"This is a great place to start the story. Straight into the action. No playing around. Mano a mano. Two heroes at odds. A great contrast to how the story's gonna end."
Peter makes the split-second decision to not web up the guy's gun, because he can see another one holstered on his hip, a knife strapped to his shin, and two sword handles poking out over his shoulders. His suit is red with black accents, his mask red with black panda eyes, and he's got some kind of utility belt situation going on around his hips - it's all good quality stuff too, which means he's the real deal. So, even if Peter webs up this gun, the guy's got other options he can defer to, and Peter's running real low on webs.
"Do you mind if we try that again? You could go back to the part where you kick the door down, and I'll try get the timing right this take," Peter suggests, gesturing vaguely at the door currently hanging from a single hinge.
"I'm a one-take kinda guy, sweetums. Hate to break it to ya. Nothing but flawless stunts and dialogue from 2010's Sexiest Man Alive."
"Alright, well, how 'bout you take five? Just while I get your boss wrapped up real pretty for the cops? Then I'll come right back and you can shoot me to your heart's content, Scout's honour."
The man is still for a moment. And then his hands are on his hips and his head is cocked to the side and he's demanding, "You think I work for this smegma-infested fuck? I may have low standards, sir, but they sure as shit aren't that low. Now move outta the way or I shoot him through you." He swings the gun up again, aiming straight at Peter's chest.
Peter winces under his mask and holds his free hand up defensively - the other hand is busy gripping onto the crime boss' earlobe to make sure he doesn't run away. "Okay, so, ixnay on the urdermay, pal. This is a fresh suit, I literally just finished it off yesterday after the last one got blown to smithereens by a car bomb and I'd be super grateful if I could, like, not get a bullet hole through the chest. Kinda messes with the whole design, y'know? These things are a pain in the ass to-"
"Yeah and they cost money to make, right? I gotta make new suits too, but I can't if I don't get my paycheck, and I can't get my paycheck without un-aliving this dude and bringing back his severed finger as proof, so." He takes a step forward and shoogles the gun at Peter to encourage him to get out of the way.
The crime boss behind Peter lets out a muffled yell and tries to pull away from his grip. Peter tuts and yanks him back by the earlobe again. "What, you think you have a better chance at escaping without me to stop this guy from murdering you?" he snarks at the criminal. "I swear, nobody has any gratitude in this town anymore."
"Hey," the would-be-murderer snaps impatiently. "We get it - you're quirky, you're fun, you're not the stuck-up goody-two-shoes some people might think you are. I don't give a shit. I got a job to do, and you're in my way."
"People think I'm a goody-two-shoes?" Peter frowns, recoiling from the man as if he's slapped him.
"Just because you paralysed that kiddy-fiddler that one time, doesn't mean you're not a nerd. You are literally stopping me from killing a bad guy right now. You know that's my schtick, right? I kill bad people. Sometimes, sure, there's collateral damage. I'm feeling generous tonight, though. Not gonna let that be you, sweetcheeks."
"Am I supposed to know who you are?"
"Are you trying to get shot?"
"How much are you gonna get paid for this? Maybe I can reimburse you."
"You wanna bribe me?" the guy scoffs. "What are we talking about?"
"I'm pretty sure I've got thirteen dollars and a free McDonald's cheeseburger coupon in my bag."
"You are trying to get shot."
"You're right, sorry. You're probably not the type of guy who eats unhealthy shit like that, right? I mean, look at you, you're all tall and broad and- uh- and-"
"Go on."
"Swole?" Peter winces.
"I am six feet and two inches of pure Canadian muscle," he retorts darkly. "I am not a fat boner."
"My point is, you're clearly a guy who looks after his body and treats it like a temple. 'Cos it shows, dude. You look great. You're in great shape."
"This body runs on Mexican food and self-destructive coping mechanisms. You think that just because you're the first person to say nice things to me in a million years, I won't try to shoot this guy, even if you're in the way?"
"I was hoping it'd at least give us time to get to know each other. Sometimes meet-cutes come outta nowhere, right?"
"This isn't a meet-cute, kitten. It's a mercenary trying to kill a crime boss for some cash, and a dumb twink with a great ass putting his life on the line for no goddamn reason. You think this guy doesn't have friends in high places to bail him outta jail before the guard even has time to unbuckle his belt? He's better off dead."
"You think I've got a great ass?"
His spidey-sense flashes through his body before he sees the scowl through the man's mask and hears the squeak of his gloved finger tightening on the trigger. Peter hooks his foot around the crime boss' ankle behind him and pushes off with his other foot, throwing himself backwards and both of them to the ground. When the criminal hits the ground, Peter rolls until he's crouched on his feet again, one hand pressed to the ground and the other extended at his side. The bullet thunks into the wall behind him.
"We need to talk about our boundaries, man. I set one out pretty clearly and you just violated it immediately."
He feels the flash again and gets a handful of the criminal's shirt, using the grip to haul the man up with him when Peter leaps to the ceiling. The criminal shrieks behind the webs over his mouth as the bullet sails under his back.
"Dude! Cut it out!"
"Stay still, you little shit!" the mercenary barks.
He shoots again and Peter has to drop his hold of the criminal, letting him fall for a split second, and swing his legs out to catch the criminal again by the sheer stickiness of his feet.
"Jesus christ."
"You happy now?" Peter asks flatly, his legs slowing in their pendulum swinging, the criminal dangling unceremoniously in the air.
"You look so fucking dumb right now."
"Yeah, I'm feeling pretty foolish, man, but I'm gonna have to put the blame on you."
"Nobody made you do this, angel. You did it yourself."
"Will you stop shooting now? Please?"
The mercenary sighs exaggeratedly. "Fine. But only to move the plot forward."
"How do I know you'll keep your word?"
"Look, I promise I won't shoot him through you, okay?" the mercenary assures, curving his free hand around the end of the gun.
"Or just straight-up shoot him without me in the way?"
"Yes, jesus. Just get down from there. You look so stupid."
Peter lifts his feet up towards him to grab a hold of the criminal's jacket again, and drops them both to their feet. "I gotta stretch more," he grunts, rolling his shoulders back and cracking his neck.
As soon as the mercenary's head turns towards the criminal, Peter shoots a burst of web at his gun so that the hand holding the end is stuck there, and then a second burst to keep the gun in the grasp of his other hand, meaning he can't reach for an alternative weapon.
"Oh, what the fuck?!" the mercenary spits, trying in vain to pull himself free. "This is not the type of sticky situation I wanna be in!"
"Mommy always told me to never trust a mercenary's word," Peter shrugs.
"False fucking origin story," the mercenary hisses under his breath, bent over to try and pinch the gun between his thighs and pull his hands out of the webs.
The muscles bulging underneath the mercenary's suit are surprisingly distracting. Peter turns away to stretch into a lunge, grimacing under his mask at the discomfort.
"Fuck it." And the gun goes off.
Peter jumps and whips around, utterly horrified by the sight that greets him - the mercenary has shot through his own hand at the criminal. Peter doesn't know what luck has kept the bullet from missing the guy's heart, but he doesn't waste any time wondering.
He flips himself through the air to gain as much momentum as possible on the swing of his leg and absolutely batters the mercenary's head with his foot. When the merc goes down, Peter leaps to the wounded criminal, gets a good grip of him, and hauls ass back out of the room. They bolt down the hallway littered with unconscious goons and make it out into the open space of the warehouse, where Peter quickly spots the open window on the ceiling that he used to stealthily enter the building not fifteen minutes ago.
"Please have enough," he begs the universe, keenly aware of the frustrated cursing of the merc barrelling down the hallway after them, and shoots a web up to the ceiling.
It seems to take hours to sail up through the air, Peter's impatience nearly making him turn and escape the old-fashioned way; but then he feels it make contact and he lets out a celebratory whoop, launching himself and the criminal in his grasp up to the open window. The merc fires off some shots that break the windows around his escape route or imbed themselves in the ceiling itself, but they all miraculously miss their target, and Peter manages to manoeuvre himself and the criminal out onto the roof of the warehouse.
"There's a hospital a couple blocks away," he unnecessarily informs his companion.
The man shakes his head furiously, grunting in a way that very clearly expresses his disdain for the idea.
"Oh, you're so welcome - I know, it is generous of me to take you there first instead of going straight to the cops," Peter snarks, pulling the man along with him with the plan to get to the hospital over the rooftops.
They make it there without issue, and Peter gets the criminal to people who can safely remove the bullet and stop the bleeding. He puts in a call to his contact in the nearest precinct - the one who had initially asked for his help a week ago - and explains they might want to get some officers down to guard the criminal. Then he takes it upon himself to perch at the top of the building and keep an eye out for the conspicuously dressed merc.
The first time he tries to get in, he literally walks up to the main doors.
"Oh, hey, sugar," the merc greets with false enthusiasm. "Fancy seeing you here!"
"Sheer coincidence, I'm sure," Peter nods, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Cute," the merc says, pointing at his arms. "Y'know, it's the damnedest thing, I was actually thinking about you the other day and meant to call you!"
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah! You kinda took something of mine - an accident, I have no doubt - but it's mine and I want it back. Pretty please."
"Sorry, man. I only met you, like, an hour ago. So, I think you've got the wrong guy."
The merc laughs tensely. "Uh, nope. Nuh-uh. No way, Jose. No chance of me mistaking anyone else's ass for yours - they simply do not compare, honey-pie."
"Well, I'm, like, one-hundred percent sure I only met you an hour ago and the only thing I took from there was an itty-bitty criminal, so. Unless you mean you want me to hand over a criminal the cops have been trying to catch for eight months to a mercenary who, himself, told me that he was sent to kill said criminal, then I think you've got your wires crossed, buddy."
The merc literally stomps his foot and huffs. "But I said please."
"All the manners in the world won't hide the fact that you're begging me to let you murder someone. I'm the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man - that goes against my brand. Like, aggressively."
"Fuck!" the merc snaps. "Fine. I'll let you keep this one. But, just for the record, you talk so much in italics and it gives me a headache. So, there."
Peter cocks his head at the merc in confusion and watches him stomp away from the hospital again.
The second time the merc tries to get in, Peter catches him ungracefully clambering his way up the side of the building towards the criminal's room.
Peter approaches as silently as he can, crawling his way down the building towards the merc, and then puts his core to the test and stands up straight - which happens to make him completely horizontal.
"You're persistent, huh?"
"Holy fucksticks!" the merc yelps, plastering himself to the wall and grabbing for his gun.
Peter's body tenses in anticipation, but then something strange happens. The merc looks up at Peter standing over him and sighs disappointedly - but there is also some kind of relief? - and he lets his hand return to the wall, foregoing the whole gun thing. Which is… strange, for a man who has already shot at Peter this evening.
"Don't do that to me, babe. Heart attacks are not fun."
"Whatcha doing there, buddy?" Peter asks chirpily, cocking his head.
"Uh, just double-checking the security level of this building, considering you're here. Don't want anybody sneaking up on Queens' favourite hero."
"You're doing a great job. I appreciate it."
"Yeah, of course. Don't even mention it, poo-bear."
Peter stands there silently for a moment, watching the merc tap his fingers rhythmically on the windowsill he's clinging to.
"So, you can probably just-" Peter begins.
"Yeah, absolutely, I'm just gonna get down-"
"Great work, really. Just, I think I've got it covered-"
"You've got it covered, of course you do. You're Spider-Man! Ha-ha! Of course you would notice somebody trying to crawl up the wall, that's your-"
"That's my thing, yeah! Totally. Yeah. Well, y'know, take it easy, buddy."
"Uh, the name's Deadpool, by the way."
"Of course it is. Very ominous and murdery."
"Thanks! I came up with it myself! But, uh, yeah. You can call me that instead of buddy. That's not very hero-and-anti-hero-fall-in-love of you, so. Just trying to help you stick to the genre, y'know? Anyhoos, toodles!" the merc calls, and he launches himself from the building in a fall that will absolutely have broken some bones, and scarpers off into the night.
The third time Deadpool tries to get in, Peter doesn't sense him coming.
He's busy bending over to pick up the quarter he dropped on the floor by the vending machine, and he hears an appreciative whistle behind him.
"That ass just does not quit, huh?"
Eyebrows raised in disbelief, Peter stands to his full height and turns around. There's a man grinning brightly at him from under a baseball cap and hood. His skin is heavily scarred, red and painful-looking, all over his face and down over his neck. But his eyes are a warm, warm brown, his cheekbones and jawline are sharp and masculine, and he has great teeth. His smile is somehow incredibly charming, Peter finds.
But then he recognises the voice.
"Points for creativity on this one," he allows.
Deadpool's hairless eyebrows lift innocently, his grin falling to confusion. "Huh?" he says. Then his eyes widen and he looks down at himself. "Oh! Oh. Yes. Yup. Right. Thought I'd be less obvious in the incognito get-up. Can't sneak anything by you, huh?"
"You announced yourself," Peter points out. "Pretty conspicuously."
"Wait, so I woulda got by you without you noticing if I hadn't complimented dat ass?"
Peter frowns beneath his mask. The answer should be no, but his spidey-sense hadn't done anything while Deadpool was approaching unseen from behind him. "I mean, you would've blended in more. A little," Peter shrugs, trying to play it off.
"Well, fuck me running," Deadpool mutters disappointedly, taking his hands from his pockets to put them on his hips. "It was for a good cause. If I could do it all again, I wouldn't change a single thing. You're worth it, pumpkin-pie."
"Why isn't there a bullet hole in your hand?" Peter asks, utterly confused - and somehow a little guilty that he hadn't checked on the merc's health earlier. "And I'm sure I heard bones breaking from that fall."
"Immortality, my little cherub," Deadpool answers nonchalantly.
Peter stares at him. "You have a healing factor too? And it works that fast?" He takes a step forward and then fights down the urge to go all science-y on the man trying to straight-up murder someone, criminal or no. "Never mind. You need to go, dude. I'm not convinced I should be letting you walk outta here without calling the cops."
Deadpool looks genuinely hurt. "You're thinking of calling the cops? On me? I haven't even murdered anyone yet!"
"You shot at me. Multiple times."
"I wasn't ever gonna hit you, though! Didn't you see they all missed, darling?"
Peter scoffs. "Yeah, because I dodged them."
Deadpool clasps his hands together and brings them up to his chin, his eyebrows twisting and mouth pouting in an expression that looks suspiciously like he's cooing at Peter. "Whatever you say, beautiful."
"Get outta the hospital, Deadpool."
"Ugh, fine. I need to go renegotiate certain monetary promises from my client, anyway."
He turns on his heel and starts to walk away, but he pauses at the corner of the hallway, his hand on the wall and a petulant scowl on his face. Peter tries to exude frustration, despite the snort of amusement he has to stifle.
"Just so you know, I think this is a complete waste of your talents. This guy doesn't even have a name, toots. He's literally an unnamed character in this story and you're putting all this effort into protecting him. It's embarrassing, if I'm honest. Noble and adorable and embarrassing. So, maybe you should think about that, sunshine."
Peter is enjoying a well-deserved slice of pizza on a random rooftop in Queens, contemplating the strange run-in with Deadpool a couple of weeks ago, and what it says about him as a person. Because he had not treated Deadpool like he should have, considering the man was a mercenary paid to take someone out and he threatened to shoot his target through Peter and he then shot at Peter a number of times and then attempted three break-ins to the hospital to finish the job. The most he did to stop Deadpool was a kick to the head. Apart from that, he hadn't laid a hand on the merc. Any other murderer or mercenary would have been webbed-up in an instant and carted off to the cops.
But he let Deadpool walk away, unharmed (by Peter, at least), three times. And he has no idea why.
Yes, there may have been some physical attraction to the intimidating silhouette. And maybe some enjoyment to the back-and-forths. But.. murder. That's not exactly in-line with Peter's values and morals. Even if it's only bad guys, like Deadpool claimed.
Maybe Peter's just lonely. He's been doing this hero thing for over a decade now and that has to have worn down his tolerances and sensitivities by now. Plus, Deadpool did make a good point when he spoke about the flaws in the system. The worst of the worst bad guys often get out of trouble because they're rich and powerful. With people like that, it can seem like there's only one way to prevent them from hurting innocent people ever again.
But Peter doesn't condone murder. It's not his thing, like, at all. People shouldn't have that power over other people. And Deadpool isn't even going around on some holy quest to cleanse the world of evil - he's literally just killing people for money. And that's Not Great. (Not that the holy quest thing is any better, mind.)
Laboured grunting from the side of the building snatches Peter's attention. He pauses with the pizza slice half in his mouth, his mask rolled up to his nose, legs kicking off the edge of the building, and watches motionlessly as Deadpool hauls himself up over the lip of the roof.
The merc rolls onto his back with a loud, exhausted groan, muttering inaudibly. Then he rolls onto his front again and looks up across the roof.
"Spidey?" he questions. Then, "Oh em gee! It is you! Hey, Spidey!" And he lifts the severed stump of his left forearm with his right hand and waves it high in the air. The remainder of his left arm is dribbling blood all over the roof.
Peter drops the pizza slice and scrambles to his feet, hurrying over to Deadpool with wide, panicked eyes. "Oh my god, what happened to you? We gotta get you to a hospital!"
"I appreciate the concern, babycakes," Deadpool cooes, letting Peter help him into a sitting position. "But you forgot something - healing factor!"
"You're missing half your arm, Deadpool!"
"It'll grow back."
Peter falters. "What?"
"It will grow back, sugar tits, don't worry about it. Healing factor."
"What the hell? I heal too, but I don't grow full appendages back."
"What can I say? I'm one of a kind, babydoll."
Peter sits back on his haunches, contemplating the merc and his insane ability. Deadpool crosses his legs and leans his chin on the hand belonging to his severed arm.
"Who'd you piss off?" Peter asks.
"An old lady with a frightful drug problem."
Peter can't help the smile on his face.
"Oh. That's pretty," Deadpool says quietly, dreamily, moving the severed hand so it presses flat against his cheek as he tilts his head.
"Who'd you actually piss off?"
Deadpool sighs wearily. "I've been trying this whole no-killing thing since last we spoke, and it turns out you're far more likely to get hurt if you just leave the guys lying on the ground instead of ripping them limb from limb."
Peter blinks. "You've stopped killing people?"
"Mostly."
"Why?"
"Uh, because if I had continued down that path, I really would have shot that guy through you. And I don't wanna be the type of person who kills New York's best ass."
Peter isn't quite sure what to make of that. "So, you're not.. assassinating people anymore?"
Deadpool moves his severed hand to hold his chin thoughtfully, his head tilting. "There are plenty other non-murdery jobs to take. I might even look into the whole crime-fighting schtick you've got going on; but I hear that pays absolute balls."
"Oh, yeah, you're lucky if you get a five dollar tip for protecting some kid's bike from getting stolen."
"Eugh," Deadpool shudders. "I'll stick to non-lethal jobs then, just to make sure the bills get paid while I keep my sensitive morals intact."
"Makes sense," Peter shrugs. "Hey, do you want some pizza?"
Deadpool slaps his severed hand against his chest. "Moi? Really?"
Peter stands up and walks back over to his neglected pizza box balancing on the edge of the roof.
He hears some scuffling behind him as Deadpool rushes to his feet and hurries after him. "You really know the way to a sociopath's heart, snookums."
Peter sits back down and retrieves the abandoned slice of pizza. "What's with all the pet names?" he questions. "You've never stuck with the same one twice."
Deadpool slumps to the ground next to him and tosses his severed arm over his shoulder in favour of picking up a slice of his own. "Just trying to find the one that fits. I mean, there's the obvious 'Spidey' and 'Webs', but I'm looking for something more personal, more intimate. Something that says 'I never knew life until I met you', or 'everything was dark and you are the most radiant streak of sunlight', or 'I would bring this world to its knees if anything ever happened to you'. Y'know?"
Peter pauses mid-chew and eyes Deadpool's side-profile subtly. The merc has made several comments of a romantic or at least sexual nature before, but this is kicking it up a notch. There's clearly some kind of screw loose in that scarred head of his, so is this all just a fun game to him and he's merely amusing himself, or is there actually something there between them?
Now that they're so close, Peter can tell that he's a little shorter than Deadpool, and definitely more lean where Deadpool is all muscle. Deadpool has pulled his mask up to the same position as Peter's, his skin more noticeably damaged in this light, but his jaw still cuts a sharp line. His feet are kicking back and forth over the edge of the roof, just as Peter's were a couple minutes ago. They clearly have personalities that work well together, but there's just that pesky thing of where the line is for both of them. Deadpool has obviously crossed far beyond Peter's line - like, so far beyond that it's just a dot behind him now.
But he's stopped killing people, because of Peter? Maybe? Does that count for something?
Peter swallows his mouthful and takes a breath, ready to ask more questions, when his spidey-sense flares.
Just as something small and metallic is tossed up onto the roof not far from them, Peter grabs Deadpool around the waist and rolls them both backwards messily, shouting the merc's name. Deadpool catches on pretty quickly and manhandles Peter (with surprising efficiency considering he's one arm down) until the merc is bent over Peter's body, shielding him from the explosion that rocks the roof.
"How'd they get up here so fast?" Deadpool demands confusedly. "Ow!"
"You knew people were following you?!" Peter shouts, incredulous. "Wait, are you alright?"
Deadpool leans on his elbow and awkwardly lifts his one hand to pat Peter's cheek, his lips curving into a smirk. "Don't worry about me, buttercup."
"There he is!" someone shouts.
Peter can only gape at Deadpool as the merc rolls Peter's mask back down for him, his gloved fingers grazing Peter's jaw and neck, before he rolls his own mask down again and jumps to his feet. "I'm about to slice you up like you're a watermelon in Fruit Ninja," the merc calls out, his voice dark and gravelly, as his attached hand lifts to unsheathe one of the katanas on his back.
The threat slaps Peter's focus back to where it should be. "Time to test out your recent change of heart, Deadpool," he says, flipping himself back onto his feet and walking to the merc's side.
He watches as seven armed men fan out across the roof, guns aimed at the two of them. Peter notices the confused glances some of them exchange when they recognise his suit.
"Are we about to fight side-by-side, Webs?" Deadpool asks breathily. "I had a wet dream like this once."
"Keep it in your pants, 'Pool," Peter mutters, and he drops into a crouch, letting his concentration hone in on their enemies, a hand held out at his side for balance.
Deadpool squeaks. "A nickname for me? You shouldn't have, doll."
"Take them both down," the man in the middle calls out.
Peter swears he feels the change in Deadpool's demeanour. "Oh, no, no, no, no," the merc growls, his knees bending slightly as he lifts the katana into a readied stance. "You shouldn't have said that."
Peter's spidey-sense flashes as the man in charge calls out to his men to fire, and he launches into a sprint, Deadpool a mere step behind him. The guns go off in a scattering of pops and Peter jumps into the air, making himself as narrow as possible as he spins to avoid the bullets soaring towards him - on one of the rolls mid-air, he chances a glance over at Deadpool and sees the merc spinning in a similar fashion. When the first wave of bullets pass him, Peter throws his hands out in front of him and shoots web at the feet of the two closest gunmen. Using the grip on their bodies, he yanks to keep himself flying through the air, tucking his legs up closer to his chest and angling his body to the side so he can kick one in the face and elbow the other in the chest as they both fall to the ground from the force of his pull.
The adrenaline coursing through his veins heightens his every sense even more and he moves out of pure instinct, ducking into a roll to avoid the next barrage of bullets, webbing a gun and flicking his arm to send it flying into another gunman's nose, skidding through one's legs and propelling himself back up to their head to bring it crashing down onto the roof with him, springing towards one and kicking out to send them flying over the edge and catching them with a web before his foot even returns to the roof. He is a whirlwind of fists and feet and webs, bouncing and leaping his way through the men with a breathless exhilaration.
Deadpool is more of a tsunami, crashing into the gunmen with the force of an iron wall of waves. Efficiently brutal and ruthlessly strong, he batters and cracks his way through his side of gunmen, slicing at hands and shoulders and ankles to debilitate them but keep them alive. At one point, he shouts out to Peter and bends at the waist, and Peter rushes to him, using him like a spring-board to launch himself at the gunman on the other side. Peter can't help the laugh that answers Deadpool's elated "Fuck yeah, baby!"
The last remaining gunman stands between the two of them, heaving in panicked breaths and trying desperately to reload his gun before either of them can get to him.
"All yours, princess," Deadpool calls to Peter, sheathing his katana.
Peter smirks under his mask and bolts forward. He leaps at the man, grabbing fistfuls of his jacket, and flips them both over until Peter's feet are back on the ground. "Sharing is caring!" he strains, using his grip and the momentum he has built to toss the man towards Deadpool.
With more flexibility than Peter thought he possessed, Deadpool's body tilts and his leg swings up in a perfect arc to batter the gunman's head and send him crashing to the roof.
There is a moment of silence while Peter double-checks the unconscious or writhing bodies littered across the roof, and then Deadpool shouts out a huge whoop.
"Jesus christ that was fun. And hot. So hot. You are good, Spidey-cakes. We should definitely do this more often."
Peter laughs to himself and cracks his neck. "It was surprisingly fun, considering you knowingly let them sneak up on us."
"I honestly thought we'd have more time. My bad."
Peter's phone pings by their abandoned pizza and he jogs over to check it, feeling Deadpool's eyes on him the whole time. "I have to go. You can finish the pizza."
"Oh," Deadpool says.
Peter turns to look at the merc again and finds him stood in the middle of a cluster of unconscious, battered men, his left stump still dripping blood and his right arm hanging limp, lonely and dejected. It almost looks like his shoulders are sagging.
"I have a dinner," Peter explains vaguely, tapping his phone against his palm.
"The pizza wasn't your dinner?" Does Deadpool actually sound disappointed? "You hadn't, y'know, invited me to share dinner with you like you're Lady and I'm the Tramp?"
Peter blinks helplessly. "I have a super high metabolism."
"C'mon, Webbaroonies, that's not gonna change how I feel about you. We all have our vices."
"What? I'm trying to tell you I could eat that whole pizza and then a Thanksgiving dinner and then a Christmas dinner in the space of, like, an hour."
"If I did that, I'd be shitting blood for the next thirteen hours."
Peter chokes on a laugh. His head tilts as he stares over at Deadpool, his brain struggling to process and understand the mercenary and his bizarre way of thinking. And behaving, because what the hell is actually going on here?
"I'm sorry I have to ditch so soon after you led those guys straight to me, especially with your arm- wait, do you, like, need help with that?"
Deadpool's chest puffs out and he rests his attached hand on his hip. "I got a different kinda arm that could use your help," he says, sultry and suggestive but not making much sense. "No, wait. It's a leg, isn't it? A third leg? Is that what they say? No, wait. It's a tripod! Is that a tripod in my pants or am I just happy to see you? No, wait, fuck! I don't have a tripod, I am a-"
"Seriously, 'Pool, I have to go, or I'll be late," Peter chuckles confusedly, breaking off Deadpool's rambling. "I'm gonna assume you'll be fine. If you're gonna bleed out, I'll be patrolling again after dinner, so I'll come back here and check for you, alright?"
"My little dumpling, wait-"
"I'll make it up to you! See you later!" Peter calls as he launches himself from the roof and swings off.
It looks like a standard robbery, but something feels off to Peter. The guys are too quick to abandon their duffle bags stuffed with cash, too unsurprised to find Peter swinging down from the rafters at them. And then one tosses their duffle bag at him. It lands with a thud and skids across the floor until it rests at his feet, and Peter's muscles tense.
But then his attention is drawn away from the threatening duffle to the cocking of a gun and the frightened gasp of a civilian. "You move an inch, he dies," the robber calls out.
Faster than the thug can react, Peter shoots out a web and yanks the gun away. But he only takes one step back from the bag.
The explosion is thunderous and suddenly he's careening through the air, his spine cracking against a window frame before he vaguely registers open air and honking cars and screams and then there's a flash of grey as a truck cab slams into his chest and then he's spinning even more and then the ground batters against him and he rolls and skids until he feels the angle of the sidewalk pressing against his back.
There's a ringing in his ears and so much pain it's almost numbing and he can feel air brushing against exposed skin on his body and he coughs and feels something wet splatter against his lips. The world around him is spinning and convulsing and covered in black dots.
"Webs!" someone yells.
Peter blinks and suddenly Deadpool is crouching over him. Somehow, he can see the concerned twist of the man's eyebrows underneath his mask. How does that physically work? Are his eyebrows protruding that much?
"Hey, sweetheart, you still with me?" Deadpool asks, surprisingly gentle.
The merc has one hand cradling Peter's head, the other hovering over his chest.
"Your arm grew back," Peter mumbles curiously.
"How badly are you hurt? They cut up your suit real good."
"'m fine," Peter huffs, wincing helplessly as he tries to get his hands underneath himself to push himself up.
"Take it easy, baby boy. That weren't your normal rodeo," Deadpool says, putting on a southern accent.
Peter falters and stills.
Baby boy.
Baby boy?
Deadpool is squatting at his side, still holding the side of Peter's head, the other hand now supporting Peter into a sitting position, and he's so big he's blocking out Peter's view of the street. He's being gentle. He's looking after Peter, making sure he's okay. His attention is so completely honed in on Peter's wellbeing, and he is just a fucking wall of muscle in between Peter and the bank he was just thrown from. And he called Peter baby boy.
Maybe it's just his wounds, but Peter feels weak. And not in a bad, self-pitying way. In a swooning kind of way.
Oh god.
"Stay with me, Webs. Don't walk into the light!" Deadpool stresses, renewing his grip on Peter's head.
"I'm not going anywhere," Peter slurs, still dizzy and agonised. "I gotta save the people. And the money, I guess."
Even through his wounded haze, Peter recognises the shift in Deadpool's demeanour. He somehow gets even broader, his muscles clenching under his suit. "That's a negative, Spidey. You're gonna stay here and not get hurt again." His voice is slowly hardening.
"But-"
"I'll go in and save the day in your name, alright? I might nick an artery or two and make extra sure the cash doesn't stay in their filthy hands, but you can consider the day saved."
"You can't kill them," Peter protests, trying again to push to his feet.
The ease with which Deadpool gathers Peter up and carries him onto the sidewalk is unsettling.
Baby boy.
"You're gonna sit here and you're gonna let yourself recover, Spidey," the merc commands, his voice low but deathly sharp.
He leans Peter against the wall of a building and makes sure he won't tip over before he pulls away and stands to his full, towering height. And then he unsheathes his katanas. The scraping of metal makes a shiver jump up Peter's spine.
"They nearly killed you," Deadpool growls. "I'm gonna make them wear their insides on their outsides like a pretty frock."
When Deadpool turns and starts to stalk across the street, the traffic all stopped already from the explosion and Peter's expulsion, civilians begin to tentatively approach where Peter's crumpled against the wall. He doesn't fail to notice their apprehension and fear of the mercenary.
Peter grunts as he tries to straighten himself up. "No killing, 'Pool!" he calls as loudly as he can, his lungs straining painfully, desperation twisting through his words.
"Oh, son of a bitch, you seriously had to use the fucking nickname? Now? When I need to teach these reprobates a lesson?" Deadpool shouts, spinning in the street and flinging his arms out at his sides incredulously. "They were trying to kill you, Webs. You! My boy! My special boy! I can't just let them get away with that!"
Peter's face goes hot under his mask. "You can," he says.
Deadpool lets out a guttural growl of a noise and spins on his feet, marching towards the bank.
A woman kneels down next to Peter with a bottle of water in her hand. "Hey, Spider-Man," she says cautiously. "Do you need some water?"
Peter watches Deadpool disappear and lets his head fall back against the building. "Yes, please," he sighs, reaching for it when she unscrews the cap and hands it to him.
Just as he rolls the bottom of his mask up, a bald, bearded man in motorbike leathers crouches down on Peter's other side. "Hold up there, sport," the man warns in a voice like stone. "You want my jacket to hide your face?"
Peter glances around at the small group of concerned citizens close enough to make out his features. They look genuinely worried for his health. "You're good," he decides, waving his free hand dismissively. The water is smooth and refreshing and he takes small sips, his organs still pulsing painfully inside.
Gunshots echo across the street from the bank, and Peter's little cluster flinches, letting out worried gasps and shouts.
"God knows what that maniac's doing," the woman at his side frowns.
"He's giving those assholes what they deserve. Anybody with any decency knows Spidey's a good dude. You don't go around blowing up good dudes. Ain't good manners," the biker replies gruffly.
"You know he's a mercenary, right?" someone else chips in. "I bet he's killed his fair share of 'good dudes', and it's all just for money."
"Gotta be something wired wrong in a person to make a living like that," the woman mutters.
Peter finishes drinking the water and takes a deep breath, staring across the street. There are still scatterings of gunshots, and he's concerned for Deadpool, healing factor or no, but he isn't worried that the merc is going to kill anyone, surprisingly.
He thinks about Deadpool's skin. He wonders if it's all over his body. He wonders what the hell a person goes through to wind up looking like that. And he remembers Deadpool saying he was trying to stop killing. He remembers Deadpool saying Peter was the first person to say something nice to him in a long time.
"I think he's doing the best he can," Peter says quietly. "I think he's a good dude, and something very bad happened to him, and he's had to do what he could to survive."
His company is quiet for a moment. Then the woman says, "But killing?"
The gunshots quieten down until the bank is silent.
"He told me he'd stopped. I'm willing to bet that all those guys are still breathing in there." His lips curve into a tired smile. "Everybody deserves a second chance."
"Didn't need to see his face to know that the guy obviously cares about Spidey. Seems like he'd go back on his decision to reform himself and everything, just to protect him," the biker observes.
"You trust him?" the woman asks.
Peter nods before he even has time to consider the question.
"Good enough for me," the biker proclaims.
Peter doesn't hear any disagreements.
"Maybe we should get you to a hospital," a fourth voice suggests.
Peter perks up when he sees Deadpool emerge from the bank, katanas safely sheathed again.
"Every cop with a stick up their ass would come after him," the biker retorts. "Wouldn't be safe."
"You got a better idea?" the third voice asks pointedly.
Deadpool's footsteps distract them as he approaches. "So this is the life of a superhero, huh? You get the whole city looking after you?"
"Only if you earn it," the woman says, boldly.
"Yeesh, put the aggression away, lady. I'm a good boy."
"You didn't… kill anybody?" the third voice asks haltingly, nervous.
"Mi amor wished not for bloodshed," Deadpool answers, placing his hands over his heart. Peter notices several bullet holes in his torso. "Well, not fatal bloodshed, anyway."
The biker snorts. "You got him whipped, Spidey."
"Ooh, kinky."
"Are you hurt?" Peter asks.
"Doesn't matter, gorgeous. It's you we gotta worry about," Deadpool says, lowering to a knee at Peter's feet. He puts a hand on Peter's ankle, his thumb rubbing the calf, and the skin underneath heats rapidly. "I got plenty of first aid kits at my place. Wanna come over?"
Peter smiles at the childlike phrase. "Sure, 'Pool."
"Alright, you people need to move so I can do this the proper way."
Peter's civilian caretakers move back from him and give Deadpool the space he needs to scoop an arm under Peter's leg and another around his back. Peter winces as he slings an arm around the merc's neck.
"You gonna look after our boy?" the biker questions, crossing his arms.
Deadpool lifts Peter into the air, cradling him to his thick chest. He turns to look at the biker, and his fingers tighten their grip. "Well, I'd kill myself before I even thought about hurting him. That good enough?"
The biker nods stiffly. "Take care, Spidey. New York's got your back."
"Thanks, guys," Peter smiles tiredly. "How far is it to your place, 'Pool?"
"Oh, it's on the other side of the city," the merc answers as he starts striding purposefully along the sidewalk.
Peter blinks dumbly. "You're not gonna parade me in this state across the city, are you?"
"Don't worry about it, sugar. I got a guy." Under his breath, he mutters, "Your boy. Pfft, you fuckin' wish, baldy."
After an interesting ride in a cab - during which Deadpool never let Peter get far from his chest - the two of them are dropped off at the merc's apartment building. And it isn't as shady as Peter imagined it'd be. The apartment itself is decorated very minimalistically, with some random cuddly toys and figurines dotted around the place, and even a couple pieces of Spider-Man merch.
"Y'know I don't see a cent of the money they make off of them, right?" he asks as Deadpool lays him out on a comfortable sofa.
"I've actually wondered about this kind of thing before. Like, should we be trademarking our names and styles and shit?"
Peter snorts. "They'd just come up with some lame knock-off. Have you always used Deadpool?"
"Since the day I was born," the merc sighs wistfully, digging through drawers in the attached kitchen to find a first aid kit, presumably.
"I'd have thought you'd have jumped around a bunch," Peter says, fiddling with his gloves.
Deadpool hums in acknowledgement, distracted by his search.
"What with the way you jump around with the pet names."
The merc finally finds what he was hunting for and holds the small green box aloft triumphantly. When he walks back towards Peter, he cocks his head. "That's different, my little sunflower. That name is important. Gotta get it right," he explains as he sits down next to Peter's hips.
He takes out some fabric scissors and starts cutting the shredded pieces of Peter's suit away to give him better access to the wounds. Peter feels like his whole body is on fire. The care Deadpool is taking, even as he starts to clean the damaged skin which inevitably hurts, is enough to make Peter dizzy all over again.
"You called me your boy a couple times," Peter points out quietly, hesitantly, wondering if he's as transparent as he feels., if the embarrassment is clogging his words like it's clogging his throat.
Deadpool sighs. "Well, that's what you are in my head. Everybody up there agrees that you're my special baby boy. But I'm not sure it hit the spot for you, so. Gotta make sure it's one you connect with, more than anything."
Peter clears his throat. "Uh," he mutters. He taps his hand against his thigh. "Well." He leans his head back, stretching his neck out, and stares at the ceiling. "I, uh-"
"Webs?" Deadpool asks. His voice is low. His movements have paused. Peter feels the heat of his thigh pressing into his side.
One of the merc's hands presses against the back of the sofa, allowing him to lean forward into Peter's vision.
"Don't tease me, baby boy," Deadpool rasps.
Peter makes a helpless noise at the back of his throat. "And what do you call everything you've been saying to me this whole time?"
Deadpool lowers himself further, straining his shoulder and bicep against his suit. The heat coming off of him is insane. Peter feels like he's suffocating in it. He doesn't want to move.
"I haven't ever lied to you, Webs. Everything I said was 100% genuine. I may be cuckoo, but I'm not a liar."
Peter frowns. "You're not cuckoo."
Deadpool drops the wet, bloodstained cloth in his lap, and uses the freed hand to rip off his mask. His entire head is covered in damaged skin, blotchy and textured like nothing Peter's ever seen before. But his bone structure is all angular and tidy, and he's grinning down at Peter with a crooked smile, and his eyes are so, so warm for all the pain he's caused and felt.
Peter stares up at him. "If you're cuckoo then I don't know what the hell I am."
"Just a baby boy," Deadpool smirks, still leaning over him.
Peter reaches up to grab the top of his mask. He pulls it off slowly, feeling the edge of it scrape up his neck, over his jaw, past his ears, until it slips off completely and his hair bounces in its freedom. Some of it falls onto his forehead and tickles his skin.
Deadpool's eyes roam his face hungrily, his smile slowly fading in something that might just be awe. "Sweet Christmas," he mutters. "You're real pretty, Spidey."
Peter thinks he definitely must be something worse than cuckoo, because he- "Peter. My name's Peter."
Deadpool's mouth closes and his jaw clenches against his skin. With his eyebrows twisted helplessly and head cocked to the side, he looks as though he's in pain. "Pretty name, Petey-pie. This is a lot of new information to be gifted with today."
Peter winces. "Sorry."
Immediately, Deadpool's hand is cupping his cheek, the tips of his fingers dipping into Peter's hair. He strokes his thumb across Peter's cheekbone with a frown, shushing him. "Didn't want an apology, baby boy. Just needed to justify why I was too busy processing everything to give you a big ol' smoocharoonie."
Peter grins shyly. "This has been the weirdest couple months of my life."
Deadpool's eyes narrow. "Good-weird, though, right?"
"Ask me in a year."
The merc's eyebrow twitches curiously. "In for the long-haul, huh? You think you can make a respectable lady outta me?"
"Never been one for the respectable types. But you could tell me your name."
"Wade Wilson, at your service."
"Wade," Peter repeats, trying the sound out in his mouth.
Wade's eyes watch closely. Peter notices them darken.
"So, uh, Wade," Peter swallows. "Once I'm all healed up, do you wanna-"
"Go on a date?" Wade interrupts smugly. "I'm in your brain, Pete."
Peter shrugs. "I was gonna offer skipping to the fun part, but if you wanna-"
Wade lowers himself until his nose brushes Peter's. "Didn't see that coming," he murmurs heatedly.
Peter grins cockily. "I wanna see you co-"
Wade groans and catches the word with his mouth, his fingers digging deeper into Peter's hair. Peter lifts his hands to grab at the collar of Wade's suit and the back of his head, pulling him as close as possible as his broken body tries to arch up off the sofa towards him. Wade's kiss is hungry and demanding, but he also doesn't lower on top of Peter's wounds or bruised ribs, and the combination of the heat and care makes Peter so glad the mercenary barrelled his way into Peter's life.
He has been lonely for years, sure that letting anyone in would wind up hurting everyone involved. But with Wade around, he feels like he can finally fucking breathe. Because Wade can take care of himself, and then some. Because Wade makes the risk worth it. Not because he can heal and regrow to his heart's content, but because he has brought more light into Peter's life than he thought possible, and he'll do anything to stay in the sun.
I am bad at ending things with no substance, sue me. don't tho pls. if you didn't enjoy it, I don't blame you. this is for the gremlins like me desperately crawling over the floor searching for morsels of the tasty treat that is this pairing. I didn't even give you much. I'm sorry. maybe you should get off the floor. I am sleep deprived can you tell.