Deadpool hadn't been able to leave his partner in crime fighting in the alley. He had hovered in the shadows, watched from the dark, as Spider-Man stumbled toward his home. People had barely looked at him, probably thinking he was a homeless drunk, and only when he had made it into one of the apartment buildings had Deadpool breathed a little easier.
It was a new situation for him. Completely new. Just a few months ago he would have sworn on his broken soul that he would never care for a partner, would dump their silly asses for getting shot up, and be done with it.
With Spider-Man, things were different. New. Unaccustomed to him.
He had stitched him up, made sure the wound was clean and bandaged, had carefully brought him close to home… would have carried him over the door step if Spider-Man had revealed the full information.
Deadpool had still slipped in after the injured man, hovering out of sight, waiting for him to get into his place and not collapse halfway.
After that the mercenary had left.
He knew where Spider-Man lived now.
No name – no, he didn't look at the mail boxes – and no face, but he knew where.
Safe. Spider-Man and his identity were safe with him. Always would be.
The fierce protectiveness surged through him again, a mangled form of what had once been his preternatural nature. Now it was vicious and sharp, relentless, and a nightmare.
It was a raw feeling, all serrated edge and ground-up glass, but it was a good one. It opened up old wounds, made them bleed sluggishly, but it cleansed something, washing away the ash with fresh blood.
Setting up camp on the building adjoining Spidey's home, Deadpool spent the night watching, observing, making notes of who came and went, assessing the danger level. His eyes were on the window belonging to the apartment Spider-Man had crawled into.
SDSDSD
He never came closer. Never peered inside.
SDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSD
Peter felt better the next morning, though he still looked like a ghost in the mirror. The bruises in his face had lessened, but he needed to apply make-up to hide them, unless he wanted to be asked about getting into a fight or something.
His upper body was riddled with dark splotches of healing bruises and the shot wound was painful, but at least not inflamed.
Work was agony and his colleagues commented on his pallor, asking if he was coming down with a stomach flu or something like it.
He still pulled the overtime needed to make it through next month with rent and basic food groups, even if he grew more and more pale by the hour, drawing looks again.
Peter let them all speculate as he wrapped up work and took himself home, sleeping some more, absolutely exhausted.
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He missed patrol that night, sleeping through it after taking more of Deadpool's painkillers.
SDSDSD
And the next.
SDSDSD
Deadpool was there on their roof the third day after the arrow incident, looking almost relieved and suddenly extremely ecstatic.
"Spideybaby!" he greeted the younger man, hugging him close, though in a way that showed awareness of the injury.
His usually exuberant hugs were gentle, almost feather-light in comparison, and he looked slightly apprehensive to touch the injured man.
"Hey, Deadpool."
"I patrolled for you. I was a good boy," the merc proclaimed, puffing out his chest. "No one died!"
Spider-Man laughed and real amusement raced through him.
"Do I get a lollipop?"
"No."
"Aw, shucks!" Deadpool looked crestfallen. "Not even a sucker? Ice cream? Tacos? I'd suck anything for tacos! How about it? I'll make it extra good for you."
He gave the other man a little shove. "Just pay for them with money and we're good."
"Hey, I did you a favor, baby boy. You should be paying," was the grumbled reply, but Deadpool was already heading for the staircase. "But I'm in a good and favorable mood today. Settle back, enjoy the balmy night. I'll bring the booze and we schmooze."
And he was gone.
Peter had to honestly say he had missed the man.
The man who was a highly skilled, absolutely lethal killer. Who had caught him, had patched him up, had guarded him in those first few hours, and who hadn't lifted the mask.
He had missed someone who was completely unlike him. Who was absolutely different. And whom he trusted.
With his life.
SDSDSD
Deadpool brought enough food to feed a small army, which was an apt description for the two of them.
"How's the wound?" the merc asked after the last taco had disappeared.
"Fine."
"Show me."
"It's fine, Deadpool."
The intensity of that gaze, hidden behind the expressive mask, was almost frightening. The very presence of the man seemed to grow, singling out Spider-Man.
"Show me."
His voice wasn't loud, rather level, close to threatening, but there was no alarm going through Peter. He felt no threat against him.
Spider-Man hesitated, then reminded himself that this was the guy who had had him at his mercy. He had stitched him up, had guarded and protected him, had hauled his sorry ass home.
"I have a healing factor," he argued, though with less power now. "And it's not my first tango. I had worse before. I heal, Deadpool."
"Show. Me."
This time the words went deeper, touching something inside him that thrummed in response. It was a pull. Gentle but insistent.
Spider-Man decided to not press his luck. That luck would have him on his back and Deadpool tearing off his costume to check the shot wound if he didn't cooperate.
So he slowly peeled up the costume, showing the tight bandages underneath.
Deadpool placed a careful but firm hand over the location of the injury. His focus was on Peter, on the bandage, and something shivered down Peter's spine.
Then a knife was in his hand and Spider-Man balked.
"Not gonna hurt ya, baby boy," Deadpool told him with a drawl. "Just want to check my handiwork.
"You can just unwrap it!" Peter snapped, not willing to lose the bandages. He hadn't brought new ones.
Deadpool, mind-reader he seemed to be, dug into a pouch and came out with a still wrapped, sterilized set of medical bandages.
"Why…?"
"You tend to get hurt, Spideybabe. I'm prepared." He stepped closer again. "Now lose the bandage. I don't want you running around with an infection."
"I'm not! I've been taking care of myself long before you came along," Peter replied icily.
"Strip or I'll do it for you."
There was a threat and a warning in there, delivered in that calm, flat voice rarely anyone ever got to hear from Deadpool. Spider-Man knew he could just use his speed and strength to get away, jump off the roof and web-sling away. Then again, he didn't want to. He felt Deadpool's intense focus again, his need to check on his partner's well-being, that pull that had Peter closer than was normally healthy around the mercenary.
"No knife," he only said and undid the webbing that held the bandages stuck together.
SDSDSD
That night, after they had done a quick check through the neighborhood, Peter lay in bed, one hand resting on the healing injury.
He could still feel Deadpool's intense concentration, his careful probing of the already well-closed scar. He had been almost tender. That had thrown Peter the most, and his low-voiced declaration that the stitches could be removed soon.
Peter knew the merc had offered.
He closed his eyes, breathing slow and deep, the sensation of that moment still whispering through him.
Something pulsed through him, something he had felt before. It was no longer weird, almost welcome.
SDSDSD
Routine was back after another week later.
The wound had healed, leaving a new scar that would fade in time.
He had removed the stitches himself, though Deadpool had once again insisted on checking the result. He had appeared satisfied and a lot calmer afterward.
Peter could still recall the incredibly gentle touch of the gloved fingers against his sensitive skin. Exploring, probing, making sure. Just pressing against the former shot wound had Peter feel like a million nerves had come alive, the pull between them a million times stronger.
For a moment there were also a million possibilities and if he had known what to do, Peter would have done it; probably. So he was reeling, fighting to understand.
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What remained was the intense sensation of a connection between him and Deadpool, looking down a road where the end resembled a whirling, dark nothingness.
Inside that darkness something moved, trying to get closer, trying to touch him.
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"You should think about training."
Spider-Man glanced at Deadpool. "Training… what?"
"Evading laser-guided arrows."
"I can usually rely on my spider sense."
"It went bust on you last time."
He shrugged. "There is a limit to how fast I can move."
Deadpool clicked his tongue. "Training helps."
Another glance. "Wait. Is this you offering to shoot at me?" Peter asked.
The other man grinned. "I knew you were a bright boy, Spidey."
"Uh, no, thanks."
"I wouldn't hurt you!" Deadpool immediately insisted, all humor gone. "I have dummy ammo. Stings, you might need to wash your costume, but it's not going to turn you into Swiss cheese."
"Let me think about it," Peter murmured.
"Sure thing."
They sat close together, not touching, and still there was a connection between them that didn't require physical contact.
Peter had enjoyed a fabulous hot chocolate that had warmed him as the cold weather threatened to freeze him into a popsicle. Deadpool seemed unaffected by the freezing temperature. He sipped his own hot chocolate, though his smelled like it had been spiced up a little. Alcohol had no effect on him, as Deadpool had told him once.
His legs swung on the low wall, his whole posture kind of thoughtful.
Peter got up after a while, his cup sadly empty. He stretched and warmed up his frozen muscles. It was time to go on a last patrol before heading home.
"You ground me," Deadpool suddenly said, the voice right next to him.
And when had he moved so close without Peter noticing? The fierce protectiveness was there, almost palpable, intense and unwavering. It was like a living think, wrapped around Peter, drawing him close.
"I… do?" Spider-Man just stared at his partner, brain racing, cold forgotten.
Deadpool studied him, slowly tilting his head from left to right and back again.
"Like no one else. No one. It shouldn't be possible. I'm broken. Beyond repair. All black ruins and burned bridges. I'm… I can't…" He shook his head, hands clenching and unclenching. "I shouldn't be able to…"
Spider-Man watched him, stunned. "Huh?" he managed.
Maybe working all day after a long night of patrolling, managing only three hours of sleep before meeting up with Deadpool for dinner, hadn't been the wisest of choices.
But he needed the money. Money was made working in the labs and selling Spider-Man pictures. His rent was due and he really needed the hours and the overtime. He wouldn't ask Aunt May for help, nor would he try his luck with the banks. Student loans were still another horror he needed to take care of regularly.
"You know my file," the merc stated coolly.
Spider-Man blinked. "No?"
Deadpool snorted. "You're buddies with the Avengers. I'm sure they showed you my stuff. Well, not all my stuff. They might have a good pic of my stuff, as far as I know, but…"
"Deadpool!"
The other man grinned brightly behind the mask. "Yes, dear?"
Peter sighed. "They told me you're dangerous and to keep away, but they never gave me your file. I know some of it anyway. Like your name, that you were involved in the Weapon X program…"
Deadpool snarled softly.
Peter fell silent. Then, "That you're probably a preternatural… maybe a supernatural by birth…"
It got him a hollow laugh. "Preter."
Spider-Man waited silently.
"A good, clean little preternatural," Deadpool murmured. "Not too special, but useful. How good is your knowledge of the gifted and cursed?"
"I know some preters. Some supernaturals, too."
"Know any hellhounds?"
"Uh, no?"
"Well, too bad. You could draw up a nice chart and compare."
"Huh?"
Deadpool spread his arms. "Hellhound. What's left of it. Not much of it is, actually. My pretty little DNA has gone all bad and twisted with whatever Weapon X decided might be helpful in creating the perfect weapon, the mindless slave to do their bidding, kill when killing was needed. Never ask a stupid question, jump into the fray, damn the torpedoes."
Peter knew about hellhounds, their loyalty, their determination and tenacity, the way they operated independently of a pack, like werewolves needed to function, and how their loyalty was their greatest strength and also their weakness.
"You should read my file. Probably a good book-to-movie candidate. All the suspense and thrill, though they might have to cut a few scenes because of the gore factor. They would only make it into the Director's Cut," Deadpool went on. "Blockbuster material for sure. They can even make up a new breed of preternatural: the chimera."
"Chimera?" Spider-Man echoed, mind scrambling to keep up.
"All me, accept no substitutes." Deadpool grinned underneath his mask, the expression all too visible. "I've got so many bonus tracks, it's like a frat party in there."
Peter felt the connection twist and waver, the agitation radiating from Deadpool almost physical. He felt erratic blips shiver along it as he watched the other man, took in the tension in the powerful frame, the way he was clearly torn between fight and flight.
Despite his words, Deadpool was not okay with actually talking about himself.
So Peter did the only thing he had ever done when it came to the mercenary: he followed instinct.
He reached out and touched one arm, barely a caress, but the result was immediate.
Deadpool stilled, seemed to relax, a whisper of a breath escaping him, and Peter smiled slightly behind his mask as he curled his fingers around one strong forearm.
"You're doing this to me…" Deadpool said after a while, voice near-impossible to hear, but Peter caught it. "It shouldn't… be… but you are…"
He withdrew his hand, stunned. "What…?"
The loss of contact was almost painful and Deadpool stepped immediately closer, another hiss coming from him.
"No!"
"Deadpool?"
Peter didn't move back, didn't feel like he needed to. Whatever he picked up from the preternaturally gifted man, it wasn't dangerous. This man was the embodiment of a killer, without conscience, for hire to take a life of whoever you wanted, but to Spider-Man, Peter Parker, he felt… different.
A leather-gloved hand pushed against Peter's chest, fingers splaying over the spider logo. It was warm and heavy, like an anchor attaching to his chest; and deeper.
Memories shot through him, the sensation of having Deadpool's hand on his chest. Caressing. Calming. Memories of being injured, helpless, weak, and Deadpool's touch.
"You touch me," the mercenary whispered.
"Shouldn't I?" the younger man asked, confused.
"You ground me, Spidey. It hasn't happened… since then. I lost that ability. I am broken. I shouldn't be able to feel like this. You... you are calmness. You are…"
Peter looked into the white eye covers, felt the pull, the need, and he felt the vicious thing at the other end of the road. It was snarling, snapping, hungry. It felt like something was about to snap, a chain breaking.
The hand moved away and Peter experienced a sudden loss, like losing his balance.
"Well!" Deadpool proclaimed suddenly and loudly, clapping his hands together, startling Spider-Man. "Enough maudlin for one night! You need your beauty rest, I got things to do and more things do ignore. See you around next time, baby boy! Take care and look twice before crossing the road!"
"Huh, what?"
Peter felt like he had just been pulled out of a relaxing meditation, mind not yet able to keep up with the real world.
Deadpool gave him a messy salute, then jumped off the roof and parcouring over the next in a flash.
Peter was left stunned and confused, still feeling Deadpool's touch like a phantom caress on his chest. The memory of that dark thing was frightening and exhilarating in one.
"What the heck…?" he murmured.
SDSDSD
There was hardly any time to give it all a much deeper thought or analyze each word as. Peter was burdened with a ton of work and Jameson was yelling at him to get him better picture of the menace that was Spider-Man who was now hanging around with the lunatic mercenary called Deadpool.
The lunatic mercenary who was suddenly and suspiciously absent from patrol nights. At least when Peter managed to stay awake for patrol, because he was absolutely exhausted. He almost always fell asleep the moment he managed to make it home from work.
And then, after two weeks of slave labor and pulling two fourteen hour lab days, the lab was making cutbacks.
His hours were reduced and no overtime permitted.
Wham, bam, thank you, man!
Peter felt like someone had pulled the rug out from under him.
Fuck his life!
tbc...