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Wade was cleaning his katanas in his second-favourite safe house at 11:00PM on a Saturday night when he got a series of weird texts. Not a lot of people texted him, mainly Weasel with new jobs. But the only name to flash on his screen that would actually make him stop what he was doing and attend to his phone was Spider-Man. They’d been collaborating for about two years now (or rather, Spider-Man had allowed Wade to follow him around on patrol) and Wade felt like they had built up a firm friendship. Firm as Spidey’s tight ass, mmm.
They’d recently reached a milestone in their friendship (although Spider-Man might not see it that way) because Spidey had told Wade his real name. They’d been taking a nighttime stroll after a successful few hours of tackling bad guys and had visited a food cart to pick up some excellent Mexican street food. Spidey was walking beside Wade, his mask rolled up to his cute little nose, nibbling on a churro in a way that was reminiscent of a rabbit gnawing a carrot and he’d said “Peter. Um, that’s my name, by the way. Peter Parker.”
Of course, Wade had kept it super casual, nodding and saying “Oh, cool.” but inside his mind, there had been a row of miniature Deadpools dancing the can-can. We know his name now! He trusts us! Wade’s civvy identity wasn’t as a closely-guarded secret like Peter’s, so he’d told the superhero his real name months ago. Thinking back on it, telling him his name had been like telling someone you love them. You say it to them and you hope they’ll say it back, but you’re content to wait if they don’t feel ready to respond in kind. Or at least, that’s what it was like for Wade.
But now, Peter was texting him and these texts were alarming, to say the least.
Thursday 11:00PM
Peter: Hiiii dedpo0k
Thursday 11:01
Peter: deadpol wats up
Thursday 11:01
Its dakr n i dont kno where ia m
Wade had his phone pressed so tightly to his ear that it was digging into his skin.
“Baby boy, pick up,”
“Hey…you...” That was Spidey’s voice alright, but there was a worrying slur to the words.
“Spidey, where are you? I’ll come and get you. Tell me where you are.”
“Uh…’m in a building…”
Wade resisted the urge to roll his eyes, then remembered who he was and gave in to the urge. Come on, Spidey, try harder. “That’s good, what else?”
“There were baddies, they were, uh, sthsshtihngkjl -- they had the -- the drugs. Tried to web ‘em.”
“Where are they now? The bad guys? Peter?”
“Escaped. My head feels weird.”
“Did they hit you, babe? Did they hit you on the head?”
He was spiralling into panic, horrible visions in his mind's eye were growing like tumours. Spidey hurt. Spidey bleeding. Spidey feeling cold and lost and alone, waiting for Wade...
And Spidey must be affected because there was no irritable growl at the pet name.
“No? Dunno. Maybe? But the pink stuff went on my face ’cause I fell. Sand in my nose.”
“Pink sand? Did you fall on some powder? Who are these guys, are they drug dealers? Baby, what powder? What does it say, is there a bag or, I don’t know, a label or something? Tell me!”
“Don’t yell at me!” Peter whined. “Just. Open bag. And I fell and it got in my face. My eyes and my nose. Can you come here? Don’t know where I am.”
After much wheedling and begging, Wade was able to find out where Peter was. Peter hadn’t been much help, unable to recall the address but he’d been able to give Wade useful bits of information that helped him.
Peter was in a grotty apartment downtown. Wade knew he had the right address when he saw the flickering street lamp. Over the phone, he’d instructed Peter to look out of the window and report on what he could see, and Peter had excitedly told him about the pretty, blinking light.
He didn’t bother attempting to get buzzed in, instead choosing to kick the door in and run up the stairs. He crept through the hallway, past apartment doors, listening for signs of life. The droning of a television, the whirring of a blender or some other noisy kitchen appliance. It was only when he reached the door at the end that he heard discordant singing. Aww, Spidey.
He shouldered through the door, wincing through the pain and burst in, feeling full of splinters and masculine bravado.
“Spidey! Where are you?”
“DEADPOOL!” Peter screamed and Wade flinched at the sound. Jesus, that kid had a set of pipes on him. Peter was still dressed in his Spider-Man suit, thank goodness. It would be bad news if the dealers had seen him unmasked. Now safe in the knowledge that Peter was okay, Wade paced around the flat, his hand on his gun, to check that Peter was correct in his assertion that the dealers had left. It appeared that they had gone, leaving their stock behind.
He could see bricks of coke, and a wad of hundreds that he definitely did not pocket, and a large bag on the floor. It was a translucent plastic sack, with a large gash running down the side of it. It was bulging with a pale, pink powder, not unlike the dyed sand you get in children’s arts and crafts packs. The powder was spilling out of the slit and pouring out on the floor. He dropped to a crouch and scooped up a couple of granules with the tip of his gloved finger. Casting a glance to check that Spidey wasn’t watching him (Peter was staring out of the window again, probably at the broken street lamp), Wade rolled his mask up a bit and licked the powder off his finger. The taste was bitter, artificial. Yup, drugs, definitely drugs. And Peter had taken a faceful.
“Spidey? Wouldn’t your mask protect you from getting this stuff in your face?”
Peter toddled over and slumped down besides Wade. “Went under my mask. Can I have some more?”
“Wait, what?” It was only thanks to Wade’s reflexes that he was able to prevent Peter from diving headfirst into the glittering river of pink. “No, you’re not having more of the drug, the mysterious, illegal drug. That stuff could kill you!”
“But I want it! I want it I want it I want it!”
“You can beg all you want, but I’m not budging. Shit, need to get you out of here, kid. We gotta get out, those bad guys could return and I don’t think a doped-up spider is going to be much good against them. Are you able to get up?”
But Peter was still lying on the floor, kicking his little blue boots around, apparently fascinated by the glittering, pink clouds of dust that flew with every kick.
Wade sighed and got to his feet. He suddenly felt a lot older. “Okay, time to go. Give me your hand and we’ll--”
But Peter was fidgeting with his mask, pulling at the hem, trying to detach it from the neck. He’d managed to yank it up, just a fraction and already, Wade could see an inch of his soft, white throat. He panicked, not for his benefit but for Spidey’s. He knew his friend would be horrified to know he’d unmasked himself, when he was sober. He grabbed Peter’s hands, wrenching them away from the mask.
“No, that’s your mask, doll. We keep the mask on,”
“But whyyy?”
"‘Cause Deadpool says so.”
“'Pool hates Spidey. 'Pool’s mean!”
“I can get a lot meaner,” Wade muttered. “Time to go, little one. Spidey wanna go up?” He grabbed Peter, not waiting for an answer, and lifted him up in a fireman’s carry. Peter giggled, swinging his arms and legs. Damn, the kid was surprisingly light. He was a good little fighter but where that strength came from, Wade didn’t know. It was like holding a ragdoll.
“Stroooong,”
Wade managed to carry Peter all the way down the stairs and to the car. He’d borrowed a car from a guy who owed him a favour, and it was fortunate that he had it, because clearly, Peter was in no state to walk home. It seemed that the drug was slow-acting but very strong, because Peter was getting more and more affected. His texts sent earlier had been coherent enough, but now, he was giddy and excitable, kicking his legs and pulling at Wade’s mask, as Wade wrestled with the car door. He was severely impeded, having to work with one hand, his other arm wrapped around the big bundle of Spidey, and it wasn’t made easier by his spider’s constant attempts to wriggle out of his grip.
“'Pool loooves Spidey,” Peter said and Wade smiled sadly.
“I do.” Wade agreed. He finally got the car open, and popped Peter inside. His friend let himself be buckled in, sitting placidly with his hands in his lap.
Wade buckled himself in, and closed and locked both doors. His hands were shaking, he realised, tightening his grip on the driving wheel. He had to stop panicking, Peter was fine, Wade had already taken a sample of the mysterious drug, to give to Stark or Dr. Strange or some fucker to test. And then they could get Peter the antidote or whatever, and it would be fine.
“How do you feel, sweetheart? Is your heart beating fast? Can you see alright?”
“I’m happy. The pink glitter is so pretty.”
“I’m glad you’re happy, babe. Look, I think I should take you back to mine. I need to keep an eye on you while I make a call to a doctor, okay? Just want to keep you safe.”
“‘Pool loves Spidey, 'Pool loves Spidey!”
“Yeah yeah, we been knew. Say something else…”
“Hot car,” Peter pawed at the window catch but didn’t seem able to activate the latch, thankfully.
“I’d crack a window but I’m afraid you’ll jump out and get hit by a truck. I don’t fancy flipping a Spidey pancake off the road.”
“SPIDEY PANCAKES! I want pancakes!” Spider-Man twisted in his seat and it was unnerving, having those huge, white mesh eyes turned on him, all that focus zeroed in on Wade’s face. Wade tried to keep his eyes on the road but he could still feel that white gaze fixed on his face. “Can I have a Spidey Pancake?”
“No, you don’t want one of those, I was saying that you -- oh, shit, babydoll, please don’t cry!” Because Peter was now weeping, pitiful little sobs that broke what was left of Wade’s scarred heart. The poor guy was trying to wipe his tears and making distressed little noises when he couldn’t, not realising his mask was in the way. “Okay, I’ll make you pancakes when we get home.”
“I LOVE DEADPOOL!” Spidey shrieked, making Wade’s ears hurt.
“I’m not so sure about that,” Wade whispered but Peter didn’t hear him in his excitement.
Wade’s latest safehouse was a nondescript apartment in central New York. He’d picked it because it was near a really good hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant, which was a good enough reason to settle here. At least he kept his refrigerator stocked up, anyway.
Peter ran through Wade’s apartment, whooping, jumping on the couch and shooting random strings of webbing at the walls and floor until the living room resembled a haunted house. When Peter recovered, Wade was going to make him clean the place, remove every sticky strand of webbing. The thought of Spider-Man working hard, maybe on his hands and knees, using a ruler to dig out his own viscous webbing from the threads of the carpet. That was a nice mental image.
Peter was lured into the kitchen by the smell of cooking; he jumped up and down in delight and was quick to offer suggestions on how Wade should prepare the meal.
“I want five pancakes! No, ten! And sugar and lemon! And maple syrup! And whipped cream! And I want the cream to be two eyes and the syrup to be a big smile like my aunt does when she makes them!”
“Jesus, how old are you?” He didn’t know the guy had any family. A lot of mutants don’t. He liked it though, it made him feel a bit better knowing that there was somebody who could take good care of his Spidey, somebody with his best interests at heart.
“I’m twenty-five!” Peter declared.
“Aww. Sit down and Daddy will get you those pancakes.”
“I hope somebody is freakishly hungry!” Wade called. He was balancing plates on both hands and forearms. He might not be blessed with Spider-Man’s agility but he hadn’t dropped anything yet. I’m beauty, I’m grace, I’ll shoot you in the face.
“Yay!” Spidey yelled and Wade smiled. He placed the plates in front of his friend. He’d had a flash of inspiration and created not a syrup smile but a syrup grin, using tiny marshmallows as teeth.
“The smile came out kinda crooked but you can just pretend he’s Steve Buscemi!” Wade said and glanced up to see if Spidey liked his joke.
When Wade had put the plates down, he’d seen some blue material on the table and figured that Spidey had removed his gloves, which made sense. But this…
“You took off your mask…” Wade gasped. Peter met his eyes and smiled. Oh, shit.
Peter was pretty. Wade guessed he shouldn’t have been surprised, he could tell, even with the suit on, that his arachnid pal had been blessed with a rockin’ bod, long legs, toned arms, a perky butt, nice little waist. But his face. It was so sweet. Spider-Man (the real Spider-Man, smart, sassy, kind of grumpy sometimes, not this drugged up cutie currently devouring pancakes) would be annoyed to hear Wade describe him as sweet but it was true. A pale, elfish face, still soft with youth, gentle chocolatey eyes, and an adorable little nose that Wade was resisting the urge to boop. His hair was fucking glorious, thick brown waves, a similar shade to his eyes, just long enough that Wade could grab and tug on it, if he wished. This drugged Spidey would probably let him. Something lurched in Wade’s stomach and it wasn’t hunger. Or maybe it was. He cleared his throat and started shovelling forkfuls of pancakes in his mouth, thinking that maybe if he kept his mouth full, he wouldn’t say something stupid.
Wade wolfed down his pancakes and left Peter to finish his, while Wade made a call. Peter’s condition seemed stable. His pupils were dilated but he was able to see perfectly well, his clever eyes tracking Wade’s movements around the room. His skin was slightly flushed and his heart rate was elevated, but not frantically so. It was more like if a non-mutant went for a jog, a faster heartbeat but regular. Consistent. Peter had giggled as Wade wriggled his hand under the neckline of Peter’s spider-suit, so he could fit the stethoscope in there. It was an actual working stethoscope (Wade had only ever used it for doctor roleplay in the past) so he felt pretty confident in caretaking. After the phone call, he returned to Peter to tell him what had been discussed. Peter was swinging from one of his web lines, this one attached to the kitchen ceiling. He wasn’t attempting to travel, merely swinging back and forth like a child. It looked fun, Wade hoped Spidey would let him swing around, next time they patrolled the streets.
“I called up Dr. Banner and described your symptoms…” There probably wasn’t any point in telling Peter this, it wasn’t like he’d remember. “He said you’ve been given a new drug that has been making its way around the black market. It’s called Amuze. It causes euphoria, lack of inhibitions and impairs the cerebral cortex, he said. Good news is, it wears off. He thinks, with your clever, spidey biology, you’ll burn through it fast and hopefully be your usual grumpy self by morning. If you’re still weird by dawn, I’m taking you to him and forcing him to treat you.”
"Why are you being so nice to me? I'm mean to you all the time." Peter said innocently, his hazy brown eyes watching Wade pace back and forth. Wade was shocked to feel a lump in his throat at Peter's words and he swallowed several times before he spoke.
"It's okay, Spidey. We're friends. Friends can tease each other. I know you care about me. In your way."
"I'm so sleepy."
"You should probably get some shut-eye. You can take my bed, I'll have the couch. Do you think you can stand?"
But Peter clumsily tripped and stumbled his way into Wade's arms. "Carry me!"
Wade sighed, hoisting Peter in his arms once more. Peter seemed fascinated by Wade's arms, he kept squeezing Wade's biceps and running his fingers down the veins. His fingers were gentle, but Wade knew he could do damage with them if he dug in. Spidey was a paradox, short and lean, but packed with power, able to beat up guys three times his size. Wade had always found it exciting, watching the webbed wonder fight. He told himself that his interest was strictly professional, but then, he'd never been good at lying to himself.
“Big,” Spidey said, and he flung his arms wide, as if exaggerating the length of a fish. “Always liked him big...” Wade was going extra slowly up the stairs, not wanting to risk a trip with such a precious bundle in his arms.
“What was that?”
“Always like Deadpool. Strong. Makes me safe.”
“Really? ‘cause you always act like you think Deadpool’s just a big, dumb jerk.”
“Nooo!” Peter said, shaking his head violently as if horrified by the thought. “Spidey loves Deadpool!”
Wade's heart kicked up a notch. What the fuck, Wade, you going soft in your old age? “You never said that before.”
“I’m stooopid,”
“No, you’re not, you’re, like, the smartest guy I know.”
“Noooooo, Spidey’s dumb. Don’t tell Deadpool the thing. ”
Poor Peter, in his drugged state, he didn’t seem to realise Wade and Deadpool were the same dude. “Don’t tell Deadpool what?”
“Spidey likes him,” Peter said. “Spidey loooves him!”
“He loves Spidey too.”
But Peter was shaking his head again, his brown curls flying in his face. “Not like that…”
“Then what? Tell me.”
But Peter's eyes were falling shut and his weight grew heavier in Wade's arms as he relaxed.
Peter looked cute as a bug in a rug. He was snuggled up in the centre of Wade's double bed, with his curly head resting on a mound of pillows. Wade had removed his boots and socks and placed them neatly by the door. He didn't think the spider suit was good to sleep in, but he felt like he'd already crossed enough boundaries tonight. He couldn't undress Peter, it wouldn't be appropriate.
Peter lay there, wriggling about, finding the perfect position to lie in, while Wade hovered uncertainly by the door. It was only when Peter made grabby hands at him and let out a cajoling: "'Pool, c'mere..." that Wade approached the bed again.
Wade obliged, carefully climbing on the bed and settling down beside Peter. Peter gazed up at him with earnest (if not glazed) eyes.
“Wade. Am I a good boy? Am I your best boy?”
Wade groaned. “Sweetheart you’re killing me,” At least I’ll die with a smile on my face.
“You take good care of me.”
“I guess. I just want you to be happy, kid.”
“I am happy,” Peter told him. “But--”
“What? What do you need?”
“Hold me? Please?”
Wordlessly, Wade wrapped his arms around Peter’s waist and the young man burrowed into the embrace, resting his head on Wade’s chest. Wade sat there, barely daring to breathe, marvelling at the sight before him. Peter, relaxed and sleepy, cotton-soft hair gently falling in his eyes, a contented smile on his pretty mouth. He knew he was doing something forbidden, letting this occur. Peter would surely look back on this and cringe, perhaps be annoyed with Wade for allowing this to happen. But no matter what it was that Peter or Spider-Man needed, Wade was always there to deliver. And right now, the hero of New York needed to be cuddled. As Peter drifted off, making soft, snuffly sounds against Wade's chest, Wade wished this night could last forever. But all good things come to an end and soon, far too soon, the early rays of dawn began to filter into the room.