Chapter Text
The atmosphere back in Stark Tower is terrible, it feels like a thick, heavy coat of gloominess and depression has been thrown over the whole building, causing every inhabitant to feel down and sad.
The Avengers are on their usual hang-around floor again, scattered across the room, their voices hushed, expressions exhausted and thoughtful. The usual laughter, banter and occasional pranking and light sarcasm is gone, vanished and made room for grieving and heavy silence.
Peter knew the Avengers have strong bonds of friendship binding them together, but for everyone to be this affected by the two unconscious and hurt team members shows they are so much more than just friends and proves that they really do care and feel for each other genuinely and it's not just some kind of marketing-thing they do for the newspapers and public to keep their images up.
Steve and Tony are seated at the mini bar, lounging on the high stools with their bodies resting on the counter tiredly, talking about the earlier attack. Peter sees Tony absolutely doesn't want to, but Steve seems to be eager to discuss the new mysteries with somebody and there is no way rejecting those steel blue puppy eyes once the super solider pulls them off.
Peter sits a armchair a little to their right, however he is still in earshot and can hear the slightly confused words they are sharing.
"Where on earth did those robots come from?" Steve muses, with his hand wearily rubbing over the side of his face, a deep frown on the center of his forehead where his pale eyebrows are knitted together.
"I hate to admit it, but I honestly have no idea." Tony mumbles, reaching over the counter to pull out a half full bottle of scotch. He takes a long, generous gulp before putting it down again. "It's like somebody summoned them there an just left again. It's really weird. Most villains stay at the scene to watch us fight and bleed and get hurt in their sick sadistic ways, but this? Man, this doesn't make a lick of sense." Tony replies, confusedly scratching his back and occasionally throwing worried looks at Wanda, Pietro and Peter (He tries to mask them as random 'checkin' on the team'-looks, Peter can tell).
"Whatever it was, we at least should collect some robot parts and analyze them in your lab, don't you think? Maybe it could help finding out something about their creator and origin." Steve suggests and reaches for the bottle as well, pouring himself a generous amount into a glass (because he's classy and doesn't drink from the bottle, of course).
"I'd need Banner to help me though... Too bad he's not coming back till tomorrow." The genius sighs with fake regret. His eyes widen when he sees Steve drink his beloved scotch. "And what do you think you are doing, Mister? Are you just stealing my alcohol right now? You can't even get drunk!"
"Can't help it, Tony, you drink too much!" Steve smiles warmly and the couple drifts in their usual playful arguing.
Peter decides not to eavesdrop on them any further and his attention drifts to Natasha, Pietro and Thor who are who are watching over Wanda and Clint. He stands up and joins them, leaning against the glass facade next to Natasha.
While the assassin shows her typical, motionless pokerface, Thor and Pietro are helplessly heartbroken, the young Sokovian alternately sitting on passed out Avenger's couches, stoking their hair and faces carefully while mumbling soft hushed Sokovian.
Thor is sitting on a chair the wrong way round and is very passionately monologuing about how he is going to 'demonstrate his wrath and smite the people who dared to hurt his dearest of friends'.
And by the way a blinding bright bolt of lightning cracks in the perfectly blue sky, Peter is pretty sure he will get his revenge.
He takes a look at Natasha again. She is staring ahead with her gaze fixed on the unconscious heroes and her face still doesn't betray any emotion besides the slightest twitch of muscle in her jaw tightening. Sometimes, Peter really wants to know what she is thinking, the read headed Russian is such a complex and mysterious-in-every-possibly-way woman.
"Geez, Pietro, stop fussing all over them like that! How many times do I have to tell you?" She suddenly snaps, losing her temper with the white haired Sokovian. He jolts at the sudden harshness of her words and immediately stops his actions, even he with his sassy behavior wouldn't dare to oppose her. You don't simply mess with the Black Widow or she'll castrate you in her sleep and you won't even notice, Peter leaned from Clint very soon.
Pietro flops down onto the thin strip of ground in between the sofas instead, the corners of his mouth still pulled down as far as they can go.
"Does this happen often?" Peter asks into the silence, gesturing towards the sofas, curious about Natasha's sudden outburst.
Injuries? Yes. Passing out... No, although it is usually Clint and Wanda who do since Clint's only human and Wanda's powers feed from her physical energy and she still has to learn how to control them." Her full lips twist into a sad smile and her forest green eyes soften, love and tenderness pooling in them. "They always get in trouble, those uncareful idiots." She says, a surprising amount of fondness and warmth Peter would never have expected in her words.
"Why don't you want Pietro worrying about Wanda and Clint?" Peter asks after a while when he sees Pietro is still sprawled out on the floor motionless.
"It's not wrong to grieve or be worried when somebody close to you is injured or gets hurt. But, when you live the lives we do, it sadly tends to happen a lot, every day if you're unlucky." She begins, raking a hair through her copper locks, pushing them out if her face.
"Clint and I... Before we joined the Avengers, we were top Agents working under Shield. We were sent out on a lot of very difficult missions, some of them were even titled suicide missions because there was almost no chance of getting out alive. So we both were injured, were carried home unconscious and so on, more often so than not. All those years taught me that worrying is human and a totally normal feeling, but when you do this kind of business, too much worry eats you up, slowly makes you hate the job and spiral into depression. I try to make Pietro and Wanda understand, since they are still very young and I don't want them to be mentally scarred any further."
Peter nods and turns forward again, being glad that Natasha isn't the cold hearted Widow everybody assumed her to be.
"Why not tell him directly?"
"Because I don't like revealing myself to others." She smiles and turns to Peter and pinches his cheeks. "Don't tell anyone, okay? Cutie Pie youuu." She coos and Peter squeaks embarrassingly high.
"Oh my god, Natasha, stop!" He whines and the redhead walks over to Pietro, chuckling, to lean down ruffle his messy white mop. There is strangled giggle escaping the Sokovian's throat. Apparently, Natasha's cuddling is extremely rare but very much appreciated.
"What? It is not Movie-Friday and Nat is cuddling people and nobody is bothering to tell me? You guys are are heartless. Nat, I want a hug tooo." Tony whines from the counter and extends his arms.
"Still four days to go, hun, it's still Tuesday." Natasha winks and sits down onto a chair far away from him.
Meanwhile, Peter eyes widen when he realizes: it is Tuesday. Tuesday afternoon. Which mean patrol. Which means he has to get the hell out of here. Soon.
He's lucky he only has patrol once or twice a week, Matt has his connections and insisted on taking over the main part since Peter was technically still a child. Peter insisted on more since he actually enjoyed helping people or the police by detecting and fighting crimes, however Matt had not given an inch.
Peter mentally groans and sighs, there is no way he can call Matt to take over, he'd done that way too often recently and he didn't really know other superheroes.
God damnit.
Looks like he will have to wiggle his way out of the whole situation. Again.
"Uhmm Pops?" He asks in his most casual 'Dad I need 50 bucks'-voice.
"What is it, Peter?" Steve smiles warmly, looking up from his conversation with Tony.
"Is it okay if I went for, like, a walk? I kinda need to clear my head from everything that has been happening." Peter says, crossing his fingers as hard as he could, praying they would let him go.
He almost sighs in relief when the super solider's features soften and his gentle smile widens.
"Of course you can. Just make sure you don't stay out too long. And don't go into the dark alleys! And be careful with–
"Steve." Tony complains and rolls his eyes before winking at the teen. "Try to suppress that mother hen in you! He'll be fine, don't worry."
"Thanks daddies!" Peter breathes in relief and, after a shoulder squeeze from Steve, takes off to the elevator.
∆
Peter swings from skyscraper to skyscraper, the muscles of his whole body still sore from the fight earlier, protesting and aching; but he really needs something to clear his mind and ease the negative attitude he currently has whenever he thinks about what happened to Wanda and Clint though, and swinging around in town in red and blue spandex is kinda his thing.
A few blocks later, he decides to stay closer to the ground as his arms grow a bit weary, he doesn't want to take any chances and get himself killed because he slipped off his own web.
Suddenly, there is a smudge of a red flashing in the corner of his eyes, and mere seconds later, a high pitched voice is squealing "Spidey!" at a deafening volume.
A pair of black boots kick him in the side, grazing his left web shooter, and the impact is so powerful (and oh God, painful) Peter is forced to let his web go, his knuckles popping as they are being forcefully torn off the thread as he tries to shield his body.
He and the asshole (Yeah, Peter can curse too, when he wants to) tumble to the ground at frightening speed, and to the arachnid's horror, he realizes he probably won't be able to catch the body since his web shooter seems to have broke due to the impact. Which is fatal, since he'll need exactly both of them for rescuing said asshole.
Cursing some more under his breath, he webs the closest building and pulls himself close, sticking to the glass before powerfully pushes himself off of it. Blinding pain explodes in his leg, but he ignores it, has to, he isn't going to make it, he has to be faster, quicker, oh god, he is hitting the ground, NO-
Splat.
Peter's eyes widen in horror and snap shut again when he catches a glimpse of all the blood and... Other nasty stuff on the sidewalk, he can hear and see people screaming, fainting, running for their lives. Taking a deep breath, he finds the courage to open them again, reluctantly, hesitantly, to face the situation, but the sight greeting him makes him shout out loudly and snap them shut again, turning his head away immediately.
"Sup, Spidey. Nice seeing you too!"
Deadpool is lying on the ground in a puddle of his own blood, his torso facing upwards while his lower body is downwards, his spine clearly broken. His masked eyes are turning into smiling white crescents, but his voice is becoming wobbly and uneven towards the end of the sentence.
Peter takes an other breath, calming himself down, trying to fight down the adrenaline, surprise, rage pooling inside his body, but nope, here he goes.
„What the hell, Deadpool?“ Peter cries/shouts out angrily, bile rising into the back of his throat when he realies he almost stepped onto a shiny sticky pink part of the merc’s *something*.
He had seen a lot of deaths and injuries in his short life, turtler, evisceration, nasty burns, but this is on a completely different level. Deadpool is still living, for gods sake and– ‚oh god, better not think about it anymore’, Peter thinks when he feels the contents of his breakfast rising up into his esophagus again.
„Rude, Spidey, I would have never thought you to be so discriminating! Only because I’m different. Is the outside everything to you? Are you one of those to who would back away once you see everything of me? I have to say, I am on the verge of tears.“ Deadpool sighs tragically and Peter would be totally sure the merc would theatrically throw his arm in front of his forehead or some bullshit if he could actually move.
„I just wanted to get your attention.“ The red suited mercenary pouts, and his voice is so weak and pained Peter manages to fold his hands in front of his chest instead of turning around to run off to Mexico. He sighs and crouches down next to the merc, trying to ignore the splitters of broken ribs piercing the tender flesh under his arms. Gross.
Deadpool groans a few times in attempt to move, however he doesn’t really manage.
„Spidey? You mind doing me a teeny tiny favor?“ Peter slaps himself mentally for not leaving the first chance he got. Curse him for always being a tad too kind hearted.
„What.“ He huffs, shifting his weight a little. He’s a little uncomfortable what the merc will ask him next.
„Could you maybe… like, turn one part of my body around? It’s kinda Red alert here, I’m starting to heal back together again.“ He says when he pinky cracks back into place, straightening again with an ugly snap.
„Jesus, I really should have left when I had the chance.“ Peter replies exasperatedly and buries his face inside both of his hands.
Okay, Peter don’t freak out, you’ve got this. All you need to do is turn that glop of 200 pounds mercenary body around and then you can leave; breathe, Peter, breathe, inhale, exhale, there you go.
„God, what did I ever do to deserve this?“ He whines and stands up, placing his feet on each side of Deadpool’s muscular torso.
„Nice angle.“ The merc says suggestively and Peter loses his temper.
„This is really not an appropriate time.“ He scolds, grabbing the mere under the armpits in a tight iron grip.
„Oh, but it would be okay if I did it in an other situation?“
„Shut up.“ Peter grits out, fighting down the blush creeping up his cheeks, flipping around the torso with maybe a bit too much force.
Oops.
He hits the ground with a loud smack and Peter has to resist the urge to retch again when the sickening sound of bones shattering and crunching adds up to the popping and sticky noise of skin and cartilage shifting. God, he is never, ever doing this again.
He really hopes he broke the merc’s nose for that last comment though.
„Geet, that was pretty rough, don’t you think?“ Deadpool’s muffled voice gasps, his face mushed against the sidewalk. „Couldn’t you have flipped my legs around? Would have been a hellluva more practical.“
„No way!“ Peter blurts and immediately steps away from the body. „I am not touching your neither regions in public.“
„But you’d like to, am I right, Babe?“ Deadpool teases, his broad smirk audible in his cocky words.
„That’s it, I’m so out of here.“ Peter states determinately and turns on his heels. God, Deadpool isn’t ust a cold hearted merc, he is probably the most insufferable person he has ever met. Why is Peter even bothering to stay in the guy’s presence longer than necessary? Damn, his head hurts.
Taking one determined step after the other, ignoring Deadpool’s damsel in distress-calls, the painful jabs at the back of his brain turn into a less aching thrumming and eventually dies down to a tingling and Peter almost slams his fist down onto his thigh in annoyance.
No way. Why can’t one freaking day be a peaceful one? Why does this have to happen righ now, when he is obviously injured and just wants to clear his mind for an hour or two? Okay, okay, it's patrol, but he's just trying to pretend for a second, okay?
Best. Day. Ever.
NOT.
„Wait up, Spidey! Give me five minutes and I’ll heal together again!“ Deadpool calls when he hears Peter shoot a web at the next building. „There’s a crime somewhere, I don’t have the time for waiting around.“ Peter replies strictly but turns around nevertheless.
„I know, Spidey, that’s the reason I tackled you to the ground! I have followed the baddies for a long time and researched some stuff about them. They are members of some organization, a huge organization, but they are stupid, not good at covering their tracks. Do you really think I would just randomly tackle you out of the sky? Okay yes, I admit, that is something I totally do–
„And why would I need your help, of all people?“ Peter replies, cocking his head to the side.
„Becaaauuse,“ Deadpool drawls, drawing out the word, smirking, obviously to rub it in Peter’s face. „I saw you on television! You got pretty banged up, kid, and the Avengers did too. Don’t you think you might need a little help? Maybe some backup? A partner? A trusty helping han–
„Alright, Alright, I understand, quit rubbing salt in the wound.“ Peter snaps and rolls his eyes behind his mask. He doesn’t want to work with together with Deadpool, he really doesn’t. He hates the guy, he is an annoying idiot.
But as much as his inside churn at the thought of admitting he actually needs the mercenary’s help, he has to confess that there is a small hidden part of him that is actually relieved he asks.
„Fiiine.“ He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Deadpol whoops and to Peter’s surprise he has already rolled over onto his back.
After an other minute of waiting, Deadpool is already crawling around to collect some guns and knives that have been scattered across the sidewalk as he… fell, sliding them back into their proper places.
„Ready?“ Peter asks and even offers the merc a hand so he can stand. Seriously, what the hell.
„You bet.“ Deadpool smirks and takes it, hoisting himself up. Cracking a few joints here and there, he catches up to the teen who has already started jogging agead.
„Let’s go unalive the bastards.“
∆
They have ben running through the streets of Soho for about five minutes when suddenly Peter’s Spider sense sends an especially powerful spark to the back of his head. He tells Deadpool to halt in front of a tiny, dark bar with a staircase leading into the basement. The sign is weathered and shabby and the cheap leds embedded into the sign probably aren’t working. It is a grubby and run-down place, probably only visited by chain-smoking mafia creeps who dig this sort of thing and do their deals there.
„My, my, what a lovely place!“ Deadpool exclaims, pressing his black gloved hands to his cheeks like a japanese schoolgirl. „Too bad the baddies have already entered, we are too late!“
‚And who’s fault is that?‘ Peter thinks but then sees the crowbar imprints against the wooden door, fresh light brown against clipped off midnight blue. „Well then, let’s get this over with.“
They barrel into the bar, side by side, weapons raised, web shooters at the ready. Turns out they have just arrived at the right moment after all. Three men with black masks (again, Peter thinks, having a deja-vu from the day before.) are cornering the shopkeeper (also familiar) against the counter, threatening him with a gun pressed down deep into the soft, wrinkled skin of the middle aged men’s neck.
„Please, I swear, I don’t know what you are talking about!“ The shopkeeper pleads, voice thin and shaky, his frame trembling. A flicker of hope flashes in his eyes when he sees the two red clad rescuers. The two heroes lose no time and dart forward, side by side, kicking two thugs into their guts, sending them flying away from the shop keeper. The third taises his weapon and aims, the half automatic gun rapidly firing one bullet after the other, the arm rattling and cracking at deafening volume.
Peter instinctively foresees the bullets' impacts and skillfully twists his body out of the way, but Deadpool had no such sense, he is hit by several, the metal piercing his skin easily, blood gushing out of the wounds, dripping onto the floor.
„Fuck.“ The merc curses under his breath and shoots at the third baddie who ducks behing the counter quickly.
„Deapool no!“ Peter says, slapping the mercenary’s hand „You are not killing anybody on my watch!“ He clarifies and can’t suppress the angry, hard undertone creeping into his sentence.
„Why not? These men have taken a lot of lives themselves! They are bad guys. Bad bad guys. Why do you even care?“ The mercenary shouts back, aiming his gun at the counter where the thug and the shopkeeper probably hiding.
„I- I have my reasons, okay? Just don’t kill anyone.“ Peter says, adding a slight plead to his voice.
Deadpol gives him a long stare the teen can’t quite point out. Then, eventually, he twirls the gun in his hands last time and tucks them back into his thigh holsters.
„Fine.“ He deadpans, cracking his knuckles to warm up for the upcoming man-on-man fist fight. „Listen, don’t know what all this ‚don’t kill‘-attitude is all about, but I’m not donna let them just run away. They are dangerous and have to at least be put into jail. You fine with that?“
Peter nods, grateful there is no sarcasm or looking down in Deadpool’s voice. He turns forward again when one of the masked men they’ve kicked away lifts himself to his feet and lifts his gun, aiming for the arachnid’s head.
Ducking away quickly, he falls onto all fours and kicks the other one, who has snuck up on him in the meanwhile, bat heavy in his hands, in the knee. With a sickening crunch, signalizing he has effectively broken the kneecap or at least popped it out, he goes to the floor, yelling and cursing in pain, cradling his leg.
Peter finches when pain erupts in the inside of his lef again, unnecessarily reminding him that the choice of kick wasn’t all to wise. He jumps to his feet anyway when the third bad guy decides to take him out one on one. The gun isn’t in his hands anymore, so they fight hand to hand, throwing punches, delivering kicks, the usual routine.
His opponent is skilled, very skilled, he has the same lithe form and wiry body Peter has and he can hold his own surprisingly well. Peter curses when a fist grazes his cheek ever so slightly, it is nothing more than a hint, but it shows the teen that he is starting to slack.
He changes tactics, moving back with every hit he catches or dodges to pretend he is becoming weaker. That is, until his back bumps into Deadpool’s broader one, causing him to jolt and scare the crap out of him. The elder man is fighting off the bulkier one, earch of them getting hit by a fair share of strikes as both of them tend to lack on defense and almost rely solely on their physical strength. (And no, Peter absolutely didn't analyze Deadpool's fighting style.)
They go on, back to back, and he has to say, he enoys fighting side by side with the merc, they move together so smoothly like they’ve been practicing it over years. Their movements match perfectly, like a jigsaw puzzle, they have each other’s backs, making space for the other when one of them is being pushed back, shouting out warnings in cast the other didn’t notice the a blow or kick coming.
It is easier, a lot, relaxing even, being able to rely on someone else instead of having to take care of everything alone, Peter thinks when he spots an opening in his opponents defensive pattern. He immediately exploits it and lets the side of his hand smack against against his neck. The masked guy’s eyes lose focus and he goes limp, hitting the floor with a soft thud.
He twirls around quickly to assist Deadpool, webbing the thug's arm flying towards the mercenary’s head, pulling it down. The guy clearly didn’t expect the intervention in their fight, surprise flickering in his eyes, and Deadpool immediately takes the hint and places a very hard punch to the bulky guys temple, knocking the lights out of the thug.
It turns completely silent in the bar, except the occasional whimper from the guy with the busted knee.
Deadpool rubs his palms together happily, chuckling when he leans down next to the body with an evil smirk.
„Oooh, what have we here?“ He purrs and grabs a fistful of the man’s hair, yanking his head up with one forceful motion, causing him to cry out in pain.
„Who sent you?“ The mercenary hisses, pulling the man close so that their nones almost graze each other.
„I- I don’t know what you’re talking about! Please! Let me go!“ The man pleads, his voice trembling, breaths coming out in short, shallow pants.
„Oh, I’m not so sure about that, hon.“ Deadpool insists, drawing out a shimmering knife from a hidden holster inside of his boot, pressing it up to the man’s throat, not enough to do serious damage, but enough to draw blood, the sticky, strong scented fluid pooling in the dip of the man’s collarbones. He whimpers and desperately tries to crane his neck away from the persistent metal blade cutting further and further into the tender flesh.
„Tell me and we’ll let you run.“ Peter says, stepping up behind the mercenary. Deadpool sighs and slowly lays his knife to the ground, raising his hands above his head.
„You heard him. Tell us and you’re free.“
The thug barks out a hoarse laughter and spits on the ground in contempt. „Oh, yeah, right, and I should believe that.§ He says, bristling in anger. „If I tell you what I know now, they are gonna hunt me down, cut the entrails out of my body and send them to my family. Fried.“
„Look, we’ve been picking up a trail on your boss and are trying to find out what he is up to. Once we do, we and the Avengers are going to put an end to him and your problems will be solved. Your input could help us a lot.“ Peter tries.
„Not gonna happen, kid. I’d rather bite my tongue off than sell him out. You have no idea what he can do. His spies are everywhere, and they find you immediately.“
Suddenly, a black gloved fist connects with his stubbled jaw, causing his head to whip back and crash to the floor. He cries out in pain, and writhes on the ground as his knee takes a awkward position.
Before Deadpool can hurt him any further (and Peter is pretty sure he will), he presses some of the pressure points on the man’s neck and sends him into unconsciousness quickly and painlessly (a practical skill he learnt from Matt).
„Aww Spidey, you’re no fun.“ Deadpool sighs and picks up his knife, wiping it off on his suit before sliding it back into his boot.
„There’s no fun in torture.“ Peter replies, his voice suddenly turning ice cold. He knows the merc is probably just joking, but he can’t stop himself from reacting since he is positive there is some truth in the words, especially when they come from the mercenary. How could he even joke about that topic? Maybe he doesn’t mind it much since killing people is kind of a daily chore to him. Maybe Matt was wrong. Deadpool really doesn’t care about other lives and would do anything to archive his goals, no matter how wrong, filthy and sinful it was.
„I know what you think of me.“ Deadpool’s voice suddenly cuts through the silence, accompanied with the familiar sound of bodies being dragged across the wooden ground.
„What?“ Peter asks and quickly turns around; He has been so deep inside his thoughts he notice the merc carrying on with business. „I can see it at the way you look at me.“ He starts, dropping the body next to the other like a sack of flour. „Bout all the mercenary business, me killing people like is a total okay think to do.“
Peter silently watches as he flings the third body on top of the other two, creating a small pile of limbs.
„I know, the impression I make isn’t really the best, and, believe me, I really don’t blame you for… you know, thinking I’m a huge asshole.“ He gets out a huge role of duct-tape out of his pouch, ripping off a generous amount, the trademark riiiip-sound echoing back from the tiled walls. He begins to tape the baddie’s mouths shut.
„It’s common, you know. People thinking bad of me. I get that a lot. They say a lot of stuff, like I’m cold-hearted.“
Riiip.
„Sadistic.“
Riiip.
„Schizoprenic.“
Riiip.
„Or me being scum.“
„But I guess it’s normal when you have some guy like me killing people for a job. Most people would rather be homeless or in helpless debt than end up on the path I chose.“ Ripping off more tape, he grabs the bodies and lines them up, mechanically and skillfully beginning to tie them together. Peter frowns for a second, asking himself what the hell the merc is going to do with these bodies, but he doesn’t want to mis anything the red clad antihero is about to say, he hates to admit it, but he is quite hooked and burns to find out about the mercanary’s character.
„One would wonder why I chose to be a mercenary. Why not choose something else? Fry burgers at McDonalds?“ He continues he ramble still not looking at Peter. „I guess it’s just to… punish myself. For chances I I missed. People I couldn’t save. Bad decisions I’ve done that led to others getting hurt. I feel like I have to do this. To compensate the mistakes I did, not by doing good deeds, but by punishing myself. Because believe it or not, I do care about the people I kill. Did they have family? Kids? Loved ones? Even bad people deserve to have things they love and are attached to, I guess.“
He stands up and dusts off his suit, tucking away the duct-tape into his pouch again. Peter, who is still kind of struck by the deep monologue the merc shared with him, slowly looks down Deadpool’s body till his gaze sticks to the victims and the way they are tied together.
„What the hell is that?“ He blurts, eyes widening when a suspicious resemblance to a certain movie pops up in his head.
„Oh, you mean this fine piece of art? Just a human centipede. Take it as a metaphor for shitty thinks that happen in different stages in life. Get it? Cause you know they have to shit in each other’s–
He is cut off by Peter snorting and shaking his head in disbelief. God, he is so confused right now. Who would have thought his image of Deadpool would be turned around completely by only one single ramble? „Why would you do this? I mean I get the metaphor but you just could have tied them up normally.“ He laughs, a small smile lasting on his features.
„So that they don’t run awaaaay.“ The merc whispers into the teen’s ear and the huskiness of his voice totally doesn’t send shivers down the arachnid’s spine. Nope. It doesn’t.
„Anyhoo, Sipdey, we gotta hit the road, there will be cops flooding this place soon.“
Peter nods and Pushes himself away from the counter. „So you said they belong to some kind of bigger organization?“ He asks curiously, opening the door of the bar, evening sunlight flooding the messed up place, revealing how much damage they have actually caused. He winces a little at the sight of broken stools, deep scratches in the woden floors and almost-dried splatters of blood painting the floor and wall with a nasty dark red.
„Yeah. The crime rate has gone up considerably in the last weeks and there have been at least five incidents that can be connected.“
„How?“ Peter asks, curious.
„In every crime, the baddies were threatening the shopkeeper (ours unfortunately got away, again), as if he had something and they were trying to receive it. I think they’re working for some master-plan that is about to hatch. Gonna be nasty if you ask me. Like Ocean’s Eleven, but with more blood and supernatural stuff.“ Deadpool muses, getting out an incredibly old Nokia cellphone.
„Shut up, It’s called class and it fulfills it’s purpose. It can kill people too, you know, if it’s hard on hard, you can shove your petty IPhones up where the sun doesn’t shine, they break when you tickle it with a feather.“ He snorts when he sees Peter’s exaggerated weirded out look. They both laugh and the merc clenches his cell between his shoulder and ear and checks his thigh and belt holsters for any guns or weapons missing.
Peter doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t seem to be able to tear his gaze away from the merc. the way he gesticulates as he tries to tell the place of crime to the police, the way the late afternoon sun kisses his rock hard abs and pectorals, the way the tight red suit hugs his toned body oh so perfectly makes something stur low in his gut, a little spark of butterflies rising up all the way into his chest and spreading through his whole body, a short, warm movement of bliss–
Wait. No.
What is happening here? Peter almost angrily tears his gaze away from Deadpool (he has a hard tim doing it, though) and clenches his fists so hard his knuckles pop.
He knows he is bi, he only recently discovered he was attracted to both women and men, however it is not his bi-ness that bothers him, (it never has so far), it is the fact he is seriously looking up a guy he is actually suppose to hate. Loath even. This is not right, When the hell is he doing? Deadpool stands for everything Peter is afraid of becoming, but at the same time, the inight he got into the man’s actual personality–
„Spidey?“ Deadpool’s playful tone tears him out if his thoughts. God that voice. It makes the tension of his sholders melt away although he really tries to ight against it.
„You okay? A bit tense there, aren’t you?“ He asks, laying a heavy gloved hand on the teen’s shoulder.
„I’m fine.“ Peter manages to croak out, jumping slightly at the sudden touch.
„Fine then! Just don’t want you going all dark-side after our glorious victory!“ He winks and (To Peter’s relief and regret at the same time) lets go of his shoulder. „We should be going, the police will be here soon and unless you want to be interrogated for half an hour I suggest we get the hell outta here.“
Peter nods in agreement -interrogations were the worst- and regretfully sighs when he remembers his web shooter being broken. The way home won’t be peachy, that is for sure.
„Goodbye, then?“ He says, but there is a hint of a rise in his voice at the end, betraying his insecurity about talking with the man he totally didn’t check out a few minutes earlier.
„Sure. I’m heading to the south, crashing by a friend, any chance you’re living somewhere there too?“ He asks, absent-mindedly rubbing his neck.
„Sorry, I live in the North.“ Peter replies, fidgeting with his web-shooters as a heavy, uncomfortable silence settles between them again.
„We have to do this more often, you know?“ Deadpool says out of he blue, propping a hand onto his hip and gesticulating with the other. „We made a pretty doog team back then, don't you think?“ He says, a small spark of… pride? swelling in his voice. The white eyes in his mask crinkle into joyful crescents and Peter can’t help the wide smile stretching over his face when the feelings of union, trust and protection he felt while fighting side by side with the merc flood him.
„Yeah. I have to admit we really weren’t half bad back them.“ He smirks and by the stretch of the merc’s red and black mask he knows he’s smiling too.
„Well then, see you around, Deadpool.“ Peter breaks the silence, attempting to turn around to swing off.
„It’s Wade.“ The merc says, and Peter turns around, frowning.
„What?
„My name. It’s Wade Wilson. You can still call me Deadpool if you want though.“
Peter raises his eyebrows, heat rushing to his cheeks. Revealing your name as an anonymous superhero is quite a big deal and not something you do every day. It is something special, one signalizes the trust he has in the other when giving away his real name.
Wade. Wade Wilson. Peter repeats the words in his head, tossing them around, intoning them in the most different of ways, angrily, happily, wondering what the name would sound like when Peter himself said them, crying it when he alerted the merc from gunfire, breathing it in relief when he’d see him after a long period of being apart, moaning it when the mercs chapped lips were pressed up against his– NOPE.
‚Your mind is not wandering there again, Peter.‘ He chides himself, fighting down the heavy blush climbing up his throat to the high rise of his cheekbones.
„I’m Peter.“ He says, maybe a tad too quickly, almost having to bite off his tongue to not accidentally let his last name slip. His name is probably all over the internet and news now, he really doesn’t want to take any chances.
„See ya around, Peety!“ Deadpool calls cheerfully and jogs off, and Peter doesn't even bother that the merc gave him a nick name immediately.
Attempting a half-assed wave, his fingers curling into his palm slowly, he swings off with only one web shooter intact, but he manages, he had worse.
His arms and muscles function automatically, precisely, almost as if they weren't tired at all, pulling, flinging, webbing, sticking. His mind, however, is a jumbled, confused mess, different thoughts buzzing through his head, creating a huge, annoying and confusing chaos. And, of course, they are all centered around a specific red clad mercenary.
His stomach does this weird flip-thing again at the mention of Wade, and everything confuses him even more.
Why on earth is he reacting this way? He is so confused and puzzled. He shouldn't be feeling like this, he shouldn't be attracted to a man like Wade, who stands for everything Peter hates in people, just thinking about the way the merc kills people cold blooded makes the flutter turn into a painful twist.
On the other hand, Peter would be a completely ignorant, judging bastard if he hadn't noticed the bad mental state the merc is in. Peter doesn't pity him, he out of all people knows best that pity isn't what mentally unstable people are seeking, but a small, small part of him, still minimal but painfully present, cares about it, is curious, wants to... Wants to help, somehow.
Apparently, Wade has a past stained by a lot of bad choices and terrible experiences, and for some reason, Peter wants to be there for the merc, as... As a friend, aiding him to fix the gaping wounds torn into his soul, to try to help him getting over it, to sooth the pain he can relate to.
The arachnid sighs deeply and with an especially hard tug on his single web, he sticks to the glass if the Stark Tower in a single a bit not so smooth as he is used to motion. He shakes his head slightly as if to get rid of the mess flooding his mind.
He opens the window to his room and slides in, almost crashing to the floor when exhaustion takes all the force out of his legs.
"God damnit." He grits out between clenched teeth, hissing when he realizes he is completely overworked and sore and tired and his stitches are strained again, leaking a few droplets of blood.
His healing factor might be far above the one of a regular human, but tearing a cut open repeatedly takes a better healing factor to heal.
The throbbing in his thighs and arms return and within the next few seconds, Peter finds himself sprawled out in his bed, suit still on, and on the verge of falling asleep.
He reminds himself that this is not the orphanage and he has to be god damn careful about his Secret identity, so he shimmies out of his suit and slips off his web shooters when he notices a small folded piece of paper lying on the ground.
Frowning deeply, he picks it up and unfolds it, the wrinkle between his brows becoming even deeper when a few smudged bloodied fingerprints are all over it.
But what is scribbled onto the blood makes him chuckle and blush a little. A phone number with several digits crossed out and corrected is written down onto it with crayon, and a shitty cartoon with Deadpool wearing a fancy apron says 'Call me when your nights get lonely.'
Peter huffs a laugh and lays it down onto his nightstand and heads for the shower.
Half an hour later and changed into a fresh loose shirt and sweatpants (god, he has missed the feeling, he really has to try to find an opportunity to wash his suit sometime), he remembers the Avengers. He should say good night, right?
So he makes his way to the floor two stories down. He finds the rest of his own family sitting together, talking in a much more lighthearted tone, Thor telling them about one one of his endless stories about the various perilous battles he has fought in his younger years. To his surprise, they all hug him tightly (Thor almost rips his stitches again) and after checking up on Clint and Wanda a last time (sadly, they are still unconscious), he heads up into his room again.
When he finally can sink into the soft heavenly feeling of his bed, he checks his phone for any texts, e-mails or calls.
Then, his Spider-sense tingles again.
"God no!" He almost shouts and buries his head underneath his pillow, trying to block out the tingle, tearing at his hair in frustration. Seriously, what is it with all the crime happening lately?
He doesn't want to fight crime again, he really doesn't, and actually, although he's absolutely not admitting it, he can't afford it. He needs sleep for his entire sore body to heal up, he needs rest for every injury and muscle he pulled during the fight against the robots to heal properly, and going out today would be a really, really bad idea.
He sighs deeply and scrolls through his list of contacts (not many) but decides he can't stoop so low and ask others for help again. 'Ah, screw it.' He thinks and types in a new number leaning back into the pillows.
"Hello? Who's calling? If you're that barista, I have no idea how you got my number and I don't know how many times I have to tell you, that kid is not my son–
"Oh god, I shouldn't have called." Peter groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, but there is a faint smile on his face.
"Peety?" Wade asks, a bit too much amazement in his voice.
"Yeah, who would have thought? Why the hell did you slip the number into my suit? You could've just asked."
"Not how I roll, hun, suck it up." Wade chuckles at the other end of the line, and Peter feels heat rushing to his cheeks again at the nickname. Seriously, he needs to stop blushing. He feels really girly.
"Listen, there is a small favor I have to ask you..." He starts and ignores the small suggestive noise Wade does. "There is a crime going on somewhere tonight and I need you to take care of it. Of course only if you want to. It's just... I'm a bit injured at the moment and need everything to heal, et cetera."
"S'fine." Wade's immediate response comes from the other line, and Peter almost breaths a sigh of relief.
"Thank god."
There is an awkward moment of silence, none if them wanting to hang up, before Deadpool breaks it.
"So, you got anything going on tonight?" He asks.
Peter frowns slightly at that. Why would Wade be interested in his personal life?
"Not really, why are you asking?"
"You mind if I drop by after I clean the crime up? I'll even bring some Mexican food, it's magic when it comes to curing an exhausted body, I swear!" Wade chirps enthusiastically.
Peter's eyes widen and he almost forgets to answer, his brain sloppily processing the situation.
"Sounds great, but it's not really the best time right now." He says awkwardly, turning onto his stomach and playing with the hem of his shirt. He really can't have Wade showing up here at the Avengers Tower. Aaaand He doesn't have experience with rejecting something nicely. "An other time, sure! It's just... not very great right now."
"Aww, don't worry, Spidey, but don't feel safe! You're not escaping The Tacos! I'm gonna drown you in them sooner or later!" The merc chuckles at the other end, but Peter can hear a slight hint of sadness in his voice.
"See Ya Around!" A click and the familiar static noise follow and Peter hangs up as well (after a few minutes, that is).
Sighing, he places the phone onto his nightstand and buries himself into his pillow. He is so tired and exhausted he can't even bring himself to feel guilty about having burdened Wade with a job that should have actually been his.
He makes a mental note to call him tomorrow and have a chat about how they are going to solve this huge cluster of crimes.
Also, he really needs to snag a few screwdrivers and other mechanic-stuff from Tony's lab tomorrow to fix his web shooters.
His mind coming up with more and more things he still has to do, he falls asleep, peacefully, letting the heavy warmth of sleep embrace him and pull him into the dark abyss of dreams.