thing he could possibly say. He is fucking up his best relationship, he is, but he can't help it.

"I love you, Spidey," he says, putting on the mask, and he sounds dead and rough and bleeding to his own ears. "I do. But I can't do this anymore. I'm leaving."