Chapter Text
“Heya, Websy,” Wade says when he finds him. He’s at one of their preferred meet-up spots: a Goldilocks building downtown that's the perfect height to be both private from the riff-raff and easily climbable for the non-spider enhanced. It’s got a flat roof for lounging, an access door perfect for leaning, a busted security system, and best of all: Spider-Man, already there.
Webs has been suspiciously easy to find lately. Wade's trying not to read too much into it.
(Pbbbbtttt, yeah right. Oh, baby is he reading into it alright, he's reading hard, he's reading like it's 3am and he's half-way through a smokin' hot long fic, red-eyed and chubbed up.)
Anyway: Webs. Speaking of being chubbed up.
His favorite little spider has the most delicious habit of smashing all of Wade's buttons at once and today is no exception. Wade is momentarily struck dumb at the sight of him.
Webs is hanging upside down on the access wall, one delicate foot stuck to the wall and the other folded across his body. He looks like some kind of horny Hanged Man tarot card on tumblr dot com. He looks like a rigger's wet dream. He looks like a sex demon sent Priority Express from Wade’s ex-wife to torture him—Wade—specifically.
Webs is looking at his phone and not paying attention to Wade at all.
"Did you do the Connections?"
He sounds irritated, and it's enough to break Wade free of his arousal-induced paralysis.
"Stuck?"
And Wade, well, he tries to keep the glee from his voice but from the way Spidey's lenses narrow he's probably not successful.
He can’t help it. He loves when Spidey asks him for help. He’ll take it any way he can get it, whether that’s punching some bad guys or solving bougie word association puzzles.
“Wanna hint?”
Wade’s learned the hard way to ask before volunteering: sometimes Spidey wants a hint and sometimes he just wants to bitch about it for a little bit. If Wade isn’t careful about which one Webs wants, all Wade will get for his troubles is a ticked-off Spidey.
Webs makes a high, annoyed whistle. “No.”
Bitch it is. Wade settles down at the wall beside him and waits patiently. After a couple of minutes of silence, Webs huffs an annoyed breath.
“This is stupid. Who’s in charge of these things? I hate it when they put traps in there. I literally don’t see how these can be connected?”
Wade hums sympathetically. “You get any of them yet?”
Webs grunts. “The purple and the yellow. I’ve got two tries left.”
Oof. Webs taps at his phone and lets out a hiss of frustration. Wade pulls out a notepad and a crayon to doodle while he waits.
He’s almost done with a pretty sweet Hello Kitty when Webs sighs.
“Hint, please.”
Wade checks Web’s phone to remind himself of the clues and winces. His special boy is not going to be happy about this one.
“Okay, this one isn’t your fault, Websy. They fucked this one up hard. It’s supposed to be ‘siren’, not ‘mermaid’.”
“What?” Spidey squints at his phone. “Oh, mother-fucker.”
“Spidey-swear!” Wade gasps, and laughs when Webs reaches out to smack him.
“I think I earned this one,” Webs grumbles. He taps onto his phone and grunts with satisfaction as the game completes.
Wade nods seriously.
“Say the word, Websy,” he tells him with one-hundred percent sincerity, “I’ll deliver all your enemies at your feet, starting with Doctor Hentai and ending with the New York Times games contributors.”
Webs snorts. He slides his phone into the sneaky hidden pocket on his back, then reaches out so his hands are flat against the rooftop. He unsticks his foot from the wall, holds the handstand for a second, and then—with all the beauty and control of an Olympic gymnast—flips over onto his feet. Upright, Webs continues his stretch, reaching above his head with a groan as several joints pop and release.
It’s an act so diabolically sensual that Wade’s brain shorts out. When he finally regains cognitive function, Webs is looking at him expectantly.
Wade blinks at him.
“What?”
“I asked if you wanted to come on patrol. Not sure if you’re busy. No biggie if you are.”
As if even if Wade did have plans he wouldn’t immediately cancel them for the opportunity to spend even an hour with his itsy-bitsy spider.
“Never too busy for you, Webs,” Wade says, and tucks his drawing away. “Let’s go get some bad guys.”
“Hey, ‘Pool,” Spidey waves Wade’s severed arm at him. “Need a hand?”
“Marry me,” Wade demands, because Jesus Christ. He’s only (mostly, terms and conditions apply) human. A man can’t just go around being that hot, that dorky, and that willing to make jokes with Wade’s body parts, it’s not fair.
What do you expect? For Wade not to propose?
Get real.
Spidey only snorts as he plops down next to Wade.
“Pretty sure a marriage proposal would be you asking for my hand, Wade, not me asking if you want yours back.”
“Spring wedding or summer? Courthouse? Roses or peonies?” Wade demands. He’s already thinking about accessories. Is a tiara too much? Who is he kidding? To marry Spider-Man he’ll need no less than the crown jewels. What’s it cost to get to Bonny England these days, anyway?
Webs just rolls his eyes and offers up Wade’s arm.
“Might want this back on before you hop on an international flight, dude. TSA might have an issue otherwise. Need me to hold it?”
“It’s all the other arms I’m carrying that TSA typically gets a little fussy at, Webs. But forget about that, let’s focus on the important stuff: you askin’ to hold my hand, baby boy?”
Wade bats his eyes at him coquettishly. Not that Webs can see through his mask, but it’s the thought that counts.
“Already am, technically. Oh shit, does that make me, like, forward? Or does that even matter since you’ve already proposed?” Webs shakes his head. “Too many hand jokes happening at once. Hold or no?”
Wade could technically handle it (get it? Handle? Webs isn’t the only one with the jokes around here) but Webs is offering and Wade is a selfish bastard. He’ll take Websy touching him even if it’ll take a few minutes for his nerves to regenerate enough to feel it.
“Yes, please,” he says, and holds out the stump of his arm.
Webs lines the limb up with the raw end of Wade’s bicep and then gently presses them together. Wade lets out a controlled exhale as the living marrow and bone extend to the dead; like calling to like. It’s an incredibly weird feeling when the tissue reconnects. It’s excruciating—of course—but it also feels a little like a signal going in and out of service—static and sensation in agonizing jolts and jerks.
“Gross,” Spidey says succinctly at the wet sound of flesh connecting. Then, “As for your proposal, I find myself too young to marry.”
That jars Wade out of focusing on the pain. He blinks, startled.
“Oh? I thought you were outta the teenage blues, baby boy.”
If not, Wade has to excuse himself to throw himself off this building for thought crimes against humanity. Luckily for Wade and the innocent people on the sidewalk below, Webs nods firmly.
“Oh for sure,” he agrees. “Old enough to rent a car, even.” Whew. “But I’m still much too young to marry.”
Wade tilts his head curiously.
“And how old is old enough?”
Webs starts to shrug, then freezes when Wade makes an involuntary grunt as the motion jostles his arm. Webs strokes his thumb over the exposed skin of Wade’s bicep in apology. Wade has to suppress a shudder in response.
“Dunno. Might be old enough tomorrow. Might not be. Might be too hungry for marriage tomorrow.”
“Too hungry?” Wade asks, outraged. “Baby boy, you say the word, I’ll never let you go hungry again. Three major meals a day, snacks, dessert. Second breakfast, elevensies, tea: you see it, you want it, you like it, you got it. Seven meals, baby, on me.”
Spidey tilts his head, those huge white lenses open and considering.
“You know, I think I actually believe you.”
“You better,” Wade tells him. The bone is finally fully connected and the muscle and tendons are swiftly rebuilding. He chances a finger wiggle and hisses through the explosion of pain when his fingers twitch, sluggish but obedient. Right on target—another minute or two and he’ll be good as new. “I mean it. I’ll be your personal Doordash tonight. Deaddash? DoorPool? SpideyEats? Pick your favorite.”
“SpideyEats,” Spidey says decisively. “Though DoorPool isn’t bad. I was only joking though. I don’t need you to feed me.”
“Want to, though,” Wade tells him honestly. “Wanna do anything to make your itsy-bitsy life any itsy-bitsy bit easier, Websy. Whether that’s a burrito for you or a katana for your enemies.”
Spidey looks at him again, a quiet evaluation. He sweeps his thumb over the fresh, sensitive scar that marks the seam of Wade’s arm. Wade can’t suppress the shudder this time as pleasure shocks through the lingering pain.
“I want you to keep your arms on,” Webs says finally.
Bummer.
“Aw,” Wade says, disappointed. “That’s way harder than buying you a burrito.”
“You can do that, too,” Webs adds. Wade perks up. “You good to move?”
“Absolutely, baby boy. I’ll move buildings. Mountains. Other impossible things to move, you name ‘em I’ll—”
“Dork,” Spidey snorts, interrupting him. He finally lets go of Wade’s arm and Wade’s fucked-up skin tingles at the loss. “Just need you to move your ass.”
Wade rolls backwards and uses the momentum to push to his feet. He offers his newly attached arm, the very model of a modern major mercenary.
“My lord Spiderton, please allow me to escort you to the nearest restaurant of your choice where we shall feast upon the generous and delicious offerings de México.”
Spidey snorts again. “How about you escort me to your apartment—”
Wade chokes.
“—For take-out, Wade. You’re kind of covered in gore, dude.”
Wade blinks and then looks down at himself. Oh yeah. That arm did bleed just a teensy bit. While the ‘Pool suit is red for a reason, it’s kind of a…non-ignorable amount of blood.
“Mario Kart after?” Wade asks hopefully. “Gotta make sure my thumb still works well enough to kick your ass.”
It’s a flimsy excuse, but Spidey fistbumps him anyway.
“You’re on.”
“Hey! Deadpool! Don’t walk away from me, what the fuck was that?”
“Ooh, Spidey said the f-word, we’re in big trouble now,” Wade snaps. He keeps walking. He’s not in the mood to be fucking lectured right now.
Webs clearly disagrees because a web slaps him hard on the back and Wade is forcibly spun around.
Wade has Bea out and slicing through it before he’s fully finished turning, but the web has already succeeded in bringing him eye-to-eye with the narrowed, pissed-off lenses of Spider-Man’s mask.
“I’m talking to you, Wade,” Webs snaps back. “What the hell was that? You killed that guy in cold blood!”
Now, listen, Wade normally adores his Spidey-widey’s big strong morals, but there’s a fucking limit and Wade has reached it.
“Sure did. Would do it again. He fucking deserved it,” Wade tells him, sheathing Bea.
“Whether he deserved it or not isn’t up to you! You can’t just kill people!”
“Oh? Pretty sure I just did. Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.” Wade mimics shooting the guy. Bam-bam, brain matter surprise.
Webs huffs angrily and crosses his arms.
“I didn’t ask for your help on this so you could go off and kill people, Wade. That’s not what I—Spider-Man can’t be—” Spidey cuts himself off and scoffs. At Wade or himself, who knows. “I thought you were better than this.”
Ouch, his tit. Oh wait, actually, no, fuck that. Wade doesn’t feel bad about this at all.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Webs, I didn’t realize that the lives of child traffickers were so precious to you.” And if Spidey’s going to be a bitch, Wade can be one too. He makes his voice cloyingly, sing-songy sweet. “I thought you were better than that, so I guess we’re both wrong.”
Webs hisses. “Fuck you, Wade, that’s not fair and you know it. When you’re with me, you play by my rules, you play by Spider—”
“Fuck you, Webs,” Wade snaps, interrupting him. “And fuck your rules. Boo-hoo, Deadpool gives Spider-Man a bad taste. Too fucking bad. That motherfucker stole kids and sold them to the highest bidder. We saved that round, but you heard him. That was the fourth shipment this year. Who even knows where the rest of those kids are now? Believe me, Webs, he got a much nicer end than he fucking deserved.”
And that’s because of Webs. If Mr. Friendly Neighborhood hadn’t been around, Wade would have strung that fucker up by his toes and made sure he lived as long as it took for him to really, really regret his life choices. As it was, a couple of point blank gunshots to the head and DP’s business card shoved inside the mess was a kindness he didn’t earn.
“We should have taken him in,” Webs argues. “He was a piece of shit, but he was a piece of shit that was part of a bigger operation that I now have no leads on. How are we supposed to start finding the rest of those kids if we have nowhere to start?”
“That’s only if the police actually do their jobs, Spidey. That guy peddled mutant kids, remember? When was the last time the NYPD gave a single fuck about them?”
Webs hesitates for a split second. Just a heartbeat, but it’s everything. Wade barks a laugh: a sharp, ugly sound.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Webs shakes his head, the sharp lines of his shoulders tensing as his hands ball into fists.
“You have to give them the chance—”
Wade snorts and tries to turn away. He’s over this shit. This time Webs grabs his shoulder and Wade has to take a deep breath so he doesn’t deck him. Not that he doesn’t want to, but it wouldn’t end well for Wade.
“You can’t be judge and jury, Wade. What about those kids’ justice? You have to let the system—”
Wade is rapidly losing patience. He steps in, forcing Webs to crane his head to look up at him. He doesn’t normally like to pull an LBJ with Webs—partially because it’s a moot point, given that despite Wade’s greater height and weight, Spidey can kick his ass any day of the week—but mostly because it’s a dick move.
Right now, Wade doesn’t give a fuck. There’s a nastiness coursing black and acrid through his veins. It makes him want to snarl. It makes him want to bite.
“Justice?” Wade asks darkly. “Let me tell you something, sweetheart, a little inside scoop as someone who’s been on the mutie experiment circuit, I gave them all the justice they’ll ever fucking need. Every night those kids will go to sleep with the comfort that the guy who put them through hell is in it now.”
Webs inhales sharply and Wade grins, sharp and mean.
“And by the way, sorry to burst your bubble, but that guy was dead no matter what. Either I killed him, whoever he’s working for offed him, or the crooked cops that have been letting these sick fucks operate out of this dock for six months without a single parking ticket to show for it Epsteined him before he ever saw a single day in your precious fucking court.”
Webs stills at that and Wade scoffs.
“C’mon, Spidey, I know you’re a smart boy. You’re not an idiot. Security just happens to be on break when eight vans roll up every month? The cameras happen to glitch out during that time? Every month? How long did it take the cops to show up tonight? A fucking hour? There’s a precinct ten minutes from here. Which means someone on the inside is on the take for this and was doing some good old fashioned damage control. You have to have known that. Or did our Devilishly good friend not put that in his handoff notes? How about that for a fucking lead?”
Webs flinches.
“How—?”
Oh for the love of chimichangas with extra sauce. Wade pitches his voice low and tilts his head so he’s talking directly into Spidey’s ear.
“Despite what you might think, sweet cheeks, I’m not a fucking idiot either. This kind of operation screams Mattycakes, especially with that whole ‘we have to let the system work’ Nelson and Murdock happy horseshit. Matty sent you because he’s working this from the legal side and can’t get caught near it, and you brought me in because you needed the extra muscle. Don’t get me wrong, sweetums, I’m happy to be your muscle any day of the week, where you lead I will follow, but may I remind you that I am fucking Deadpool and you got what you fucking asked for. Capiche?"
Wade watches Web’s jaw clench. And shit, fuck, shit, this might the end of this whole magical friendship thing they’ve had going on, but this is where the rubber meets the road and some shit is more important than trying to get his completely unattainable crush to like him back. If Wade’s going to get his heart broken, it’s best to get it over with now.
“I try to be a good guy for you, honey. For you, god, I do my best, rubber bullets and blunted knives and keeping the language PG-13 for the kiddies. But I’m not a good guy, not when it comes to this. The sooner you realize that, the better. There are monsters in the dark, baby, and every day they wake up with the fear of me coming after them and not the law is a good day. The law has mercy. Deadpool doesn’t.”
That’s a nice dramatic line to walk away to. A+ melodrama, Wade’s only missing a convenient rainstorm to really kick it up a notch. He tries to pull his shoulder free for his grand exit but Webs tightens his grip and keeps him from moving.
“I don’t think you’re an idiot.”
Huh. That’s—not what Wade would have expected him to say after all of that. Despite the strength of his hold on Wade, Webs looks surprisingly…off-kilter. Hesitant. Not the strong, defensive bulwark of moral vigilantism Wade was anticipating. Still—
“Killing goes against everything I believe in, Wade.”
Ah yeah, that’s it, that’s the stuff. Wade closes his eyes. The End in sight, Heartbreak City, population Wade. It was only a matter of time, but god, does he wish he had more of it. Being friends with Spider-Man has been the brightest spot in his shit life for months. Oh well. Wade was due for a good old fashioned kick in the life balls.
“I know, baby. But that’s what I do. Sorry you didn’t get that memo. In my defense, I do advertise fairly heavily. But don’t worry, Spider-Man. Mean old Deadpool won’t sully Spidey’s precious reputation any longer. The trash will take itself out so you don’t have to get your hands dirty.”
“That’s not—” Webs huffs. “That’s it?”
Wade blinks.
“Yeah? Don’t think there’s anything else to talk about, Webs.”
Webs just stares at him. Reflected in the white polymer of his lenses, Wade can see Deadpool, narrow-eyed and angry. Good. Webs should see him for what he is. He waits for Webs to say something—anything—but for once in his life, Spider-Man keeps his smart mouth shut.
And hey, this has been a real treat, but Wade would very much like to be getting gone, thanks so much. He’s got a horrible cold feeling in his chest lurking just behind the anger. It smells like teen spirit and self-hatred, just what the doctor ordered.
He raises an eyebrow at Webs and pulls again at his shoulder. Webs lets him go this time—which is great because if he didn’t, Wade would have been S.O.L. Having to dismember himself would have really been the cherry on top of this shit sundae.
Webs takes a step back, and shakes his head.
“I just—Fine. Whatever.”
Then he whirls around and launches into the sky, a blur of red and blue against the dark clouds.
Which is good. Great, even. Wade doesn’t need anyone judging him for doing what needs to be fucking done. Wade knows what he did was right. It’s not nice or pretty, but neither is Deadpool.
Wade gets a couple blocks away before he flips open the wallet he took off the body of Kyle Turn, senior fuckhead trafficker in charge. Matty and Webs might have their goody-two-shoes ways, but Wade has his own methods. He pulls his phone from his pouch.
“Hello, gorgeous. Stop bitching, boot up the computer, need ya to run a full sweep. Kyle Turn. Trafficked mutant kids out of Red Hook. Give me everything you got, history, affiliations, the whole she-bang. Daddy’s got some cleaning up to do.”
“Hi, Wade,” Webs says lightly.
He’s sprawled out in what, at first glance, appears to be a careless repose. He’s got his head tipped back to the sky and his hands clasped over his middle. He looks like he’s stargazing.
Wade knows better.
There’s a dark stain growing from underneath Web’s hands that is slowly dripping onto the shitty tarmac of the roof.
“Hey, Webs,” Wade replies finally. “You’re sprung a leak, not sure if you noticed.”
Webs hiccups a horrible laugh.
“Oh, you know. What’s a little light stabbing amongst sworn enemies?”
Wade nods agreeably and steps closer. He doesn’t like how fast that pool of blood is spreading.
“Always a rockin’ good time in my book. Mind if ol’ Deadpool gets a little lookie-loo?”
Wade expects him to roll his eyes, shrug it off, assure Wade that it’s just a little cut. Give him the run-around Spider-Man sauce routine. Based on how their last conversation went, maybe even a full-throated ‘fuck off forever’.
Instead, Webs lets out a shaky breath and says, “Be my guest,” and that, more than anything, has Wade’s blood running cold.
Wade kicks into high gear: fuck hunting for shit, he unhooks his triage pouch and completely upends it onto the ground next to Webs. Webs clearly tried to bandage it with a bit of webbing but the wound is too big and too deep for it to staunch the bleeding.
“Okay, Websy,” he murmurs, pitching his voice low and calming, “Gonna cut your suit and this web so I can get at it, keep applying pressure, that’s a good Spidey.”
“Hurts,” Spidey grunts.
Wade is going to rip that stupid little hunter punk’s head right off his fucking shoulders.
“I know, honey,” Wade soothes as he cuts the suit and makeshift bandage away. He gently investigates the wound while Webs hisses.
Kraven uses a fucking nasty hooked, serrated blade that normally Wade openly lusts over. Right now, looking at the result of that pretty blade is making him sick. He grabs a bottle of saline solution and opens a pack of gauze.
“Okay, good news: doesn’t look like it was poisoned or that it nicked any precious insidey-Spidey bits. Bad news: gotta clean it now. I’m sorry, Webs, this is gonna sting like a bitch.”
Webs takes another shaky breath. “Can’t you just staple it shut?”
“Oh? That dinky little healing factor of yours handles sepsis nowadays? News to me.”
“S’not dinky,” Webs says petulantly. His voice is slow and starting to slur. Wade needs to hurry the fuck up.
“Deep breath, sweetheart, that’s it,” he instructs gently. Then he gets to work.
By the time the wound is clean and stapled shut, Web’s suit is as dark with sweat as much as blood and he’s shaking like a leaf. Wade’s not faring much better, all said and done.
Wade finishes taping the gauze bandage over the staples and grabs a syringe.
“Okay, that’s it, that’s my good boy, worst part’s over. Tell me, Websy, how does that sexy little spider body handle morphine?”
Webs grunts. “Can’t swing home on it.”
Wade pats him on the cheek.
“Webs, if you think for even a single second I’m gonna let you swing home like this, you are as stupid as you are sexually alluring. You’ve got twenty staples and you’ve lost a ton of blood. I’m bringing you back to my place, I just want to give you a little pain relief before I move you.”
“I can handle myself,” Webs argues. Wade snorts at that blatant bit of nonsense.
“Tell me you got someone at home that will look after you. Someone who knows how to dress a stab wound. Go ahead, Webs. Lie to me and say you aren’t going to rip out all of my hard work keeping your insides inside by swinging home. Tell me you won’t crawl into bed to bleed out alone.”
Webs stays stubbornly silent. Well, that’s a pyrrhic victory for Wade: on one hand, Wade gets to be right. On the other hand, Wade hates being right about this. The idea of Spidey in the dark, hurt and alone, makes Wade’s chest ache.
“That’s what I thought. Now, tell Daddy if you have an opioid allergy, please.”
Webs tenses then hisses when it pulls at the fresh staples. Wade waits patiently for Webs to do all his important big brain math permutations where he tries to insist on leaving anyway—and all of the inevitable conclusions where Wade just bonks him on the head and takes him home for his own good.
There’s only one answer. Wade strokes Spidey’s leg as he begrudgingly comes to it.
“No allergies,” Webs sighs finally.
“Atta boy,” Wade says approvingly. “Now—for purely medical reasons I assure you—it’s best if I put this in your ass.”
Webs snorts and winces. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
Wade grins, trying not to show how relieved he is that Webs is at least feeling better enough for jokes.
“Nah,” he says as he gently turns Webs over and pulls at the suit to get at Web’s beautiful, bruised behind. Now’s not the time for admiration: he quickly injects the morphine, patting Webs’ hip when he hisses at the pinch.
“You’re special, Websy,” Wade finishes softly as he quickly disposes of the syringe and pulls up Spidey’s suit.
Webs takes a deep breath. Wade watches his body slowly relax as the morphine hits his system.
“Wade?” Webs grabs at Wade’s hand suddenly.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“I haven’t—” Webs struggles, thick-tongued from the drugs and the blood loss, “M’mask?”
“It’s on, baby boy,” Wade soothes, “I won’t touch it, pinky-promise.”
Spidey sighs and lets go of Wade’s hand.
“...’kay,” he says finally. “Sleepy.”
God, Wade’s heart hurts.
“Yeah, that’s it. You just go to sleep, honey, let Nurse Deadpool take care of you. It’s gonna be okay.”
Wade waits until Spidey’s breathing fully evens out before lifting his precious boy into his arms. Webs feels so small like this and Wade hates it, he hates it.
Wade makes it back to his apartment slower than he wants but as fast as he can while ensuring that they aren’t being followed.
Wade had arrived too late to the fight tonight to see anything but Kraven and his crew retreating and Webs swinging away, one hand clutched over his middle. If Kraven knows what’s good for him, he and his shitty minions will stay retreated.
When Wade finally gets them home, he shoves all of the shit on his bed—plushies, old chip bags, gun magazines, a vibrator and a couple of knives—onto the floor and lays Websy carefully down on the cleared space. He checks the bandage: a little blood, but an expected amount for being carried for nearly forty minutes. He’ll have to check the wound eventually, but he wants to give it a chance to heal a little before he starts poking at it again.
Webs thankfully stays passed out through the whole process. Wade gives in to his baser urges and presses a soft kiss to Web’s masked forehead.
“That’s it, baby, you get your spidey-rest,” he whispers. “Daddy Deadpool’s gonna look after you.”
Webs only takes a deep breath in his sleep and relaxes into the pillows.
Spidey secure, Wade gets to work. He makes sure all of the windows are shut and locked, pulls all of the blinds, and checks the door is triply locked.
That done, Wade sets about getting his weapons ready: Bea, Arthur, baby knives, the D-Eagles, the whole fucking arsenal.
He doesn’t think anyone followed them, but may god help anyone who thinks to try their luck with Spidey while he’s healing.
They’ll need it, because Deadpool will be waiting to show them the error of their ways.