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Peter should have seen it coming. Knew it was an inevitability. It’s why they had talked about it in such great detail.
“What do I do if you get killed too bad?” He’d asked while Wade shoved a second taco into his mouth. The mercenary just shrugged.
“Just wait a bit. Depending on the injury I should be up and kicking again in no time,” Wade replied, unbelievably casual about his own death (though, Peter supposed that if he had died and come back to life over and over again, it wouldn’t seem like such a big deal to him either).
“No, I mean like, what should I do with your body?”
“Ah, just leave it there.”
“What!?!” Peter wiped his bare fingers on his suit, setting his drink on the rooftop.
“I’m not just gonna let you lie there.”
Another frustrating shrug.
“I don’t know. I guess you could drag me to an alleyway if I was taking too long.”
“What would be ‘too long’ in your eyes?”
Wade made an obnoxious sound into his drink as he sucked up the last few drops, tossing the empty cup perfectly into a trash can below.
“I’d say more than five minutes. Clean headshots usually put me down that long, but I suppose if like, my head explodes then it would take a lot longer.”
Wade pulled his mask back down, waving a hand in dismissal.
“Anyway, don’t worry about it. Just put me aside somewhere and I’ll be fine.”
Something about his easy tone made Peter’s blood boil. How many times had that happened to him? How many times had he woken up on the concrete in some alleyway, alone? Who were the people that were leaving him like that?
“Like hell I’m just leaving you. I know you hate waking up alone. I can take you back to your place, if you like.”
“Spidey, anything to get you to take me home,” Wade teased, somehow winking with his mask. Peter flicked him in the nose, the larger man yelping in outrage.
“I’m being serious, you dick. If you have to regrow your nervous system or some shit then you can do it in the comfort of your own home. At least if you’re with me.”
“Sweetums, you’re too kind to me,” Wade said, a hand to his chest as he leaned heavily against the other, almost knocking them both off the roof. To Peter, that was agreement. If Deadpool ever got himself killed around Spiderman, as in really really dead, then he’d be taken care of.
A small part of Peter suspected that it happened sooner than it would have, only because they had even had that conversation. If Peter had just kept the decision to care for Deadpool to himself, maybe it would have been longer before something really really bad would have happened. A normal headshot wound, that’s fine, he could handle those no problem. Usually by the time Peter set him aside and finished off the criminals, Deadpool was already coming back to himself. There’d been no need for serious action. Until now.
For Deadpool it was just a regular Wednesday night, swinging it and slinging it around New York with his most beloved bug. In fact, Rhino hadn’t been out and about terrorizing the locals in a long time, and Wade always adored fighting an absolute unit who tanked most of his bullets. Darting around the behemoth in heavy armor alongside Spiderman was one of his ideal date ideas (right behind throwing up in the same garbage can after winning a hot dog eating contest).
Getting hurt was just a fact of life for Deadpool. Most of it didn’t even phase him anymore. Rhino hooking his legs out from beneath him and cracking the back of his head on the concrete didn’t even register to Wade. It was what happened next that got his attention.
Something that no one really knows about enhanced regeneration is that it tries its damndest to not die until it has no choice. A bullet has to go all the way through his skull and out the back before it will say ‘alright, cut the lights, let’s figure this shit out.’
Meaning when Rhino uses a massive metal foot to crush Deadpool’s head, he felt more of it than he should. In the split second it takes to pancake his skull, he felt his nose break, the blood gushing out from splits in his skin. Wade felt his eyeballs squish backwards, felt the pressure of them against his bones. It wasn't enough time to register the pain; when you weighed as much as Rhino, curb stomping was quick and easy, like crunching autumn leaves. Wade’s last abstract thought was the sensation of his teeth crunching into the back of his throat before it all went dark.
For Peter it was much different.
Wade was dead. He wouldn’t see what Peter would.
Deadpool’s body jerked unnaturally as Rhino dug his heel down where the merc’s head used to be, the unhooked nerves spasming independently from the severed connection to the brain stem. Rhino wiped his boot on the grass, painting it blood red and brain matter gray. Somewhere, a cat started yowling.
Then Peter was close enough to see the whites of Rhino’s eyes behind the helmet. The metal bent beneath his clenched fists. The hero really couldn’t concentrate on what he was doing, the sound of the cat unnaturally loud in his ears. In fact, it might not have been a cat at all. It was too deep.
Vaguely, he felt the muscles in his arms tearing as he pulled Rhino’s gargantuan mass around and, with all Peter’s superhuman strength, slung him out and into the bay. It wasn't a permanent solution. But Spider-Man wasn’t really focused on the whole ‘leave this guy to get arrested’ thing. He was more focused on Wade. And the cat-thing. There was something wrong with that yowling creature. Even as Peter scrambled over to the limp body on the ground, its screaming didn’t stop. It was garbled, and painful. It rattled inside his skull and in his mouth, burning his throat–
Oh, Peter realized, tossing shreds of mask away before carefully making a sheet of webs between his hands.
It’s me.
Slowly, he slid the sheet beneath as much flesh, bone, and brain matter as he could, before folding it all over and sticking it across Wade’s shoulders, holding the material close.
I’m screaming.
When he felt he’d picked up as much of Wade’s face as possible, he lifted the body up and swung far away into the night.
Wade wasn’t heavy, could never be heavy to Peter’s strength. But the weight of death pulled against him more than Rhino’s size ever could. Subconsciously, Peter knew he was already hiding himself in his own mind somewhere, but it was secondary to the yowling, which was now more a sort of pained whimpering, and the repeated thought of just get him home. Just get him home. Just get him home.
Something warm and sticky spilled against his chest as he landed deftly in the neighborhood where Wade’s small apartment dwelled. It was a shitty, hidden place beneath the railways. Blood dripped to the ‘bless this mess’ welcome mat as he opened the door.
Opened was a generous word. Really he pushed the whole door open with all his might, the lock and wood around it shattering across the floor. Peter kicked it closed behind him, uncaring as it banged open on its weakened hinges. The only pitstop he made was to grab a towel from the bathroom, before he was carefully laying Deadpool on his bed, the towel placed on his pillow.
With deft fingers, Peter unhooked the sheet of webbing and slowly peeled it open.
Most would assume that, as a scientist, Peter wouldn’t be averse to gore quite as much as the average person. You don’t dissect frogs and pigs and sharks in college without building a bit of an immunity. But that was science. Dissecting a fully intact frog with tools and gloves on was much different from seeing the aftermath of a cranial massacre. Plus, Peter worked in Microbiology. When you’re looking at something with a microscope, you don’t think about its relation to the human body.
But here, even in the lamplight of Wade’s room, Listening to the soft, wet sound of flesh moving, watching torn pieces of skin reach towards each other to stitch back up, Peter felt a wave of pure fear shudder up his spine.
It was the recognition of an eye socket and an ear that ripped him out from the back of his mind where he was hiding.
Peter fell to the floor and scrambled to the garbage can in the corner, ripping his mask up to his nose and vomiting. It left his whole body shaking, and even when there was nothing left in his stomach, he stayed there, curled in the corner, dry heaving for a few moments more. After, he leaned his back against the wall, knees tucked in. He couldn’t see Wade’s head from where he was sitting, but his superhuman ears could hear it. Pieces of Deadpool’s cranium snapping back together. Blood vessels reattaching, with the sound of liquid refilling inside the tubes. There was something about the sound of muscles threading back together, like pulling tight on soft leather. Chunks of reforming brain squished, pulsing as it regrew.
Peter covered his ears and whimpered.
He sat there for nearly an hour, listening to Wade’s body slowly fill back in. It was like a fleshy, stringy balloon. His skull reformed at a snail’s pace, holding up the hamburger meat of his face.
Suddenly, Deadpool’s entire body flinched, tensed. Peter scrambled on the floor to get up, racing back to his side. Every single one of Wade’s muscles was clenched tight, his arms and legs shaking. Everything smelled like iron, and bile. When Peter chanced a glance at his face, whatever flesh left was desperately trying to grasp at bone. Wade’s exposed teeth and jaw were opening and closing tightly, chomping at nothing.
Then a deep, gurgling breath drawn in, followed by a harsh, rattling exhale. Blood and viscera flew from his mouth. It was followed by another gargled breath, and another. Until his vocal cords reconnected, and then Wade was groaning with each exhale. Spit frothed at his mouth, bubbly and pink, building and spilling down his mangled cheeks. Panic rose in Peter’s chest and he whimpered, grasping Deadpool’s fist with both of his hands, holding it up tight to his chest.
“Fuck,” Peter whispered, his voice pitiful and shaky, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
He petted the gloved fingers in his hand. Wade gurgled, his teeth squeaking as he clenched them tight.
“Fuck, I know it hurts, I know,” Peter mumbled, tearing off Wade’s glove and shoving it between his teeth on his next great inhale.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”
Wade’s reforming eyes rolled in their sockets, lids pulpy and unformed. Blood, snot, and tears ran from the corners of his eyes, spilling from his nose. Remnants of brain matter leaked from his ears.
“It’s okay, you’ll be okay,” Peter said, holding Wade’s hand tighter. The whole bed shook as Wade spasmed, the sheets ripping beneath his boots. Peter felt frantic, tears pooling beneath his eyes and streaming down the exposed half of his face.
“I know it hurts, I know,” he wailed, rocking back and forth. He didn’t know who he was trying to comfort anymore. He stroked at Wade’s arm and choked on a sob. Wade’s head jerked towards the sound, his eyes locking on Peter for only a second before losing focus again. His groans quieted, and his jaw worked weakly at the glove. When Peter removed it, Wade looked almost like he was trying to say something. His busted lips slid together poorly, uncoordinated.
“Pi… pi…”
Deadpool had told him how long it takes for his brain to reform. That sometimes he could think things and not do them correctly for a while. His tongue was still sloshing inside his mouth, barely half formed, unable to make the right sounds.
“Pi.. dee… pidee,” he tried, syllables heavy and loose. But Peter got it.
Spidey.
“Yah,” he said, regaining the urgency in his voice, “yes. Wade, it’s me, it’s Spidey. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Some of the tension in Deadpool’s body eased, the hand that Peter held relaxing between his fingers. Wade tried to blink, refocusing his eyes on the other. His right eye seemed to focus, but his left kept slipping outward, tendons loose. The mangled skin of his forehead crinkled in what looked like concern.
“It’s– it’s okay. We’re at your place,” Peter sniffed, his nose clogging up, “I’ve got you in your room so just– don’t worry. I’ve got you, I’ve–”
The hand that had been in Peters’ was brushing its bare fingers against his cheek. Clumsily, Wade brushed at the tear streaks on his face.
“Ohn–” Wade tried, doing his best to swallow whatever drool and blood was accumulating in his mouth.
When he went to speak again, his tongue was almost all the way present.
“Don… don… Khry…”
Don’t cry.
Peter heaved a great gasp, sinking down until his ear was placed firmly above Wade’s heart. The heartbeat was fast, probably trying its best to pump all the blood back into his still forming brain. Peter clutched at the scarred hand at his cheek, weeping.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, over and over against the leather of Deadpool’s suit.
“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help you.”
Wade’s hand patted against Peter’s bare face.
“Shday?”
Stay?
As if it even needed to be a question, like the answer could possibly be no.
Peter said nothing, just nodded frantically against Wade’s chest. He curled a free arm around the mercenary’s waist, his other hand going back to holding Wade’s bare fingers.
“Need… I’m. Shleep. I’ll– moe good. Afduh.”
Peter nodded again, less frantic.
“Okay. I’ll be here.”
Wade weakly squeezed Peter’s hand in his own, and stopped talking. Peter’s mind was still racing a mile a minute, but eventually it eased up, his nose clearing and his eyelids drooping. As Wade’s breaths grew quieter, and deeper, Peter felt his frantic mind slow to a stop. He fell asleep to the sound of Wade’s heartbeat.
By the time Peter woke up, the noonday sun was shining against his face, just barely making it down to the recesses where Wade’s apartment was. The heartbeat in his ears was slow, normal. When he lifted his head up, he saw Wade’s eyes were open, and clear, watching the ceiling. Peter made a quiet choking sound in the back of his throat, a weak and tired form of elation twisting in his gut.
“Hey,” Peter said softly, sitting up and rubbing at the crusted tears on his cheeks, “how are– how are you feeling?”
Wade lifted his head to look down at the other, a halfhearted fake smile on his face.
“Great,” he said, without gurgling. He sounded exhausted.
“Sorry,” Peter replied, “you could have woken me.”
The smile turned more real.
“You looked comfy.”
Peter huffed a quiet laugh, staring intently at Wade’s face.
His mask had been destroyed, only small chunks left stuck to the inside of his suit. His head was thankfully round, his nose straight and his jawline sharp, like it was supposed to be. There was still blood all over his face, dried and pooled in the dips of his scars.
“Stay here,” Peter said, stepping away from the bed and into the bathroom. He wet a washcloth in warm water, before returning to the bedroom and carefully helping Wade sit up.
“I can do that, you don’t have t–”
“Shh.”
Carefully, Peter wiped away the streaks of blood left on Wade’s newly completed skin. He cleaned off the top of his bumpy skull, used a single finger inside the cloth to get in and around his ears. Logically, Peter knew that Wade’s skin wouldn’t be tender by now, considering the regeneration. Still. His touch was featherlight, just barely pressing hard enough to remove the blood. Wade made a tiny hum, soothed by the warm water. Blood was removed from the corners of his eyes, wiped from his nostrils and chin. When Peter was done washing the corner of Wade’s lips, he finally pulled away, tossing the cloth into a pile of laundry. He stood there, staring down at Wade sitting on the bed for a long moment.
“Do I look like a real boy, papa?” Wade joked, trying to get the other to smile. Peter’s exposed lips didn’t even twitch. Instead, he leaned forward, tapping his forehead to the others and pushing, just a little. Peter felt a large, warm hand tentatively place itself at his waist, and took a deep breath. He put his own hands atop Wade’s shoulders, his pointer fingers just barely reaching to brush against the back of his neck.
“Hey,” Wade said softly, “I’m okay. It’s all okay Webs.”
The room was quiet, a single strip of sunlight spilling in across the two. It warmed against the side of Peter’s cheek, and the back of one hand. The hand at his waist scratched softly atop his suit.
“I hate it,” Peter mumbled.
“You and me both.”
Peter felt that odd rage squirming in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut tight to hold in his angry tears.
“I wish I could do it for you.”
“See, that I don’t agree with you on,” Wade said, leaning away to instead hold his hands atop Peter’s.
“You’re much too pretty and far too good to go through shit like this.”
Peter’s frown deepened, and Wade nearly flinched at the sight.
“Don’t say that like you deserve the pain.”
Deadpool gave a frustrating shrug, quickly removing his hands from Peter’s and setting them in his lap.
“I mean, I don’t not deserve it. I’m not good like you, Spidey. It’s natural I don’t get good things, s’no worries.”
Peter was still for a moment, that rage trying desperately to grow. But it was smothered underneath a different emotion, one that Peter could name, but chose not to. A feeling that always ended in tragedy for him. A feeling that, if he didn’t name, he could pretend wasn’t the main reason why he was even here, why he even cared so much. So much about Wade, so much about his pain. And then,
“I would give you every good thing in the whole world if I could.”
Which was a greater confession of his feelings than Peter meant to say, but now it was out in the open, and he wouldn’t take it back. Wade seemed surprised, before his face split into a surprisingly sweet smile.
He shuffled on the bed a moment before placing something in one of Peter’s hands: his wallet.
“How about just food for now?” Wade said, his hand patting Peter’s side, “building brain matter takes a shit load of energy. I’m so hungry I could eat JJ Jameson.”
Peter snorted, and the tone in the room shifted to something a lot easier, and a lot less tense.
“Alright man,” Peter agreed, shaking away some of his nerves and taking the wallet.
“Mexican?”
“Always”
“Be back in twenty.”
As Peter went to leave, he winced, turning back on his heels to look at the other.
“Actually, maybe Thirty. I gotta get some stuff to fix your door.”
“My door? What’s wrong with it?”
“I like, totally busted it open bringing you in here.”
“Wha-!”
“It’s fine! It’s fine, I’ll just swing by the hardware store before getting the food and get you a new lock! And maybe a couple of two by fours to fix the wall.”
“The wall!?!”
But Peter just cackled, already jogging out the door and swinging out into the distance.