The Voices in Wade's Head

                                    

                                          
[Yellow box]
{White box}
                          
~752 Days After~
                          
"What are you doing?" Peter asked sweetly. Everything he said these days was sweet.
                          
"Getting rid of you," Deadpool growled, ducking just as a bullet whizzed past his ear.
                          
The concrete wall he was crouched behind was starting to crack under the torrent of brass. It groaned and he had only a second to roll out of the hiding spot before it collapsed. A frown spread across his face as he sprinted across the rubble of crumbling buildings, searching for new cover. He was shot in the hip, shoulder, and clear through his wrist (how the hell that happened, he couldn't tell you) by the time he dove behind a chunk of roof, un-aliving two baddies as he went.
                          
Deadpool hissed as he glanced down at himself. He was beginning to look like Swiss cheese, and what did he have to show for it? There were still at least eight of them left.
                          
"You're not doing a very good job," Peter mused. "Maybe you should just shoot yourself in the head again."
                          
[That's the best idea I've heard all day. I'm sick of hearing these two go at it.]
                          
{And not in a good way either.}
                          
[We haven't gotten it in a good way in forever! How long is it going to take the guy to get his head back in the game?]
                          
{Has he ever even had his head in the game?}
                          
"I could really use some quiet," Deadpool snapped, raising his gun and blasting a hole into a head. Since Peter...left...it was easier to take dangerous jobs. He could drown himself in the blood of his enemies and if he died? Well, that was just a blessing.
                          
Until he came back and was greeted by the man that had haunted him for years.
                          
"I can't give you that, sweetheart," Peter whispered, and it was so soft that it sent a shiver up Deadpool's spine. "I miss you too much."
                          
The real Peter would never talk to Wade that way. Sure, he always worried for him when he was gone on missions, but he trusted he would come back as safely as possible. He missed him, but he didn't show it until Wade was fully healed and able to be loved--physically loved, that is--wholeheartedly.
                          
He would never distract Wade from a mission. Not like this newer, crueller version of him.
                          
"You're not real," Deadpool snarled, but it didn't help. He barely had time to dodge a bullet aimed at his head--instead getting it in his other shoulder--before Peter appeared in front of him.
                          
"You don't love me anymore," Peter whined, and Deadpool almost crumpled before the mirage.
                          
"Of course I do, baby boy," Deadpool said, lurching closer, forgetting that he was in the middle of a battle.
                          
"You don't," the image insisted.
                          
Whenever Wade imagined Peter, he was always dressed in an obscenely-tight white t-shirt and dark sweatpants that hung low on his hips. There was no blood on the shirt, though, not like the last time Wade saw the man alive. In Wade's hallucinations, Peter was perfect and healthy and beautiful.
                          
Deadpool hesitated just long enough for a hole to be blown in his chest. "I do, baby," he groaned, and then turned to the assailants. "My head, fuck twats! Aim for my head!"
                          
So they aimed for his head.
                          
~380 Days Before~
                          
Wade stood at the sink, doing his best to wash dishes without breaking any. Peter had told him to leave that chore to him, but Wade wouldn't have it today. Not only had Petey gotten home at almost four in the morning, but Wade was a grown man, and he was perfectly capable of dunking a plate in water. Besides, Peter was asleep. He'd get the award for Best Boyfriend Ever if his lover woke up to a clean kitchen.