Chapter Text
Knives? Yes. Guns? Oh, yes. Those cute, pink bombs that look like toys but are in fact among his best weapons? Definitely in.
What else is missing? The voices list various things, which are not useful, not that much. He can always buy them again when he’s out of the city or steal them from his targets.
He checks into the bag one more time; there is barely room for a spare costume, a second mask and underwear. It’s not like he owns much, apart from his weapons and mercenary stuff. He keeps food and money in his pockets, so he doesn’t really need to bring anything else with him.
“We are good to go!”
Although the last mission has been a success, he made a mess, a loud mess, and police and superheroes are probably looking for him in every cranny of New York right now. He didn’t want any trouble - he’s feeling pretty good today, no depression or hatred for himself have come to haunt him yet -, so he ran away before the big heroes could arrive on the scene. He will be gone from the city before they can catch him and lower his mood with their disapproving stares, harsh words and complains. And send him to prison, even if it would be perfectly useless.
He did kill three men, that’s true. He shot one, beheaded the other and made the third one explode. Some shops were destroyed - man, those pink bombs sure are the best! - and many, many people were scared and went into panic.
A normal day in the life of Deadpool, to be honest.
“So what’s all the fuss about?” he asks his voices, who remind him that the good heroes don’t like when people are killed and buildings destroyed.
“Those men were bad people! They were assholes, they deserved that death and I deserved the money I got for that job! I should be considered a hero, damn!”
Reasoning with the voices isn’t easy, they are his reason after all; they insist that heroes don’t want anybody to be killed, no matter how disgusting they were.
He whines, giving up. It’s impossible to win with himself! That must mean he’s brilliant, but he can’t help but feeling discouraged every time he tries to win an argument with the boxes in his head.
He takes the bag, leaves the money for the last rent on the table for the nice old lady who offered him the apartment, and heads for the door. He is wearing civilian clothes, a huge raincoat, hat and sunglasses to cover his face. The Deadpool costume would make him too recognizable, he would stand out in the crowd, and if he wants to leave NY without problems, he has to ditch the mask for a while.
He doesn’t like feeling so bare and people will probably stare at him in the streets, wondering what the hell happened to him; hopefully nobody will recognize him as Deadpool, they will just think he is a poor guy who got caught in a bad fire. The worst that could happen is being avoided by moms or old people because they think he has a contagious, horrible skin disease. Not really anything new. He can deal with that, as long as nobody starts talking too loud for the superheroes above their heads to hear.
He presses the hat further onto his bald head, adjusts the sunglasses and starts unlocking the door. He hears the twip too late and next thing he knows is that his hand is stuck on the wall and the handle of the door is blocked by webs.
“Oh, great.” he groans when a blue and red figure jumps down from the ceiling. “Spidey! Sweetie, how did you find me?” Despite the disappointment caused by the capture, he’s happy to see the young man, he is his favorite and his glorious body can make any shitty day ten times brighter.
“I followed you.” Oh, his voice doesn’t sound equally happy, that’s for sure. More like disappointed. Or angry. Maybe both. “I was near the scene when the explosion occurred and people saw you running away.”
“And you caught up with me, without stopping me on the streets to see where I lived and kept my weapons.” Wade grins appreciatively. “You really are a little genius!”
The hero frowns under the mask and approaches him; there are bad vibes coming from him, Wade notices, and he tries to step back, the web around his wrist making it difficult.
“You killed three men today.”
“They deserved it!”
“You killed three men in a deplorable manner and one of your bombs destroyed a bar.” Spidey is standing just few inches from him, fists clenched and teeth clearly gritted if his voice is anything to go by.
“You are coming with me, Wilson. We have to talk.”
“I warn you, Spidey, it takes me a while to reach climax, so please be patient if we have to come at the same time.” the merc wiggles his eyebrows and the hero groans, ready to web his mouth and tie his arms to carry him better. He’s too close, though, and Wade’s comment has worked, because the young man has temporarily forgotten about his free legs. Legs that Wade uses to kick the hero’s - so long and lean, mmh! -and make him fall on the floor.
“Wilson!”
Wade takes a knife out of one pocket and slices off the webs; Spidey is fast and agile, that’s undeniable, but even he has to stop and yelp when the knife is thrown over his head.
“Come back here!”
There are stairs outside the bedroom window, he remembers them… it would be easier to avoid Spidey’s webs in a larger area rather than running like a mouse in a maze inside this small apartment.
“Wilson…!”
A foot on the ledge, bag thrown on his back, a raised gun, pointing straight at Spidey’s head… yes, the pose is perfect, worth of a comic cover or movie poster. Even the voices agree.
“Thanks, guys.” Wade’s smile grows. “Okay, honey, you know how much I hate hurting you. So now I’m gonna leave from this window and if you dare coming after me before giving me at least five… no, ten minutes of advantage, then I’ll have to put a bullet into one of those sexy legs of yours. Understood?”
Spidey glares at him some more, his stance stiff, as if ready to move any second now.
“I thought you wanted to become a hero.”
Wade’s smile disappears, replaced by a scowl.
“Who says I am not already a hero?”
“The fact that you killed three people.” The young man steps closer until Wade shakes warningly the gun. “There is blood on your hands again.”
“It’s bad blood.” Wade corrects him. “While you saints just throw punches and say ‘sorry’ when you step on a serial killer or rapist’s toes, I free the world from them!” He drops the bag and jabs the skin above his heart, continuing with a snarl: “Those assholes are dead, yes! Death isn’t even enough for them! You know what they did, Spidey? Do you want to know?”
He’s furious, now, he knew his good mood wouldn’t have lasted much with one of the good guys around. Especially the web-head, always so righteous and brave, always so sure about what it needs to be done for the world and its people.
“I don’t care about what they did.” Spider-Man moves closer and Wade’s finger hesitates on the trigger. “They may have been monsters, but that’s not a good excuse to kill people.” He shakes his head, his voice low and tired. “It never is, Wilson.”
“Stop the preach, please.” the merc whimpers, rolling his eyes. “Fuck, Spidey, everything was going so nice! I got my money, I was ready to leave after admiring your buttocks… Why did you have to start the morality lesson?”
“Wilson, you need help.” and his worried - worried? - tone would be almost cute if he didn’t look so serious. So convinced.
And that’s probably why Wade snaps, firing at the ceiling without uttering a single word. Spidey jumps, literally; he springs on the wall on the opposite side of the room, eyes wide, breathing heavily.
“I don’t need help.” the mercenary replies coldly, lowering the gun. “And even if I did, nobody could help me. They already tried and it didn’t go so well.” He removes the hat and sunglasses and gestures at his face. “See? I don’t like receiving help anymore, sweetie. The pamphlets always lie.”
Spidey slowly walks on the wall down to the floor, studying the merc’s face. He already saw it in the past, but never like this, never so distorted by anger.
“You can’t keep living like this. I know you are not a bad man, I know there is good in you, you just need a little push to…”
“To what?” Wade grits his teeth, aims the gun at the web-head’s chest. “To fall into an abyss of medicines, tubes into my skin and painful experiments?”
“No!” Spidey looks genuinely terrified by that idea, there is sincerity in his voice. “No, nothing like that, I swear! But there are people - normal, good doctors - that…”
“Why are you telling me this, sweetie?” the merc chuckles mirthlessly. “You don’t care about me. You and your super friends couldn’t give less of a fuck about me. I’m just a freak that bothers your precious team, an idiot who’s useful only for special missions and even those are a rare exception.”
“No, that’s not…!”
“And especially you, Spidey-babe.” Fuck, his voice is pained and strained, he knows it. He needs his mask. He needs something to hide his face, his eyes, his twitching lips… “I know you especially don’t care. Why should you? I know because… hey, let’s be honest here, I’m the bad guy, a fucking crazy bad guy, right? And you… you are the gorgeous hero, the selfless savior.” Wade shrugs with a sad smile. “I understand. I don’t care about me either.”
A heavy silence falls into the room; the merc can’t see Spidey’s eyes, but there is something in his pose and in the way he fidgets that tells him he’s really sorry, that he really wants to do something.
“I wouldn’t be telling you this if I didn’t care about you and your situation.” the young man finally replies, his tone confident and serious. “I would have webbed you down and taken you to some maximum-security prison or asylum, without even speaking to you like this, without even telling you ‘we have to talk’.”
“That’s pity.” Wade scoffs, scratching a scab on his neck absentmindedly. “It’s something I feel for myself every fucking day. No, wait, in my case it’s more similar to disgust.”
That sad stance again. Damn, he would give all his money to see the boy’s eyes right now!
He slowly lowers the gun, thinking that Spidey’s pose must be caused by the frightening muzzle aimed at him; however the hero doesn’t relax, everything in him still screams sadness and something else the mercenary can’t decipher.
“Why did you decide to tell me this then?” He smiles ironically. “I did nothing different from usual today. I killed three men - and it doesn’t matter why I did it, everyone always thinks the reason must be only the pay -, a building exploded and I ran away… Yes, the last part may be weird, I admit, but the answer is simple.” He laughs maniacally even if he wants to cry. It’s one of his gifts. “I didn’t want to fight you guys. I was feeling really good and even the voices in my head were calm for once.”
“I…” Spidey steps forward. “I’ve been wanting to discuss this with you for a long time, actually. Remember two months ago, when you helped me to deal with those terrorists? When we saved those hostages?”
Wade frowns, nodding slowly. Of course he remembers that glorious team-up, he would renounce everything just to fight side by side with Spider-Man and receive his thanks.
“I… I don’t get it. You could do so much good, Wade, you could help people in a honest way, without blood and death!” The young hero is getting nervous too. “Instead you use violence and spread it all around you… You could be so much more! You could really be a hero, I saw it!” His voice gets louder until he’s shouting and then he takes a deep breath, observing the merc’s reaction to his words.
He’s glaring at him.
“… I already help people.”
“It’s the wrong way, Wade!”
“I know!”
Another shoot and white dust falls from the ceiling; this time Spidey doesn’t retreat nor move, he stands still while Wade pants and bites his lips until they are bleeding.
“I know that.” he murmurs, dropping the gun on the floor. “I’m not stupid. And the voices remind me every night anyway.” He lowers his eyes, looking at the hat and sunglasses without really seeing them. “They tell me to get some sleep, to clear my mind because tomorrow may be better. Tomorrow could be the day that I finally find my way and start fixing my disgusting life.” The corners of his chapped, now slight bloody, mouth curl upwards in a weak smile. “The ironic thing is that they talk so much, they repeat the same things so many times, that I actually can’t get any sleep. I think they do that on purpose, the little bastards.”
The two boxes start cursing at him, but he’s able to tune them down thanks to Spidey’s presence and the distraction it provides him.
“I wasn’t like… like this before, you know? I was normal. My life was shitty, but not like this, never like this, and I could think without sounds and voices in my head, I had respect for myself! God, I don’t even remember how that feels like! Now…” He snarls, digging his fingers into his face, into the skin, until the scars start bleeding a bit. “Now I’m this.”
“Wade, don’t…”
“People stare at me. Always. Even when I’m wearing the mask. Some recognize me, others think I’m a freak. And when I walk barefaced…” He snorts bitterly, kicking the hat and stepping on the sunglasses, breaking the lenses. “Then they whisper. They point at me, they laugh, they are disgusted, they avoid me, they pretend I don’t exist.”
He tears his skin, ignoring the pain he is so used to, feeling the blood pouring down on his face. He knows it’s not a huge wound, but Spidey looks shocked and steps closer, not sure about what to do.
“There is really something wrong with me, eh, web-head?” the merc giggles maniacally, clutching the hand on his face until the pain becomes so strong he almost doesn’t feel it anymore. The cancer humming in the background hides it well and the healing factor is already working fast anyway.
“Please, Wade, stop doing that, don’t hurt yourself…”
“Why, Spidey!” He moves the hand, showing the raw, red flesh healing at great speed. “Did you forget that wounds are temporary on me? Only scars and scabs stay!” He chuckles somberly. “… You are right. Maybe I really need help.”
But his calmness disappears in one second and he shouts, kicking the bed and knocking it down on its side: “But I’m not crazy! I’m just a little unwell, okay?! Everyone is, I just show it more!”
“I know, Wade, I…”
“You saw me! You said so!” the merc walks over to the young man, who gasps when he grabs his wrists and presses their foreheads together, the scarred face so close now, the smell of blood stronger.
“You saw that I can be good! You saw that part of me!”
“It’s true, I did, you…”
“Then stay!”
For a moment, the hero thinks that Wade is going to kiss him; there is a plea in his eyes, and also tears, then he steps back, shame, fear and hope written all over his disfigured face.
“I can show you again. I can be better, I’ll try again, I promise!” He’s talking fast, his breathing erratic. He looks like a scared child, a shadow of the cool, amused mercenary that he was minutes ago.
“Just stay!” he cries. “Just a little longer, I can show you again! I really can, I swear!” He retrieves the gun from the floor, holding it with a shaky grip. Spidey extends a hand, opening his mouth to speak, but Wade precedes him.
“Fuck! Fuck, Spidey, I… I…”
He presses the gun under his chin, like he has done so many times before, and shoots, letting the darkness envelop him.
- - -
He regains consciousness on the bed. It’s been repositioned correctly and the sheets are clean, draped over his legs.
Sitting up groggily, he notices that he’s not wearing the jacket anymore. It’s resting on a chair, together with the hat, the broken sunglasses and the gun.
He stares at them until his sight gets blurred, his mind lost into dark thoughts; he thinks about Spider-Man, his words, his sad and worried voice. Everything went downhill, this has been another day ruined by depression, fear and the disgust he has for himself.
The voices get loud, telling him things he already knows, reminding him of his pain and hopelessness.
Then another voice - a real voice - interrupts them and his grim musings.
“How do you feel?”
He yelps and looks at his left; Spidey is sitting next to the bed, the mask rolled up to his nose, elbows resting on his knees. He looks so peaceful, relaxed; after the previous, loud chaos, the room is now blissfully quiet and calm.
“You…” Wade shakes his head incredulously. “You… What…?”
“I stayed.”
The tone is gentle and Spidey’s lips curl into a smile.
The merc mumbles some unintelligible words, then looks down at the white sheets. Spidey suddenly sounds embarrassed.
“Oh, I…! I used the old ones to clean the blood.” He clears his throat, pointing at Wade’s face. “It was on your head and on the wall, so…”
“Thank you.”
Wade is staring at him and his heart skips a beat when he sees the blush on the hero’s cheeks.
“No problem.”
Another silence falls between them, but this time it’s not heavy nor awkward. It’s soothing and Wade rests his back on the headboard, looking at the young man, who repeats softly again: “How do you feel?”
The merc inhales deeply and slowly; he smells his blood, the gunpowder, the crisp sheets. There is also Spidey’s scent in the air, it’s reassuring and his mouth goes dry when the boy moves the chair to sit closer to the bed. He flinches a bit when a warm hand rests gently upon his arm; the contact isn’t painful or dangerous like he’s used to, it’s nice and he would like to be touched like that, by Spidey, for the rest of his life.
He raises his eyes and looks at him, smiling.
“I’m feeling well.”
And it’s true.