Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter had been awoken by his super-senses before. Once, a few days after his twenty-second birthday, he’d been jolted awake by the freaky internal alarm system that kept him safe. There had been a robber standing over him with a gun. The fight that had ensued had been frenetic and hilariously inventive, with Peter using everything from a hairdryer to his favourite belt to subdue the criminal and make a citizen’s arrest. He hadn’t even been able to use his powers during the fight for fear of revealing his super identity.

But that was three years ago and he was a lot more careful now.

He felt sunken in sleep, as if he’d fallen very deep and was having to shrug off the fog that clouded him. He stretched, eyes sealed tight against the sunlight already streaming in through the blinds and tried to clear his muddled brain. Something had woken him up. Something was wrong.

What’s up? Where’s the danger? he asked himself.

(Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!) shrieked a shrill voice and Peter sprang into action. His body moved before his brain had a chance to catch up, and the room spun as he vaulted off the bed, into a flawless backflip. His momentum took him to the end of the room and he landed an inch from the wall. Breaths coming out in quick gasps, he strained his eyes to see the intruder. 

[8/10. The flip was wobbly but you stuck the landing.] It was a new voice, low and gravelly. Male and unmistakably amused.

The voice seemed to come from all around, or rather, it didn’t originate from a set place. It sounded...close. Very close. He turned, his gaze flickering on the entry points, the window, the door. Nothing. He almost thought he saw something, a flicker of white, but when he turned, there was nothing there.

[Not very bright, this one...]

Oh god, it was right behind him. How could somebody sneak behind him unless...they were on the ceiling? He let his breathing steady and spoke, trying to channel Spider-Man into Peter Parker, lace his thin voice with some authority.

“Whoever you are, it’s okay. I can help you, I’ve met mutants before. But you have to show yourself. Can you do that for me?”

[I’m already inside you, buddy.]

And Peter threw himself at the door.

He’d thought this morning would be an uneventful one. He’d drifted off to sleep last night, exhausted but pleased, sated. His body loose-limbed and lightly aching from--

Dancing. He didn’t have many pleasures in life (besides the joy he took from making the streets of Queens that little bit safer), he couldn’t drink alcohol because his weird spider biology burned through the poison too quick for it to affect him, drugs were out because, well, they’re wrong, and relationships were...impossible. He wouldn’t risk another Gwen. Couldn’t. And the risk of having his true identity discovered was too high. Terrifying to contemplate.

But he could still enjoy casual encounters, now and then. It wasn’t a regular thing, not at all. Peter had visited a gay bar a handful of times in his life, feeling undersized and awkward in his jumper, next to a bunch of toned, tanned guys. But there was apparently something about his milky pallor and shapeless build that attracted guys because he’d had to fend off several advances the moment he’d stepped in the club. But this. Last night. It was different.

He’d spent so much time as Spider-Man, walking around as Peter Parker, having a name and a face, being seen, witnessed and recognised felt like nakedness. Too exposed, it left him uncomfortable, ill at ease. But the club had been advertising a fancy dress night, Heroes and Villains, it was called. Seeing the flyer with the black-and-white illustration of a silhouette in a cape, something in him had felt a flicker of hope. He might be better at connecting with people if he wore a costume, a mask. He couldn’t wear his actual super-suit, of course. He could buy a cheap one at a fancy dress store.

So that’s what he did, and a few hours later, he was filing in, feeling the thin fabric of a poorly-stitched cape swish around his ankles. It seemed kind of gauche to see people dressed as villains - he reared back, seeing a nasty green mask grinning down at him. A guy wearing a Green Goblin mask. People died because of him. But he was mollified to see several blue and red costumes, apparently, people liked Spider-Man enough to imitate him.

He ordered a drink at the bar, a vodka and coke because beer is swill and he doesn’t care if he has to revoke his Man card for saying that. He got asked for ID because he always did, and he lifted his mask enough for the bartender to see his face. Perhaps it was the bags under his eyes but the bartender was convinced of his age and waved him on, not needing an ID card after all.

The drink did nothing for him, he could have been drinking a glass of water for all the effect it had on him, but mingling with normal people meant he had to do certain things to look less suspicious. So he sipped his drink and surveyed the room.

A guy in an Iron Man outfit (wow, he must be sweating in that thing. Mr Stark’s suit had cooling tech but this guy certainly didn’t) was dancing with a man who had a tank top and cardboard ‘adamantium’ blades taped to his knuckles. Peter smirked, wondering what Wolverine would think of seeing such a display. 

Then he saw him.

People were giving him weird looks. Which was strange, considering that earlier this month, the city’s beloved Spider-Man had battled a creature made of glass at this very street, eventually besting it by throwing a car at it. But for some reason, a frightened man in his pyjamas was worth staring at.

It was early morning, the first of November, a new month. The odd person was doing the walk of shame, still wearing pieces of their Halloween costume from the night before, leaving apartments, lighting cigarettes. Peter sighed, walking fast, shouldering his way through the crowd. The sooner he got away from his apartment, the better.

He had no idea where he was going, though. Just anything to get away from those voices. He shivered, attributing the gesture to the chill in the air. 

The bedroom was far too small for two full-grown men to hide in, and besides, their voices hadn’t sounded at all muffled so they couldn’t be hiding under the bed or in the closet. He scowled, spying a vacant bench up ahead and moved to it.

He could call...someone. Alright, he wasn’t a member of the Avengers but they were sort of on speaking terms with him. Tony Stark had been trying to charm Spider-Man into joining the Avengers for some time now (something that Peter found hilarious) but he wasn’t interested in being an employee, or part of a group. He didn’t want work to be assigned to him. He respected the Avengers and believed in their work, but frankly, he thought they would benefit from being a bit more discreet. Most of them were famous and had had their covers blown at some point. It was impossible for a man like Tony Stark to have the anonymity that Peter enjoyed. Mr. Stark couldn’t walk into a Walmart without everybody clamouring to take a selfie with him, or get an autograph. Or shoot him. The Avengers might make the news and get a lot of acclaim but they’d never experience the glow of satisfaction from webbing up a mugger or jumping in at the last minute to stop a distracted kid from walking in front of an oncoming car. They’d consider such acts of heroism to be small fry, not worth it. Peter never wanted to be like that.

So calling Mr. Stark was probably not a good idea. And besides, he wasn’t suited and masked. Peter’s secret identity was a valuable secret, he couldn’t let anybody, not even Mr. Stark, know who he truly was.

(So...is this it? We’re gonna sit on a bench forever?)

[Yes. This is our life now.]

Peter’s head snapped up and he looked around in all directions, like a dog smelling food. No, but that’s...impossible.

Hovering in the air, right in front of Peter, were boxes. Two coloured boxes, one white and one yellow, each one with text inside in thick, black ink. They were so vivid, so sharply-designed and ill-suited to the background of a busy New York street as if they’d been Photoshopped in. Just hanging in the air, seemingly invisible to everybody else. Waiting. Almost like they were waiting to be acknowledged.

“Oh my...God…” Peter whispered and the text in the white box disappeared, to be replaced with more.

[Oh good, he finally gets it. Hello. Nice to make your acquaintance.]

(This is so exciting! It’s been ages since we’ve had a new body. Fresh meat, mwua ha ha!)

The boxes were accompanied by voices, reading them out. The white one was low and gravelly, the sort of voice that belonged to a private eye in some thriller pulp fiction. The yellow voice was high and excitable.

“What...what are you?”

(Your doooooooom!)

[Shut up, Yellow. Hi kid, we’re your new--uh, buddies. Get used to us because we’re sticking around.]

“But I don’t want to hear voices,” Peter said softly, suddenly feeling rather young and foolish. There was still so much about the world that he didn’t understand, so many threats he hadn’t yet faced. There was nobody to call, no higher power to help him or offer guidance. Not even the comforting embrace of a partner or a parent to trick him into thinking that, just maybe, everything would be alright.

[Yeah.] said White. [I get it. We can try and mask our form, if you like. Can’t do anything about hearing us though.]

Peter didn’t reply and the boxes faded into nothing. But he could feel something, a presence in his brain, a surging of movement as if it was making room for...something.

“You’re still there. Aren’t you?”

[Yes.]

(And we always will be.)

There didn’t seem any point in hanging around outside anymore, seeing that the very creatures he had tried to evade were now living rent-free in his own head. So he headed home, and shinned up the fire escape to get through his window, because he hadn’t had the foresight to bring his key with him when he’d fled.

(How did he get in? In-tru-der window!)

[We’re very athletic now, aren’t we? I bet we could climb up a rope with no hands.]

(There are ropes that have hands?!)

[Oh, you moron--]

The voices ([the boxes!] White corrected him) continued to bicker on as Peter returned to his bedroom and made his bed, just to give himself something to do. The sight of Peter’s bedroom gave the boxes something new to comment on, and comment they did, remarking on his blinds, posters, desk, even his bed.

(The bed's too small! How are we supposed to get laid now?)  Yellow whined.

[I don’t think this guy gets laid much. No offence, kid.]

(But he got laid last night!)

[Shut up, we aren't supposed to know that!]

He knew he was missing something, his spider senses were alerting him of that, and he had the distinct impression that the boxes (although they seemed essentially harmless) were hiding something from him.

(Harmless? Moi?)

Peter shuffled into the bathroom and squeezed out a dollop of toothpaste onto his toothbrush with a shaking hand. His reflection in the medicine cabinet looked awful, his brown, wavy hair was sticking out in all directions, his eyes’ bags had baggage of their own, and his skin was so pale, it looked sickly, waxy in the morning light. 

At least the sight of his reflection had calmed down Yellow.

(Aw, we’re so cute! Look at those big, sleepy eyes!)

[It’s nice to see a face that doesn’t resemble orange peel…]

(His hair is so fluffy!])

Peter brushed and flossed, cringing at every comment. The boxes felt it necessary to remark on everything he did, and how cute it was. Even White felt moved to rhapsodise about the quality of Peter’s skin.

[Look at all that smooth skin. Mm, tight and young. No sagging whatsoever.]

(Okay, you’re starting to sound like a serial killer now. Don’t want to spook him.)

Peter self-consciously buttoned up his pyjama shirt to the top button. 

[No good covering yourself up, bud. We’re in your head.]

But why are you in my head, why now? Peter thought and for once, the boxes were silent.

At least he didn’t have work today, but he should probably patrol tonight. Oh shit. Patrol. These boxes were clearly some kind of parasite, they depended on Peter as a host for survival. And although they didn’t appear to mean him any harm, they couldn’t continue living in his head. But if they found out he was Spider-Man, then that would be bad news. He hoped they weren’t paying attention to his current train of thought. He tried not to think of Spider-Man.

But that got him thinking. Mutants. Maybe that was the link. If he wasn’t mistaken, the man he’d... spent time with ...last night had been mutant too. And after a night with that man, suddenly, Peter can see and hear things that aren’t there? That had to be more than a coincidence. His hero hookup must actually be the perpetrator who’d cursed him with these creatures.

He thought back to that night--

“I can’t come like this,” Peter gasped. The air was cool on his skin, soothing him like a balm. He was hot everywhere the air touched, burning up, an engine overheating, gears grinding on themselves and all because of him. Him and his hands and his strength and his fucking bulk, that hard, muscular body pressed up against Peter’s own slim form.

“Huh?” The man managed to convey confusion through his mask, and it was strange staring up to see Peter’s own Spider-Man mask. Well, a cheaper copy. He blinked, tried to break the hold those white mesh eyes had on him and somehow coax his brain into producing a thought.

“Can’t come standing up. Ungh, tr-tried it before.”

“Okay,” and the man reached for Peter clumsily, grabbed him by the hips, cool leather fingers digging into Peter’s skin and lifted him up against the wall. Lifted him like he weighed nothing and lowered him back onto his cock. Those few seconds where he’d pulled out, they’d been torture. The fullness had gone, leaving him wet and empty, lube dripping down his thighs, cooling as it sloped downwards. He clenched around the guy’s cock and was rewarded with a deep thrust. He never wanted to feel empty again.

“Fuck, feels better like this.” Peter grappled on the guy’s hard shoulders, trying to keep his balance. His legs wound around the man’s waist, digging his heels into his back. His Captain America pants were hanging from one ankle, swishing in place with every thrust.

Every thrust sparked up tingling heat inside him, and he knew it was close, release, could almost reach it but not quite and fuck this guy for going so slow. Impatience reared its head and he thumped down on the man’s shoulder with his fist, just to try to tell him to go faster, just a bit but winced as he felt something snap underneath his fingers. The man went very still, although somehow he was still hard inside Peter.

“I --shit, I’m so sorry, oh no--”

“It’s fine,” the guy said and huffed out a beer-soured breath against Peter’s ear. His mask was rolled up only to his nose and the skin that showed looked wrong somehow, raw. But Peter felt pleasure elsewhere so didn’t bother to dwell on it. “It’s fixed.” the man said and he dropped a kiss on Peter’s shoulder, as if to tell him 'I’m not mad, it’s all good.'

Peter had a busy night, hunched over his laptop, typing as quickly as his fingers could move, which was pretty quick. He tried every variation of ‘boxes’, ‘thought boxes’ and even tried hacking into SHIELD. No joy. He couldn’t find a single newspaper article, database or one measly Tumblr post describing sentient text boxes invading people's heads. Maybe they were some weird off-branch of symbiotes? There could be thousands of evolutionary quirks in that species, God knew.

[Aaaand you are freezing cold. I’ll tell you if you’re warm, though.]

“You could tell me, you know. It would make things a whole lot easier. Are you really going to want to keep me around as a host if I get carpal tunnel syndrome?”

[You’re a young man, you’re already headed towards developing carpal tunnel syndrome.]

Peter didn’t know if that was a reference to excessive gaming or onanism, but he didn’t appreciate White’s sass. So he scowled and kept searching.

A few hours later, his stomach rudely interrupted his research by growling loudly. Peter sighed, pushing his chair back and shuffled to the kitchen. The boxes were twittering on, saying random nonsense that didn’t make a whole lot of sense to Peter but hey, at least they were being quiet. It was like being in a large room with the television on, if that made sense. Muted sound, more like the cadences of speech than anything discernible. But when he raided his cupboard for food and found a pack of ramen that was still in date (Score!), the boxes were unimpressed.

[You’ve got nothing edible in your kitchen.]

(Damn bitch, you live like this?)

“Yeah, well, that’s capitalism for you," Peter said, boiling up the kettle. “A tiny apartment and a pack of ramen.”

(No way, you can’t eat that gross shit. Wade gives us tacos and quesadillas and--)

[Shut up, Yellow, shut the fuck up--]

Peter froze. “Wade? The guy you used to...occupy was called Wade? He was the guy from last night, wasn’t he? The one who…” fucked me against the wall of a sleazy nightclub.

(Sorry, White, I couldn’t help it.)

“Okay. You guys are going to tell me everything you know about this Wade.” Peter hissed and the boxes squeaked in fear.

Chapter Text

Wade woke up to pain in his side, a thudding pang that instantly faded, healed by his mutant power.

His body was jostled by movement and he pried his eyes open to see a scuffed shoe. The shoe was attached to a leg, and was swinging his way. He grabbed the shoe before it could kick him again.

“Hey, asswipe! Get up!”

He stirred, his vision clearing to see the ugly face of Weasel glaring down at him. 

“Weasel. You look so pretty in the morning.”

“It’s noon, dumbass. Get up now. Don’t make me turn a hose on you,”

“Hose? Is that your name for your dick?” But Wade did as he said, stumbling to his feet. He lurched but regained his balance. Waking up, feeling off-kilter wasn’t new to him. His brain had been ripped open by bullets and sewn back together by his healing power so many times, it was a miracle he could even think straight. Well, nothing I do is straight.

“Ugh, I feel...weird. What happened last night?” 

Weasel made an exasperated face at him and Wade followed his friend to the bar. Wade didn’t recall toddling into Sister Margaret’s last night, but he was glad he was here instead of passed out in a ditch. Although a ditch would probably smell better. Once they were in their familiar position, Weasel by the computer, Wade on a barstool, Weasel told him about the previous night.

“You came in here last night, raving about some slut you banged in a club. Actually, it might have been a dude? Anyway, you scared off my customers, shooting your gun around like the rich fucking Texan in The Simpsons , drank my good scotch, kept drinking whatever you could find, pissed yourself and then passed out on the floor.”

Wade rubbed the back of his neck. “I must have drunk a lot to get wasted,”

“You did. You owe me six hundred dollars.”

“You can take it outta the money from my next job,” Wade glanced down at himself, realising he wasn’t in his Deadpool get-up. “I was shooting the place up as mild-mannered Wade Wilson, not Deadpool?”

Weasel was swigging from a can of soda and did a spit-take at ‘mild-mannered’. He coughed and Wade helpfully thumped him on the back. “No, you had a mask on. Of your man-crush, Spider-Man.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right! The Halloween party!” Memories were surfacing, knitting together like skin, filling the empty spaces in his head. “This club I like. They had a costume night, heroes and villains.”

“You didn’t go as yourself? Although I don’t know where you’d fit in that, you’re too lame to be a villain and you’re for sure not anybody’s hero.”

“I went dressed as Spidey, yeah! Mm, fun night. And that guy...he was…who was he?”

T he problem about having a messed-up face and body  (besides the obvious) was that you were never anonymous. Wade couldn’t just throw on some clothes and blend in with a crowd, that was denied to him, long ago. He felt ambivalent about it, there was no point in lamenting about it, but yeah, it sucked to have an okay day and then catch sight of his reflection in the mirror.

He felt better when he was dressed in his jumpsuit, katanas a reassuring weight against his back. Feeling suited up and strapped in, layers of kevlar and leather covering every inch of red, bumpy skin.

When he first saw the flyer, he felt a flash of excitement.

It was a chance to socialise with others, without having to brave the winces and stares. He didn’t know which he disliked more--people who dared to stare at him or those who would hurriedly look away. Which is worse, being despised or pitied? He didn’t know.

Getting a costume at such short notice wasn’t doable for a burly gentleman such as himself. Better to order these things online. But, he didn’t really want to wear a full costume, anyway! He spent so much time in the Deadpool outfit, sometimes it felt like that was his skin. And that Wade Wilson, former soldier, friend, sometimes father (depending on the comic edition) was being consumed by Deadpool. So instead, he decided to compromise with himself by wearing a mask, gloves and civilian clothes. He knew which hero he was going to be. His favourite one.

Weasel was clinking two glasses in Wade’s face. “Wake up! You zoning out on me?”

“Oh hey. I was having a beautiful daydream…” Wade propped up his head on his elbows and Weasel snorted in disgust.

“So that’s why you’re making that creepy expression. Okay, what happened?”

“Weas, I met somebody last night.”

“I know, some skank in the club.”

“ No! ” Wade howled. “He was an angel! Beautiful, graceful...I think he broke my shoulder?”

“He what? ”

“He didn’t mean to.”

Weasel threw up his hands as if begging the Lord for strength. “Oh, well as long as he didn’t mean to!”

“He felt bad about it. And it healed in, like, a second. He was amazing. The real deal.”

“Then why was he fucking you? ”

“I don’t know! Maybe he was some sexy, vampy assassin, sent to distract me and make me fall in love.” That had to be why. Gorgeous people (who weren’t sex workers) never gave Wade the time of day. Sure, Deadpool had some weird groupies, but not Wade.

“The honeypot angle,” Weasel agreed. “I wish some hot spy chick would come seduce me.”

“The boxes liked him, too.” That was true. They’d been mostly quiet, waiting to see what Wade would do, but they’d whispered excitedly amongst themselves, murmuring suggestions to Wade on what to touch and lick and bite. Egging him on, telling him to fuck the boy harder and faster. Like my own little perverted cheerleaders! When Wade had come, emptying himself in the guy, the boxes had gone totally silent and his brain had been blissfully quiet. He hadn’t known peace like that in years. Apparently, high-quality ass was the trick to getting the boxes to shut the fuck up.

Except...they’d been very quiet today. Too quiet. They should be bouncing around his skull, laughing and talking, screaming. Thinking up insults for him to sling at Weasel. But there was nothing. And as he turned his head and looked around the bar, he couldn’t see a single box hanging around. 

Actually, he felt...empty. Unwatched. Weasel wasn’t looking at him, he was tapping away on his computer. The bar was empty. And Wade had a distinct impression that he was alone.

“They’ve gone..” he whispered.

“Who?” Weasel looked around too.

“The boxes--” There was no point explaining it properly to his friend. “--The voices. In my head. They’re...gone.”

“You can’t cure schizophrenia or split personalities or whatever it is that you got. Your voices are probably just--”

“Having a coffee break?” Shit, his voice trembled. He needed to get a better hold of himself, this was fucking ridiculous.

“Look, man, this is above my paygrade. See a shrink or something. Isn’t it a good thing if you’re not crazy, anymore? Maybe your powers have fixed your brain or something.”

It took a few seconds for Weasel’s words to sink in, but once they did, a pathway opened up in Wade’s brain, showing him possibilities, a life without the boxes.

“The boxes are gone. The boxes are GONE!” Wade whooped, and vaulted over the bar. Weasel backed away but Wade was faster than him, and he swept the man up in a hug, lifting him off the ground.

Weasel swung a punch but missed. “Get the fuck off me! So, you’re not crazy anymore. Or less crazy. That’s a reason to celebrate, right? I’ll get us something to drink.”

Wade enjoyed a few drinks with Weasel (and was even nice enough to pay him for them, this time), eventually letting himself be shoved out the bar by his courteous host, because Weasel had work to do. The bar had been closed during their drinking sesh, and although Weasel would never admit it, Wade reckoned he’d kept the bar closed for him. Wade must have been acting strange last night for Weasel to go to that trouble.

He went home for a change of clothes (and to shower because yeugh, Weasel hadn’t been lying when he’d said Wade had...uh, missed the toilet) and headed out, pounding the pavement with his hoodie pulled low over his face and his hands in his pockets. His Deadpool costume was packed in a duffel gym bag which he carried over his shoulder. Just in case.

He couldn’t help but wonder if there was a link between the dude at the bar and this new development.

He’d been joking when he’d said it might have been an assassin. The idea had seemed laughable when he was sitting there, across the bar from Weasel. But as he walked the streets, alone, other pedestrians taking great strides to avoid coming into contact with the hulking, hooded figure, the idea didn’t seem so crazy. And wasn’t there a hint of genius in craziness or something? That might be a quote. Probably isn’t.

His twinky hookup had certainly had some of the qualities that were present in vampy assassins. Athletic. Enduring. Strong. Charming. And an ass you could use as a bongo drum, although that probably wasn’t a quality you could stick on your resume.

Could the boxes really be something that an interested party would consider valuable? They didn’t have any power of their own. They were amusing, sometimes, although not as amusing as they seemed to think they were. But useful? Not really. If anything, they were a distraction, especially when Wade was fighting somebody. He would reply to them, tell them things, shoot himself in the head if they got too loud or mean. If anything, he would describe them as a curse, not an asset. But still, if that pretty thing in the club had indeed siphoned the boxes out of Wade’s head, then good luck to him. He could have the boxes, he was welcome to them.

A familiar car was passing him and he waved in acknowledgement. The car slowed to a crawl and Dopinder’s sweet face peered out.

“Mr. Pool? Are you needing a ride?”

“Dope to the pinder! My man!” 

Dopinder opened the passenger door and Wade dramatically threw himself inside. He paused for a beat, automatically expecting a reaction from the boxes, perhaps a cheer or grumble at his theatrics, but there was nothing. Which was good. Great. He didn’t need them, he had Dopinder to talk to.

“Where to, sir?”

“Eh, nowhere. Just drive me around.” He got himself comfortable ion the passenger seat, nestling his bag to his chest like a baby.

“...okay.”

Wade idly watched the passing scenery as they drove, pedestrians, hobos, a dog. Aww, cute. He could feel himself relaxing, sinking into the upholstery, hearing the gentle purr of the engine and the less gentle strains of Lata Mangeshkar on the radio.

“Dopinder, I’m in love… ”

His driver shot him a terrified look and Wade quickly amended his statement. “Not with you, brown sugar. Your modesty is safe.”

“Oh. You have found a girlfriend, sir?”

“Boyfriend, actually. No, screw that. Gotta be realistic. Husband. We met in a club. Clubbing. I do that now.”

“Oh, very good. Is he...like you?”

Dopinder could have meant several things-- is he sexually ambiguous, disfigured, is he a mutant, is he a Canadian, which some Americans would consider as worse than a mutant. But it didn’t matter what Dopinder meant or thought. Wade knew the answer to his question.

“He’s not. He’s perfect.”

“Then I wish you all the happiness the gods can bestow upon you.”

“That’s very liberal of you, thanks. It won’t be that simple, unfortunately. I have no idea who he is. His name, his face, anything,” At Dopinder’s quizzical look, Wade felt it necessary to explain further. “He wore a mask. It wasn’t an Eyes Wide Shut gathering, it was a costume party. And no, I’m not going to tell you what an Eyes Wide Shu t party is. It would scar you.”

“Are you planning to track him down?”

Wade had already toyed with the idea. For about five seconds. “I don’t think so. I’d like to but...I don’t...I don’t think it would end well.”

Dopinder was about to reply when something big and blue crashed down on the open stretch of road in front of him. The young man muttered something Wade didn’t understand and braked hard.

“That...that was a person!” Dopinder stammered, and it would be at this point that the boxes would chime in, bringing some insight that Wade had missed. Okay, maybe they were helpful sometimes. But they were currently MIA, so it was just him and Dopinder to puzzle over the obstruction in the road.

Angry beeps flooded the air, cars behind Dopinder’s taxi wondering what the hold up was. But the blue thing, the person had stood up now and--

Wade’s heart leapt.

“It’s Spider-Man! Look, look, it’s Spidey! Wait a minute!” He wriggled through the gap between the front and back seats, accidentally whacking Dopinder in the face with his duffel bag. Dopinder turned to see what he was doing and hurriedly jerked his gaze back to the dashboard, seeing Wade lying on the backseat with his pants down.

“Mr. Pool, I must insist! I will not have...shenanigans in my car!”

“Relax, I’m-- ungh --suiting up. I don’t have a telephone box so this car will-- ah --have t-to do.”

“I am going to have to move the car soon, the other people behind me are growing impatient.”

“Yeah, yeah, I---shit--I know. I’m--oh God, my zipper just scratched my dick!--getting better at this thing.”

Leather is an unforgiving fabric at the best of times, and Wade didn’t have the liberty of time. He seemed to have too many limbs and zips but at last, he was covered in red and black, and his t-shirt, hooded sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers were stuffed in the bag. He left it there, sternly telling Dopinder to take good care of it and he’d get it back from him next time. Then he slapped the roof of the car and his friend sped away.

“Okay, Spidey, where are you?” he muttered.

Spider-Man must have fled the road in record time because Wade couldn’t see him.

He scanned the skyline and saw his target. Spidey was a blue blur streaking across a rooftop. Wade kept him in his sights as he scaled up a fire escape.

I’m coming for you, Spidey!

They’d worked together a few times, and although their methods of getting the job done were as different as night and day, Wade respected him. Spider-Man had been very resistant to working with Wade, at first, but Wade had worn him down the way he’d worn down everybody currently in his life. Spider-Man had even begrudgingly admitted that their heroic operations ran a lot smoother as a team. Wade liked working with Spider-Man although the hero had promised him not to kill when they were collaborating. Wade had agreed but crossed his fingers. He did try to follow Spidey’s dumb rule, but damn, unaliving folks is just so much fun. And it counts as exercise, too!

Wade knew it would be a dumb decision to spook Spidey from behind, just show up without announcing himself. Spider-Man was a twitchy kind of guy, tense and brittle like a horse made out of toothpicks. Or something. He was glad the boxes weren’t there to witness that particular train(wreck) of thought.

So instead, he called out a friendly “Ahoy, Spidey!”, striding across the rooftop to where his fave hero was now settled.

Spider-Man had his back to him, he was crouching, staring into the window of the building next door. The buildings were close together, so close that Wade could probably jump between them, even without the use of Spidey’s webs.

“Hey, Spidey?” Wade said, and Spider-Man turned around and clocked sight of him.

He wasn’t expecting a hug and kiss, but even he was surprised when Spider-Man said: “Get down and shut up. I’m busy.” It was a soft whisper but dripping with venom (and not the weird gooey black alien) so Wade immediately dropped to a crouch, mouthing a ‘sorry’ that Spidey wouldn’t even be able to see through Wade’s mask. Spider-Man turned back to his post, peering at the window.

Wade crept closer, on his haunches like a crab, and Spidey didn’t react. The hero was half-hiding, behind an HVAC unit, the box providing some cover. 

“So, what are we spying on? Animal smugglers? Torture chamber? Pyramid Scheme?” He could see men in the window, talking and moving stuff around. Could be evildoers, could be anything.

“Arms dealers. That warehouse is their new base of operations.” Spider-Man whispered, his voice so hushed that Wade had to lean forward to catch the words.

“Arms dealers who do their illegal activities at--” He checked his Adventure Time watch. “--two thirty-eight pm. Weird. So, what’s the plan?”

“You go home. I go in there.”

“Bad plan. I got a better one. I go in there and you go home. Get all tucked up with your nightie on, watching Maury .”

“Shut the fuck up and let me focus.” Spider-Man bit out and Wade paused, actually speechless, for once.

That wasn’t Spider-Man’s line. Spider-Man was an upstanding sort, a model citizen, loyal, law-abiding, hard-working. Probably a morning person. A morning person who flosses. A morning person who flosses and drinks orange juice. So, Wade was surprised that he swore at him and even Spider-Man seemed surprised at his outburst.

“I’m sorry,” Spidey murmured, apparently unbothered that Wade was practically on top of him, straining to hear him. “Haven’t been feeling myself lately.”

“Hey, it’s all good. I’ll go if you want but I’m just saying, help’s here if you need it. Help with disarming the bad guys. Not the -- not personal things. Although, also personal things if you need help?” He was losing him. “I mean, I’m here, so, if I can do anything…?”

“Yeah, uh. Look, Deadpool. I won’t have you killing -- no, sorry, unaliving -- people. Not on my watch. But if you think you’d be okay with stopping these guys, then, yeah, let’s go for it.”

“Sweet!” He got to his feet, climbing over Spider-Man’s leg to clamber onto the edge of the rooftop.

He could hear him telling Wade to stop, but he figured, the element of the surprise would work on these evil dudes, so he launched himself off the roof and crashed into the window. He was dimly aware of sounds of terror as men ran from the cascading glass, but all the noise, the tinkling of glass and squeaking of leather shoes on the linoleum fade into nothingness as pain washed over him. 

He landed in a heap on something firm, and lay there, dazed, waiting for his lacerations to heal. Damn, his suit was probably ruined. Spidey barely spared him a glance, The Bug Wonder was racing after the fleeing criminals. 

After a couple of minutes, Wade was on his feet, examining the cushion that had broken his fall. He’d thought it was a bundle of clothes, bizarrely, but it was actually one of the dealers. The poor dude was unconscious and bleeding but his body had been shielded from most of the broken glass, by Wade’s body. So, it’s swings and roundabouts, basically. He left him there and ran down the hallway.

Men were scattering like cockroaches, and Wade was in his element. Spidey had disappeared, which meant that Wade could keep his promise. Spider-Man had told not to unalive people, not on his watch. But Spidey wasn’t here to watch him, so Wade was free to mow people down like the rascal he was. He punched, kicked and shot his way through the bodies. God, how many men were there? Some were escaping but others were running at Wade, bandishing knives and guns. Damn arms dealers and their arms. The warehouse was a good place to hide in, cupboards and storerooms, shelving units providing ample cover for the dealers. But Wade could be remarkably patient, and hey, even if a few got away, at least some were dead. These numbnuts were bringing in illegal weaponry into Wade’s city, that shit was not on. Wade bought his weaponry legally, thanks. Mostly.

He felt victorious, playing Sure Shot by Beastie Boys in his head, splashing blood and brains on the wall, soaking his suit with it, the mess, the pulp, all of it. Since teaming up with Spidey, it had been too long since he’d been able to get freaky like this. He would still go off on his own jaunts, but whenever he worked with Spider-Man, he was reigned in, locked in by Spider-Man’s moral code. He knew he could refuse to follow his rules, or refuse to work with him at all but fighting bad guys was more fun with a partner.

“And I've got mad hits like I was Rod Carew! ” he sang along, swishing his katana through the bodies in time with the beats.

A ratty-looking guy with a switchblade was running at him. Wade made a well-timed joke, comparing knives to genitalia and swung his katana at the man’s neck. Pathetic. The head popped off and Wade threw it at an oncoming attacker, a chubby man with a ponytail. His neck would have belonged on a Clysdale horse but Wade gamely hacked through it, feeling the burn in his biceps. Damn, it had been too long since he let loose like this. Spidey was going to be furious when he saw the path of destruction Wade had left. 

The head was finally severed from its neck and it thumped down on the ground and rolled for a bit. Wade watched it, breathing hard. He’d only used his knives tonight, feeling like he was relying too heavily on his guns. Bodies littered the ground. The fight had taken Wade to an immense room, stripped of most of the original furniture but still with rows of heavy grey shelving units bolted to the wall. He kicked up dust with every step and left bloody shoeprints behind him. Wade was aware of nicks and tears in his suit, from the glass and from stabs and bullets from his attackers.

The music in his head bled out, and with it, the last body. Wade wiped his blades on his victim’s jacket and slotted them back in their sheaths. A few people had escaped but you couldn’t get them all, and to be fair, Wade had been flying solo on this one. He scowled, kicking a head out of his way. Where the hell was Spidey? Real cute of the guy to disappear, leaving Wade to stamp out the pests. He spotted a few crates at the end of the room, haphazardly stacked. He doubted the arms dealers had put them here, they were faded with age. He didn’t think the dealers had been in this building for long, it was probably intended as a temporary location.

There was definitely a shoe poking out from behind the crates. Wade curled his fingers around  his gun. He felt like he was cheating, he’d said he was going to limit himself to knives, but he was trying to be sly, okay? His katanas always made a cool swooshing sound when he unsheathed them but he was going to have to be super quiet to get this guy. He inched over, taking teensy baby steps, moving soundlessly on the blood-soaked floor. The shoe, a blue boot, was trembling, and he felt a pang of regret that was quickly overshadowed by his bloodlust. These guys were B-A-D, they didn’t need his sympathy. It was only when he was almost at the crates that he heard the frantic whispering. Was the guy calling for help?

He leapt upon a crate, and pointed his gun at the huddled figure. “Put your hands...up?”

Spider-Man, The Amazing Spider-Man, the flawless hero Wade had admired for so long, was hiding. Sitting with his back against the wall with his knees pushed to his chest. His face in his hands. He hadn’t even noticed Wade, he kept whispering into his gloved hands, his voice sounding so soft and broken that Wade felt quite alarmed. He was even more disturbed when he jumped down, crouching in front of Spidey and the hero still didn’t notice him. What about his super senses? What about the fact that Wade was a big guy and they were so close, their knees were practically touching?

Now so near, Wade could see that the white mesh eyes of Spidey’s mask were darkened with moisture. He was crying. Oh shit, shit, what do I do?

“You’re not there, shut up, just, don’t, just LEAVE ME ALONE!” Spider-Man screamed and Wade winced. It was then that Spider-Man noticed him and the difference was staggering. Something shut down in Spider-Man’s body language, he squared his shoulders, let his hands drop to his knees and appraised Wade coolly.

“Hi. So, did you get them all?”

“Uh, most of them? Are you--?”

“Thanks for helping. I gotta go now.”

Wade didn’t think it would be clever to block him in, so he shuffled backwards on his haunches to give his friend room to leave. But instead, Spider-Man jumped straight up, landing on the crates as Wade had done, jumped off them and took off running.

Wade watched him race off, with his mouth hanging open. Falling off a building into the road? Disappearing when he was needed? And now, fucking off like that with barely a thank you after Wade busted his ass despatching those guys. He had been dreading a scolding from the do-gooder hero (for unaliving people instead of detaining them) but somehow, just having Spidey leave like this was worse. Something was wrong with his friend and Wade was going to find out what. Even if it killed him (again).

Chapter Text

Peter had tried everything to get the boxes to talk. Oh, they talked alright but they didn’t say anything useful. They chattered away constantly, a stream of nonsense, references to comic books and outlandish compliments.

But they didn’t divulge any further information on Wade, even though Peter tried to trick Yellow into giving it away, sensing that it was a soft touch. 

In fact, it was actually White who let slip a crucial detail regarding their previous owner.

“You need to return to Wade! You’d be happier there!” Peter had told them, trying a new tactic.

[Forget it! I don’t want to get shot all the time!]

“Shot? Why would he be getting shot?”

Unless --

“Is he a superhero? Is -- is he Daredevil?”

The boxes screamed with laughter and Peter’s head rang with noise.

(ohmygod I’m dying he thinks Wade is Daredevil)

“Well, he could be,” Peter said defensively. “How was I supposed to know? So he’s not a hero? But he’s definitely a mutant, I think I hurt his shoulder when we were --”

(Doooooing it?)

Peter blushed, wincing at the uproarious laughter that pounded in his skull. “-- when we were hanging out. But he barely reacted. He has to be super-strong or something. He’s definitely not normal.”

[No, Wade is NOT normal.]

There was something odd about White’s emphasis and Peter’s heart sank. “Is he a criminal? Does...does he kill people?”

[Kid…] White sighed, and that one word was reluctant agreement.

Peter swallowed down the lump building in his throat. “Right. Okay.”

[He’s not a bad guy. He’s mixed up, that’s all.]

“No. There’s no excuse for killing. Not ever.”

[If you killed somebody. If you had to. We wouldn’t judge you.]

(We love you)

“Th-then you’re just as fucking twisted as Wade is. Both of you. You’re noise, that’s all you are. You’re nothing. ”

Although the boxes were stunned into silence, he could feel the rage emanating from White and the sadness from Yellow. Peter went to bed and slept uneasily. He had a feeling he would regret what he'd said to the boxes.

White was merciless. It wouldn’t leave Peter alone for the whole day and varied between singing songs (off-key) to reciting the alphabet, in the style of Nick Cage in Vampire’s Kiss. TA few hours in, a headache had entrenched itself in Peter’s brain and White had laughed delightedly at the sight of Peter clamping a pillow around his ears. Not that it made any difference.

Yellow was silent, although it sadly bounced around his room like a screensaver, ricocheting off the window sill to the bed, to the closet and up to the ceiling. The yellow and black movement niggled at Peter’s vision like some demented bumblebee, and he swatted at it, but although Yellow would dissipate in the air like smoke, it would return a few seconds later.

It was only when Peter glanced at his calendar that he jolted up, the pillow slithering down the bedspread. He’d forgotten. He was supposed to work tonight (as Spider-Man). There was a gang of arms dealers that he’d been surveying and he was planning to foil them tonight. He checked his phone but it was only the afternoon. Time passed strangely with the boxes’ constant noise. Maybe going after them in the day would be better though. What kind of superhero would ambush arms dealers in the middle of the day? He’d have the element of surprise on his side, his favourite element after Bismuth. He smiled at his joke but the smile dropped at the sight of his reflection. He looked deranged. These boxes were already driving him mad. 

Speaking of surprises, the boxes had a big one coming. There was no way he could patrol without telling his new guests about his alter ego.

Peter lurched up and the room swam, but he resolutely plodded forward, grabbing bed railings and skimming his fingers along the wall, to keep upright. His feet took him to the bathroom, where he met his reflection’s eye. He felt better talking to somebody, even if that somebody was him.

“Guys? Uh...boxes? We need to talk. I wanted to apologise.”

[Blow it out your ass.]

(You hurt us, Peter.)

“I'm sorry, guys. I mean it. I’m gonna be honest, living with you two is not easy, but I know you didn’t mean to, um, end up inside me. Inside my head, I mean. Wait, it was an accident, right? You didn’t plan to switch hosts like this?”

(We were just as surprised as you, honest!)

“I believe you. Anyway, I think we need to start being honest with each other. If I tell you something about me, a secret, I need you to tell me who Wade really is.”

[So you can give us back to him? No deal.]

(Tell us your secret and maybe we’ll tell you.)

Maybe. That did not sound promising, but Peter really needed to get out today and the boxes were going to find out about Spider-Man, either way.

“Okay. But you have to promise me that you won’t tell anybody! I know people can’t hear you, but you have to promise me anyway!”

(I promise!)

[Fine. I promise, too. But this had better be good.]

“I’ll just get -- the thing.”

The boxes speculated what secret Peter was going to tell them, but at least they were speaking quietly. Yellow seemed to think Peter was a stripper -- (He’s got the body for it!) , whereas White was operating under the theory that Peter was in a cult.

Peter had stuffed his super suit in a locked box the last time he’d changed clothes, so it was this box that he was now dragging out of the closet and hauling onto the bed. The boxes bobbed around excitedly, occasionally bumping into each other and bouncing away.

Peter reached in the box and tugged on something silky and blue, and the mass of fabric tumbled out.

(Oh. Shit)

[That’s not--?]

(He’s not a stripper, he’s--?)

“Spider-Man. Yeah.”

[Holy fuck, we’re Spider-Man!]

(This is awesome! Like an upgrade! Our boy’s going to lose his shit when he realises he fucked Spider-Man!)

[We should have planted a flag in this one's ass to claim him!]

“No, you can’t tell a soul, you promised! ” 

(But I wanna telllllllll people!)

“I swear, I will  get my vacuum cleaner and hoover you up, Yellow!”

(That would never work! Actually, maybe it would?)

[Alright, fine, we won’t tell anybody. We know it’s important to you.]

“Thanks.” Peter said, and the boxes twittered around his head like birds.

Changing into his suit was humiliating, feeling White and Yellow’s attention focused solely on him.

He struggled into it, stabbing his toes into the leggings, having to lie on his back to pull them up his thighs. The boxes had apparently forgiven him for insulting him earlier and they were overjoyed at a chance to see more of Peter’s body. Unfortunately, they weren’t content to admire him silently, and they saw every second as an opportunity to reminisce about his hookup with Wade.

(Mmmm, remember when we bent him in half like a pretzel?)

[He was so flexible. We pushed his ankles up to his ears and he didn’t even wince. Should have known he was a mutant, then.]

(Or a yoga fanatic.)

“Guys, please, ” Peter whined, wrestling with the pants. He crammed himself in them, 

Normally, this would be a cinch but he was exhausted and his body was stupid and clumsy and his headache was still playing skipping games with his blood vessels.

[Oh fuck, he sounds so hot when he begs.]

But at least, he was dressed, to the boxes’ disappointment. They were thrilled when he eased himself out of his bedroom window and up the side of the building and the joy only climbed higher as Peter utilised his web-shooters. He realised he was performing, deliberately showing off to them, jumping and swinging higher, throwing in an aerial flip as they screamed and whooped. His head thumped but other than that, he felt better than he had in ages. It was kind of nice to have an audience.

But the fun had to stop at some point, and he hunkered down on a nearby roof so that he could spy on the dealers. There was at least a dozen of them. He could not afford to blow this.

His spider-sense didn’t alert him to Deadpool’s presence. It never did. He didn’t see Deadpool as a threat.

Deadpool greeted him cheerfully and that saccharine, falsely-bright tone pierced right through Peter’s aching skull. He didn’t want to be rude but he couldn’t find it in himself to match Deadpool’s enthusiasm. Even Peter cringed at the sharpness of his tone, but it was too late, it was out there. A nice thing about Deadpool that had surprised Peter was that he was happy to defer to Peter. Oh, DP had an ego alright, but he didn’t have problems following orders and allowing Peter to plan stuff. They’d worked together a few times now, and Peter had even got Deadpool to agree to thwart crooks in non-lethal ways, as long as Peter was there with him. Some people might think Peter was crazy for even trying to change Deadpool, but Peter saw potential in him. It didn’t take a therapist to know that Deadpool had been through some serious trauma and was dealing with mental illness. Peter liked being somebody who was consistently kind to Deadpool, so he internally kicked himself for snapping at him.

Another nice thing about Deadpool (something Peter hadn’t known before today) was that the boxes were apparently terrified of him, because they gasped the second he came into view and became not just invisible but silent too. Huh, maybe he should keep Deadpool around.

Deadpool insisted on helping, even though Peter tried to discourage him. He flew off the handle again, and apologised but Deadpool was unbothered by Peter’s attitude.

Peter was actually thinking that maybe this bust would go well, they’d sneak in, surprise the men and tie them up --

And then Deadpool crashed into the fucking window.

“You can’t rely on Deadpool for anything!” Peter said to himself, crossly. Why did he think it would go smoothly? Nothing ever did. He didn’t follow Deadpool’s wave of destruction, preferring to stick to his original plan of sneaking in.

Now that Deadpool was gone, the boxes were happy to talk Peter’s ear off, pestering him with observations and compliments and suggestions on how to enter the building. He knew they were trying to help but he had a plan and didn’t need their help! But he didn’t dare voice that to them, they’d only just forgiven him for insulting them earlier.

He crept in through a fire door and listened out. Deadpool was on the floor below him, he knew this because he could hear screams and the unmistakable sound of Deadpool rapping. Great, he was probably killing people, now that he didn’t have Peter to babysit him.

[Get to the fight! I want to see blood!]

The boxes were shouting, RIP/TEAR/BLOOD/BREAK and Peter’s mind flooded with images, memories that were completely alien to him, the snap of a bone crunching under his fist, the wet, meaty slap of a body hitting the ground. He didn’t know if these were Wade’s memories or the boxes’. Or the boxes’ fantasies. But he knew they wanted him to join the fight. To spill blood.

The sounds of fighting and Deadpool’s singing waxed and waned as Peter ran through hallways, trying to make his way to the main room. That was where Spider-Man needed to be. The boxes prattled on, and all the noise formed a kind of bubble around Peter, dulling his senses and giving him the impression that he was moving through quicksand. Everything seemed so...so much, so present and potent, the colours were too vivid, the sounds were too loud, everything was framed in a thick black outline, furniture, stair railings, and the colours bled into everything, into him. Had his suit always been that blue?

And yet, everything felt flat. There were walls around him but -- but it was a room and he could breathe but then, what was the pressure in his chest? He found himself walking, passing bodies, his feet slipping in puddles of blood and he crawled instead, finding a safe place that was removed from the fighting, just so he could lie here and breathe, he just needed to breathe.

The boxes kept talking, in a stage-whisper and they were telling him things, forbidden things that he was never supposed to know, something about men, a man called Stan and a man called Lee? And Miles Morales. And Joe Kelly. And -- and these strange names and faces filled his mind and there was that pressure again and he couldn’t turn his head. His head ached worse than ever, the taboo information filled it, his brain would surely burst from that much pressure. Why couldn’t they stop, boxes, stopstop please. And Deadpool would wonder where Spider-Man was and see him sitting there with no head, hahaha and his skull would be in fragments with slimy brain matter dripping down his neck. Deadpool would think it was so funny. hahahahahahahahahdeadpooooooooooooooooooooooooolhellllllllllllllllllllllp

He felt sandwiched between invisible walls and his body was too flat. He could get his fingers of his left hand under the glove of his right and feel his skin, his skin was so glossy like paper. He heard screaming and it came from him but his mouth wouldn’t shut. His mouth was wet and when he bit his lip, it gave way under his teeth. He tasted ink. He tastes of ink.

 He heard a squeak of leather and movement and then Deadpool was there, right in front of him and he could breathe again.

[We...shouldn’t have shown him that.]

(I thought Spider-Man would be able to handle it!)

Deadpool. Peter could have wept at the sight of him. Big and reassuring, solid and so, so real, Deadpool’s body was covered in his usual red jumpsuit but it was a real red, a normal red, not that..that…fake, wet red.

He could barely remember it now. It was like trying to hold onto a dream.

“Hi. So, did you get them all?” His voice sounded steadier than he thought. Maybe he was going to be okay. At least his body wasn’t flat anymore. Neither was Deadpool’s. It was so big and it filled the page, room, room, it filled the room, Deadpool, beautiful crazy garbage-angel Deadpool.

Deadpool was troubled, his masked head cocking to the side like a worried puppy and it was weirdly adorable. It grounded him. Deadpool was here and he’d caught the bad guys in Peter’s absence and it was all fine. He wished he could reach out and grab Deadpool’s arm, just to feel the solid weight of it, the muscles. Just to keep him anchored. Wished Deadpool would move a bit closer and hug Peter, warm and comforting, like Uncle Ben’s hugs used to be. But Spider-Man would never be so desperate, so pathetic. So Peter fled, like the coward he was. It was only when Peter was back in his bedroom, wearing a soft t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, huddled under his blankets in his bland, boring room with not a primary colour in sight, that he felt safe.

Chapter Text

“And then he just ran away!”

“Ran away? Spider-Man?” Weasel snorted, setting down another beer. Wade was leaning on the bar that separated him and his friend, his head resting on his folded arms. It was still an absolute mindfuck, getting accustomed to the new space in his brain. The boxes were still missing in action, and it was a lot easier to organise his thoughts without those two chucklefucks yammering away in his ear. Now, he only had one voice to talk to, but that voice belonged to none other than his buddy, Weasel, a man who was reasonably tolerant of all Wade’s bullshit and would also slip him the odd free beer.

“Ran away. I wouldn’t have known he was hiding behind that crate if it hadn’t been for his boots. His little red boots…” Wade said mournfully, staring at the streaky glass as if it was a crystal ball. Speaking of balls, it was weird seeing Spidey without them. Spider-Man was a backflipping, high-kicking, line-quipping sass mouth and Wade loved him for it. Well...not loved him for it. Admired his goodness of heart. Appreciated his dedication. Ogled his voluptuous ass from a respectful distance. It was weird to see Spider-Man so...diminished. Huddling in a corner like that. Like a...civilian.

“I guess he’s lost his nerve. This lot will be happy.” Weasel said, gesturing widely at the chaos around them. Mercs were drinking, playing pool, fighting, drinking while playing pool, fighting while drinking, fighting while playing pool. Wade’s home away from home.

But then Wade realised Weasel had insulted his beloved Spidey and so, he swatted him on the arm. He intended it to be a reproachful kind of motion, the sort of gesticulation Dorthy Zbornak would perform on some poor fool, but he forgot his strength and Weasel was knocked off his feet.

“Sorry,” Wade murmured when his friend surfaced. Weasel flipped him the bird.

“You’re always coming in here with some new story about this guy. Shit or get off the pot, Wilson. You obviously wanna bang him. So, go hit on him or something. And get out of my bar. Your face is giving me nightmares.”

“Nightmares are just wet dreams for goths.” Wade retorted but he gave some thought to what Weasel said. He couldn’t ‘hit on’ Spider-Man, of course, Wade might enjoy an occasional spanking now and then, but he wasn’t so much of a masochist that he’d ask Spidey out. He could imagine it perfectly, all the bullet holes in his brain couldn’t erase his imagination.

EXT. A ROOFTOP

The roof is flat cement, cool and smooth. The wind is cool, there are diegetic sounds of the breeze blowing through plastic sheeting that hangs from nearby scaffolding.

DEADPOOL is standing, silhouetted against the midnight moon. His meshed eyes stare out at the night. A shadow falls over him. DEADPOOL turns.

SPIDER-MAN straightens from a Hero Landing™. His body uncurls like a coiled spring. Bold, beautiful and blue (and red), Spider-Man stands on the rooftop, surveying his kingdom. 

WADE: Hey, Spidey!

Wade Wilson, AKA Deadpool, our brave hero. He radiates pure waves of coolness and effortless bad-assery. 

SPIDER-MAN: Hello, Wade! I’m probably saying something amusing and sassy, but my humour is a little bit more highbrow than yours, and you’ve had five beers in Weasel’s bar, so your imagination isn’t able to manufacture my — no doubt, pithy— response.

WADE: I’m cool with that. I know I would normally take the time to make a joke about sex or flatulence, and you’d pretend to be offended but you’d be laughing. But instead, I wanna have a heart-to-heart with you.

SPIDER-MAN: [generic sound of interest]

WADE: Great. So. I like you. More than like you. And I’ve more-than-liked you for a long time. Pretty much, since the moment we met—

SPIDER-MAN: You mean, when you threw me off a bridge?

WADE: See? Even our first meeting was passionate! Anyway, I feel like our friendship should...maybe..take the next level. I could take you out on a date? What do you say?

SPIDER-MAN: ……

SPIDER-MAN: ……

SPIDER-MAN: ……

SPIDER-MAN: I have some concerns.

WADE: Which are?

SPIDER-MAN: You kill people for money. You don’t read books. You eat like a pig. You’re hideous to look at. Nobody likes you. Even the voices in your head got sick of you and abandoned you! You drink too much. And...come on. I’m Spider-Man. Do you honestly think you ever had a shot with a guy like me? 

Wade: Those are all valid points. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to throw myself off this roof.

Spider-Man [as Wade yeets himself over the ledge]: You’re gonna die alone! Or you would — if you could die...

EXIT WADE

But Weasel shook his head. “He wouldn’t be that brutal. He’s Spider-Man. He’s, like, a grandma. A grandma in spandex. Ugh, there’s a mental image I didn’t need.”

“Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating, but not by much! I know he wouldn’t say all that shit to me — he’s way too nice! But you know what would be worse? The reality. I’d tell him all this stuff, spill my fucking guts out and he’d stand there. And he’d look at me with — with fucking pity.”

“Better than him pepper-spraying you and running away.”

“I guess. I can’t ask him on a date. He’s an awesome, brave hero, I’m an ugly dude with mad skills and great dress sense. It would never work. But I should go see him and ask if he’s okay. I could bring him tacos? Or...what do you get people who are sick?”

“A coffin?”

“No, dummy. You get them nice stuff. Flowers. And grapes. And a teddy bear.”

“It’s ten o’clock at night. Where are you going to get that stuff? And what I should have asked first: why the fuck do you think a guy like Spider-Man is going to want that shit?”

“No, he’ll love it, he’ll totally love it.”

“He’s gonna put a restraining order on you, man!” Weasel called as Wade skedaddled out of there. Whatever. He didn’t understand Wade and Spidey’s connection.

Wade was able to find a bodega store and although the elderly shopkeeper seemed alarmed at Wade’s mask, he was soon calmed down by the pleasing sight of a fistful of green dollar bills.

Ah, money. It solves so many of life’s problems.

Wade browsed the aisles, bopping his head in time with the tinny music pouring out of the overhead speakers. It could have been Spice Girls or Eminem. He wasn’t sure, but the beat slapped.

The bodega was one of those tiny, cramped shops that had a lot of stock that frankly, didn’t make much sense. From a business standpoint. There were garishly-patterned energy drinks from Japan that Wade was pretty sure were expired, squeezy rubber dog toys, a dartboard. Who’s buying this crap? Wade. Wade is buying this crap. He picked up anything he liked the look of and dumped it all on the counter.

“I’m trying to cheer up a friend,” he said breathlessly. The shopkeeper peered up at him.

Wade wasn’t too concerned with how he’d track down Spidey. Something always threw them together. Call it kismet, call it coincidence, call it the lack of imagination in Marvel artists, but the two of them were always encountering one another. Wade had a knack for finding his boy. He was a spidey-seeking missile, a man on a mission. Carrying a bulging backpack with goodies for his friendo.

It was the perfect night for a certain spider to be patrolling.  A cold, clear night, the moon shining brightly (or trying to, through the clouds of pollution) and the city still very much alive. The bang of car doors, clatter of heels on the sidewalk, the bodies moving far below him, scurrying like ants. It was a nice night to be out.

He skulked about, on the street-level, keeping an eye out for a red-and-blue figure. As he moved downtown, he knew he was getting close because he could see webs on nearby buildings. He knew Spider-Man’s webs naturally dissolve after a couple of hours, so these ones were probably fresh. He wasn’t dumb enough to pull on one. He’d get stuck. And yes, he was speaking from experience. Man, Spidey had busted a gut laughing at him when that happened.

He made one observation as he followed the webbing. They looked...weird. The buildings were covered in them. And normally, they were long, thin ropes but these ones looked a bit messy. Clumps of gluey webbing, wetly sliding down windowpanes like a squid. 

“Looks a bit like sperm,” Wade said aloud. He felt like the boxes would have appreciated that thought. 

Wait, was that… There was a strand of webbing on the road! Thankfully, this was a quiet street. Or as quiet as New York ever gets. A lot of dilapidated abandoned businesses. Just a small street left to rot. Sure, you got hobos and drunkards chilling in the alleys, but not a lot of cars passed down here. Even so, he should probably move the webbing. The end of it was stuck to a lamppost and it hung at about waist height. Wade glanced around. Yeah, that was definitely Spider-Man’s webbing. It was stuck to the lamppost, and the rest of it dangled over the road and then disappeared into an alley. If Wade had to describe the setup (say, to the reader), he’d tell you to picture a racetrack. The road is the track and the strand of webbing is like the tape at the finish line. You know? The one that the runners break as they sprint to the end. But this wasn’t tape, it was a complex blend of...well, Wade didn’t actually know what Spidey made the webs out of. He’s not a science guy, okay?! But he knew it was dangerous. If a car or bike sped along, best case scenario is they’d get stuck. Worst case — well, have you ever watched a horror movie where somebody puts a length of wire on the road at neck-height?

With those morbid thoughts lingering in his brain, Wade decided to be a good little Samaritan and fix this. He approached the lamppost. It didn’t look like it had been done intentionally. The webbing wasn’t securely wrapped to the long metal bar. Nah, it was clinging to it haphazardly, like a booger hanging from a desk. He steeled himself, dug his fingers into the sticky bundle of webbing and pulled. It came easily, immediately attaching itself to his gloves. He sighed. Better if it was stuck to him than stuck to some poor bastard.

He walked across the road, adding more webbing to the pile as he went. He felt like he was rolling up wool into a skein. At least it was off the road now. He had no idea what to expect as he ventured into the mouth of the alley. And his gloves were stuck to the ball of webbing, so if he wanted to defend himself, he’d have to take them off. Ah well. Cross that bridge when we come to it.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could definitely see that he wasn’t alone. Panic seized him for all of ten seconds, until he recognised the man. Oh, thank fuck.

“Spidey? You sitting on a dumpster?”

It was true. There was a vague dark shape in the alley, pressed against the wall. A big dumpster, filled with a mountain of trash bags. With a man sitting on top, hunched over.

“Huh, that’s a — a powerful smell,” Wade gasped. He wished he could plug his nose. He wondered if webbing made a good nose plug.

Spider-Man lifted his head. He was sat, perched on the end of the dumpster with his legs hanging down. The thread of web ended at his body. Still attached to the web-shooter on his wrist. Oh, Spidey.

“Deadpool . When I see you, everything goes quiet.” Spidey’s voice had always had an artificial sheen to it, the telltale sign of a voice modulator built into his suit, but his voice sounded more human than it had before. It was rough.

“Hey?”

“Calm. So calm and silent. Bliss. You’re my oasis, aren’t you, ‘Pool?” Spidey said softly. “The centre of the storm.”

“You feeling poetic tonight, Spidey?” Wade drew closer, and even through the mask, he was smacked in the face by the stink of alcohol. It even managed to overpower the Eau de trashbags odour. “Have you been drinking?”

Those empty beer cars by Spidey’s side. There was a lot of ‘em...

“Mm-hmm. It helps.”

“That’s — that’s not like you,” Wade said, trying to remain calm. He thought fuck it, yanked his gloves off and threw them (and the webby gloop) into a pile of the ground. “Can you even get drunk? Won’t your healing factor—”

“Ahhh, but my healing factor is not as good as yours, ‘Pool,” Spidey said grandly and patted Wade’s chest, for some reason. 

“Should you be patrolling while drunk?”

Spidey sneezed in his mask and Wade wanted to slap a bow around his neck and carry him around in a purse like a puppy.

“I think I should get you home.”

“Why would you get me a home? I already have a home.”

“Your drunk jokes are better than your sober ones but I’m not up for playin’ around right now. You know shit’s serious when even I won’t dick about.”

Spidey sat there and watched as Wade snapped the webbing off his web-shooter. He flicked it off his fingers and it stuck to one of the empty cans.

“Let’s get you outta here, buddy. I don’t think the good people of Queens need to see Spidey and his secret shame. Come on. Upsadaisy.”

Spidey was very agreeable, letting Wade pull him off the dumpster and onto his feet. He swayed a little, clinging to Wade’s shoulders for balance. That shouldn’t have made a tricky little shiver of pleasure run up his body, but it did. Yeah, he was still majorly crushing on the guy. Time to examine those feelings when he’s not in a gross alleyway with his drunk, hero buddy.

Spider-Man clumsily patted Wade’s shoulder.“Can I jus’ say...you’re a good, my friend — I dunno what I’d do...thanks, Deadpool.”

Wade squinted at him. He didn’t like that. He would normally be grinning like a loon at one of Spider-Man’s rare compliments but this troubled him. First, Spider-Man freaks out in the middle of a fight. Now, he drowns his sorrows in a stinky dumpster. Something was seriously wrong and Wade had no fucking clue on how to support him through this.

“I’ll always be your friend,” he told him. He wished he could say more, but with Spider-Man leaning on him and swaying on his feet, he didn’t think it would pierce his drunk brain. “I’ve always got your back. You know that, right?”

But Spidey merely mumbled nonsense into Wade’s shoulder. He lolled over, and Wade automatically caught him. He was alarmed until he heard gentle snoring.

He tried to wake him but Spidey wasn’t stirring. Only one thing left to do. Wade lifted him up and slung him over his shoulder. Spidey hiccuped but didn’t protest.

“Right, that’s it. You’re spending the night at mine, you doofus.”

And with a spider over one shoulder and his backpack over the other, he headed home.

Chapter Text

“You’ve ruined everything.”

(That seems a bit harsh.)

[What did we do?]

“You ruined my life!”

[Hey, your life was already a dumpster fire before we got here!]

But they had. The boxes had single-handedly (We don’t have hands, remember!) sabotaged his patrol. They’d filled his head with — stuff. When he tried to think back and dredge up the memories of that night, his brain ached. He felt like the information was taboo, something unholy. But he was a scientist, he had no time for such theatrics. He just knew that he never wanted to experience something like that ever again.

Luckily (or unluckily), Deadpool had been there. He’d gone in and done things his way. Peter wanted to rage, or throw some snarky retort in Deadpool’s stupid masked face. But he knew that he wasn’t angry with Deadpool — he was angry with himself. Deadpool had killed those people, yes. But was that really such a surprise? There’s that old fable about the scorpion and the toad. The scorpion will sting because such an action is in its nature. Deadpool will kill because he’s Deadpool, not Spider-Man. Deadpool didn’t seem to have much of a grasp on morality and the preciousness of human life. But he was willing to learn. He would follow Spider-Man around, assisting him on missions. He’d defer to him, take his advice. Peter knew that if he invested enough time in Deadpool’s development, he’d see a big change in him. Peter had been headed on a dark path himself and tragically, it was his uncle’s death that led to him discovering the importance of using your powers for a good cause. Deadpool had suffered in his life, that was true. From what Peter had heard, that’s all it was. Torture and suffering, just pain pushed down onto miles of pain. And Deadpool hadn’t learnt from it, because how could you learn when all you feel is agony? There was no kindness in Deadpool’s life. Nobody to pick him up and help him, guide him towards a better future. Peter could be that guide for him. Hopefully, they wouldn’t have another debacle like the one they’d had at the warehouse. All those dead criminals.

[Who gives a fuck? They were crooks!]

“You don’t understand,” Peter said. They never would. “There’s more to it than that.”

(So, tell us. Explain).

The boxes were visible today, bouncing around Peter’s bedroom. Yellow swooped closer and Peter viciously pushed it away. It felt like a big foam block. Yellow went careering away and crashed into the light. As it dizzily flew away, it left a smear of black newspaper ink on the lampshade.

“Why should I bother? Why explain anything to you?”

[We want to know. We’re in your head, we deserve to know why you think the things you do.]

“As if.”

[Try us.]

“You’re not my friends. You’re not even real. I’m sick of you. All you do is babble away in my brain.”

(Why are you being so mean? We just wanna spend time with you!)

[Yeah, lose the attitude, punk. We’re not your enemies.]

“You’re a curse,” Peter snapped and the boxes pulsed like lava lamps. They were sulking again. But so fucking what? Peter was mad, too! 

He needed to find a way to shut them up. Heading out to patrol wouldn’t work. Fighting just made them more keyed-up. He shuddered, recalling their malicious glee. There had to be another way to incapacitate them. The answer came to him in a flash.

Peter dropped by his favourite bodega, nervously slapping his wallet against his palm. The shopkeeper was an old guy who’d seen everything in New York. He knew Peter, and had known his uncle. He was a nice guy. Peter couldn’t recall his name.

“Having a party?” the shopkeeper inquired, as Peter set down yet another six-pack of beer to join the rest.

“Yes, I am. But it’s a very exclusive party.” And the boxes weren’t invited.

As long as he drank a significant amount of alcohol, it would be enough to overcome his healing power. This was risky and foolhardy, he knew it. But at this point, he felt like he was out of options. He carried his bulging bags of booze back to his apartment. As he walked along the street with the boxes bobbing above his head, he felt even more vindicated in his decision to block them out. He hadn’t been able to put his finger on it before, but something had definitely changed. The world had been altered. Or perhaps, Peter’s perception of it had been adjusted. It wasn’t quite on the level of that horrible sheen that had plagued his sight, back in the warehouse. But this world was new. The colours were more vivid, the streetlights shone brighter. When he squinted, he thought he could pick out little details that had been invisible to him before. When he walked past an alleyway and peered into its dark depths, he fancied he could see the pattern of the shadows. A cross-thatched effect, like lots of little, crisscrossing lines that swept together and blotted out the light.

(Did we blow your third eye wide open? Haha!)

[That’s not the only thing of his that I’d blow —  if you know what I mean.]

(Does he know he’s  a ¿ɹǝʇɔɐɹɐɥɔ ʞooqɔıɯoɔ)

[Don’t think so. Best not to mention it again.]

(Wade was always better at the fourth wall stuff.)

Peter stopped in the middle of the street, earning him a few angry looks as people had to walk around him. There was that name again. Wade. “Who’s Wade?” he said urgently.

No response. 

He even looked above, but the boxes were still there, hanging in the air as if they were pulled along by an invisible string. They still contained the text from the very last things they’d said. Peter scowled up at that name. He was going to find out who this Wade guy was. Just, not right now.

“Not talking, huh? Giving me the silent treatment? Good. You just wait until I figure out a way to keep you silent forever.”

Peter walked home, carrying his prize. The super-strength helped  — carrying all these tins of beer and bottles of spirits wasn’t any trouble — it was rather like carrying a small bag of groceries. But it was cumbersome, he only had two arms and was lugging several large bags. But he made it home.

He tore into the bags as soon as he got back to his apartment. He didn’t have an appreciation for alcohol. He had to drink so much to feel any of the positives, it wasn’t worth it in his eyes. And his friends from school had never been drinking, partying types. He didn’t see much of them these days. Maybe, when he was feeling less stressed, he’d pick up the phone and invite somebody out for a coffee. For now, he had a different objective in mind. He was going to get absolutely hammered.

[You sure this is a good idea? You don’t look like a seasoned drinker to me.]

(Hugs Not Drugs, Spidey!)

“Oh, you’re back, are you?” Peter said acidly, as he cracked open a tin. “Can’t resist digging the blade in, eh? Well, screw you. You just wait until I can shut you out.”

[Oh yeah? Are we really that obnoxious? You hate us that much?]

“Yes, you really are, and yes, I really do.”

[Yellow, that sounds like a challenge to me. Spidey’s handed us a licence to aggravate!]

And that’s what they did.

Yellow sang If You Like Pina Coladas, while White shouted out the lyrics to Tubthumping by Chumbawamba. On repeat. The headache set in about two hours thirty minutes into the performance.

Noise. A constant barrage of overlapping voices and flickering text boxes. Peter tossed an empty can at White. He didn’t check to see if it hit its mark. The beer was cheap, all he could afford. Bitter, a dry thin taste that didn’t quench his thirst. 

It seemed to be working. He slumped over his swivel chair and was momentarily distracted by the amusing game of swivelling around as fast as he could. Whoops, shouldn’t have done that. Now, he felt sick. He burped loudly and giggled. He should have done this ages ago. It was working. He was barely aware of the boxes. They were nothing more than a faint sound in the back of his head. Like, the crackle of static on an old television set. He wasn’t a tense bundle of nerves anymore. He sat, lax and happy, in his chair. Dragging his shoes along the floor. His stomach felt full, and when he moved, his belly sloshed with liquid, but he was relaxed and smiling. He’d done it. Achieved the impossible. Figured out how to get the voices out of his head.

He should go on patrol! Yeah! He felt fine. Even better than his usual self. He didn’t think anybody could get the better of him tonight. Not even the Green Goblin!  This would prove that he’d beaten the boxes, once and for all! With that thought in mind, Peter pushed himself off his chair and staggered to his closet. 

Getting dressed took ages! His limbs wouldn’t bend right and he had to stop a couple of times to visit the bathroom. But he reckoned he was fine now. He yanked the mask on and checked himself out in the mirror. He looked great! No boxes and Spider-Man is back in business. Oh, but he was forgetting something. He slapped his web-shooters onto his wrists. There. Criminal masterminds beware, Spider-Man’s heading out!

Before he left, he slung his backpack over his shoulder. He’d tossed some more beer cans in there. If the boxes broke through the haze in his mind, he wanted more booze to silence them again. It just made sense.

Crime-fighting. That was the idea. The problem was, Peter had no idea what he was supposed to be doing. He passed a few clubbers and they waved. He waved back. Everybody seemed to know where they were going, tonight. Not him. He was looking for trouble. He knew that. Just couldn’t seem to find it. His spider-sense didn’t react, not even when he almost walked into the path of a car. Maybe...maybe he should go take a small rest. A tiny power nap to keep his wits sharp. 

He leant on a lamppost, squinting through bleary eyes. If some mook with a gun came at him, he wouldn’t even be able to defend himself. This might have been a bad idea. He staggered deeper into the alleyway. It would be prudent to get out of the way of prying eyes. A lot of people would like to see Spider-Man like this. The Daily Bugle would have a field day...

His legs felt drained of strength so he sat down on a nearby dumpster. He just needed to sit here and ...maybe he should have another drink…

He awoke to the rhythmic coo of pigeons, which was a pleasant way to wake up. As he blinked back sleep, he could spot a bird through the window. A couple of pigeons were perched on the sill, and Peter blearily watched them, smiling to himself. One flew away.

He yawned and a brief flash of pain jolted through his skull. Oh. Yeah.

Thankfully, his healing power had erased most of the hangover, but he wasn’t accustomed to drinking so he still felt a bit nauseated. He sat up in bed, and immediately realised something was wrong. This wasn’t his bed. The room was larger than his, furnished with lots of soft fabrics, some faded with age. A heavy cover lay on top of him, he pushed it off him. Oh, thank goodness. He was still in his suit. He touched his face but he already knew he was masked. His breath was inescapable in the confines of the mask. It stank! He winced and levered himself off the bed. His boots brushed a pair of small, fuzzy slippers lying on the floor.

What had happened last night? Where the hell was he?

He paced cautiously around the room, trying to ascertain more about his mysterious host. This was a woman’s room, had to be. The shoes, the dressing gown that was slung over the back of a chair. Not a young woman, either. The thought reminded him of his aunt and he sighed. He really should call her soon. But it was so hard. Especially now, with the boxes.

The boxes? Were they still here? He rather thought they were. He couldn’t see them, but he still felt watched. But there was no tingling spider-sense running up his spine, so he wasn’t in danger. Yet. 

He could hear movement from the next room. Clattering and the groan of drawers opening and closing. Something whirring, some kitchen implement, maybe? Time to face the inevitable. His memory was still hazy, but he could find answers this way. Before he left the room, he patted himself down. Yes, he was suited and booted and his web-shooters were still securely slotted around his wrists. They felt a bit lighter. Had he used them last night?

He heard a male voice through the wall. And he could smell sizzling bacon. His stomach growled.

No time to snap them open and check the web fluid quantity. It was time to go meet his host with the most.

The kitchen was cramped but cosy. Aunt May would have been distinctly impressed at the mess, but Peter liked it.

He spotted a guy, broad-shouldered and burly, standing at the stove, poking something in a pan with a spatula. His bald head shone under the light but there was something wrong with his skin. Peter squinted through his mask. There was something familiar about him.

“Hey,” Peter said hesitantly. The guy tensed but didn’t turn around.

“Hey, you! Uh, Spidey, would you mind turning your back?” 

“Deadpool?”

“Yup, it’s me, The Regenerating Degenerate. Now, be a good arachnid and turn your back, pretty please?”

“Why?”

“I’m unmasked,” Deadpool spat the words out as if they hurt him. “So, please.”

“Oh!” Peter spun around, even though it went against his instincts to face away from...well, anybody. But Deadpool was right. It was important to remain masked. He waited, looking with interest at the worktop. Several packaged items of food were laid out, and a crumpled paper bag. Bacon, a carton of eggs, milk, yogurt.

“Done!” Deadpool said sunnily and Peter turned back. Deadpool not only had put his mask on, he’d thrown on a thick, grey sweatshirt as well. He’d been wearing a tight, red t-shirt and jeans but now, all his skin was hidden. Except for his hands. As if he’d caught Peter staring, Wade shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. “So, did you — argh, crap—” He bounded over to the stove and poked viciously at the contents of the frying pan. “Don’t you burn, don’t you dare! Spidey, take a seat, gotta do some damage control over here.”

Peter took a seat at the small, scrubbed table. He had nothing to do, other than watch Deadpool leap about the kitchen.

Deadpool set down a full plate on a Teletubbies placemat. “You get Tinky Winky because you’re a guest. Here you go,” he said breathlessly. “The breakfast of champions. Get it while it’s hot.”

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” Peter said, eyeing the mountain of food. Fried eggs, sausages, rashers of crispy bacon, hash browns and a stack of buttered toast.

“Nonsense!” Deadpool chirped, setting down his own plate opposite Peter’s. Deadpool’s placemat showed a red teletubbie. “Thought a good meal might make you feel better. Always works for me.”

“I didn’t know you could cook!”

“Well, I cook for my roommate sometimes. Oh, and my daughter. Shit, forgot the cutlery—”

“What did you say?” Peter gasped but Deadpool had already sprang up. He watched, his head on a swivel, as Deadpool set down forks, knives and glasses of orange juice.

“There we go. We’re eating properly. My roommate yells at me when I eat with my hands.”

“Sorry, Deadpool, did you say you had a dau—”

“Eat.” Deadpool said insistently, and Peter got the impression it was about more than the food. Perhaps...perhaps Deadpool wasn’t comfortable discussing his family with Peter. That was fine. That was okay. Deadpool didn’t have to tell him anything he didn’t want to. It’s not like Peter ever spoke about his family to him. Deadpool rolled up his mask to his nose. He tried not to stare. Deadpool's skin was an angry pink. As it had been scalded with hot water. It didn't repulse him. He wished he could see more. It was fascinating. But Deadpool unfurled a copy of The Daily Bugle and balanced it against the half-full carton of juice. It hid him from view. He read as he ate. And Peter was left looking at his own masked face, on the cover of the paper. Oh, that was one of his old photos. Jameson must have re-used it. Peter rolled up his mask too. Just to the bridge of his nose. But Deadpool wouldn't be able to see his face through the paper, anyway. He wondered if that was why he'd spread the newspaper out in the first place. Giving Peter a bit of privacy to eat.

Peter cut up one of his eggs and scooped it onto a piece of toast. It was delicious, who knew that Deadpool could cook?

“Good? Deadpool asked, with his mouth full.

“Mm!” he managed, around his toast. Neither of them said much, content to sit there, wolfing down their meals. He’d thought greasy food was a bad idea for a hangover, but he actually thought that it might be helping. Absorbing the alcohol from his blood or something.

Deadpool wasn’t a neat eater. He chewed loudly, read the paper as he haphazardly fed himself with his other hand.  But it was kind of charming. Deadpool did whatever he wanted, he didn’t let himself get hemmed in by social niceties. He was unapologetically unfiltered and it was pretty cool. And he could make a mean breakfast.

Deadpool topped off Peter’s OJ. “Do you remember much about last night?”

He racked his brains. Beer...Boxes...and Deadpool. There was an alley. His body rocked in Deadpool’s arms, carrying him away. Felt safe…

“No,” he murmured. “I don’t remember a thing.”

“I figured as much. You were pretty out of it. You were three sheets to the wind.”

“I don’t normally drink,” Peter confessed. 

Deadpool tore off a corner of toast and crunched it thoughtfully. “See, I didn’t think you did. Which is why I was so surprised to see you like that. Is everything...okay at home?”

For some reason, that got to him. He lowered his gaze to his plate, despite the fact that Deadpool wasn’t able to see his face. No, things weren’t okay. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

“You know, if you needed something. Money or — I could — I got—”

“I’m fine for money. Thanks but. Everything's fine, just — Stresses at work.”

“Sucks.” Deadpool was sympathetic, even if his work troubles must surely be very different to Peter’s. “But if you need anything, couch to crash on, a buddy, an accomplice, an alibi, my door is always open. Well, actually, it’s double dead-bolted but for you, it’s always open. You get what I’m saying.”

“I do,” he chuckled. “Thank you.” Despite Deadpool’s jokes, what he’d said was heartening. He really cared about Peter, didn’t he? On Deadpool’s side (at least), they were true friends. Peter shouldn’t be so hard on him all the time. Deadpool was trying to be better. And he might be a bit strange sometimes, but hey, so was Peter! Even more so with these boxes in his brain. He grinned.

Their healing powers meant that both men had voracious appetites. So, Peter was enthusiastic when Deadpool asked him if he wanted seconds. He still felt a flicker of shame that he had to squash down. Some part of him (that spoke with Aunt May’s voice!) felt a tiny bit guilty for using up Deadpool’s resources. Which was stupid because Deadpool was very, very rich. Didn’t explain why he was living in a pokey apartment, but hey, maybe he liked it that way. It bugged him to learn that Deadpool had a roommate. Peter hadn’t had a good nose around her bedroom so he had no idea what she was like. There were no framed photographs around the apartment. But she and DP were apparently close. They’d have movie nights or Golden Girls marathons. Deadpool would do her nails, he said.

Peter stuffed himself with egg on toast and chugged orange juice.

When he finally hauled himself out of the door, he felt full and sleepy. It wasn’t often that he had such a good meal. He wasn’t a starving artist but he always knew when the ramen packs were on sale in the supermarket, put it that way!

Before Peter left, Deadpool shoved a bag in his arms. “Got you some stuff from the shop,” he said gruffly, when Peter quizzed him on it.

“Come by anytime!” Deadpool said, waving him goodbye. He was leaning against the doorway, comfortable in his sweatshirt, jeans and pink crocs. “Anytime.”

“I will!” Peter said, although he shouldn’t promise things like that. He wondered if Deadpool was lonely. But even if he was lonely, he didn’t live alone. He had his roommate.

Peter didn’t bother swinging his way through the city. Deadpool had explained about the mysterious missing web fluid. Embarrassing to think that he’d thrown webs around like a kid wielding a can of silly string. Luckily, Deadpool had been there to stop him from making too big a fool out of himself.

Wow. He owed Deadpool big time. He’d got drunk,  done some dumb stunts that could have compromised Spider-Man’s reputation.  But Deadpool had taken him home, hadn’t peeked under his mask and had fed him and kept him safe. He didn’t have to go to the trouble, but he’d gone ahead and done it anyway. Peter should do something nice for him.