Chapter Text
They say you never fully appreciate something 'till it's gone.
They're wrong.
Wade knew how to appreciate everything – from the snark to the hugs to the farts beneath the blankets which always led to tickle fights to the warm voice and soft chapped lips on his repulsive skin to every moment he was in his presence –
Of every moment and countless times he thought Peter could've picked anyone, but for whatever reason, he somehow chose –
"Wade?" Peter asks.
"I'm right here, Petey."
Peter's lips twist slightly. "Secret identity, Wade," he croaks. "We've talked about it."
"You can yell at me later," Wade pleads. "I'll sleep on the couch and everything, Petey –"
"Later," Peter repeats, dazed. "But no couch. It's cold." He looks up at Wade, and he's so very beautiful.
"Okay."
"Promise?"
"Sure, Petey. Pinky swear. Stay with me, okay? Don't fall asleep –"
"Wade," Peter speaks softly, stopping him, and motions for him to lower his head. With a herculean effort, he presses their lips together. "You've made me so happy. I–"
"Peter," When Wade's lips shape the words, he tastes blood. "I can see the paramedics, don't –"
"You're such a bad liar." Peter breathes out half a laugh, resting his head against Wade's left bicep. "Asshole."
Then he dies.
*
The paramedics arrive three minutes later.
Wade shoots them all right through their hearts.
*
He doesn't go to the funeral. He doesn't eat or sleep. There's a hole in his chest and he craves it with a knife but the growing flesh doesn't fill it. He keeps expecting to see Peter walking in or in the bedroom – in their bedroom – If he closes the door, he can keep imagining Peter's just sleeping through breakfast, through lunch, through dinner, the weekend, their weekly movie-marathon, just taking a nap and be back before he knows it, rubbing a stubbly cheek against Wade's neck and falling asleep halfway through.
The lights go out in the middle of the night. He dully recalls he haven't paid the bills in many months. And as his minds quickly slips from the papers strewn outside his front door, he suddenly knows what he must do.
Wade Wilson may have lost Peter Parker forever, but for every Wade there is a Peter.
It'll never be our Peter.
And Wade will make sure no other Wade will go through this.
He's dead.
That no other Peter would die.
Infinite universes are not as intimidating when you're immortal.
Wade goes to pay a visit to Weasel.
*
It takes time, obviously. Money, too.
Wade's got both aplenty.
Logan meets him one time, looking weird. Cautious.
"Wade," he starts, but it sounds so wrong. "You've got to stop this. This isn't what Pe–"
Deadpool shoots him in the mouth with an adamantium bullet.
*
After three years, a portable universe travelling device is in Deadpool's possession.
He leaves Weasel seven million dollars richer. More than enough for therapy. Or to make up for those lost fingernails.
He types in numbers, humming.
You'll never be able to fix it.
The screen is small and clear.
Peter Parker is dead.
The number nine is his favorite.
Good job.
And the activation button is red.