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Deadpool was accustomed to the pain. He didn’t believe in hell until he had to cross every circle of it from flames that melted the skin of his bones to ice that slowly froze his limbs and organs. There’d been electricity and water involved as well and one time they’d even buried him alive. It was useless only proving the fact that he was indeed unable to stay dead. He always came back. Sometimes after a few minutes if his neck had been broken (again), around an hour when they riddled his head with bullets making it look like Swiss cheese. They’d probably taken the exact time it took him to regenerate after every way of killing they came up with. For science. For them he was nothing more than a human shaped guinea pig.
The only person that didn’t actively hurt him was his handler. He’d mousy hair and hazel eyes. God must have run out of colored pencils upon creating him but to Deadpool he was the prettiest thing on earth. A soothing voice, making him want to obey any order no matter how many lives were taken through his hands. He made him feel like he’s someone, not just something. Peter. He’d been given his name but was only allowed to call him that if they’re alone together. Even then he didn’t dare to voice it very often but instead repeated it in his mind like a mantra.
Deadpool had stopped counting the days when he’d become part of the organization, didn’t care if it was hot or cold outside his holding cell. He differed between good and bad skin days. The bad ones when the cancer breaks through his skin, making him feel like he’s devoured from inside out. Those days when the simple pressure of his suit send a constant wave of dull pain through his system. Nevertheless, he had to function and ignore the distraction his own body caused.
During those rare good skin days when he didn’t just successfully completing a mission but aced it his handler would give him a special treatment afterwards. It usually didn’t last very long but every minute he spent in Peter’s presence with his hands on him where like vacation and heaven combined. At this point he’s starved for touches that didn’t make him hurt, gentle contact he certainly hadn’t craved for before he’d been injected the serum. Peter went the extra mile, not just directly touching his disfigured flesh without a hint of disgust on his features but also carefully massaging some sort of oil all over his backside. The liquid must contain drugs because it left him feel slightly numb, dulling the constant ache of cell reproduction and making his head feel like it was stuffed with cotton.
He tended to go completely cooked noodle after the first few minutes, muscles uncoiling and his posture becoming less tense. The action usually earned him a small, pleased smile from the brunet and in return his heartbeat kicked up a few notches. The massage always ended way too soon. He could spend the whole day laying on his slim cot and letting Peter run his palms all over him. Not that he ever touched his private parts. In fact, he made a point to skip the area that was his ass to continue digging his fingers into the muscles of his thighs.
It wasn’t an intimate act between lovers, quite the opposite but more often than not his dick wouldn’t get the memo and start to stiffen anyway. Luckily Peter didn’t ask him to turn around so his erection stayed unnoticed. A part of him felt ashamed for the way he’s lusting after his handler when he only wanted to show him some kindness. Another part wanted to take more than he’s already receiving. Using his strength to haul him down and underneath him where Peter would beg for his mercy while he forced his way between his handler's thighs. What stopped him from going through with those violent fantasies wasn’t the gun Peter always carried around and knew how to use. It wasn’t the small knife that was hidden in the shaft of his right boot. He could easily get rid of those weapons without getting hurt in the process. What contained his hunger were his feelings towards the other man. He’d stopped feeling sympathy for the people, especially those that were his targets and since theoretically everyone could become his target that left no one to care for. Peter was the exception because every rule had one. Logically he’s aware that his feelings were probably just Stockholm syndrome, yet that didn’t make them feel any less real. Just the mere idea of putting a bullet through his handler’s brain made his stomach turn.
„Hey Wade, did you fall asleep on me again?“, he barely registered Peter’s voice drifting through the state of half-wakefulness he’s currently in.
„No…just resting my eyelids.“
„Hmm sure.“, came the chuckled response, making it clear that Peter wasn’t believe his bad bluff. Lazily blinking his eyes open again he turned his head sideways, letting Peter wipe off the excess oil with a soft towel. It felt like somehow like an afterglow kind of moment. When he got down from his pleasure induced high, not thinking about the blood that would soon cover his body and suit once more.
„Gotta leave now but I’ll see you for dinner.“ The word dinner had lost its mouth watering meaning since his meals consisted out of shakes providing him with all the proteins, carbs and whatever else his body needed. It tasted like garbage water but Wade refrained from voicing his current thoughts. At least he wouldn’t have to consume it by himself.
„Alright.“, he murmured with half of his face still mushed against the battered pillow. Not like he’d actually any say in the whole matter, but he appreciated the fact that Peter pretended he had a voice. He watched his handler pick of the abandoned vial of oil and leave the small room.
Upon rounding the corner Peter almost walked into the man leaning against the wall. „You’re a manipulative little shit.“, Rumlow accused him, almost as if he’s being impressed by the way Peter handled his asset. Yet Peter knew for a fact that his ‚coworker’ was mostly bitter over the fact that he’d lost his soldier while Peter kept his own on a tight leash.
„I am.“, Peter confirmed with a light smile that failed to reach his eyes. „And since you know what I can do it would be a smart move to leave me alone.“, he added, voice still sounding cheerful despite the seriousness of the topic.
„What are you gonna do? Send your bloodhound after me?“ If Peter were a weaker man he might fall for the provocation, but he didn’t despise Rumlow enough to risk losing Deadpool because he was sending him after another hydra agent over a petty insult that wasn’t even a lie.
„Why are people always more afraid of the monster than the person that created it?“, Peter mused audibly, already sidestepping the taller man to move past him. He was getting really tired of everyone underestimating his worth, of Deadpool overshadowing him with his brute force.
„Whatever, Dr. Frankstein jr.“, Rumlow sneered in response, apparently insisting to have the final say.
-
He didn’t have a special someone who’s looking for him. Not anymore. Peter had made sure of that. She’d been his 100th kill, like an anniversary worth celebrating.
Peter told him that they couldn’t let him keep his weak spot. He had to be at his strongest and deadliest for them. He couldn’t deny that he’d hesitated, finger curled around the trigger but unable to put the bit of necessary extra pressure onto it. Vanessa pleaded to him to put down the gun, to remember their time together. „I love you!“, she cried out, her usually velvety voice sounding raw like they’d been out for karaoke last night and downed too many cheap Mai Thais. Wade felt his heart shatter in his chest when he released the bullet, sending it straight through her forehead. The least she deserved was a quick and painless death. It might have ended a lot worse for both of them if Wade had refused and Hydra had taken care of the mission he couldn’t finish.
After the previous object of Wade’s affection was gone, Peter gave him the time he needed to mourn but stayed close for comfort. During the second phase of grief Wade’s anger was mostly directed towards his handler for giving him his orders. „It wasn’t me who pulled the trigger.“, he reminded Deadpool, feeling his eye starting to swell from the punch he’d received. This time he’d let Wade acting out slide, not punishing him for harming his owner. It didn’t take too long before depression hit the trained killer like a burning trainwreck. Barely a day passed without Wade finding a way to kill himself. His howl of agony whenever he came inevitably back to life didn’t make it past the soundproof walls.
Peter came by as often as his schedule would allow him to. They’d have meals together and sometimes the brunet brought some additional comfort snacks along as well. The sugar overload that a single bite from a Twinkie caused after he’d purely consumed tasteless shakes for over half a year was amazing. It also made Wade feel a bit sick, so he kept the rest for later.
-
True loyalty wasn’t inspired by pain and fear. Those were just a weaker substitute for love and belief. Therefor the first two usually didn’t last a lifetime. It was the reason the Winter Soldier hadn’t made an attempt to return to them willingly. Hydra had taken his memory and autonomy without giving him anything in return for his obedience. That’s why the asset had come back to the captain who’d of course welcomed his best friend with open arms, even risking his own life multiple times in the process. That damn patriotic martyr.
Peter was confident that his influence on Deadpool was stronger. He didn’t have to electrocute him into submission. There’s no one waiting for him anymore, Peter had made sure of that or rather he’d let Wade himself take care of it. Now he’s the only attachment figure he’d left. Wade was tangled up in his web of false companionship, affection and rewards, unseeing of the trap he’d walked straight into. He’d even shifted the blame from Peter to Hydra’s director who’s giving the rest of his employees his orders. Maybe he thought Peter was a victim as well only playing his part to survive. The truth couldn’t be farther out of reach.