Chapter Text
The sun was beating the fuck out of Peter, and he had no idea how Wade, in full Kevlar and leather gear, was even capable of functioning, let alone somehow having enough energy to literally run circles around him. “Hey, hey Spidey! Let's play Duck, Duck, Goose but you’re already it and you have to chase me across the city and if you catch me you have to claim your prize from me in the alleyway by the Mexican place downtown. Ok, I’m ready. Three, two, one— go.”
Peter didn’t turn around. “I know you’re bending over the side of the roof and sticking your ass out, Wade.” Wade gasped theatrically. “And it‘s too hot to chase you, I‘m not running unless I have to.”
Peter could feel Deadpool sticking his tongue out at him. “You’re no fun , c’mon at least play the alphabet game with me, I know this isn’t a road trip but you could take a trip on my road, if you know what I mean.”
Peter rolled his eyes, “Why don’t we get Japanese food instead. We can get scallion pancakes.” Wade can never resist scallion pancakes.
“Goddamnit, you know I can’t resist scallion pancakes!” Wade insisted on racing to the Japanese place a couple blocks over, despite Peter’s initial protests. But he was too competitive to let Wade win and since he already had pretty large pit stains he figured it wouldn’t be that bad.
He was wrong. It was that bad. His pit stains expanded and his lungs were clearly collapsing and his throat was full of sand and why did Peter think racing Wade in 90 degree weather in full-body suits would be a good idea? Chalk it up to post-adolescence hormonal idiocy. Which was probably just called adulthood.
Just as Wade began to moan loudly around his greasy scallion pancake, Peter heard a gunshot from miles away. “Time to go, Wade.” Peter hadn’t even taken a single bite yet. Damn, it’s hard to be a hero. Sighing, Wade packed up the pancakes and stashed them on a nearby roof and they ran wherever Peter’s ears led them.
Peter made sure an ambulance was on the way as soon as they arrived at the super cliché warehouse full of super cliché arms dealers who turned out to be super cliché human traffickers who turned out to be super cliché mutant traffickers. There were mutants in super cliché capsules with super cliché tubes sticking out of them with a super cliché control panel that had a super cliché button that opens every capsule at the same time for some reason. Wade beat up all the traffickers (and maybe killed one or two but shush don’t tell Spidey ) while Peter pressed the super cliché button and began detaching the tubes from the captives one by one.
**
It was, to say the least, a nauseating sight. Around thirty capsules full of mutants, many visibly mutilated and most likely more with hidden disfigurements. In the first capsule was a humanoid person with green skin and webbed fingers and nails that looked naturally black. Once he helped them out of the capsule, Peter didn’t have a chance to say anything before the person collapsed and stopped breathing and then stopped having a pulse. Peter cursed, shut their eyes and moved on to the next capsule. There was a male with no hair and a neck as long as one of Peter’s arms. He woke up quickly and immediately started coughing. Kneeling next to him, Peter whispered, and tried not to startle him, “Hey, hey, you’re ok. You’re safe now. Can you understand me? We’re here to help.” But the man couldn’t seem to speak and soon he began to retch. He vomited blood and small objects that Peter couldn’t and didn’t want to identify. The third and fourth mutants were identical girls with hair to their shoulders, both around the ages of nine or ten, and none of their bones were in the right place. On and on Peter went, finding only disfigured victims who died soon after he released them. Wade, after having dealt with the traffickers, began to do the same as Peter, and neither of them spoke as the bodies began to pile up. There was nothing to say.
The last mutant seemed to be around Peter’s age, maybe 20 or 21, and she was pale, more pale than any person should ever be, and when she opened her eyes, there seemed to be an infinite variation of colors within them, all orbiting one another. “Hello, my name is Peter,” He spoke in barely more than a whisper, as if being quiet could keep her alive. “We’re here to help. Can you understand me?” When she nodded, relief hit Peter so hard he had trouble speaking.
Wade continued, “Can you tell us your name?”
She shook her head and whispered, “Please...”
Peter pleaded with her, “The ambulance is almost here, will you let us put a blanket around you until they arrive?”
She shook her head frantically, “Please... please kill me,” and then she began to cry, and her tears looked like stars and Peter cried with her. “I remember what they did to me. I want to forget. Please, I just want to sleep. I don’t want to be alive.” She walked up to Deadpool and put her hand over the gun he held. “ Please .”
Wade had tears in his eyes but he wouldn’t let them fall. “Peter.” Wade sounded angry but Peter could hear how his voice wavered and nearly broke. “Look away.” And he didn’t want to, but Peter understood. They’d been in situations like this before, with people, usually mutants, who had been so traumatized and mutilated by their captors that by the time they were rescued, all they wanted was to die. And if the government got hold of them, they would end up in a cell, alive but unable to heal, and no therapist or treatment could get them anywhere close to ok. Best case scenario, they would remain in that nearly catatonic state until they starved or aged to death. Worst case, their powers would cause them to self-destruct, which often involved the death of themselves and everyone held within the same facility as well.
So Peter turned around and sat on the ground, put his head between his knees and wished, as he had many times, that he could turn off his hearing at will.
***
Peter dissociated most of the way back to the rooftop and neither of them said a single word. They both forgot about the scallion pancakes and sat on the edge of the building, dangling their legs off. “We did the best we could. You know that, right, Peter? We... we didn’t do anything wrong.” If Peter didn’t know better, he’d say Wade was trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince Peter.
Shaking his head, Peter said, “If I was faster or stronger or...” And then Peter remembered seeing a symbol on one of the cliché boxes in the warehouse. The same one he’d seen in a drug bust a couple weeks ago and in a robbery a month before that. “I know these guys.” Peter’s hands started shaking. “I should have researched them or kept track of them or— I should have known . If I had just paid more attention—”
“Pete, no. You know we can’t think that way.” Peter’s whole body was shaking uncontrollably. “We did what we could, ok? And we’ll keep an eye on them now.”
“But it’s too late! I already...I already killed those people. Those children.”
He’d thought he had no more tears left to give but his eyes proved him wrong. “Why do I keep doing this? Ben and Aunt May and Gwen... why do I keep killing everyone?” And it was true. All he’d ever done was kill the people he cared about most. He couldn’t save Uncle Ben from a robber, couldn’t save Aunt May from cancer, couldn’t save Gwen from Osborn— and now he couldn’t save these children, couldn’t be fast or smart enough.
“Peter... you didn’t kill those people.”
“What do you mean, Wade? They’re dead and it’s my fault. That’s what killing means.” It pissed Peter off that Wade would tell him these things, as if Wade knows what it felt like to have his entire family die in his arms. “You couldn’t understand.”
“Goddamnit, Peter, stop it with your fucking martyr complex!” Oh. Peter looked over to Wade and saw tears in his eyes and anger in his clenched fists. “You’re not the only one who’s lost people. You don’t get to say that I don’t understand. I do understand. I understand completely, asshole . You don’t think I’m feeling the exact same way you are right now?” Oh. In the moment, Peter had forgotten that Wade had experienced similar things. With Vanessa and Wade’s own hidden story about his parents— of course he would understand. God, he’d been such an ass to Wade, hadn’t he?
“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered. Wade was crying too now, and Peter watched as he began whispering to himself, to the boxes. He couldn’t make out most of the words but he heard ‘die’ and ‘Vanessa’ and ‘shut up shut up shut up.’ “I’ll go now. I’m sorry.” Peter had fucked up enough today.
He swung to the Tower and slipped into his bedroom window. He didn’t want to see Tony or the other Avengers. If Tony hadn’t already heard what happened, he would soon, and then they’d have to talk about it. Peter would rather get run over by a truck than talk about it , even though he knew it was necessary. Peter took off his suit and realized how exhausted he was as soon as he hit the bed.
He couldn't sleep though. Peter felt incredibly guilty for everything that had happened, especially for how he’d talked to Wade, and he was determined to make it up to him and do his best to earn Wade’s forgiveness. Even if it meant he had to give Wade space for weeks or grovel if Wade wanted him to grovel, he would, because Peter knew that Wade’s friendship was too important to lose.
He’d figure out what he needed to do in the morning, and he’d fix this. He had to.