Work Text:
Wade sits on the floor of his bathroom. His back pressed against the side of the tub, knees bent, and feet flat on the ground. The tile is cold, even seeping through his suit, doing wonders to cool off skin that always seems to run a little too warm.
He wishes he could say he was on the floor of the bathroom for a fun reason, like having drank enough that he's puking his guts out, that would be fun. Well, the lead up would have been. It also would have been damn near impossible, requiring quite the concoction of very strong booze. It was one of the few downsides of the whole ‘mutated but at least he’s not dying from cancer anymore’ thing.
But he can’t say that’s the reason he’s there, not truthfully at least.
Instead, he’s sat there, bleeding out, with his head tipped back to rest against the edge of the tub so he can watch the way the overhead light flickers. He really should change that soon. And while he might not be the perfect tenant, he doesn’t think the landlord would be too pleased about blood stains soaking into, only to never be removed from, the very white carpet. So the easily-mopped tile floor is his home for the next while. The holes in his shoulder and thighs and the nasty gash across his torso are unconcerning, healing, albeit a bit slower than usual.
The healing is great and all, does wonders in his line of work, truly, but it definitely doesn’t make the pain any easier to deal with. You’d think he would be used to it by now, but his eyes are open and unfocused, and every so often, they’re squeezed tightly shut as he breathes raggedly through his nose. He wills it to pass quickly.
Holy fuck does it hurt. It burns; searing pain he can’t even begin to describe radiates from the wounds to his fingertips. If he didn’t know better he would argue someone had in fact brought a lighter to his nerves and not in the fun sexy way.
And even though it’s a sign of healing, the feeling of your cells rapidly dividing, the flesh fusing back together at speeds completely outside of the realm of natural, is not a comfortable one. It comes with pins and needles that toe the line between barely uncomfortable and down right painful. It’s like when your foot falls asleep and you’re forced to walk on it, but crank it up 100— No, 1000— No, 2000 times.
And it itches. Oh god, how he would give his soul to get rid of that. And he knows exactly what the consequences are for offering something as precious as that up. That’s how annoying the itch is.
The bullets were pried from his wounds with unskilled fingers, not that he would ever admit to having those, and now lay on the ground next to him. Oh, how that was a process. One that included a lot of profanities all strung together in a way Wade would bet good money has never been done before. He’s a creative visionary, what can he say?
Blood stains his fingers, caked around his nail beds. He’s not entirely sure how much of it is his own, but at this point it doesn’t really matter anyway.
In a moment of impulsivity, Wade snatches his phone from the ground beside him. Before he’s even aware of his actions, he’s pulling up the messages to one Mr. Spidey and sending a simple text.
come over to my place?
The moment it says the message was delivered and he has an opportunity to process what exactly he just said, or more importantly how it might be interpreted due to a long history of shameless flirting with Pete, he cringes.
not like that TT - TT
just need a friend
He had only recently gotten phone number privileges and he’s not too keen on losing them. He went to a lot of work to get that number, hell, he made a presentation for god’s sake! Including, of course, never-before-seen photos of them on the job together. Quite a few of those photos were of Spidey’s ass, which did earn him an interesting conversation, before Peter ultimately forgave him as he laughed at some terrible slideshow-esque edit of them, complete with heart filters and set to Lean on Me, that Wade had made. The presentation was delivered from his phone between bites of Chinese takeout as they had sat across from one another on the rooftop of some building in the city, but really it’s the thought that counts. And apparently the thought was enough to convince Spider-Man that giving the mercenary his phone number was a harmless decision.
He sets his phone back down on the tile, hoping his messages all appear normal enough. What exactly normal looks like for Wade is up for debate, but that’s not the point.
He lets his eyes slip shut again. The pain is slowly subsiding, which either means things are healing wonderfully or things have taken a very dramatic nosedive into something much more concerning.
It’s not long before his phone is vibrating, loud and irritating. It continues to buzz — a call then — and with the state he’s in, the noise is, frankly, testing his patience. Wade glances down at where the screen is lit up. Peter’s contact photo, a low quality very zoomed in photo of Spider-Man perched on a roof and flipping him off, stares back at him. He knows he could make the noise go away with a single swipe, but talking on the phone wasn’t really in his plans for the evening, even if it is Peter calling. If he wanted to talk, he was going to have to show up, like Wade had suggested in the first place. When his phone is finally done buzzing, he’s offered a moment of silence before it vibrates again. This time it’s only once, his screen lighting up to show a text notification.
??? Do you think I just have your address
Wade reaches for it, sharing his location, but otherwise leaving the message unanswered.
He’s not sure whether Pete will show up and he’s even less sure why there’s such a pressing want for him to. He doesn’t indulge in the way just the thought of Peter brings him comfort; doesn’t entertain the nag in his chest that promises to let up only at seeing the big eyes of his suit that scrunch up in just the right way so as to always give away his thoughts or, if he’s lucky, the mess of brown hair and big brown eyes and freckles. Wade doesn’t really have the available mental space at the moment to be falling into this spider hole (Peter had let out a very strangled noise that caused a dramatic coughing fit the first time Wade had used that one, not particularly keen on the switch up of the classic phrase) so he stops his train of thought there before it gets too derailed.
Soon enough, there’s a knock on the bathroom window that’s loud enough to startle him. His head shoots up to see the one and only Mr. Peter ‘Spidey’ Parker stuck to the wall outside his window. He’s in the Spider-Man suit, of course, but there’s a grey hoodie with a faded college logo pulled over top.
Wade had come to learn it’s Peter’s favourite hoodie, which he supposes he could have assumed the first time he saw it, given how worn it is. He had asked him a long time ago how he felt comfortable wearing his old school merch out and about as Spider-Man. Peter had laughed, making the wonderful point of there being a shitload of people currently enrolled and countless other alumni, so it’s not like it really matters.
His knuckles are raised like he’s about to start rapping on the glass again, but when they make eye contact, his hand opens up into a small wave.
It’s a bit awkward.
And endearing.
Wade waves back before he pushes himself off the ground with a groan.
Most of his injuries had healed almost entirely, but his muscles are sore and exhausted. Peter had once quizzed him on how exactly his healing factor worked, and in their short conversation, well short for a Peter Parker science deep dive, had suggested his body would repair muscle tears so fast he would never feel the pain. It was an interesting theory and he seemed so excited by it that he didn’t have the heart to tell him that’s not how his shit worked. He’s not sure where exactly Peter’s very compelling line of reasoning went wrong, but what does Wade know about superhero — or mutant, that’s probably a better word, he can’t say he’s really bridged into hero territory — science?
Anyway, Wade is up and shuffles his way over to the window where he slides it open. He never leaves it locked, but then again when you’re on the 10th floor and make a living as a merc with a metric fuckton of weapons, there’s really no need to. Spidey is the only one to know about this apartment anyway, and he can’t really find it in him to care if he were to drop by unannounced more often.
Peter squeezes, rather ungracefully (broad shoulders and one hell of an ass making it awkward), through the window.
He barely spares a glance at the fact Wade is unmasked, and it — admittedly — does something dangerous to his pulse. It’s not like Pete necessarily sees his face often; while Wade no longer tries to hide it, the two of them aren’t hanging out maskless a majority of the time they’re together. So when he doesn’t draw in a breath and his eyes don’t linger on the scarring, when he doesn’t pay it any special attention, well, it makes Wade’s heart beat a little faster. A completely natural and normal reaction. It’s not like you can sue him for being a simple man.
The second Peter’s feet hit the floor, he’s pulling his own mask off too.
It’s hard not to wonder why he does it. It doesn’t matter, not really. The gesture remains the same, regardless of the reasoning, but the questions burn in Wade’s mind.
Is Peter doing it just to match the energy, simply copying him without much other thought?
Is he doing it because he knows being all naked-faced puts him in a vulnerable position and he wants to level the playing field?
Can he sense what Wade wants to talk to him about? Maybe he wants to make sure the conversation is Wade to Peter not Deadpool to Spider-Man.
Or maybe he’s reading into it too much. Maybe the fact that his own mask is off has nothing to do with it. Is Peter just taking his own off because he feels comfortable around him?
Or maybe the mask is just uncomfortable—
“Did I scare you?” Peter’s voice drags him back to the moment. There’s a wide grin stretching across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Regardless of the reason, thank whatever god decided to let it happen so he could see that.
Wade huffs before plopping back down on the ground. He avoids eye contact. “Webs, I don’t think you could scare me if you tried. You’re like 5’7”–”
“I’m so much taller than that.”
Wade waves his hand dismissively. “—and are too goody two shoes to kill people.”
They’ve had the whole ‘I don’t kill anyone because I’m a hero and I have morals’ and all that nonsense talk countless times. He would never admit it to him, but it’s something Wade respects; it may be inconvenient at times, but that doesn’t mean it’s not impressive. Killing or fighting with the intention of killing is easy — every move and every decision can be reckless. But the Spider-Man way of fighting, where you can’t hurt anyone too badly and definitely aren’t armed with any guns or swords or knives, is hard to do and requires a lot more effort be put into creative problem solving. Peter should really hire him to write his resume.
His movement draws Wade back to the present, where he watches as Peter rolls his eyes. Not having anything to say in response to that, he changes the subject. “Do you piss in your sink?” The hand holding his mask hovers over it, clearly deciding whether it’s safe to leave there.
It’s not a question Wade is expecting, and the way it’s asked so genuinely, nothing more than neutral curiosity on Peter’s face as if he were asking about whether he has any pickles in his fridge, catches him even further off guard. A laugh pushes past his lips. “No, Petey, I can’t say I do. Believe it or not, I do own a toilet.”
It earns him a shit-eating grin, much like the one before. “I’m not sure I do believe it. And I’m somehow less sure that ‘own’ is the word you’re looking for.”
“Like you’re doing any better. At least my place has separate rooms and AC.”
Peter chuckles, dropping the mask in the sink. “Low blow, Pool.” His tone is anything but hurt. Grabbing the back of his hoodie, he pulls it up over his head and plops it next to where the mask had been deposited. “I told you that in confidence.” As he speaks, he settles down next to him on the floor.
A comfortable silence washes over them.
Pete fidgets with his web-shooters and picks at a few places on his suit where the raised webbing details are lifting. Wade’s head is back to resting on the ledge of the tub so he can stare at the overhead light again.
“You should really fix that, y’know.” Peter’s voice is quiet, his gaze having traced the path of Wade’s own, now also fixed upwards at the light. “The flickering can cause migraines.”
“You worried about me, webs?” It comes out much softer than he intends it to. There’s no sarcasm or teasing cooing or condescending tone.
Oops.
“No,” The answer is immediate. Wade watches the way his mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “You’re hearing what you want to.”
He could tease him, push back with familiar banter, but he doesn’t. “Maybe,” he breathes out. It’s an admission in its own way.
It clearly catches Peter off guard, his eyes flicking down to look at him. He doesn’t say anything, just chews on his bottom lip. The tops of his cheeks are a bit pink, and despite how good of a look it is on him, Wade makes no move to comment on it.
The silence is back, and the two of them let it hang heavy in the air.
He can tell that Peter wants to ask him why he’s there, why they’re sitting on the floor of his bathroom, why he had texted him. He can see the gears turning in his head trying to figure it out, and can practically sense the way the words linger right on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill over if he so much as opens his mouth. But, thankfully, it stays shut, clearly not willing to push.
How exactly he knows that it’s something more serious, that might require a bit more tact, is beyond Wade. Peter is observant, his job as Spider-Man requires him to be vigilant. But, if he’s honest, his people skills aren’t the best. Sure, he might be super — haha get it! — in tune with detecting crime and identifying when someone on the street is, for example, clearly about to rob a place, but reading people, observing small changes in behaviour and interpreting what they mean about someone’s feelings, well, that’s not Pete’s strong suit. Maybe Wade is just more of an open book around him than he thinks he is; or maybe they’ve spent enough time together that changes are no longer discreet, and interpreting them isn’t hard when you can just remember the last time something similar happened.
Peter’s knee knocks against his own, and it’s his sign to say something. “How was your patrol?”
“I don’t think that’s what you asked me to come over to talk about.”
His laugh is lifeless, more of an exhale than anything else. “Straight to the point, huh?”
Peter hums in response, once again careful not to pry.
Wade’s eyes slip closed. When he speaks to answer Spidey’s implied question, his voice comes out quiet. “Maybe it’s not.”
He’s met with another hum, but this one isn’t a response — it’s contemplative. After a few painful seconds of awkward silence, long enough to have given Wade a chance to rethink everything he has ever said and all the choices that led him to this very moment, Peter seems to have come to a decision. “Patrol was fine. Slow.” His head turns to better look at him. “Walked a kid home from tutoring. And there was this shady guy I followed for a few blocks but turns out he wasn’t doin’ anything illegal, just walked all suspiciously.”
“How does someone walk suspiciously?”
Peter chuckles, a palm scrubbing over his face. “I don’t know. Don’t know how to describe it, but you would have agreed.” Wade doesn’t get a chance to answer before he’s rambling again. “I got to pet a dog. She was sweet. We took a selfie together.”
He whips his phone out of god knows where to show off the photo. It’s of Spidey, of course, crouched down right next to a golden retriever with her mouth open and tongue out in what looks like a smile. His arm is wrapped around her shoulders and the hand not out of frame to hold his phone is holding up a peace sign. He might not be able to see it under the mask, but Wade knows — both because he just knows Peter and because of the way the eyes of the suit are scrunched up — that there’s a massive smile plastered to his face.
A small smile of his own makes itself known. “What was her name?”
“Bubbles.”
“Fitting. Like the Powerpuff girl.”
He tilts his head in thought, reminding Wade of a puppy trying to figure out where a noise is coming from. “Or— Wait. It could have been Babbles. I can’t remember. It was something like that.” He waves one of his hands as he talks, slipping his phone back into some hidden pocket on his thigh with the other. “How was your day?” Pete asks it cautiously, the words spoken slowly.
Wade visibly deflates at the direction the line of questioning is now headed. It’s ridiculous to assume Peter would have forgotten they aren’t just randomly hanging out, but he could be rather distractible, and can you blame a boy for having some hope?
“We don’t have to talk about it,” he rushes out. “I’m just—” There’s a sigh as his hand comes back up to run through his hair, pushing back the few strands that have fallen across his forehead. “If I’m honest, Pool, I’m not sure why you wanted me here.”
He shifts so his arms are resting on the tops of his knees, watching the man beside him, temple resting against the tub. When Pete finally turns to look at him, his eyebrows are knit together in concern, a small frown on display. The noise he makes is somewhere between a whine and exasperated sigh. “Dunno where to start, Petey.”
“Did you work today?” It’s not often that Peter has to pull teeth for Wade to talk. Figuratively. While they would grow back, he wasn’t really into torture unless it was the sexy kind and he highly doubts sweet little Spidey would be able to stomach literally prying someone’s teeth out.
Wade tenses, the idle tapping of his fingers on his knee stalling. “Um…” An anxious energy bubbles right below the surface of his skin, his stomach knotted tight. It’s ridiculous; of all the things to make him nervous talking about the job with Spider-Man when he called him up in the first place is what does it.
Luckily he catches on. “Not ready to talk about work. Got it. Noted.” He watches Wade through his lashes.
When did he turn to face him?
“What did you have for lunch?” If he’s annoyed at the pace of the conversation, he’s doing a phenomenal job hiding it.
There’s no shame admitting that the question forces out a giggle, high-pitched and nervous, from Wade. “Lunch?”
“Yeah.”
He blinks. “You don’t care about what I ate today.” The words are harsh, but they don’t come out that way. His tone is neutral, it’s an observation not an accusation.
The younger man shrugs. “I care about what you actually want to talk about. Seems like you need some easing into it.” There’s no hint of teasing in his voice, if there’s anything it’s genuine concern. “So lunch?”
“I stopped at that sandwich place you like.”
His eyes light up and he asks excitedly, “what did you get?”
Maybe he did care what he had to eat today.
“Well there were like thirty things on the menu I wanted to try—”
“It isn’t even that big.”
Wade bites his tongue at the comments that threaten to spill in response to that. “Let me embellish my story, “ he says instead, pausing to wait for any other interruptions, but Peter just fights a smile and nods at him with feigned seriousness to continue. “I couldn’t remember what you said was your favourite, so I just asked the guy for whatever Spider-Man’s regular is. He gave me their take on a club.”
“And?” He prompts, clearly wanting to know his thoughts.
“Delicious. A sandwich fit for Shaggy and Scoobs. I get why you’re always recommending it.”
“I’ve been tellin’ you that for months, man.”
They bicker back and forth for a while. Wade isn’t particularly invested in it. Mind elsewhere and distracted, he backs down easily enough.
Peter purses his lips, some sort of war going on inside the overthinker’s head. His deliberation doesn’t last long. “How’d you get shot?” He nods to what remains of the bullets on the floor between them and the holes in his suit.
“Worked a job today,” he answers simply, albeit a bit vaguely.
“Do I want to know the details?” He asks it hesitantly, leaving the implication and decision to tell him more ultimately to Wade’s discretion.
“I wasn’t hired to kill anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.” He speaks to the ceiling. “Well, that’s not the job I— uh,” there’s a loud sigh as he scrubs his hand over his face. “I don’t— Those aren’t the jobs I take anymore.” He finally gets out. After a second, talking to himself, he tacks on, “mostly.”
Glancing over, he sees Peter nodding seriously. “I wasn’t criticizing you, Wade. You know I just— I don’t like hearing about the jobs where someone dies.” The effort he’s putting into keeping his voice soft doesn’t go unnoticed.
“I know, webs.” A small smile makes its way to his face, but it’s quickly replaced by a grimace. “You’re not going to like what I want to talk about.”
He hears the other man’s intake of air, but doesn’t make a move to look at him. He’s not sure he’ll be able to steel himself enough to see the automatic wave of disappointment wash over his face.
“You should tell me anyway,” the softness in his voice a sharp contrast to what Wade had been expecting, “even— even if I won’t like it.”
His chest is tight as he nods, not able to bring enough oxygen into his lungs. He’s nervous, and he hates it, hates himself for it. This is Pete he’s talking to for god’s sake. “Are you sure? I feel like we have a pretty good thing goin’ on and I’d rather not ruin that.”
“You’ve seen me at some lows. Some really low lows.”
“Okay…?”
“And you’re still here. You’ve sacrificed a lot for me. Done a lot of dirty work just to protect me. Protect Spider-Man.” Peter sounds resolute, his voice unwavering.
“Yeah, dirty work is kind of my specialty…” A look of confusion settles onto his face. “I’m not getting your point, Petey.”
The frustrated sigh he gets in response is not directed at Wade, but at trying to figure out how to word his feelings. That’s another thing Peter isn’t particularly good with. “Look—” He interrupts himself. “What I’m trying to say is that even if I won’t like it, you should still tell me about whatever is going on. It’s clearly upsetting you. You aren’t yourself. You haven’t even made a crude joke and your heart isn’t in the banter and—”
Oh.
That shouldn’t make his heart clench the way it does, but a hand wraps itself around it and squeezes until it hurts.
To be loved is to be seen.
Or however the fuck the phrase goes.
He shakes his head a little to clear whatever train of thought his brain has so graciously begun to take him down. Not the time to be thinking of the L-word in relation to Pete.
When he tunes back in, he’s lucky to learn he hadn’t missed much of Spidey’s little spiel.
“—Whatever it is that’s upsetting you, I can take hearing about it. So what, I don’t like murder? Blah, blah, blah.” He throws his hands up in the air, voice getting a little louder. “I’m still your friend, dumbass. Your friend. All of you.” He sighs, returning to something a little quieter when he speaks again. “The whole package deal — don’t,” Peter warns with a look, holding up a hand to stop Wade from interjecting with whatever he had to say about the word package.
He chuckles at how well he knows him.
“I don’t need to like all the jobs you take and I don’t need to like how you go about things, or your methods. But Wade—”
He tries not to think about the way Peter says his name. Chooses his name, his real name, to use right now.
That hand is back, clenching around his heart.
“—I’m still choosing to be your friend. I know a lot about your dirty laundry, and despite it all I’m still here, aren’t I?” He sighs again, chewing on his lip as he watches his face. “You’re a good person. At— at your core. In your own way.”
Pete lets his words hang in the air, gives him space to process what he has said, and what it all means.
And Wade, the man that he is, would love to be able to say that process is what he does. But in actuality, it all just leaves his head feeling a little fuzzy, and very very confused.
He’s not sure where to even begin breaking down and interpreting everything Peter had just told him. And if he’s a bit more honest with himself, he’s not sure if he wants to. Dismissing the words and the weight they carry is a hell of a lot easier than trying to internalize them.
Wade’s fingers resume their idle tapping on his knees. There’s no consistent rhythm to it.
He’s given room to think it all over and a selfish part of him wishes he wasn’t.
What did Pete mean when he said good? Can he really claim to be a good person? He doesn’t think he’s earned that title. He knows he’s not all bad, but good, well, that’s the other end of the spectrum.
Peter watches as all of his thoughts and feelings flash briefly across his face before they can be tamped back down into neutrality. He silently, and unknowingly, watches the way Wade grapples with that silly little L-word that, by the end of Peter’s speech, had only come up again in his mind.
And there’s something about the way he had said so easily that he chose to be Wade’s friend. Something about the implication that regardless of what Wade is about to tell him, that’s not going to change.
Peter did have a bit of a point when he talked about them having seen the worst of each other. He’s seen Petey all sorts of fucked up, ready to break every single moral code he holds so near and dear to his heart. And he knew Wade better than most other people; he knew a hell of a lot about his less than squeaky clean past, to put it mildly. Fucking hell, he’s killed Peter before — he didn’t know that it was his good friend Spider-Man, sure, but it happened all the same. And despite that, they both still stuck around. When he had asked him to, Pete still showed up.
What the fuck does he see in him?
The silence is anything but comfortable. It weighs heavy on his shoulders and chest, suffocating him, and he desperately wants Peter to shatter it, if for nothing else than to let him breathe.
He’s clueless to how much time has passed when Peter finally speaks again, barely a whisper. “So…” He starts. “What’s goin’ on?”
“I met a kid today.”
God, this is going to be rough.
He can feel the way the man beside him tenses, all of his muscles suddenly bunched tight. His eyebrows are drawn together, his eyes narrowed. However, he doesn’t say a word, just gives Wade the space to talk.
“Not— not like that. Nothing happened to him.”
“Please tell me the kid isn’t the one who shot you.”
“What?” He asks incredulously. “No,” despite his nerves, he laughs, “no. That would have been hilarious— Imagine? Ha!” He takes a breath. “No, I met him hours before I got shot.”
Peter visibly relaxes, his shoulders coming down from his ears. “Okay. What happened with the kid?”
“I had just gotten lunch and I was sitting at a bench, a bit further down the road— by that little convenience store on the corner. You know the one?”
Peter nods, trying not to interrupt the story, not now that Wade had finally started talking.
“I was eating on the bench and— And this kid came up to me. Sat down next to me.” His heart pounds loudly in his ears, his fingers tingle. “He was young— Maybe— Maybe eight? Or nine? I didn’t ask.”
“Where were his parents?” Concern is written plainly on his face, eyes wide and searching Wade’s own face. The streets of New York, especially that part of town, were not really a place for someone so young to be exploring on their own, midday or not.
He lets out a wobbly sigh. “We’re getting there.” The back of his head hits against the tub with a quiet thump. He counts from five before continuing. “He looked—” Wade makes eye contact now with the other man, eyes pleading, for what exactly, neither are sure. “Peter, he was real fucked up.” Another sigh, just as shaky as before. “Roughed up, y’know? Shiner front and center, lots of bruises fading. Couple small cuts. He looked so scared.”
He stops for a moment, eyes closing.
What he doesn’t mention is that the kid looked an awful lot like a much, much younger Peter Parker. From the few photos he’s seen of him as a kid, they shared the same brown eyes and big glasses and messy hair.
“Christ,” Peter mumbles under his breath.
It’s silent again in the bathroom.
But Wade can hear the fan whirring in his bedroom, just outside of the closed door. And with the window open, Peter really has a bad habit of not closing things, he can hear the cars honking and police sirens many stories below. He can hear the way his upstairs neighbour’s bed squeaks and can hear the couple next door in the hallway, staggering and drunk and giggling.
And louder than everything, he can hear the way his breathing is fast and uneven and he can hear his heartbeat. He tries to slow everything down, taking purposeful deep breaths. Both anxiety and anger spiking at the recollection of it all.
Why is he so nervous?
With another deep breath, he continues. He’s talking to the ceiling at this point, not able to spare a glance at Peter, but certain he can hear the way his heart is pounding. “The kid, Oliver — He knew me. Deadpool,” he clarifies. “He knew who I was. No kid should know that.”
He faintly hears the way Pete’s own head thumps against the bathtub, mirroring the way he’s sitting.
“We talked for a bit. I’ll spare you the details of our conversation. Long story short, his dad is a real fuck up of a father. And that’s putting it nicely. Apparently he has been since Oliver’s mom got into a car accident a few years back.” His voice is flooded with emotion, his anger bubbling to the surface. “His mom is gone and he’s left with that dickwad.”
Judging by the look on his face, this is where Peter had figured the conversation was headed. He’s nauseous, his mouth closed tightly in a thin line, as he blinks at the ceiling.
“He was just a kid,” his voice finally breaks. “Just a kid, Peter. He was so scared. And y’know what he asked me? What this kid asked me?”
He shakes his head, jaw tightening in preparation to hear it.
Wade’s voice rises again. He isn’t yelling, but he’s damn near close. “He asked if he could hire me. Told me he saved his birthday money,” he chokes on the words, “and he wanted me to kill his father. He apologized because he knew it wasn’t much; he begged me to make an exception.” He doesn’t try to hide his anger anymore. “He was a kid!”
Peter blinks away tears that threaten to spill over. He buries his face in his hands, one of which slides up a bit further to tug at his hair.
And he, Wade Wilson, The Merc With a Mouth, is afraid of losing his voice, something he’s sure has never happened before and is unlikely to happen again. He pushes forward, voice unsteady and thick with emotion. “I didn’t know what to say. I mean— Fuck. What’re you meant to say? To that?”
He looks to Peter helplessly, who just shakes his head. “I don’t know.” It’s a whisper. After a few moments, he hesitantly asks, “Did you— Did you accept it? The job?”
Uneasiness crawls from his chest to his throat, where it makes its home.
“No.” The single word carries tangible shame and regret. It’s wet with emotion and heavy, spoken quietly like a confession. His eyes close, sparing him from having to see Peter’s reaction. His throat bobs as he swallows around the ball of feelings sitting there. He chokes on it. “I thought— Being a hero — being good is supposed to be about not killing anyone.” He tries to ignore the way his voice wobbles; he’s a grown man for fuck’s sake. “But Peter, I sure don’t feel like a hero.”
His eyes are still closed, but he can hear the brunet’s slow exhale. A moment later, one of Peter’s hands comes up to rest on his own, trapping it against the top of his knee. He doesn’t speak, not yet, just listens as Wade continues.
“I told him that I wasn’t sure about the job. His face just…fell. He might not have outright said I was his last resort, but fuck me, was it obvious.” He pauses for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts, and courage, to ask, “did I make the right choice?”
“I don’t know.” He squeezes Wade’s hand. “I’m not— not you. I wish it were that black and white. But there’s a whole lot of grey.” He turns towards him again, there’s a question written across his face.
“I’m trying so hard,” he sounds exhausted, even to his own ears, “to do better, to be better—” He cuts himself off before he can say anything more. While he’s all for pity parties, those were usually solo events and Pete wasn’t getting an invite.
There’s silence for a few moments, as he waits and listens and processes his words, before he ultimately breaks it. “What about the police?” He tries to problem solve, offering a solution is what he’s good at, used to.
Wade sighs. “They know.” His voice breaks. “Pete, they know and no one has done anything.”
“What do you mean?” He frowns.
“He said his teachers know. They talked to him about it.” He’s getting loud again, anger at the situation burning bright and sitting heavy in his throat at the memory of how small Oliver had sounded, how it wasn’t really until that moment that Wade realized just how young he really was. “The cops came to talk to him at school. Fuck, someone has already been to the house too and it just made it worse when they left.”
Peter inhales sharply, nodding robotically. The tension is back in his shoulders.
“I want to help him, y’know?” He’s babbling. “But, I don’t know how to do that. Is taking the job helping? I don’t know if it’s more fucked up, for either of us, if I do or if I don’t.”
Whether it was voiced or not, Peter catches on to his train of thought. How he’s suddenly an expert at reading his feelings is beyond Wade. “There’s not a clear cut good option here. No one is all good or all bad. ‘People are a whole lot of fucked up, there’s no good or bad. Just consistent choices.’ You told me that, Wade. You.”
“Well, I don’t know if I made the better choice.” He gently pulls his hand away from where it was still trapped under Peter’s, running it over his face. “What would you have done?”
Peter’s own dragging across his thigh, the touch leaving a trail of fire as it lingers, unsure whether it’s welcomed anymore. “Are you asking Spider-Man or Peter Parker?”
“Does it matter?” He already misses his hand on him; the touch was nice, grounding.
“You’ll get different answers,” he says with a shrug.
“Both, then. I’m asking both.”
Pete hesitates, his lips pursing as he thinks over how to word his thoughts. “Well…” he starts, “Spider-Man could never— He wouldn’t be able to take the job.” He pauses and when he speaks again his voice is a whispered confession. “Spider-Man doesn’t kill the bad guys, and this one wouldn’t be an exception— it couldn’t be. But, fuck, Wade.” He looks over to him. “That doesn’t mean that Peter Parker wouldn’t want to.”
As he pauses, Wade stays quiet. It’s his turn to listen as he sorts through all his thoughts.
The admission that he would want to kill the man brings Wade, an admittedly morbid, comfort. It’s not like he hasn’t seen this side of the brunet before, but it’s still jarring to hear spoken so plainly. The only other time he’s seen Peter like this, his thoughts were clouded by a heavy anger, but this is controlled, this is level-headed and determined.
“Didn’t know you had that in you, webs.” He tries to joke to bring a semblance of normal back.
It works.
Peter huffs out a laugh. “Yes, you did.”
Wade shrugs. He doesn’t tell him that this time feels different.
And as much as he can talk about no one being all good or all bad, hearing that Peter Parker — the man behind Spider-Man, his superhero idol, his best friend — would want to do something objectively bad for a cause that was good, well, it brings him comfort. Regardless of what he admitted to, it doesn’t change that Wade knows he’s a good person. And maybe he can apply that same logic to his own experience. Maybe it doesn’t have to be black and white, good or bad, for him either.
Peter sighs, running a hand through his hair and continuing. “If the kid—”
“Oliver,” he interrupts.
“If Oliver,” he corrects, “had come up to me instead, I think— I think I would have called you.” As he speaks, the words become more sure, Peter gaining confidence in his hypothetical decision. “I would have told the kid I can’t take that job, but I would help him. I wouldn’t tell him I was going to take the problem to you, but that’s what I would do.”
Wade watches the way he fiddles with his fingers, picking at his nails, and chews on his lip. His hand stretches out slowly to the space between them, his scarred palm facing up, an offering.
Peter takes it. He doesn’t let him overthink the gesture, doesn’t let his hand hang in the space between them.
His touch is cold against Wade’s warm skin and he finds he rather likes the contrast it provides. It’s grounding. He gently pulls their hands, fingers intertwined, to rest on his thigh. They’re sitting close enough to one another that it’s not much of a stretch for Peter.
“What if it were Ellie?”
Wade’s eyes narrow, his hand tightening its hold on Peter’s. “What do you mean?”
“What if it was Ellie who came up to you, not Oliver? Would you have taken the job?”
“This hypothetical doesn’t really work, Pete. The fact that I’m not hurting my daughter aside, why would she come up to me and ask me to kill her dad who is also me? Do you see how confusing that sounds?”
Peter rolls his eyes. “You’re deflecting, Wade.” Looking over to him, he says, “pretend. Make it work.”
He sighs, looking over to the brunet to study his face. “Why’re you askin’?”
“Because—” His eyes watch where the two of their hands are joined. It’s clear he’s considering the words he’s about to choose. “I think you know what decision feels right, you’re just thinkin’ ‘bout it too much. And the thinking is making you hesitate.” He takes a deep breath. “So, no hesitation, no thinking, if it were Ellie would you take the job?”
Peter, as much as it pains him to admit it, is right. His point is made abundantly clear by the gut reaction Wade has to the question. He knows the answer is yes. Without a doubt, without a moment’s hesitation, Wade would do anything for her.
Wade nods; the movement is small, but it’s there. “Yeah… Yeah I would.”
When he glances over, he catches Peter already watching him. He’s leaned forward, folded in on himself, so his head is resting against his knees. He speaks slowly, “don’t you think Oliver deserves someone who cares about him like that?”
Everything about the direction their conversation has taken is heavy.
He’s suffocating.
“Really seems like you’re pushin’ me to murder here, Petey.” His tone is purposefully light, a desperate plea for Peter to give him some space.
He catches on — of course he does, the man is familiar enough with needing some banter to temporarily avoid his feelings — and grants him the moment of reprieve. “I would never…” It’s said with fake sincerity, a wide grin plastered to his face.
He tries not to be distracted by the way Peter, still looking up at him, bats his lashes and squeezes his hand, a picture perfect image of feigned innocence. He doesn’t let his mind wander to other contexts where he might get to see the man like that, at least not for longer than a second or two… Or maybe three.
Get it together, Wade.
“I’m not sure I like this new side of you.”
Peter chuckles, finally tearing his gaze away from him, giving him a chance to breathe again. There’s a few beats of silence, before he picks up the conversation from where they left it, tone growing serious again. “I’m not trying to sway your decision, y’know.”
“I know.”
“You’re trapped in your head,” he says. The observation is spoken for Wade’s sake. It’s a justification for why he’s said everything he has, why he brought Ellie up in the first place, why he seems to be pushing.
“Maybe,” he breathes out. He doesn’t want to think too hard about the fact ‘maybe’, said in that tone, has become a way to avoid agreeing. After a second, he tacks on, “it’s a dangerous place to be.”
Peter offers him a soft smile. “I know.”
To be loved is to be seen.
“Would you forgive me? If I took it?” He speaks quietly, barely a whisper, but he knows Peter won’t miss it. At least, not with his scarily enhanced hearing, you really can’t get anything past this guy (unless he’s distracted, which isn’t too difficult if Wade is being honest, but that’s besides the point).
Maybe it’s an unfair question to ask. And maybe the implications of the power Peter holds over him, over his concept of where his actions lie in their morality, is too much.
What’s that thing Peter says all the time? With great power comes great responsibility. As cliche as it is, there’s something to the words that rings true.
And maybe, that power over him — the one he willingly gives to him, never asked for, but given so freely, so easily — is too big of a responsibility. Maybe it isn’t fair.
He’s selfish for asking, selfish for placing that on the other man. He knows it was born from a place buried deep in his chest that aches for reassurance; a place terrified of losing his best friend because he finally let him down enough that he can’t make anymore excuses to stick around the mercenary.
So, yes, he knows it’s selfish, but it’s hard for him to find it in himself to care very much. At least, right now.
“I would,” he hesitates for a few seconds, “but it’s not something you would need forgiveness for.”
Wade squeezes his hand; it’s a ‘thank you’ in its own way.
They speak in hypotheticals even though both know the ‘what ifs’ and ‘woulds’ are just a way for Wade to deflect his decision, still uncomfortable with the idea of his potential disapproval, or even worse: disappointment.
He speaks again. “I’ve been around for a lot worse, Wade. Do I need to remind you that you’ve quite literally killed me? And more than once?”
“You’ll never let me live that one down,” he mutters under his breath.
Peter ignores the comment, instead shattering the safety of the hypothetical. “I’m still going to be here. After the job. I’ll still be here.”
His face feels warm at being caught. He might not be very good at keeping his feelings to himself, but he had thought he’d played this one a bit cooler than he, apparently, had. Wade nods.
Neither of them say anything, they don’t need to. They both know Wade has made his decision and what exactly that decision is. It’s been clear since the moment Wade asked for forgiveness. So they sit in silence, hands still clasped together, lost in their own thoughts.
He replays a lot of the conversation over in his mind. Again and again and again he hears the ways Peter had seen through him. He replays the way Peter had told him he’s chosen to be his friend, that he knows what he’s gotten himself into and is there anyway.
It all makes his chest hurt, but he finds it’s not in a bad way. The ache is there, sure, but it’s soothed enough by settling for holding onto his hand, by watching the way Peter looks at him, by trying to burn his face into his mind’s eye.
His fingers twitch, urging him to brush the hair that’s fallen across his forehead out of his face. But he doesn’t. Deadpool is a touchy person, hell, Wade is a touchy person, so it wouldn’t be abnormal if he had. But there was nothing normal about today. There wasn’t anything normal about the side Peter saw of him or the vulnerability he offered to him. There wasn’t anything normal about the half-hearted jokes and teasing; nothing normal about the quietness their whole interaction has been soaked in. So, even though it wouldn’t be abnormal, that touch feels as though it would be pushing a bit too far. It’s too soft, too intimate, to be considered friendly, given what their evening has been like.
He’s not sure how long they sit in silence before Wade breaks it. He’s been mulling the question over in his mind for god knows how long, and when he finally speaks, his voice comes out small. “Will you stay tonight? I’ll take the couch.”
And this, well, this is also far from their normal.
Don’t get him wrong, Peter has crashed on his couch quite a few times.
The first time it happened, Spidey had shown up on his doorstep, bleeding out and swaying on his feet, asking for Deadpool to stitch him back up. After the crude job was done he had promptly passed the fuck out on his sofa. Whether it was because he looked awfully cute when he was sleeping or because Wade was just such a good friend, he didn’t have the heart to wake him up or kick him out, instead having grabbed a blanket to tuck the man in.
It happened more frequently after that. Every once and awhile, Peter would fall asleep in the middle of a movie, the two of them having gone back to Wade’s apartment after a patrol to have shitty pizza from the only place nearby that's open 24/7. And if there happened to be extra blankets on the back of the couch after that, and if the cheap throw pillows he had were replaced with soft and comfortable ones, well that’s between him and the big man.
While it wasn’t uncommon for Peter to spend the night, this, asking for it to happen, wasn’t something that had happened before. It wasn’t something either of them had done; every time he stayed, it was an accident.
If he’s honest with himself, he’s not entirely sure if he meant to say that out loud, but the words hang in the air between them. Well, fuck. He breathes out through his nose, praying to whatever god is out there that this isn’t more awkward than it needs to be.
After a few excruciating seconds, he glances over at Peter. When they make eye contact, brown eyes soften. He offers a small smile, eyes scanning over his face. His lips barely move when he answers, “yeah, I will.”
“Yeah?” He has to ask it, needing the confirmation he heard him correctly. He’s not sure how much of the disbelief he feels is evident in his voice, but he hopes his tone doesn’t betray him.
He’s met with a nod, voice matching Wade’s own quietness, “yeah.” Peter stands, and once on his feet, he offers him an extended hand, helping to pull Wade up. “Let’s get the blood on your floor cleaned, then we’re gonna order food — you’re paying — and then I’m showering while we wait.” He’s back to his normal self, his tone returning to something lighthearted and easy.
He smiles, nodding along to whatever plans Peter suggests. They stand awkwardly for a few seconds as they just watch one another, his hands still in Peter's. His face is a bit warm when he finally looks away. Wade gestures over his shoulder, throwing out a comment about getting a mop.
He’s halfway out the door when Pete calls for him. “Wade?”
“Hmm?” He hums his acknowledgement. Popping his head back into the doorway, he watches as the softness returns to Peter’s face. He finds he looks rather pretty like that.
“You’re still a good person.”
His own face softens in response to his words. That hand is back around his heart again and he wonders if it will ever let up on the hold it has around him. He wonders if he wants it to.
Voice barely a whisper in the quiet room, he answers him. “Thanks, Pete.”