#and i stg they've been driving me insane since atsv came out

[scout-is-missing]

「 ✦ for once, you let go ✦ 」 ⤷ summary: Amid his grief and responsibility, Miguel learns that the one person he’s always dismissed, his universe’s Deadpool, might be the only one stubborn enough to care for him anyway. or what do you do when your deadpool stages an intervention? ⤷ word count: 2,876 ☆ ⤷ content warning: Angst/comfort, grieving, fluff ⤷ pairing: Fem!Deadpool reader x Miguel ⤷ A/N: I see a lot of black cat x miguel and spidersona x miguel but hadn't seen any deadpool fics, so I figured I might as well write it myself! ↳ Masterlist ☆ Rules ☆ Prompt Lists ☆ AO3 [next]

Miguel wasn’t sure how long it had been since he last left the Spider Society’s headquarters. He knew it had to be a long time, because he couldn’t quite remember how many weeks it had been since he last went home (and last time he was there, there was already a thin layer of dust gathering on his kitchen’s countertop) and his office at the HQ was quickly filling up with empty takeout boxes and old, discarded notes.

It was just natural for Miguel to not leave. There wasn’t exactly anything to go home to in this dimension, and if he was going to be lonely , he would much rather spend that time doing something useful by protecting the multiverse and atoning for his many costly mistakes.

Lately, he rarely even left for patrol.

Lyla was tasked with keeping an eye on the happenings of his universe, and if anything major showed up, he’d deal with it swiftly, effectively. Being back at HQ just in time to finish his paperwork.

After all, Nueva York could survive a few weeks without him patrolling every night, but the multiverse couldn’t survive the anomalies being left unchecked.

And Miguel couldn’t let another universe be destroyed.

But then again, he didn’t think anyone would notice, or even care about his absence. Aside from Lyla’s teasing about him becoming a hermit (he had long since blocked her from being able to recommend him to a grief counsellor), it’s not like he had any close friends or family looking out for him anymore. 

Not in his universe, at the very least.

It’s what made his swift escape to another universe so easy in the first place. It was a clean break—he made sure it’d be.

Until one particularly mundane day. Peter B. was off on the closest thing the Spider Society had to paternity leave, giving Miguel peace for once, and he had just returned from a solo mission and recruited a new, promising Spider-Man. By all accounts, Miguel was in a good mood.

There was only one problem, though.

He felt observed.

He didn’t need a spider sense to be familiar with the feeling, although it felt similar to how it was described to him. A tingling in the back of his skull, raising all the little hairs on the back of his neck, screaming “danger, danger!”, begging for him to turn around and search for the source.

Miguel remained calm, however. If an anomaly had escaped its enclosure, Lyla would have warned him about it. If someone was inside his office, it would be someone his AI knew and was in cahoots with, which means—

“Webs!”

A figure drops from the ceiling behind him, the sound of bones breaking makes Miguel cringe. There’s a grappling hook on her gloved hands, and he doesn’t need to deduce much at all to know that she attempted to use her grappling hook to swing around like he does with his webs. It wouldn't be a first.

“Deadpool.”

He sighs, not having enough energy to fight the merc’s presence.

Ever since the Deadpool variant showed up in Nueva York a little more than three years ago, she had been a constant, annoying presence in his life.

It started with little things. She would follow him around during his patrols, rambling on and on about nonsense and only giggling in response to his threats, making a sly comment about his bloodlust being attractive or something similarly unhinged.

Regretfully, her presence was sometimes useful. Her disregard for the law and skewed moral code meant she was more than willing to do things he was reticent about, and more than that, it meant that he was always assured of having help for the right price, if he knew how to ask.

(He tried not to think about how she never cashed his checks or how her mask scrunched up when she smiled and said his company was rewarding enough.)

As much as he loathed to admit it, Miguel grew used to her constant presence.

It was sometimes nice to sit on a rooftop with her, eating whatever dubious street food she insisted on buying and listening to the merc’s inane chatter. It was okay if he didn’t feel like talking— Deadpool would happily entertain herself by talking for both of them.

After he established the HQ, it was only a matter of time before she broke in. No matter how many security measures he put in place specifically to keep his Deadpool, and other Deadpool variants, out , she always managed to find a way inside, sitting in his office and cackling like a maniac when she was caught.

And worst of all, she managed to form a friendship with Lyla.

(It would have been something easy to fix, but for whatever reason, Miguel could never bring himself to do it.)

“What are you doing here?”

“I missed you!” Deadpool sat up, folding her legs beneath her gracelessly. The grotesque sound of her previously broken bones snapping back into place filled the room. A disturbing, crackling symphony that she didn’t so much as flinch at, accustomed as she was to shrug off injuries that would incapacitate anyone else. “My man, my dude, my bro, my little ray of perfect sunshine, the fire in my loins—”

“Do you want to get kicked out?”

His sharp tone cut through her rambling, but it only made her laugh harder. It wasn’t just laughter: it was that full-bodied, head-thrown-back cackle she did whenever she knew she’d gotten under his skin. The sheer joy she seemed to derive from his discomfort was almost impressive as it was annoying.

As her laughter subsided, she leaned forward, elbows propped on her knees, cheek resting in her gloved palms. Even through the mask, Miguel could feel the weight of her gaze— sharp, teasing, and utterly shameless .

He didn’t need to see her eyes to know she was batting her lashes at him in mock flirtation

“I’d love to get manhandled by you if that’s what you’re suggesting,” she drawls in a sing-song voice, sweet as honey.

He groans in annoyance, turning back towards his screens to review the details Lyla gathered about the worrying influx of Green Goblin variants they had managed to capture recently.

“I’m busy .”

“That wasn’t a no.” The smile in her voice is less annoying than it should be “And besides— you’re never too busy for me.”

“Even if that was the case, which it isn’t, I don’t want to deal with you right now”

“You wound me, Spidey.” Deadpool’s hand goes to her chest, gasping over dramatically and gripping at the leather of her costume, “I can’t believe you’d say such a thing to a poor, innocent, young maiden. Can you hear the sound of my heart breaking? Is that pleasurable to you? I should have known that was your kink, you sick, sick man.”

He rolls his eyes so hard he can almost see the back of his skull.

“Why are you really here?” 

“I told you already. I missed you.” She replies, easily. She stands up to her full height, leaning against one of his desks, inspecting one of the takeout boxes he left on top of it with distaste. “I haven’t seen you in forever . I thought you croaked or something. I needed to make sure someone would find your dead body and put it to rest. I was even arranging a lovely funeral service in your honour.”

As annoying as she could be, there was a sense of familiarity in their banter. 

Deadpool tilted her head, eyes crinkling behind her mask in that way that told Miguel she was smiling — that too-wide, too-pleased smile that always preceded something ridiculous. She tapped a finger to the side of her head.

“You can’t get rid of me, big guy.” She announced, her tone still annoyingly sing-songy, there’s an edge of softness to it he’s desperate to ignore. “I’m like glitter. You’ll be vacuuming me out of your carpets for years .”

“I don’t have carpets.”

She only scoffed in response.

“Of course, you wouldn’t have carpets. Mr. Practical over here, huh?” She waggled her fingers at him like she was performing some kind of spell. “No carpets, no comfort, no love, no heart. Just spreadsheets and multiverse monitors. No wonder I’m your only friend.”

Miguel's jaw clenched at that, his eyes narrowing at the screen in front of him. He scrolled down a report he wasn't really reading, if only to keep from having to look at her.

“I have friends,” he muttered.

“Oh, yeah?” She leaned in, hands on her hips like she’d caught him in a lie. “Name one.”

His fingers froze over the keyboard.

“Peter”

She scoffs

“That doesn’t count. There are like, three hundred Peters working for you.”

He could hear her trying to suppress a giggle behind him, and it only made him press the keys harder, typing in absolute nonsense. He heard the soft creak of leather as she shifted, leaning against his desk like she owned the place.

“That’s what I thought,” she said, smug as ever. Her fingers drummed on the surface. “Don’t worry, baby . I’ll always be your Number One.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Okay, mi amor .”

He let out a long, slow breath, staring at the screen like he could bore a hole through it with his eyes alone.

Then, the tapping stopped. The silence that followed wasn’t like her usual silence, the kind where she was building up something stupid to say. It was quieter, heavier. She shifted again, but this time it sounded like she was sitting down on his desk, legs probably swinging like a kid at a playground.

“Hey,” she said, her voice a little quieter. “I meant it, you know. I was worried.”

His fingers stopped typing. There’s a beat of hesitation— but Deadpool pushes through it. It’s strange, in a way. He can tell she’s being serious for once, that she’s mustering all her care and worry for a proto intervention.

Miguel doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel about it. 

What are you supposed to do when your Deadpool stages an intervention?

“You’ve been locked up in here for weeks. Not eating, not sleeping. Well, eating, but takeout doesn’t count. And I get it, I do. You’re doing that broody, self-flagellating guilt thing you love so much. Very Catholic of you, by the way. But…” She hesitated. “It’s different this time. I just know it is.”

Miguel turned his chair slowly, eyes sharp as ever, pinning her with a look that had made villains far scarier than her cower. But she wasn’t scared of him. She never had been, he can’t kill her in a way that matters.

“What do you mean by different?” 

Miguel asked, his voice low and dangerously even. He’s trying to keep calm, trying to stop himself from blowing up at her like he seemed to be doing so often lately— it’s a warning sign, in the way a cowering dog growls before they bite. He doesn’t want to get into this. Doesn’t want Deadpool from all people to speak to him softly and beg him to look for help. 

She isn’t deterred, shrugging, swinging her legs in lazy arcs. 

“Usually, you have a plan. This time you’re just… drowning.” She speaks, pausing, a little uncertain of how she’s wording things. “No direction. No light at the end of the tunnel. Just endless dark. I should know. I live there rent-free, baby.”

His gaze didn’t waver, didn’t soften. But she wasn’t trying to break him down. Not really.

She glanced at him then, tilting her head back far enough that her mask caught just enough light to show the faint outline of her grin. “You don’t have to say anything. I know how you are. Tough guy, big shoulders, all that.” She gestured vaguely in his direction. “But I’m annoying enough to stick around, so, yeah. I’m sticking around.”

He stared at her for a moment too long, eyes shifting to her hands — her fingers curled just barely on the edge of his desk. He wondered if she realized she was gripping it like an anchor, as uncomfortable as he was, but more willing to push through the discomfort.

He let out a slow breath, feeling the weight settle on his shoulders again. Heavier, every day.

“...What do you want me to say?” he muttered. His talons flexed at his sides, curling into fists. “That I’m tired? That I’m angry? Do you want me to say I’m grieving , too? Will that satisfy you?” 

He bit out the words harsher than he intended.

Silence followed.

Then, slowly, the faint sound of a thump as her boots met the ground and she stood.

“Y’know…” she said quietly, her voice oddly steady, “Grieving isn’t something you just power through like it’s another mission objective. You can’t… ‘Complete’ it. It’s… messy.”

Her footsteps were light as she approached him. She had that predator's grace, the one she never seemed to realize she had. Her gloved hand brushed lightly over his arm, hesitant, like she was testing the waters.

“You think I don’t know that?” he muttered.

“I think you do know that. I think you know it too well , and that’s why you’re drowning in it.” Her grip tightened, firm and grounding. Not pulling him away. Just… anchoring him. “I don’t know what happened to you, ‘Webs. You don’t tell me stuff like that, and I’m not about to go digging where I’m not wanted. But…” She squeezed his arm. “I’m here. Not to fix you. Not to ‘help’ you. Just to be here.”

The words hung in the air between them, fragile and raw in a way that took him off-guard. This was the last think Miguel ever expected from a Deadpool visit. Miguel didn’t speak, didn’t move— he couldn’t, paralysed like he had been afflicted by his own venom.

He could hear the hum of the monitors, the faint, distant chatter of the Spider Society far beyond the walls of his office. And her voice. So painfully earnest it cut through all of it, demanding to be heard.

It was strange to hear her like this. Deadpool , who was chaos incarnate, who made it her mission to annoy him at every opportunity, now stood still, solid, and steady .

A constant in his mess of a life.

He’d always dismissed her as a pest, a distraction he tolerated for reasons he didn’t like to dwell on. She was loud, unpredictable, utterly ridiculous , and yet somehow, beneath the layers of absurdity and deflection, she had always been there.

She wore her heart on her sleeve, but it was wrapped in layers of irony and humour so thick that even he, with all his brilliance, had missed the weight of it. She cared fiercely while pretending not to care at all, a paradox wrapped in tight leather and awful innuendo.

And now, here she was, standing before him with no armour at all. 

“I don’t…” he started, then stopped. Words failed him. What could he even say? Should he thank her? Apologize for underestimating her? Admit that her presence, chaotic, relentless, infuriating as it was, had become something he didn’t want to lose?

He felt… unmoored, vulnerable in a way he hated to be.

But not alone.

“I’m here,” she repeated softly, breaking the silence. “Whether you like it or not.”

Her voice carried a quiet strength, a promise. It was a simple truth wrapped in a joke, a quick route to denial if he ever brushed off her sincerity.

And it was that honesty, more than anything, that unravelled him. He didn’t realize how much he’d needed to hear it, from anyone , until now.

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. 

“You’re annoying,” he muttered, his tone more tired than sharp.

Her laugh was soft, almost fond. 

“Yeah, well. You’re no picnic either, Webs.”

He turned back to his screens, his gaze unfocused as his mind replayed her words.

The silence stretched on, but it wasn’t the heavy, agonizing kind he’d grown used to. It was… easier, much lighter.

The realization settled over him slowly. She cared. Truly, deeply cared. And she didn’t ask for anything in return. Not gratitude, not acknowledgement. Just the chance to be there, to care and be cared about in return.

It was more than he deserved. More than he’d ever allowed himself to hope for, after everything he’d done.

“…Do what you want,” he muttered, turning back to his screen. His voice is softer than he intended it to be. “You always do.”

There was a beat of silence. Then she snorted a laugh, loud and unrestrained.

“ For fuck’s sake , that was practically an invitation , Spidey. Don’t you know what happens when you invite Deadpool in?” She leaned in close, her mask practically next to his face. “I never leave.”

Her words hung in the air, warmer than they should have been.

He didn’t answer this time, but she didn’t need him to.

Deadpool stayed where she was, quiet for once, her presence like static on an old TV— ever-present, a little fuzzy, but not unwelcome.

And Miguel let her stay.