Archive of Our Own ^beta

I'm limited; just look at me. Not with your eyes, with theirs.

I'm limited; and just look at you. You can do all I couldn't do.

What do you do, when something changes so fundamentally in your life, when someone comes into it and rips everything up? Throws everything to the wind, skydiving with no parachute. Months of magnetic tugging from one side to another, a zigzagging cloud of expulsion following their unscripted trail. Everything seems to move so fast, unblinking—a motion blur of blooming light and fun. From having a dearest friend, someone you admire and crave so deeply, inhumanely, beastly; to having nothing but dust curling at your fingertips. A presence that once seemed so harrowing to bear, a someone who now only seems to live on in the subconscious mind, in favour of ignoring all that had happened to preserve a picture of what had been known.

Universe saving, world ending events prevented, a cut out memory that now sits blank. The warning tingles that prickle his arm hairs whenever his mind dares to wander back down to pasts and what-ifs, unwalked roads. Peter's mask is a heavy weight in his hands, the fresh air freezing his nerve endings over as he contemplated the events that lead to this moment. Here, sitting lone on a rooftop that was still sun-dried and warm. The loneliness, he was used to. For the past 15 odd years had he been rounding up the city's crooks and criminals, as solitary as a spider. Sparse team-ups sprinkled through, the Fantastic Four acting almost as a surrogate family, the Avengers picking at his bones like vultures, X-Men and whatever the fuck else teams have cropped up and rotted away. He's never had a stone-set place, anywhere. From his past reservations about mutants to accepting his similarities to one, his tense friendships and ex-relations and affiliations, the same cycle he's spun for years. Recycled villains. Sometimes he finds he misses the older ones. What ever happened to all the variety? The originality? These days, the city upchucks the same six villains again and again. Hell, he's not even had a solid workplace-colleague-meet-cute romance in a hot minute. Black Cat is off the manhunt, Mary-Jane is overseas more than she is home, every other female hero and not-hero he's flirted up have partners or simply have changed their interests. Not many people want to worry about their boyfriend turning up with half a dozen broken ribs, a bleeding heart, severed arteries—Peter's ideations of injuries—and it's fair enough.

So to put it lightly and simply, TL;DR style; Peter is used to being lonely.

It doesn't help the ache in his heart. The silence in the air, the hanging staleness that could be massaged out by a couple bags of take-out and some poorly timed jokes. The presence of a man he'd once thought burdened him, but as it turns out, it's exactly the kind of thing Peter didn't know he had been hoping for. Someone who completely, utterly, interchangeably matched him in every-which-way. The seamless flow of conjoined combat, the bouncing of banter off alleyways, the tutoring of Being Good.

Good.

Good.

Peter sighed, rubbing the stubble on his jaw to itch it out. The thought of helping someone so lost in their own shadow to see the light, it had been… fulfilling. It was something that had happened by coincidence, something that he was sure should not have happened. But at the same time it was everything he's tried to achieve amongst his roster of bad guys and the shitheads of NYC. Truthfully, Peter wasn't so sure he was the reason Deadpool had rocked up to be more than he presented. A father, a divorcee, a contract killer, a sub-millionaire, a complete and total jackass and Peter's first best friend in 10 years. Deadpool.

Deadpool is not the character you look at and think, hey, maybe he can help my grandma haul ass across a raging intersection. He's not the character you seek out in hopes of someone to give reason to not jump, to not pull any triggers or tie any ropes. Most of all, he's certainly not the kind of person Peter would have ever foreseen coming to him for help, and not a paycheck.

Well, sort of not a paycheck. A paycheck by association. The curtain hadn't been pulled yet. Wade doesn't need to know the amasscot inventor, millionaire city boy Peter Parker and his beloved idol Spider-Man, were the same person. That he had killed both of them.

Spider-Man and Deadpool; two sides of the same coin. Two people who stumbled into similar lives, similar experiences, similar stories and yet ended up being so, so different. Opposing one another, standing back to back. Heads and Tails. Where Peter had every bit of support he'd ever need to encourage the life he now leads; Wade's life was stark and empty. Wade staggered through the motions post-Weapon X, found solace in not the warm embrace of a loved one, but the cold, sharp edged bed of cash that killing could bring. Two mutates that have fought the same battles. Loved and lost, and criss-crossed each other's paths. Tip toed into each others space.

To set sail on the trivial dynamic they've had, Peter, in the past, despised Deadpool. He hated everything about him. He quit the, graciously paid, Avengers gig he scored because of Deadpool joining mere months later. Every encounter before and after had been very fortuitous and unwilling on Peter's end. Even just the idea of suffering through more than 10 minutes of this idiot's yammering had Peter's ears bleeding. The relentless flirting, the prodding and probing and poking and irritable jests. It had always been hard to pinpoint whether or not Deadpool had some weird infatuation with Spider-Man, or if he had one out for him. Both sounded plausible, even at the same time—Peter wouldn't have put it past the man to take a hit on him, especially with how much he likes to do just that.

Even if that were true, past Peter would not believe present Peter if present Peter told him, "Hey, so, remember that guy you hate? We're BFFs, capital B-F-F, now, bee-tee-dubs. Cool, right?" The concept of even befriending the Merc with a Mouth would, past tense, have been laughable.

Nowadays… Peter was sorer that it was over.

I've heard it said, that people come into our lives for a reason,

Bringing something we must learn

"I'm glad we're on the same page now, Webs," Wade's mask stretched on a smile, though taut. His hand squeezed tight on Peter's shoulder. The hall of the prison seemed foreign and silent, despite two very sentient sharks above and the air, still disturbed, from Silk's leave. Master Matrix down the hall, watching on. The deranged man they just put away—Peter felt… lost.

What now? He wanted to ask again, just to try getting a proper answer. Down the hall, behind thick bars, whatever that guy had been on he was still spouting. Spouting about how Wade had known Peter's identity. That he still should. Yeah, that was amusing to hear, if a bit anxiety inducing. Peter wouldn't give up his identity if it meant becoming a billionaire.

"Same, Wade," he finds himself saying, returning the gesture and sliding his hand onto Wade's arm. Something inside him feels bittersweet. Something telling him that… something's wrong. It felt like the wrong time to turn the page. It felt like the universe was taking its eyes off of them, together, for the last time. It's over now, says his inner voice. Over? It can't be over. We only just started. "Same."

With a final pat, Wade pulled back with finger guns and a trot backwards. "Well! I'm parched, if I do say so myself. Yo, Matrix, keep an eye on that guy. Webs? What say ye to a final meal?"

His head snapped up from where he'd been staring at—why was he staring down at his hands?—to look at Wade. Final? "If you're paying." He said instead, walking after him. Final? Final meal—what did he mean by final meal? His suit began to dampen at his fingertips.

"Final meal," Peter muttered to himself, looking off down the street to appear like he's doing something, and not just waiting. Only a few hours before had he agreed to a final meal with Wade. Deep in his gut, his flight response flared and kept pushing him to the edge of the roof. Sure does look like a great time to fly, it said, gently pitter-pattering at Peter's back to get him to move. He doesn't, but he slips his mask on to conceal himself again. There were many, many things running about in his mind. Namely, the whole final thing and what he was meant to do with himself after this. If it really meant this was all ending.

Peter didn't know why he felt so upset by it. It was a natural move, to move on and disregard everything and forget whatever lessons he's taught Wade, and throw it all up in the air like graduation. Because, really, it was quite similar to graduation. Their on-and-off team-up for the better part of the last year has uprooted something in him. He recalled now, that night on the bridge, after they'd defeated Itsy Bitsy and how Wade had…

How Wade sacrificed morality to save Peter's hide. How he let himself shrivel and burn back up to that preciously unpolished exterior Peter had… realised he missed, when it came back. The sunset washing them in all kinds of pastel hues. A finished tub of ice cream condensed between Peter's thighs. Wade, in spite of everything that had just happened hours before, smiled down at Peter, unmasked. Reborn. Scars twisted and sunken beneath his high cheekbones. Peter found he was, strangely, less put off than before by the sight of them and rather, that he liked them. He thought they suited Wade.

Everything that happened throughout that initial first team-up, with Wade and Itsy Bitsy, Patient Zero, had irreversibly changed how Peter views troubled strangers—as Wade had once been. It changed his mind about judging and assuming things without just cause. That's not to say his assumptions were baseless, he had every reason to be suspicious of the man and his hulking, lurking figure. By then, Peter regretted not treating Wade like he would any other clearly struggling criminal. He regretted not trying to understand. When he finally did, it was too late to redeem their tattered relationship, and he just had to drag himself away to endlessly lick at his wounds.

He had been controlling, overbearing, sharing himself with Wade in the worst way he could have. Tried to keep a wary distance, but only ended up seeming judgemental and disagreeable. That couldn't be a more incorrect description of how he'd grown to see Wade.

If anything, he would never get over how he'd failed him.

Behind him, two greasy plastic bags land and topple over one another.

For the longest time, Wade has admired Spider-Man. He was in the foster home, watching on the only television in the building, a news outlet sharing that a new hero had shown up on the streets of NYC today. 14 year-old Wade had been utterly entranced, eyes fixed to the fluid acrobatics and the chivalry of a man in red and blue tights, carrying carefully a batch of kittens from a clogged pipe. How he dutifully answered questions so politely, smoothly like he was unafraid to be seen. Unafraid of the world-wide gaze settling onto him. It was… a mesmerising image. Wade found that for the remainder of his time, up until he recruited himself into Special Forces, he'd watch every news outlet, read every article, save every picture and every piece of merchandise he could find of the web-slinger. Second to Captain America, he's found a favourite superhero.

The two symbols of American hope, tractor beams sucking in Wade's deficit attention. After that day, that fateful day when Spider-Man came to be, Wade has sworn up and down he'd go to New York, maybe commit a crime or two to feel that iron-melting gaze on him. A deluded view from a child, nothing but a child, lost to the streets of southern Canada. A child who had forced the English tongue down his throat, to let his mouth burn around each accented word. He bred out his accent, he changed his story and Wade packed it all up and went to the military.

And that's how his hellish life took a turn for the worst.

Things could have gone better for him, there was absolutely no doubt about that. He was a big guy, over 6 feet and carrying pounds of muscle on him. He was a charismatic character, stood up for the little guy when he saw them in need. Mental illness swirled in his head, and it's probably part of why he was dishonourably discharged. That, on top of his inappropriate relations, he had ended up booted from camp. It was no biggie; he had Nessa waiting for him back home.

He hardly recalled his childhood with his parents, he didn't recall his home in Quebec, nor the long travelling from the ripe age of 7, up until he was 10 where he finally resided on the streets of Toronto. It'd been hard to steal money to get there but he'd managed, and Wade only could recount his times dragging his Captain America backpack along the street, listening to foreign voices spew words he only half understood. To him, it was nothing to worry about, he didn't need to know his own traumatic past. All he needed was Vanessa, his two shining idols, and his work.

Until the diagnosis. Once it had been revealed to him he had various forms of late-stage terminal cancer, littered like seeds through his body, it had struck him down to one knee. Batter up, said life, and he missed the swing and got hit right in the Canadian nut-sack.

Skip ahead and now he's a blood-shedding, limb-losing, reptilian ass mercenary who has no real friends, no real lovers, and an ugly ass mug to boot. Post Weapon-X, he spent his time doing some very needed recovery and discovering Copycat sorta ditched his wimpy ass, the X-Fucks can suck his newly baked balls, and he needs to spread some jeer. Wade lost himself in jobs, he forgot about the importance of anything, disregarded human life in favour of delivering decapitated, dilapidated dead drones to the doorstep of Head Mistress of life, Lady Death, at the offer of a pretty penny. Honestly, he'd be willing to gakk the shit out of the rapists, child abusers, horrid people of the world for a breath of fresh air. He's full of rage, he's wearing out his new leather duds, shining up his desert eagles and downing bottles of pressed alcohol. This new gig pays ten times the harmless threats he had been passing out pre-army. Wade has never been a saint and he's never been right in the head, but after everything he's been through in his ripe 20s, Wade's chosen defiance and to embrace all the things that make people fear him. He squares his shoulders in the streets, he walks with grunge, he bares his teeth the slightest in a smile to flex the yellowness.

He's lost and he's lost and he's lost; his life is one big, fat, losing streak.

For all the homoeroticism he's dealt with in the army, it followed him into the field as well. He went from trying to kill Nathan Summers, to being stuck in a bastard team-up with him. No harm, no foul. No hard feelings, right? Cable was the kind of guy you'd pick a fight with, knowing you wouldn't win, just so you can get beaten to hell for your sins. Once Wade's post-mutate-partum wore off, he was just depressed and a tweaking rug sack of bitten-off nerve endings, trembling with all his contained illness. Tumours for skin, a brain carved into three and split into thirds that won't stop the yapping, a body that won't let him quit. All he wants to do after Weapon-X and facing his grisly deeds and wrongdoings, is quit.

Time and time again, do the frigid, bony hands of Death keep him afloat. Wade is so tired.

He is so, so tired.

Then…

Then. Then, Wade returns to New York on a hit. Fairly simple. In and out, right? There's not many sights to see in New York that he hasn't seen from the decade he spent watching through a mounted screen. He recognises a few, a couple streets that he strolls casually down in the red and black, wondering why they swapped shops out for others. In his head, he can't connect the pieces to see the puzzle of change. It's simply an unfamiliar concept to him. He can't see himself changing, and the idea of everything around him changing, as well? It was brain-mushing. The first time he ever acknowledged the possibility, he was standing in his own brain matter. Sleeping in his own brain matter? Something like that. In a tub full of goldfish, because that's the sort of thing his brain mindlessly puts together when he takes sayings too literally. Sleeping with the fishes. We'd ought to try that sometime, said his conducive brain squawked.

Every thought not his own sounded like a myriad of the ones he's hurt. His life is one big fuck-up, and he's the lingering loose end that he can't tie off.

New York seals that deal for him. When, wiping blood from his hands, red and blue swings past in a quick flurry. He's quick to zip out of the alley and look up after him, eyes wide and shimmering with akin disbelief. He's met Captain America—not the man he thought he was, but still his top 3—the X-Men, Santa Claus and Ms. Claus and whoever the fuck else he's met, but Spider-Man. The real, actual Spider-Man, in the Spider-Flesh. And no one in the streets batted their lashes, no one really gave a fuck about the vigilante passing through. Wade had pictured a celebration in place, and yet…

It was sort of appalling to picture that no one cared. Not outwardly. Wade himself, was starstruck.

Thus he took more chores in the city.

Found himself wrapped in that spider's webs many times, not quite in ways he was beginning to grow to wish for. What started off as a pathetic celebrity crush, like liking Pedro Pascal, it should've been impossible. Implausible. What with Wade's increasing credibility and reputation, he's not the little mangy stray watching from the other side of a television anymore. He's in the scene, he's making a name, he's throwing shit to the fan and balls to the walls; Wade is forcing his way through the queue and here he fucking is. Hated by the world, barely liked by his barest, basic-ist of friends. Level one type friendship, is all he has. He manipulated his friends, Al and Weas, he did horrible things to them that he can't find it in him to regret. Maybe he should, but that would give him a droplet of hope for repentance. But he was never made to be good.

When Carm and Ellie waltzed back into his life, apparently, repenting became his number one priority.

Which brings us to now.

Like a comet pulled from orbit, as it passes the sun

Wade throws the piping hot food across the roof, followed by himself. Already did the air feel tense and stiff. Thankfully, he's a professional fibber, and he pastes an invisible smile on his face as he walked up beside Spidey. "Order up, from one hot kitchen to another." He fell into place, side-by-side with the web-slinger. If he'd told his pimpled, zitty teenage self that one day, he'd be no better looking and seated thigh-to-thigh with his second-to-one idol, eating the best take-out NYC has to offer; he'd have believed the delusions.

Here they were.

"One hot kitchen to another, yeah?" Webs repeated, unfolding the container flaps to his noodles. He's sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce, toes wriggling just barely in his boots.

Wade barked in approval, dumping a mouthful of wontons into his drooling jaw, "have you seen that behind? Chef's carryin' round his goods."

ah. Would it ever be any different? Unlikely, Peter figured, since Wade seems to enjoy the sparse comment on his ass every now and again. They've achieved a nice balance of banter and bordering on flirtation, latter mostly on Wade's end, but Peter has reciprocated but a few times. He never means it, but it's nice to play around with the thought. Not that Peter thinks about… he opens another container to shut up his mind.

It was uncommon for their conversations to be dry. Sometimes Peter could be, most tired of Wade's shenanigans. They were never like this; almost glued together if not for the bags between them, silent between chews instead of Wade filling the air with endless chatter. Peter's ears grew cold.

"It's uh," Peter swallowed a mouthful, glancing over at Wade curiously. His nose is buttoned at the end following the budging slope, lips dry and cheeks round: there was something about the way he was averting his eyes, not looking at Peter once, appearing stand-offish if anything. Peter chewed his gum and swallowed his pride, continuing to eat in silence. Words weren't needed. He could guess where things were going after this.

When he didn't finish that sentence, Wade slowly looked at him. It shook him that these days, the Spider-Man felt comfortable enough to lift his mask to eat in front of Wade. Spidey has officially seen Wade at his moral and physical best, and he seeks his attention enough to share his physical worst. Spidey has certainly jabbed at his appearance in the past, made hurtful yo mama jokes once upon a playground, but it doesn't change Wade's feelings. "We're good, right?" he asked, just to be sure. He didn't particularly like being sincere like that, but whatever, it's their last fuckin' day together.

Webs doesn't seem to register the question. When the silence prolongs, Wade is very eager to move on and ditch that line of thinking, when, "Yeah. We're good. After all this world saving we've done, I'd say we're good."

Sitting here, so close but much further apart than Peter subtly wanted for, was killing him. There was a time where he would have wanted anything but. Wade's grown to be a sought-out company for him, no matter how much he'd refuse that truth. In the time they'd split apart, the times they butted heads post-Itsy, appearing as rivals rather than friends and so obviously wanting for one another, Peter was lonely. He didn't really see Anna-Maria anymore, and his relationship with Mockingbird was restive if it even existed. Wade had been something unexpected in his life as established, and Peter, though he's never acknowledged it up until now, didn't ever want to lose it. It was something he'd needed. Ever since this curse crowned his head, since he formed heightened senses, sticky palms, the makings of a spider in the body of a teenage boy, he'd not had something he needed in those 15 or so years. He'd only held his lovers and friends back by being stapled to the NYC map. He'd been responsible, directly or not, for death in his life. When Wolverine had… that woman, he had—Gwen, Uncle Ben, civilians and all collateral. Peter was not without his own share of spilt blood.

What he needed was to see that, in his strictly moral thinking, there would never be a perfect way to do things. A set, strict way to script his life. He couldn't control who lives or dies. The mistakes he'd made, he swore to never make again. Then with Wade, he hated him so much because he was a walking mirror. They had similar turns in their lives, unexpected mutations shoved onto them without any forewarning. Responsibilities and rage and hurt and pain that came in the package deal. Death, love, despair and depression. He hated that it was entirely plausible to think that Peter could have been Wade.

The resentment was mutual, for all Wade admired Peter, he was no stranger to envy. Spidey was everything Wade wished he could be. The lithe bod, the sexiness, the moral code, the adoring fans. The lack of shame for who he is, who he was. Wade learnt who Spidey was, on the bare minimum, and from hanging around him and beating bad guys and busting joints with him, he couldn't be any more different from the idolised version of him Wade had solidified as him in his head. He could play spot the difference with the two versions of him. They were two entirely different identities. Wade is surprised to find he prefers the real one to the fake one.

He wonders if Peter feels the same about him. Does he prefer the him he's seen over the tales of a psychopathic killer? Does he prefer the hands of a father to the blood-filthy nails of a killer?

Thinking on it, Wade realised that his two sides were not like Peter. There was a time where he was solidified in blood, congealed and gummy up to his waist. There was a time where all he knew was gore and all he shared was his pain. That only happened shortly before Eleanor, and it really changed the moment Peter gave him the time of day. Like the sun shining on the moon, like light reaching a late bloomed flower. Like the gentle plastering of butterfly kisses Wade dreamt of.

He doesn't want this to end. He doesn't want his heart to rot away, be parched and have water taken from it again. He doesn't want to let himself shrivel up, but how can he if one of his two hearts is gone?

"So," he finds himself saying, crushing together a carton and tossing it below into a bin. It bounced off the edge and landed in the street. "Spides, Webs, Websy. Baby boy."

Wade says the last honorific with a nip to his tongue, stomach heavy with emotional lead. "Let this be the last time I let you mooch off my lessening pile of riches." He looked up in time to see the unmasked smile beside him. He watched as the little dimple on Spidey's cheek smoothed back into place, melding into subtle freckles that Wade found to be more visible in the sunlight. The man must've been dearly beloved in a past life, Wade thought, growing confused at how his chest felt tight with unwarranted pain. Subtly, he patted his sternum to try will it away and tore his eyes from Spidey's irresistible side profile and that knee-jerking smile. His ego is chock full on how many times he's made that smile appear.

All the same, it brings up bile to subtly remind Spidey that this was indeed their last. He cleared his throat and kept his gaze hell-bound.

Webs only half attempted a laugh, clearly reaped by exhaustion and the long week. "Never made you buy me food."

Wade tilted his head, thinking on that. "Huh. Guess you didn't. But, as any gentleman treats their date, I offer to anyway." He leaned over with a grin to elbow into Spidey's side. The other only huffed in bemusement, lightly pushing him back. That was it. No further quip or brisk glance. It's very apparent just how flatly that joke fell, cracking between them and left there like he'd said something wrong. That made him question if he had said something wrong. And how wrong could it have been to gear up this response?

Peter knew Wade was joking; he always was, Peter couldn't honestly name a time where he'd once thought he was serious. Except, maybe… hm. Okay, maybe a few times, if he really thought about it. And he didn't want to think about it, he didn't want to remember every past and memory of the man beside him. He didn't want to exchange the present to the past. The future was horrifying. Peter, in all his time swinging through the concrete jungle, had never felt more known. Despite the fact they've never had an official play-date nor sleepover that wasn't under the surveillance of their mutant technically-biological daughter, evil LMDs, villains, insane leprechauns overlooking a life sized board game—Peter feels known. Time and time again, just when he starts to doubt their dynamic, Wade strolls right up on his next patrol uninvited with a greasy brown paper bag filled to the brim with Peter's exact Chinese and/or Mexican order. They'd only eaten together a minimum of six times across their time together, and Wade had memorised the two takeout meals they frequented. On top of that, also his coffee and ice cream orders, respectively, for those early morning patrols and those hot days they spent lamenting over tracking a blue SpideyPool fan-child.

Whatever Peter had in his hands creaked under the force of which he was squeezing it. In, and out. "Yeah. That's one way to put it."

His leg was swinging back and forth against the edge of the building, kicking into the weathered bricks that lined the edging of the roof. He'd lost his appetite the minute Wade offered to feed it. Not for his previously strict rules against accepting food from people if they paid for it—that's not quite it, but he'd been much too secretive to disclose any actual reasoning beyond that to Wade. Every little dehumanising action he's made towards the man is slowly crusting around his boots and encasing him to the soon-to-be sinkhole in his life. He's treated Wade like a piece of gum, a discarded tissue, something not worth his time all because of pretences and rumours spread by the loud mouths of other heroes that, in Peter's personal opinion, don't come close to even holding a torch up to Wade in terms of heroism. Yes, Wade's killed. He's murdered many: slain bodies upon bodies of rapists, serial killers, wife beaters, pedophiles, you name it; he's maimed it. Nothing Peter has ever condoned or approved of. The Avengers kill for much worse, and not even to make a living. Wade survives by participating in the climbing food chain.

Peter sees now, that he misjudged him and was not at all fair to him. He wishes at this moment that he could return with all the knowledge he knew now. He was a good person before, but Wade?

Who can say if I've been changed for the better, but–

He has bettered him in every which way.

"Wade," he said suddenly, turning to his partner with a minuscule sense of urgency. Up here, on an isolated rooftop with the man he's learnt so much from, it all felt like cotton candy and sunshine. It felt like someone was about to spit down at them. "You don't have to leave."

A pause. Slowly, Wade withdrew the spring roll and ghost-blinked up at Peter. He looked like a kid who got caught shoving the family dog into their own clothes. A swallow. Peter shuddered. From the cold. Obviously. "…Huh?"

"Why would you have to leave?" he asked, incredulous, like it was some tin-foil-hat theory. Peter had scooted closer, hands firmly pressed into his thighs. It was a foolish anticipation, fizzling up through his body like a soda machine. But unbidden excitement began to bubble and boil, and he felt the beginnings of trouble and toil in his mind. He couldn't bite his tongue if he tried. "We've both seen it. You could— you could keep patrolling with me." he offered meekly. Wade's dead stare just made him feel stupid for suggesting it, but then he remembered, Wade wouldn't believe him if he said he could stomach hanging out with him without the promise of food.

He wouldn't believe him if he saw him more than the ruthless, "insane" and unpredictability that proved to meld into Peter's style flawlessly. He wouldn't believe him if Peter took his head and shook him, telling him, "I actually think you've become one of my best friends."

Once upon a time, he'd think, I'm not that lonely. Why would I ever go for Deadpool?

Wade's changed his entire lifestyle for Peter's approval, for his gold star sticker, for a happy face on his grid. For his daughter, his sweet little girl that adored him, even knowing his profession and appearance. She gave him the unconditional love that he's clearly longed for. That night, when Wade directed Peter to the backyard of a house in a dark neighbourhood, Peter saw even in the whites of his mask just how taken Wade was by this girl. Peter felt that maybe, he could show Wade the same thing. It wasn't something he's ever let himself think before, but now that it's out in his head… it's a lot more malleable and real.

Peter likes real.

"You're… I mean, come on Webs," Wade laughed, a bit sadly, waving around his spring roll, "Look at me. I'm not a hero-vigilante-good guy like yourself. Don't flatter me. It gets you everywhere." He then took another defiant chomp.

That wouldn't do. Peter shook his head and tutted, leaning in with a tilt. "What are you talking about? Wade, you're so good." Aptly, Peter stroked the stray crumbs that had fallen from Wade's spring roll.

It seems the words—maybe the touch—caught Wade's attention, cause he went frigid. "…Oh, well, I guess that's a new kink unlocked." he muttered. "Forgive me, your webbiness, I don't exactly get praise often. Not even a thanks. You'd think after paying a guy to rearrange someone's organs in a very gory way, you'd at least tip or give thanks." He rambled on, clearly perturbed by the mere idea of staying within Peter's 500-mile radius after tonight. It hurt.

It shouldn't hurt. Why does it hurt so much to see him look at me that way? Wade shyly took another glance at the beady eyes watching him closely. It wasn't fair just how easy it was to sway him in the face of Spidey. It wasn't fair how fast his heart raced for reasons he couldn't understand himself. But Webs was looking so hopeful, so expectant. Ever the opportunist. Webs wasn't someone Wade would describe as optimistic, but he was pretty darn close.

For all their history, Wade felt like he knew Webs like an old friend. An old friend asking to meet up five years later for coffee, an ex-something drunk texting I miss you. Only, he was so much more than that.

"You're a good person," his voice was so damn soft and earnest; like a mother's gentle caress. Wade felt like he was being pooled into his lap and head stroked, affirming whispers and gentle coos singing him to sleep. He wished he could have that. But Webs has made it so clear. "No matter what you think, what anyone else thinks, you are a good person," he actually took Wade's chin then, after a few seconds of clear hesitation, and made Wade hold his gaze. The scars usually burned, but Wade felt like he was set ablaze. "Take it from me. Your friendly neighbourhood goody-two-shoes. I know good when I see it." Webs said softly, lenses glinting with something unspoken. In the moonshine, they veiled under an iridescence.

He swallowed thickly, feeling the black leather around his neck tightening like a snake. "…Do you, perchance, need glasses, my love?" Wade asked with a strain, eyes restless and flickering. The nickname seemed to strike something in the man across from him. It was visible in the way he almost recoiled, like Wade was on fire. Before him, Webs cleared his throat, turning his head down as if to hide his face. Genius plan, honestly, as Wade tilted his head owlishly, to peer at Spidey's biting lips.

"You don't know how funny that is." Peter murmured, tilting upwards once more and smiling gently at Wade. The fondness in his expression was not something he could force; he always struggles to properly convey his feelings in convincing ways. This time it feels as natural as breathing. Wade is utterly taken aback at the display. Usually its all bared teeth, tense and tight-lipped smiles traded between quips and jokes. Nothing between them has been gentle, until now, now when Webs decides to spin the formula around on him like a table cloth swept out from the unsuspecting cutlery and dishes.

The fingers previously pinching his chin returned to rub at it. If Wade focused in, which he is very much doing, he could feel the subtle nudge of nails under the lining of Spidey's gloves. The tiny, loose hairs on them catching just barely on the ridges of Wade's skin. It made him all sorts of nervous and dizzy. Cause Spider-Man never touched Deadpool, not like this. Friendly casual things. Shoulders and shit. But face touching was a no-no, unless it was violent. Some good ol' romantic face punching.

"Don't get too close. I bite."

"Ha ha." Webs made a notion of rolling his head to match his eyes and pulled back. It was cold again.

Wade forced himself to stomach his gross sticky thoughts and Deadpool this out. His shoulders turned inwards, head looking away. "You don't get it Spidey. I tried, but I'm really only good at lighting the match."

"I'm not sure that metaphor works," Spidey pointed out and crossed his arms, doing his typical performative superhero lecture pose. The one that highlighted the hill of his trapezoids and the bulge of his bust against the tight spandex.

"Eh, semantics," Wade waved off, and looked up at the depressingly empty sky. He leaned back on his palms, eyes pulling down. The concrete was growing cold. "I wasn't really made for the Samaritan life. Not like you, anyway. I mean… I tried, baby boy." He made some vague what can ya do gestures with a hand, weak and sloppy wave arounds.

Peter narrowed his eyes. That sounded a heck of a lot like a cop-out. And he wouldn't have that. Peter leaned back into his space, tilting his head to try see his face better. "You did. And you succeeded."

"Pft, yeah for like, what, 12 issues?" Wade retorted, looking further away. Wide, reflective bug eyes tended to have a 'suasive effect on him. An effect, kind of like a jackrabbit; slamming his heart against his ribcage until it cracks. A tension fell on his chest, fingers pulling the fabric tighter as if to prevent his heart making a run for it. The second he loosens his grip, that nasty, bleeding heart of his will jump out of its cavity and into Peter's.

A shift of fabric. "Wade," Peter said warningly.

"What? It's true." Wade scoffed, peeling off a chipped bit of leather on his pec. Was it true? Wade couldn't answer anything truthfully right now. He could hardly think for himself, stuck in a limbo of complexities and the yearning of a fresh start. He'd made his bed with Peter, a weaved straw stack only just comfortable enough to bare with for a short while. That start had ended and his healing cells demanded a new energy to leech off of. "You know it is, Spidey. You're telling me you wanna hold my bloody hands through life?" he huffed out.

The analogy was cotton-picked from a plethora of defensive claims, self deprecation and desperate cries swishing around the fishbowl of his mind. This particular one came from a group of spiteful thinking, why should you think you'd be worth the touch of an angel? Devil's don't fly, or whatever. The one time that Peter is giving Wade the chance to be truly selfish is the time Wade is protesting it.

Peter can see Wade's conflict written all through the taut tendons and stringing of muscle that won't quit twitching. The fabric at his chest that is tighter than a bowstring, not from muscle, from the rough gripping of fingers fisting into it. A discouraging display of what Peter can only read as unfiltered fear. The tremors in Wade's hands that were not present moments earlier and the unnervingly silent breaths. "Yes," he breathed out, barely audible. He found Wade's hand in his own. It went stiff. He gave it a supportive squeeze. "Why wouldn't you let me?"

Oh, Wade thought, feeling a sudden rush of something just beneath the thin lining of his skin. He lifted his gaze to Peter's. A determined little thing he was, somehow so insistent on this one thing despite how obvious it was he should just let it go. Letting go was far easier than the ever suckling barnacles of hope. Why did he have to look at him through the magnifying glass of good faith?

Peter sighed, "yeah, I know you think you're this monster from the lowest circle of Hell," he began, frustration lacing his voice as if it were a personal offence—the grip on Wade's hand was vilifying, "but it's unfounded. Are you gonna sit here and just–?"

Because I knew you,

"You don't know me," Wade snapped, yanking his hand out of reach. He scooted back, stumbling to his feet. What are you doing? "Don't sit here and spew heroics at me when you know just as damn well as I do that I'm not worth the consideration. The only thing that has gotten me anywhere is pure, unadulterated luck. I'm not worth the time of day 'til Lady Luck decides to get me a one off chance to get with the cool kids. You?? You're just some fuckin' city boy who got bit like a dumbass toddler and then went out all spandex about it!

"I'm not a good person! I'm not! I'd drop everything for a penny! I used you to get to some bumfuck himbo CEO who wasn't even a bad person! You know what, Spidey? I'm just some hypocritical piece of shit getting by by killing off the other hypocritical pieces of shit around the world," The back of his boots stubbed against the opposite edge of the roof to where he'd been sitting. His mind is racing and clogged with wet paper towels. It doesn't register at all to his danger-numbed mind that he's fallen, until a web is slung at him and used to harshly wrench him back into place before Spidey.

An exhale falls from Wade's lips and he's ready to pull away from that touch, the entanglement on his chest and the near claustrophobic position he's been thoroughly yanked into, when—

…Ouch.

A shaky hand rose to his now aching jaw.

Peter righted himself, shaking his hand out. Wade stood before him, head snapped to the side with a barely there indent in his cheek. Venom is alight in Peter's eyes, diluted by his emotional interior. The air echoed with the sharp impact of knuckles on cheeks, silence slotting into Wade's deprecating monologue. His shoulders rose on an intake, chin reared back. Wade took a deft step backwards, slowly looking over at Peter. The wide whites staring at him were completely void of expression. It almost made him guilty.

It's funny to think how one person's words could cause such a catastrophic feeling. I don't know you? He wants to beg out, mask off and eyes alight with his confusion and sadness. While they'd never shared a strawberry milkshake or faces—on Peter's end—was that all it took to not know someone? Their months of strife and rebounds, pulling back together again and again through their superhero lives until this point. This time, Peter didn't want to let go of their magnetism.

One swooping stride forward stopped Peter at Wade's toes. He reached up and removed that still-clenched hand from his chest. Head tilted. Fingers lacing together. With those joined hands, he lead them to his own chest, breathing in deep. He relished the feeling of his breaths rising into Wade's hand. It was closer he'd ever wished to be with one Wade Wilson, yet not uncomfortable.

"Shut up," he said, before Wade could even retaliate. Sharply, he cocked his head to the side, calculating. A familiar notion observed in the field, a crumb of body language used only to tune in to the spider living in his web of veins. Then, "Would you throw me away?" He asked, tone even. Like a bucket of ice to a sunburn; Wade's eyes blew wide. Instead of waiting for his stuttered answer, he swung them around while keeping their hands locked at the apex of his chest—the grip, tight as a bolt, allowed him to fall backwards without a care until he dangled barely over the traffic-stuck street of New York. From his angle, 40-degree lean, the wind batted gusts at his head, causing them to sway with the difference in atmosphere. The rooftop was protected from lower winds; Wade jolting to withstand the sudden downward pull on Spidey. Cars barked their songs, sixteen stories below, the revving of a motorcycle cutting the lanes. His brows raised slowly as he watched Wade's expression yawed to explicit fear, hand tightening to near bone cracking. The toes of his boots wedged between the soles of Peter's, kissing the ledge.

"Spidey—" he attempted to tug,

"Would you drop me?" he challenged again, taking advantage of their gap in strength to force Wade's hand. All Wade could manage was a frantic viewing of the world below, and another attempt to tug. Not quite the answer he's looking for.

His breathing was loud and panting in the dome of his skull, the sounds of rushing wind and the threatening squeak of slipping leather boots, made Wade nervous furthermore. This was not how this final meal was supposed to go. It was supposed to be a quick meal, a laugh about the utter nonsensical ride they'd taken, promises of calling that would never come through. It was supposed to be easy. Wade was not supposed to be getting his morals tested and served out to a live audience. Spider-Man was looking at him with eyes of acrid, a knowing stare that couldn't be staved off. He felt sweat blistering at his skin.

Spidey dropped a leg.

"Webs–hey—" Wade's boots, shooting with panicked spikes of adrenaline, shuffled for footing—but unable to move much further without risking their mutual tumble, he locks his knees and leaned himself as far away from the drop as he could. "what the hell are you doing?? Are you trying to boot my ass to 24 months of mourning? I concede, alright–?"

"Would you?" Peter insisted, eyes narrowing like a target lock. "Would you let me fall, right now?"

"Obviously not!" Wade squawked, resisting gravities tug of war match as Peter only loosens control of his weight. "I—you— you're Spider-Man, baby! You'd just— you'd just, like, fly away!" He reasoned, as if it helped his cause. He's growing desperate, that much is obvious to Peter. It's all he needs to see.

"mm," Peter hummed, glancing over his shoulder. The heights didn't scare him anymore. The idea of a long winded free fall, wind beating at his arms in a weak attempt to lift him up, the swoop of an arching swing; it excited him. He'd settled into his skin a long time ago, finding comfort and home in places high up. He isn't scared to fall. Rather him than someone else, no? "True as that is, that's not the question."

Fuck this stupid hero boy and his stupid moralfagity.

Peter leaned his head back. "I'm well aware of who you, Wade Winston Wilson, are," he concluded. Using Wade's persistence, he allowed himself to go lax until his feet were on flat ground again. They stumbled with the force of Wade's tugging, barely keeping upright. The second he didn't need it for balance, Wade's spare hand fell to his waist and Peter pretended not to notice. They didn't stop moving; he twisted them around, walked backwards, one mercenary in tow, "You're a completely unhinged, unpredictable, jack of all trades clusterfuck of a character," He stopped back at the fire escape door, sliding his back down and bringing Wade with him to the ground of the roof. "You're the bane of my existence some days. Especially the last few months… but if I hadn't had that bane, I wouldn't be who I am right now."

"Bu–"

A single warning look shut Wade's dissent. He continued, "You make me so unbelievably frustrated sometimes. Right now, for example. You can't view yourself from an outsider's perspective, Wade. I—" he paused, head full of charging bravado and leaving no room for thinking, only barrelling forward. "I'd like to think that after the last several months, we had a better standing with one another. I'd like to think of you as my friend."

When he said "friend," he peered up at Wade's stiff body in front of him. No reaction. His thumb carved a dent into the jutting knuckles at the base of Wade's fingers, circling them and stroking down the connecting tissue. Peter's chest ached so much. It ached and ached like no pain any villain could cause. This entire conversation was hurting in his lungs, cramping in his stomach and drying out his oesophagus. He clings a little harder. Peter dropped his gaze, pressing their hands to his chest a bit harder; tucked between his legs and his clavicle. It's a vulnerability he's not yet allowed himself prior to this space in time. To lower his head in lieu of reluctant complaisance. Wade is so deafeningly silent that it makes him want to keep tugging until he faces stronger resistance.

The sadness in the eyes of his mask were unbearably sincere. Now, it felt nothing more than a desperate attempt to rewind their dynamic again and again. Peter felt himself flinch at the simple thought of those white eyes perceiving him through light of their universe. The sky was dark now, moon hung low. Just for this moment, he wished for once that Wade wasn't stubborn. That he could see him for what he was. Childish pleas danced across Peter's tongue, none daring to touch down. There had rarer been a time where he'd resort to pleading.

Because I knew you,

There's something so disturbingly real about this hour, this evening, something that would have been unfounded in their previous dynamic. Their was no room for gentleness, for candour and interlocking arms while singing along to the national anthem, drunk as a couple of hay-fed fillies in a meadow—a generous example. A peace that Wade had not encountered before, nor had he expected to receive it from Spider-Man of all people. New York City's blessed hero, the golden child, someone incredibly overlooked for how influential he's been. Wade can't fathom a word being said to him, not a single bit of comprehension, as he's pulled to the ground. This beautiful man before him was spewing poetics about seeing him of all people as anything more than what the concept is on paper.

Wade didn't attempt to move away from it. He let the pull of Spidey's orbit lock him in. A situation that was so bare and unfamiliar, scared him.

But, of course Wade knew. He knew that, the second the closing word of this world came, the page would be turned and he'd have nothing more than an endless void to walk right into the next one. He'd cease to exist, defined only to the imaginary gutter-space of the imaginative mind. Thinking about leaving this storyline behind, to know it'd eventually be revoked from his memory and wiped off the face of his Earth in order to create room for something that couldn't hold a candle to it. There was an aching, sinking feeling in his chest that warred his sensibility. A distinct, haunted feeling of if not now, then when? A deep-seeded knowing that they would never be like this ever again, should he choose to let the pages turn.

…Unfortunately for him, though… Wade didn't have a single ounce of power in the world to prevent what would come. The only knowledge he bore of his life was that it was tangible and real only to him and the one puppeteering it. To see outside the veil of paper or screen into a veneered reality… unthought of. Yes, there was nothing Wade Wilson could do to keep one Spider-Man confined to their convergence.

He doesn't want to let this go, and it terrifies him to his core.

"I–" Wade started, scooting around Peter to lean himself against the wall beside him. "I… I'm sorry," he started, voice strained with the effort of a genuine, no shit apology, "for… everything, Webs. Truly, I am. That's a certified Deadpool apology right there."

Peter snorted a bare minimum huff, and Wade continued with the confirmation he was listening.

"And I mean everything. Like, that one time we were throwin' yo mama jokes back and forth? Didn't know she was dead. My bad, totes," he made a motion of crossing his heart. The act made Peter only smile.

"I think I said far more offensive things," he argued, smoothing their hands across his knees. "In front of a crowd of middle schoolers, no less… did you ever recover from that? No, that's dog piling it, huh. I should probably be the one to—"

"Ah, ah, ah, let me finish," Wade zipped a finger across Peter's mask and took another breath, hyping himself up. "That's what he said, I digress, needed that one for this next part. Aherm."

He stopped only to console his mind into placation. Stealing a glance, Peter seemed to be watching him intently but not with those sharp cut eyes from earlier. No, more akin to something Wade could not read at this moment in time. It made him nervous to keep going, like he was about to revert back into his emotional scrotum. A gentle squeeze to his occupied hand spoke of nonverbal reassurance. He went on,

"We'll come back to who won that back-forth later. But beyond that? I've done nothing to garner your forgiveness or your friendship," Wade said, tapping the soles of his boots on the roof. "I mean, come on, what have I done except rope you in to my exciting ventures? I mean, that's probably why we're such a popular item, no?"

"Wade…"

"Alright, okay, I just— Webs…" he turned to him now, knees forced to slot under Peter's raised ones. "You've… this is weird and highly unmasculine of me, but… you've been, sorta, kinda, my i—oh, god, idol, since uhm… A while. A long time. It's been a long, long time." He ushered the words out in two breaths, heart returning to its rabbiting state. "I threw your boss off a bridge. Ex-boss. Where is that guy anyway? Uhm, yeah. You probably remember. You were there. You're kinda there a lot, honestly. Ah," He reached behind his neck and scrubbed harshly at the meeting of his collar and mask. "Not that it's my business. Nor am I mild to moderately jealous. Fuck, fuck, just.. let me…"

He let his head thud against the cold wall, one deep breath in, to recalibrate the focus sector of his brain. The patience offered to him in silence was priceless.

"The point is," Wade sucked in, "the truth is I'm…"

Scared. Terrified. In love, probably.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "For all the shit I put you through. I'm sayin' it now not 'cause I don't want it to be awkward—well, that too but actually, because I didn't wanna leave it like this. Didn't wanna leave us like this," the words were almost a rasp on the wind, freezing up his tongue. It was obvious that the execution was rushed and not thought through all too well. Nonspecific apologies are usually what you're taught to avoid growing up. Wade wasn't really taught those same manners.He thumbs at Peter's hand, a greedy lingering touch, as if it would sooner be engraved into the lines of his thumbprint.

The words become lost in his brain, shaken up like an overpriced souvenir snow-globe. Wade shook his head once, twice, and thrice before Peter held him by an arm. Apologies are so hard, why can't kiss and make up be a real, plausible way to get over things?

"Wade," a voice like honeysuckles, sweet and summery, "I'm sorry too."

Wade barked up a bewildered laugh. Since when did A-list heroes apologise to him? "For what? Bein' the hottest role model in the entirety of Manhattan?"

"No," Peter said, laced with dissatisfaction. "For everything I did in return. I should've said it a long time ago but I'm sorry for how I treated you every single time we met. I lead our conversations based on accusations and rumours I'd heard about you, without giving you a chance at anything else. To be fair, we met when you threw me—my ex-boss off a bridge. And after that, none of our "team-ups" were really founded in mutual goals or friendship."

"Hey now, stealing my spotlight, hello,"

"Hi. I cut off your head. I threw you under the bus, I accused you of so many things in spite of knowing that it was baseless. I—" Peter swallowed, taking his turn to avert his gaze, "I didn't stop you from killing Itsy Bitsy. I didn't even chase you when you left. I took your relapse as a fault of my own, as something that was mine to deal with. I didn't even bat an eye at the idea that it wasn't about me.

And I would've never come to say any of this had we not spent months radicalising the criminal underground together. Trading hits and one liners like we were a travelling comedy act? That has to be one of the brightest highlights in my entire career." Peter admitted openly, head hot from the stress of putting it all out there. Admitting to his major fault of just letting things with Wade go was a thing he'd stewed on prior for hours. "I regretted how I treated you so badly, then. I just never had the stomach to 'fess up and say somethin' 'til now. I was scared," he confessed on an inhale.

Wade was watching him with beady eyes. Taking in all of the words coming out of that pretty mouth and locking the backdoor so they couldn't escape. There was something about Wade's struggling object permanence that was just about refusing to accept any of this as fact. How could someone look at him and think he was worth wasting the breath of an apology over. He was meant to believe it was the truth, the utmost truth and nothing but?

"Scared?" Wade frightened himself at the cotton-soft texture of his voice, taking a scant glance around as if someone had forced it down his throat. By the looks of Peter's barely there smile, he'd heard it. Total reputation killer. He rubbed at his jugular, conscientious of what fuckery it's conjuring..

"Yeah. Terrified," Peter confirmed, resting his free palm in the small space between their thighs. "Scared that despite how devoted you may seem… you'd wake up and realise that I'm not the person you've made me out to be."

The thought, the fear, had crossed Peter's mind many times before. At first, it had been a question of why he even deserved the grace of being an idealistic good Samaritan—no less by someone as deceptively bad as Wade. An ego fill it was, to know someone wanted to go by his way of living, though they irked him to the moon. Then came the very real realisation that he wasn't all these things Wade said he was. At least, not to himself. He didn't view him as some saviour of the city. He punked on cops, helped teens get to impossible-to-reach places for their graffiti tacking, stayed in favour of the people. He's lived broke his entire life—we don't talk about the octopus—was a total brat to everyone after he first got bit. He's responsible for countless deaths. He's Wade's left hand. He's his heart-mate… still a doozy that Peter isn't sure about.

Despite all of Peter's recounting of his own flaws, Wade would still look at him like the sunlight on a glinting window. He'd gaze at him like the moon swallowed the sun in an eclipse. He'd argue that it didn't change a damn thing, and that his body count was mountains higher than Peter's… in more ways than Peter could probably account for. Yet, Wade wouldn't accept Peter telling him that he's great, and his flaws don't define his person. The hypocrisy.

Wade hadn't yet spoken. Had he fucked up?

Maybe Peter was wrong to think Wade wouldn't see him as more, after all; not many did.

He tried to divide their hands, only for the pines on his palms to cling unwittingly, only pulling Wade's glove a bit loose with it. The other man seemed to pay it no mind. In fact, he hadn't really moved much either since Peter started his spiel. The sweat on his palms was not helping the barbs unstick. Rassum frassum spider bite and it's stupid influence on my emotions… Peter grumbled, cowering his chin into his collarbone.

"Spidey," Wade said, voice askance of trembling, "Why would you ever think I'd… Jesus, baby boy, you really are a piece of work."

Their shoulders leaned together. Peter only then realised Wade had moved his hand to shimmy up to him, instead placing said hand onto his own lap. Wade fiddled with them, now having both of Peter's hands captive. It flushed Peter's body with more warmth to combat the growing cold.

"Baby boy," he crooned, a breath just shy of a sob exiting his mouth, ricocheting from Peter's ear that Wade now leant his forehead to. "why do you have to go and make this shit so complicated, every damn time…?"

…Right, because Peter was the one making it complicated. "Don't go all sacrificial on me, 'Pool," he mumbled, shifting away from the touch now. A cold front crept over his shoulders. "That's my thing. And you know you're just making excuses now. Too much effort, huh?"

Silence.

His hand was empty, he realised. No longer being held, Peter allowed himself a breath as if it had been claustrophobic. Wade had put distance between them. That was probably for the best, despite the acuminate, piercing feeling inside him, somewhere distant and buried. He left some thoughts unspoken even as the desperation to cling overcrowded his reason. There was no need to risk further scaring Deadpool off. He's drifted far enough to be nearly unable to reach again. "Too much effort to let yourself do good, feel good? Too much to keep on this path to improvement, in spite of what your daughter sees of you?" he accused.

Ellie, Wade's wistful mind whispered, like a yearning song of a bird. It hurt to hear. It hurt like getting hundreds of shards of glass shredding into your back. It hurt like finding out about his daughter from Carm, and promptly having to give her up. Wade's persistence to confuse love for pain, and pain for love, was unbridled. But Webs knew the exact weak points to hit. It was like he was trying to rile him up.

And… Wade wouldn't leave. He wouldn't, like a dog beckoned to his owner. He couldn't just leave. Yet… the doggy door has been slammed and locked. It's been duct taped over and sealed so thoroughly that he can only helplessly stare at it and not bother even trying to claw it open.

"Webs," Wade whispered on a breath. He rubbed his chest once again, where it felt as if it had caved in. No other words came. Only a sorrowful breath. A full body tremor. A cataloguing of every item on his person. An attempt to distract. But Peter's body was so warm and so alluring. All he could do was widen the growing chasm between them. After all, what else was he good for in Spidey's territory anymore, except for leaving it? The bullshit poetics Peter just spilled like a blood red wine was nothing but that; poetics. Stupefied superhero speeches that try to lull the bad guy into false senses of security, right?

Right you are; that's how Wade was choosing to tackle his denial. He couldn't let himself be utilised for the good of the people. He knows he won't be the same cold-blooded Deadpool he was before Spidey. He can't just go back to it like that. The only saving grace Wade can hope for is the sharp cuttings of his sharpening block awaiting him back home, ready to shave the bluntness of love off his sweet twin katanas.

"Yeah," Wade breathed, now. Yeah. "It's cool, Spides." Is it? It's the only thing he can say right now that isn't disgusting choking or fitful displays of anger. What does Spider-Man know about his family?? He met her literally a total of one [1] times. Once! I've known her way longer! Fuck your stupid guilt-tripping morality check!

Wade thought he had been doing a good job at concealing his angry thoughts behind a half bitten smile, but Peter was just watching him, slanted. A brow visibly raised above the bug lenses, lips furrowing into a small, quaint frown. Small, flaking indents and reddened blotches said everything Wade needed to know about his baby boys lip care. Right in the knees that was. Dirty move.

"It's cool," Peter affirmed, not a hint of enthusiasm in his voice. Resignation. For what, Wade's unsure, though it feels bitterly good that Peter seems resigned to the fact Wade's unwilling. Shouldn't it hurt?

Unfortunately, Peter could read the disgust on Wade's face by the subtle suck of his lip to his teeth, no doubt worrying it down to blood just to refrain from lashing out at Peter. His entire posture had gone rigid—more than before—after the unfair comment Peter made. Knowing it wasn't likely to do him any favours, Peter reached out to gently touch his forearm. "I'm… sorry. That was… wrong to say," he exhaled softly, fixing his eyes only to where his hand was. "I don't want you to leave."

Ouch. Wowie. Wade immediately got hit with a wave of thick nausea, thankful to be seated flat on his ass already. That simple plea was enough to undo all his restraint until only a barely there thread remained dangling.

"Okay," Wade conceded, tongue curving out the falsehood. "I won't."

He looked up then, just to see Peter's smile. It was sweet and simple, but it kick-started Wade's acid reflux. Just three little words had Peter smiling like he'd asked to get married.

…Wouldn't that be nice?

I have been changed,

for good.

Peter's eyes slowly opened to the blinding light of the sun and it's mirrored clones refracting off the surrounding windows. He straightened with care, neck aching from the angle that he fell asleep on, cheek fuzzy and warm from resting on his shoulder. He wouldn't usually go out of his way to take power naps on rooftops, but what with the events of the last few weeks and last night, Peter allowed himself this remedy.

His body felt warm. The sun was peeking over the rooftop of a higher building, searing down at him. In his hand, Wade's glove had now detached from Peter's stick, limp and discarded between his legs. Taped to it with a puffy sticker of a panda, a messy note read,

sorry to date and ditch BBB [baby boy] had sum errands to run! C u 4 patrol tnite <3

A gross smile unravelled across Peters face. He grabbed the glove and tucked it into the belt of his suit, pulling his mask back to his neck and hopping up to do some stretches. A waft of his own scent rose with him and he cringed, doing a test sniff under his arm. Yikes, he seriously needed to shower.

With a renewed pep in his step, Peter took off in a running dive from the roof, slinging out a fresh strand of webbing. It caught him before he stubbed a toe on a streetlight, thrusting him forward through the air.

It was already a good day and he hadn't even snagged a bagel off his favourite bodega yet.

It wouldn't be until 6.P.M. when he returned to patrol that he'd find no trace of Deadpool anywhere.

Nor would he find anything tomorrow, nor overmorrow.