Chapter Text
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It wasn’t like they were best friends.
Wade knew the internet liked to write pages and pages of weirdly intense fanfiction stories about them, but in reality? Spider-Man was a colorful, high-flying New York fixture who occasionally tolerated Wade’s presence during his night patrols. They didn't grab coffee. They didn't share skin-care routines. Wade didn’t know who was under the mask, what his day job was, or why he occasionally sounded like a stressed-out college student trying to balance a budget.
So, when the bright red-and-blue-spandex-wearing superhero stopped popping up on Wade’s usual patrol routes for a couple of weeks, Wade didn’t panic. He figured the kid was doing Avenger stuff. Or maybe he was grounded. Do superheroes get grounded?
[𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍. 𝙾𝚛 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍. 𝚆𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚂𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝙾𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚃𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒.] Yellow suggested, bouncing around the left side of Wade's brain.
“Whatever it is, it means less superhero lecturing for us,” Wade muttered to himself, currently sitting on a plaid sofa in his recently acquired dilapidated NYC apartment, scraping the last bit of ice cream out of a pot with a plastic spoon.
[𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐖𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧'𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫-𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬. 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐠𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐩 𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬.] White deadpanned.
Before Wade could argue, his burner phone buzzed against the laminate coffee table. The screen displayed a scrambled international number. Wade picked it up on the third ring, letting out a dramatic sigh. "You've reached the Deadpool hotline. If you're calling to report a rogue mutant, press one. If you're calling to tell me my hair looks great today, please hold."
"Wilson," a raspy, heavily accented voice came through the static. It wasn't his usual American handler. "I have an extraction contract. Non-lethal, if you can believe the client's pockets. Five grand upfront, another ten upon delivery. But you need to get to Québec. Tonight."
Wade sat up, dropping his plastic spoon. "Québec? Ooh, fancy. My French is a little rusty, you think that’s okay? Wait, am I stealing a lifetime supply of maple syrup from the Global Strategic Reserve? Because I will totally do a heist movie montage for that."
"An illegal weapon shipment," the voice corrected. "A warehouse near the Old Port of Montréal. Some low-level crew thought they could skim off a major cartel shipment. Clear the floor, secure the cargo, and get out before the local authorities notice the noise."
Wade looked out the window. It was currently raining a depressing, muddy sleet over NYC. It seems like there wouldn’t be snow in time for the holidays. A trip up-north sounded halfway decent, even if it meant dealing with the brutal Québécois winter.
"Fine, tell the client I'm on my way," Wade said, already kicking his fuzzy slippers off and reaching for his red-and-black tactical boots. "But they're paying for my plane ticket. I am not driving a shitty stolen car through a Canadian blizzard just for a minor smuggling bust."
The storm in Montréal was no joke. By the time Wade touched down and tracked the coordinates, the city was buried under a thick, heavy blanket of snow that muffled the sound of traffic. The wind howling off the river felt like someone was scraping the contents of a Tim Hortons’ Iced Capp directly across his exposed face (IYKYK).
He slipped through the shadows of the industrial sector, his boots crunching softly on the packed ice. The target was an old, rusted brick warehouse near the docks, its windows boarded up and throwing off absolutely zero light.
Wade paused at the side door, slipping his twin katanas slightly out of their sheathes just to ensure the grease hadn't frozen solid.
[𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞, 𝐛𝐢𝐠 𝐠𝐮𝐲. 𝐍𝐨 𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐖𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝. 𝐖𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐰. 𝐖𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐢𝐭.] White reminded him.
“I know, I know,” Wade thought back, rolling his eyes beneath his mask. “No slicing, no dicing. Just a gentle, concussive bedtime story for the bad guys. I’m basically Batman, but with a much better ass.”
He pressed his weight against the rusted security door, popping the lock with a slick, practiced click. He slipped inside like a ghost.
The interior of the warehouse was a cavernous, freezing tomb. The only illumination came from a pair of flickering halogen work lights set up around a cluster of wooden crates in the center of the floor. Six guys were standing around, wrapped in heavy winter coats, whispering nervously. They looked jumpy.
Wade didn't give them a chance to coordinate.
He dropped from the steel rafters like a sack of bricks, landing squarely on the shoulders of the biggest guy. The man went down with a muffled groan, his nose breaking instantly against the concrete floor. Before the others could draw their weapons, Wade was a blur of red and black.
He didn't draw his swords. Instead, he used the heavy pommels, striking with brutal, non-lethal precision. A hard crack to a wrist dropped a shotgun; a sweeping kick shattered a kneecap; a heavy tactical boot to the sternum sent another smuggler flying backward into a stack of pallets.
Within ninety seconds, the warehouse floor was silent, save for the rhythmic, miserable groans of heavily concussed men clutching various broken joints.
"And that, boys, is how we do a non-violent intervention," Wade panted, dusting off his hands. He looked down at the last conscious guy, who was crawling away slowly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some cargo to inspect-"
A soft, ragged sound cut through the ambient hum of the building's ancient generator.
It wasn't a groan of pain from the smugglers. It was a wet, desperate gasp, coming from the dark, unlit corner of the warehouse behind a massive pile of discarded tarp.
Wade’s playful demeanor instantly evaporated. His mercenary instincts flared, his hand dropping automatically to the grip of his pistol. He crept toward the tarp, his eyes tracking the floor.
He pulled the heavy plastic back with one swift motion. The breath caught entirely in Wade's throat.
"Spidey?" Wade whispered, the name slipping out before his brain could even process what his eyes were seeing.
It was him. But it was all wrong.
The iconic red-and-blue suit was torn in multiple places, the thin fabric offering absolutely zero protection against the sub-zero temperature of this place. Spider-Man was curled into a tight, shivering ball, his knees tucked into his chest. His limbs were shaking with a violent, uncontrolled tremor - the kind that meant hypothermia was actively shutting down a body's core.
But it wasn't just the cold.
Lying next to his limp hand was a shattered glass vial, a faint residue of a glowing, neon-purple synthetic fluid soaking into the dust. Wade recognized the scent instantly: GLOW, a highly volatile, weaponized mutant nerve-suppressant designed to overload a super-powered immune system and paralyze the target's muscles.
Spidey’s mask was partially pulled up past his nose, his lips a terrifying, pale shade of blue. Wade couldn’t see his eyes, but the super-hero seemed completely out of it, attempting to roll on his back as Wade blocked his view. He didn't even seem to recognize the red suit standing over him.
"Hey, hey, Webs, look at me," Wade said, his voice dropping all of its usual theatricality as he dropped to his knees. He grabbed Spidey’s shoulders, his gloved hands instantly registering just how freezing the kid's body was. He felt like a block of ice. "What in the tabarnak did these fuckers do to you kid?"
Spidey let out a weak, agonizingly slow shiver, his teeth chattering so hard it sounded like glass breaking. "W-Wade...?" he breathed, a tiny puff of condensation leaving his lips before his head lolled back against the concrete.
Wade didn't think. He didn't check the cargo, he didn't care about the extra ten grand, and he completely ignored Yellow trying to make a joke about the situation.
He slid his arms under the shivering, limp weight of Spider-Man, lifting him easily against his chest.
"Let’s get you warmed up Spidey, you’re safe now."
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