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“Just bring the guy to us. We think he’s creating new and dangerous weapons,” Tony had said. “It should be no problem at all,” he added.
“We’re trusting you two,” Steve had intoned, to institute that good old-fashioned guilt.
“It’ll be an easy mission,” They had assured.
We’ll see about that, Peter thinks now as he follows behind Wade.
It’s not that either man dislikes each other; that’s not true at all. They’re just… confused by each other, really.
Peter and Wade aren’t friends, but they aren’t just acquaintances, either. But the two men undeniably have a sort of… compatibility that is entirely unfounded, and breathtakingly surprising to Peter. Deadpool has an astonishing modicum of respect for Spider-Man, that confuses both of them equally. They have a shared knowledge of obscure references, and their banter comes unnervingly easy. After a while, Peter even started tolerating him.
Sometimes.
Spider-Man is gritting his teeth in annoyance as he treks through the woods with Deadpool. Leaves crunch under Peter’s gentle frame and twigs snap and groan under Wade’s heavy boots. He has one katana out, wielding it in front of them and hacking away at half-fallen branches and overgrown thistles.
“Why are you chopping through the forest?” he asks abruptly, if only to silence Wade’s humming of the Full House theme song, which Peter has been hearing for the last forty-five minutes. “We can just push the branches aside.”
He stops whistling long enough to answer. “So we can find our way back out, silly Web-Head. It’s like leaving a breadcrumb trail. But more destructive,” he says, punctuating his statement with a particularly hard slash through the branches. “God, Webs, isn’t it just so orgasmic?” he asks with another chop.
Peter scrunches his nose up in distaste at Wade, cheeks flushing. “Uh. No.”
Wade shrugs in an oh, well gesture.
They finally clear the woods, and end up standing beside each other. They’re about 100 yards away from a squat single-floored puce brick building. The mullioned windows are dingy and it doesn’t seem like they’re in use.
Outside, hunched over a worn-out wooden worker’s table, is an older man with graying hair and dark stubble. He doesn’t see them yet.
In typical Deadpool fashion, he promptly takes several steps forward, out of camouflaged safety to confront the man. Peter grabs him by the bicep and yanks him back, hushing him angrily. “Don’t just go in guns blazing!” he hisses. Wade heaves a great sigh and mocks Peter in a voice five octaves too high.
Unfortunately, and unsurprisingly, Wade’s mocking voice startles the man behind the work table. His head picks up, eyes wide and immediately alarmed.
Peter freezes in surprise for a moment, before shooting Wade a wicked glare and taking a spritely step forward. “Sorry about my… friend. He’s outspoken. And special,” Peter grinds out.
Wade has a shit-eating grin on his face. “I sure am.” He nods, slapping Peter hard on the ass for emphasis. Peter makes a strangled sound, arching away from the touch and punching Wade hard in the side.
The man stares at them both warily, hands hovering over his work station as if protecting a child. And then his eyes shift down to Wade’s waist, and he sees the holstered guns. His eyes turn steely, and Wade instinctively steps in front of Peter - just a fraction, but Peter notices it.
Peter’s spidey senses are instantly haywire - an almost blinding tingle starts at the base of his neck, shooting down his spine.
Everything seems to happen very slowly. Wade, sensing the man’s panic, clicks the safety off his gun. The man knocks the work desk over and crouches behind it like a shield, the contents on the table toppling to the floor beside him. Before Wade can even take aim, the man brandishes a polished, oil-slicked gun, but not like any gun Peter has ever seen.
The man squints one eye, raises the gun, and a laser-point appears on Wade’s chest. Just as as a brilliant flash of lights erupts from the gun, Peter uses his enhanced reflexes to jump deftly in front of Wade.
He feels no pain. Just a whirlwind of spinning, dizzying images. He’s temporarily stunned, blinking hard to regain focus.
Wade’s eyes widen. There was no loud noise, no crash, no flash, nothing. The gun just made a muted blip, like an old television turning off.
Blip. And Peter was… gone.
With careful but precise aim, Wade shoots the man in the shoulder. The bullet goes straight through, and lands dully on the ground somewhere amongst the scrap metal. The man drops to his knees, yowling in pain. The hand he has clasped over his shoulder is already sticky with fresh blood.
Wade takes long strides over and kicks the man down onto his back, stepping over his body until he’s crouched over his chest. He snatches a handful of his grimy shirt, lifts him up and gets in his face. “Did you just kill my fucking friend?” he asks indignantly, chest burning and his entire body shaking with… with rage.
He’s fuming.
“What do you think, Smart Guy?” the man grits out.
Wade snarls and lands a punch to his jaw. “You better hope that gun sent him to a wonderful land full of goddamned rainbows and butterflies!” Wade splutters, stomping hard on the man’s kneecap.
He screams again, and veins jut out in his neck and forehead. Wade still doesn’t think this is enough torment for him. “Where. Did. He. Go,” Wade demands, not a question.
“Look around,” the man says smugly through pursed lips, pain evident in his face and spit flying.
“Are you really trying to joke around right now? Are you crazier than I am?” Wade asks, and deftly yanks another gun from a thigh holster, sticking the muzzle against the man’s forehead roughly. “You have ten seconds to tell me what you did before I blow your brains out. And I’m bad at counting.”
A flicker of fear flashes in the man’s eyes, and Wade finally feels some satisfaction in his belly; a bitter, sour feeling that gratifies him nonetheless.
Wade grits his teeth when he feels something tugging against his calf. He shakes his leg but he still feels something. “If I get bit by a fucking tick, and you killed my friend, you will die a horrible death.”
But faster than Wade can unlock the safety of his gun, something swings onto his wrist and starts grappling at his fingers. Wade curls his lips in disgust. “Ew. What kinda mutant mosquito -”
No. No.
Wade blinks hard. Once. Twice. He looks at the man, then back at his hand. “Spidey?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at the little thing standing on him.
There, right on his wrist, is Spider-Man, not dead. But also not more than six inches tall, and waving his tiny arms furiously.
“Told you I didn’t kill ‘im,” the man rasps, and Wade pulls his eyes away for a moment. “You, shut the fuck up. I’ll still kill you if you don’t fix this.”
Wade ties him to the table, and moments later, is calling Tony Stark, explaining, well, everything. “...Yeah. Yeah, he’s fucking tiny ! The size of a dildo,” he says, like this is a logical measurement. Spider-Man, now in his palm, makes an angry sound. Wade giggles before continuing. “Look, just get here, bring the guy in for questioning and figure out how to fix him. I’m taking Web-Head outta here. Bring him a splint for his knee and some gauze,” Wade says, and hangs up.
An hour later, a tiny-sized Spider-Man and a normal-sized Deadpool are in Wade’s apartment. Wade has his feet kicked up onto the dirty coffee table, resting on his dingy sofa. Spider-Man is sitting on his knee.
Do you feel different?” Wade asks curiously, squinting down at the man. “Like, have you developed a Napoleon complex?”
Spider-Man splutters. “No, Wade!” he yells, and Wade leans in to hear him. “I feel the same, everything else is just… big.”
Wade hums and fights the urge to make a crude joke. His phone buzzes in his pocket, which makes Spider-Man yelp and adhere himself to Wade’s pant leg. “Whoops. Must feel like an earthquake, huh?” he asks concernedly, and Spidey glares at him. At least Wade thinks he’s glaring, under the tiny little mask.
He looks down at his phone screen.
Guy says he’d grow back to his normal size in 24 hours. We examined the gun, he’s telling the truth. Don’t squish him. - Stark
Wade gently picks up the tiny Spider-Man and holds him close to his face. “Tin Man said you’ll be back to your big self in a day,” Wade positively grins. “Looks like you’ll be stuck with Daddy Wade until then.”
Spider-Man raises his mask to his nose and scrunches his face up. “Don’t call yourself Daddy.”
“Why not, Baby Boy? Get you hot and bothered?” he asks curiously, and Spider-Man stares at him for a moment before kneeling down and promptly biting Wade’s thumb.
Wade hisses in surprise but pats his friend carefully. “I deserved that.”
“Yeah.”
Hours later, Wade has butchered an empty tissue box, filled it with folded pillowcases and unraveled cotton balls, and put it on his nightstand. Spider-Man is sleeping in it, curled up soundly amid the cocoon he’s built around himself. Wade looks at him fondly. He makes sure there’s no chance he’ll fall off the nightstand, double-checks that he’s actually breathing, and pokes him once on the cheek just to annoy him.
And then Wade sleeps.
***
“Holy - oh my god! Shit. Oh my god,” Peter screeches.
Wade bolts upright hours later at the noise, and he already has the gun from under his pillow in his hand.
He turns and finds the tissue box broken on the floor, and a very panicked full-sized Spider-Man snatching the blankets off the bed and covering his crotch, his hand blocking out the top of his face.
Wade raises his brows and takes a healthy few seconds admiring this development. His eyes flit over the hero’s body, grinning sleepily and excitedly. “Look. I know I’m good-looking, but don’t you think stripping naked is a little too forward?” Wade asks, propping himself up on his elbows.
“Shut up.”
“Your ass is amazing, by the way. I know I’ve told you before, but I just thought you should know. Even as a tiny little Spidey,” Wade promises, cupping his palms as if Peter were still sitting inside them.
“Oh, god,” Peter whines, cheeks flushing as he drapes the entire blanket over his body to cover his face, too. “Please give me clothes and never speak about the last 24 hours again.”
Wade gets up, stretches, and Peter ignores the cords of muscle in the mercenary’s back that he can see. Digging through his dresser, he brandishes sweatpants, a shirt, and a ski mask. “Here are the clothes, but there’s not a chance in hell I won’t remind you of this every twenty minutes.”
Peter puts the clothes on gratefully, but sighs at his words. He expected as much from Deadpool, anyway. The sweatpants hang loose on his waist and the cuffs are rolled up several times. But at least he’s not naked in front of Wade anymore.
“Mission successful?” Wade asks hopefully.
Peter glares at him, crossing his arms in distaste. “Barely.”
Wade smiles gleefully under his rolled-up mask. “I’ll take it,” he says, and then, “Want pancakes? I make amazing pancakes.”
Peter wants to argue, but finds no reason to. "Y'know what? Sure."