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calciseptinefic · 1 year ago

Text

then out of nowhere, somebody comes and hits you with an ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || Part 12 notes: Title from 'Mad Sounds' by Arctic Monkeys. Many thanks to babygato for her beta on this chapter. this fic is also available on ao3 warnings: none

← previous: Part 11

Wade’s head is a mess as Peter tells the story of him and the other Wade.

It begins the way Wade already knows it does: Peter was fifteen when he was bitten by a radioactive spider and got his unique powers. It was a thrill, at first; he was strong when he had once been weak, and the possibilities of being someone more than poor, puny Peter Parker went to his head. Doing good for nothing more than the sake of helping others did not cross his mind until his inaction led to the death of his uncle.

"I was angry," Peter tells them softly. "One of the people I loved the most in the world was suddenly gone and the man who did it was still... out there. Sure, I stopped purse snatchers and returned stolen bicycles and got the occasional cat out of a tree, but I was definitely looking for that man. Looking for trouble. And I found both, eventually."

Wade tries to listen. Tries to pay attention and tries to follow along. Tries to imagine Peter younger and smaller, shaking with guilt and rage as he confronted the man who murdered his uncle, tries to empathize with how easy it would be to kill—not just because Peter had the proportional strength and agility of a spider, but because killing was easy when revenge felt like justice.

"I didn't know the guy was involved in bigger things, and I got in over my head," Peter explains. "Sixteen and already on Kingpin's radar. They put a hit out on me and... well..."

Peter is telling Wade this story for a reason. To apologize, maybe, or to explain why he kept the truth from Wade. He sits on the edge of the couch cushion, folded hands tucked between his knees, and tells them that, in his universe, Wade Wilson is a mercenary infamously known as Deadpool. He was contracted by the mob to bring Spiderman to them, dead or alive, and when he accepted the job, he didn't know that Spiderman was a teenager. He knew, several hours after, because Peter didn't realize that the low level buzzing in his brain was a warning that someone was following him; he just went home, tired from a long day of classes and patrol, and collapsed onto his bed while Deadpool watched him from the opposite rooftop.

But this story doesn’t make Wade feel any better or any less lied to.

In fact, it might be making him feel worse.

"I hated him, at first," Peter says, smiling sweetly down at his ring. "I thought he was crude and obnoxious and a little holier-than-thou than warranted, given that he was a mercenary for hire. But under that he was funny and sincere and always tried his best. Life had dealt him one of the shittiest hands it could and yet there he was, protecting a stupid teenager from the mob, buying me tacos and keeping me safe despite the danger it put him in."

"A big marshmallow," rePete says, turning his gaze to Wade.

"Don't look at me," Wade says, shaking his head. "I’m not him."

"Yeah, sure." Peter rolls his eyes. "That's why you immediately let me sleep on your couch. Fed me. Sheltered me. That's why you let me drag you all over New York even though you didn't believe me."

Surprised, Wade says, "You knew?"

"What, that you didn't believe me?" Peter snorts. "Come on, Wade. I've known you for ten years. I know what you look like when you're analyzing a situation from every angle—"

Ten years.

For Wade, it's the last straw. For the past two days, he's been hyper-vigilant: trying to keep Peter safe while constantly running into wall after wall after wall; trying to ignore a surge of inappropriate feelings every time Peter smiled at him; trying to wrap his brain around the reality of alternate universes and super powers and magic. All he’s been doing is trying and he’s exhausted to learn that most of it was for nothing. The sudden loss of that stress leaves a vacuum behind, an emptiness that's easily filled by his confused and aimless anger. He interrupts Peter with a snarl, slamming a fist down on the coffee table with a loud bang.

"But you don't," Wade snaps viciously. "You don't know me. You can't know me. You just—you broke into my apartment, and I tried to shoot you, for fuck's sake, and you decided, 'Oh, this man is my husband in my universe, so that's alright'?" Wade's voice has steadily risen to a shout, and his throat tight with the force of it, face hot. "You made all these blind assumptions about who you thought I was, Pete! Do you even know how fucking stupid that is? I could have killed you!"

Wade knows he looks terrifying—teeth bared in frustration, scar stark against his skin, shoulders rounded for a fight—but neither Peter seems to be scared. They're just staring at him with their big doe eyes, mouths pinched into identical frowns, clearly upset but not at him.

For him.

"Fuck you both," Wade snarls, getting to his feet. It's hard beneath the weight of their combined stare, but he needs to get away. Not out of the apartment but just—away. Mindlessly, Wade snatches the dirty plates and utensils off the coffee table before storming into the kitchen; he dumps everything into the sink, cranks on the hot water and squeezes out some dish soap. There's no real division between Wade and the Peters except for the kitchen island, but having his back turned to them is enough.

You're a good man, Wade Wilson, Peter had said. In every universe.

A big marshmallow on the inside, rePete had said.

You make it very hard to love you, Vanessa had cried.

Wade waits until the sink is full to turn off the tap, suds threatening to spill over the sides. When he dips his hands in, the water is scalding; he hisses at the prickling sensation, but doesn't pull out. The key is acclimation. Soon, his body will adjust, and he'll forget that it's supposed to hurt.

The apartment is quiet as Wade starts on the veritable mountain of dishes that has been building up for the past two days. He grabs the green scouring pad and begins to scrub, and scrub, and scrub at crusted-on food and coffee stains. Having something to do with his hands helps—he’s always been a doer—but as his fury seeps from him, he begins to feel the soreness of resentment and exhaustion.

Peter comes over when most of Wade's anger has faded. He pulls a clean towel out of a nearby drawer and silently starts to take the washed dishes from Wade, drying them and putting them away. There is no hesitation as he does so; maybe he and the other Wade—Peter's husband—keep them in the same places.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Wade asks as the dishes dwindle steadily down. He’s calm enough now to ask the question that sits at the root of his sudden rage, but it still leaves his mouth like an accusation. "That you're married to... other me."

Peter finishes wiping down the stainless steel pan in his hands. Puts it back. Waits for Wade to give him another dish to dry and huffs when Wade purposefully keeps his hands submerged in the water.

"A few reasons," Peter admits begrudgingly. "At first, it was because I didn't want you to treat me differently or feel obligated to help me. You were already being so nice to me—flirting with me—and I didn't want to come out and say, hey! Guess what! You're my husband in my universe!" Peter sighs. "You were already giving me so much that it felt... selfish, to want more."

"You totally could have," Wade tells Peter, handing him a wet plate. "I was already invested."

"But that's why I couldn't, you know?" Peter wipes the plate more thoroughly than necessary before putting it in the cabinet. "You had already decided to help me and I know that when you decide to do something, you give maximum effort. Not telling you was also a way to remind myself that you aren't my husband, because you two are honestly so similar. I'm sorry I flirted with you constantly, but—"

"Wait, what?" Wade frowns, turning his attention away from the other plate in his hands to Peter. "You were flirting with me?"

"Since I got here," Peter drawls. "Thanks for noticing."

From the couch, rePete stifles a snort of highly amused laughter.

"Huh," Wade says. "I thought you were just comfortable with me."

"I am comfortable with you," Peter says, "because I've been married to my Wade for five years and—before that—we dated on and off since I graduated high school. And I know you don't want to hear it, but you're really not that different. Not in the ways that matter."

Wade gives Peter the last plate, letting him dry it and put it away, before saying, "I'm sorry I shouted." Staring down into the sink, Wade watches the suds break slowly on the surface of the water. "It's been a long two days."

"Tell me about it," Peter commiserates, bumping his hip gently against Wade's. It's a mirror of the movement rePete did earlier, and any hard feelings Wade might have still harbored for being compared to his other self vanishes. He can't fault Peter for drawing parallels when he does the same thing for Peter and rePete. Wade knows and appreciates that they're individual beings with unique experiences, but it's impossible not to acknowledge their similarities.

Argument settled, Wade and Peter fall into a comfortable silence as they finish the dishes. Or—that's what would have happened, if Peter's head didn't snap up, suddenly and brutally alert. Wade puts the mug he was holding out back into the sink.

"Pete?"

"Do you feel that?" Peter asks stiffly. He steps away from the sink and turns in a slow circle, eyes darting to every corner of Wade's apartment. "My spidey-sense is going crazy, but I can't pinpoint where it's coming from."

Wade doesn't feel anything. He briefly closes his eyes to try and use his own intuition to feel what Peter's feeling. Nothing. He opens his eyes, and is about to tell Peter as much, when a huge wave of not-right washes over him. It makes every hair on his body stand up, gooseflesh breaking out on his arms and the back of his neck.

"Baldy?" Wade gasps.

"No," Peter answers, still looking around frantically. "Still in the tub."

"Then what—"

A roar just beyond the edge of audibility forms from no direction. It is more sensation than sound, a mute noise that makes Wade think of damp construction paper being slowly torn down the middle, but infinitely magnified. It doesn't hurt—not in the way pain hurts—but the nerves in Wade's body are misfiring as something grows larger and larger between the atoms in the air.

"Umm, guys?" rePete all but yelps, clambering off the couch. He points a shaking finger at a thin shimmer sliced into an empty space by the wall. "What the hell is that?"

Both Peter and Wade dash into the living room. Hands still damp from washing dishes, Wade reaches under the couch to yank out the glock and spare magazine he has strapped to the underside of the frame; he slaps the magazine in place and unlocks the safety, lining the sight up with the steadily growing disturbance in his living room. The bigger it gets, the more unignorable that sensation of not-right becomes, a nauseating drone that settles into the hollows of Wade’s teeth and bones.

"Stay behind me," Wade barks at rePete, who is already behind him, fingers clutched in the fabric of Wade's sweater.

"Don't have to tell me twice," rePete says.

Next to Wade, Peter has shifted into a ready stance, his attention focused solely on the strange phenomenon occurring before them. The vague shimmer distorting the air becomes a roil and begins to spark. The small specks of light flare brightly, briefly, before breaking away harmlessly and disappearing. They are like the ones produced when Baldy used his magic, though these are warm gold instead of sickly green.

"Another spell?" Wade asks.

"Yeah," Peter answers. He’s still crouched, ready to attack or defend, yet the tightness in his shoulders have loosened. "But—Wade—I think these are—"

The shimmering cut in the air explodes without sound or heat, cutting Peter off. RePete yelps, moving completely behind Wade, as the golden sparks multiply to a near blinding shine. They whirl madly in a wide circle and—within it—there is an alleyway, empty and dim.

For a moment, nothing.

Then—

A tall, broad man steps through. His huge boots make no sound as they touch the floor. He's dressed in red and black leathers from head to toe, wearing a full cowl mask and a tactical belt; he’s armed to the teeth, carrying enough weaponry to take out a small squadron, including small knives and explosives and a pair of katanas. He also has a huge gun in each hand, the metal gleaming, and he radiates so much wrath and ill-intent that Wade's finger twitches on the trigger of his pistol. In Wade's experience, situations like these end better if he shoots first. Wade might have gone through with it too if—at the same time the man stepped through the glowing circle—Peter didn't step between them, arms flung out wide, and shout,

"Wade! Not an enemy!"

In tandem, Wade and the masked man who stepped through the portal point their guns at the floor.

What the fuck? Wade thinks at the same time the man in red-and-black asks, "Pete? Are you—"

"I'm okay," Peter answers quickly. His voice is high and thin, like it was last night, before he began to cry. "Wade, I'm—"

Wade watches as the other man holsters both guns and opens his arms. Peter lets out a single, choked sob—his only hesitation—then launches himself across the living room, over the coffee table, and into the man's arms. The man doesn't even stagger as Peter’s full weight hits him. He just holds Peter easily, wrapping his bulky arms around Peter's torso and tucking his face into the crook of Peter's neck. For a moment, they just hold each other tightly, relief evident in every line of their bodies.

Shock replaces every single one of Wade's thoughts. He knows that he's missing something—something important—but the past hour has left him emotionally exhausted. That fatigue combined with the sight of Peter clinging to some weirdo who just came through a magic portal is currently putting a serious strain on his mental processing power.

"God, baby boy, I'm so glad we found you," the man says, his low and raspy voice sounding as though his vocal chords went through a rock tumbler. One of his big, gloved hands runs up and down the length of Peter's exposed spine. "I fucking missed you."

"I missed you more," Peter burbles back, voice thick with unshed tears.

"I missed you mostest—"

"Break it up," interjects a third, new voice.

Wade automatically swings his glock back up and points it at the second person coming through the portal. This man is handsome, in an evil magician sort of way, with a pointed goatee and flashes of pure white at his temples. He's wearing dark blue robes of extremely ambiguous ethnicity and a crimson cloak. The long length of the cloak flutters gently in a non-existent wind while the man literally floats further into Wade's apartment, his feet hovering several inches off the floor.

"Strange," Peter greets. He lifts his head from the shoulder of the man holding him to do so, but otherwise stays put. "Good to see you too."

Strange. Wade's tired brain restarts with a twitch. Stephen Strange.

The Sorcerer Supreme from another universe.

Levitating in Wade's apartment in Queens.

"Holy shit," Wade says, lowering his gun. Every bizarre thing that happened within the last ninety seconds shifts into a frame of perfect understanding. His stare swings away from Strange's face—seriously, that perfectly arched eyebrow is a paid actor—to Peter and the man holding him. To his alternate self. Who... winks at him.

"Hey there, handsome," Deadpool croons. "First time?"

"Wade," Peter warns, finally untangling his limbs from his husband's body. "Be nice."

"I was being nice," Deadpool mumbles as he lets go of Peter just enough so Peter can slide to the floor. They're still pressed together, bodies a line from chest to thigh, Peter's curls brushing Deadpool's chin. "I was being complimentary, even! That hair: swoon-worthy! Those eyebrows: smoldering! Clear skin highlighted by a dashing, debonair scar—"

Peter elbows Deadpool in the ribs. Hard. Wade winces in sympathy—Peter's elbows are dangerous, and he has the bruises to prove it.

"As charming as this all is," Strange interrupts, raising his voice as he floats further into Wade's living room, "this portal will not hold indefinitely. We are here to bring Peter back to his universe. The sooner he returns, the more likely we will be able to prevent the untold tragedy of an Incursion, a world-ending cataclysm that will end the lives of trillions—"

"Christ," Wade mutters, resisting the urge to scrub at his tired eyes. "He talks Shakespeare worse than Baldy."

Behind Wade, rePete adds dryly, "It must be part of the core curriculum at wizard school."

RePete is still largely hidden behind Wade, but he's gotten to his tip-toes to peer over Wade's shoulder at the scene unfolding before them; he has both hands on Wade's back, using Wade as a balance. When Wade giggles at his commentary, Deadpool's head snaps back towards them, spotting rePete for the first time.

"Oh. Em. Gee." The white eyes of Deadpool's mask widen and he covers his mouth with one hand dramatically. "Is that... Petey-Pie, take two?"

"That's offensive," rePete says. "How do you know I'm not the original?"

The noise Deadpool releases is caught between what a human throat is capable of and the shriek of a deflating balloon. His head swings from Peter—who is pinching the bridge of his nose—and rePete, who takes a tentative half-step forward and waves.

"I'm pretty sure I've died again," Deadpool says in disbelief, one hand clutching at his suit over his heart. "Not one but two baby boys? Both of them sassy and sexy? There's no way I'm sneaking past the pearly gates to get into that kind of heaven, so maybe I'm hallucinating again?"

"Alternate universe, Wade," Peter reminds his husband gently.

"Right." Deadpool straightens, one arm still slung around Peter's shoulders. The wide and charming grin he dons is the same one Wade uses when he wants to fight or fuck. Wade doesn't know what's more disturbing: the fact that he and Deadpool share mannerisms or that Deadpool can emote clearly through his mask. "This might be a little off the cuff, but… You guys come here often?"

What, Wade thinks as rePete chirps, "Nah, first time," and Peter simultaneously hisses, "Wade, no—"

"I did not open an interdimensional portal for you to proposition your alternate selves," the Sorcerer Supreme says icily. He floats further into the living room and holds out his arms, palms upturned and spitting more golden sparks in a display of power. It would be impressive if his shin didn't accidentally bump the corner of Wade's coffee table. "Ahh—goddamnit—"

Wade and Deadpool burst into identical giggles. Strange drops to the floor and glares at them, attempting to straighten his still fluttering cloak. The cloak must have a mind of its own because it continues to roll in gentle waves despite Strange's tugging.

"Come on, funky magic man," Deadpool wheedles. "An orgy of this caliber is like, a once in a lifetime opportunity! Or—wait. I dimension hopped in December and met my zombie counterpart, so I guess it's more like a once in a yearly occurrence?" Deadpool shrugs. "Didn't fuck, though. That guy was even uglier than I am, sheesh."

"Be that as it may," Strange interjects, raising his voice above Deadpool's continued muttering. "We have come to retrieve you, Peter, before your presence in this universe causes permanent damage. The sooner we return, the smaller the ripple effects will be."

"What about the guy in my bathtub? I don't know how much longer he's gonna remain unconscious and I really don't know how to handle non-metaphorical Death Eaters." Wade asks, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "He's from your universe too, isn't he? Don't you need to take him?"

"Bathtub?" Strange repeats, as though that was the weirdest detail in Wade's sentence and not the 'from your universe' bit.

"Yeeeeah," Wade says slowly. "Do you not have bathtubs in your universe?"

Strange opens his mouth to answer. He's clearly frustrated—Wade can see it in the downward angle of his eyebrows and the tightness of his mouth—but he does not let Wade goad him further. He simply stops himself and takes a deep, calming breath, and says faux serenely, "We have bathtubs."

Next to Wade, rePete does a very bad job at turning his laugh into a cough.

"We had to incapacitate him, earlier," Peter explains to Strange. "He attacked Peter, thinking he was you in disguise, and after we knocked him out, we brought him here. His magic is kinda like yours, but green. And not nearly as strong."

"Perversions of the natural forces used by magic manifest as different colors." Strange looks past Wade and rePete to the bathroom, the door partially ajar. "Purple and red are the most common, derived respectively from the teachings of the Dormammu or Cththon. Green is indicative of the Order of the Forsaken Ones, who were cast out by the first Sorcerer Supreme, Agamotto, for their heresy." He pauses for dramatic effect, though the gravity of his words is ruined by his still moving cape, the red cloth jerking around like the tail of a dying fish. "It is… lucky, then, that you fell into this universe."

Peter tilts his head to the side and asks, "Considering?"

"This world, Earth-82467, is not devoid of magic. No world is. But it is hidden here, buried deep and far, and incredibly hard to access. In our universe, a member of the Forsaken Ones would be a formidable opponent. Here, they would only be able to access a fraction of their usual power." Strange looks down at his hands; Wade can see that the fingers are scarred and trembling. "Yet since I am bound by different laws than the Forsaken Ones, it is possible that—in this reality—I would have been unable to defeat them."

"So you're saying that my precious Petey Pie saved your ass," Deadpool sing-songs.

"By accident and happenstance, yes," Strange snaps. Then, to Peter, he dips his head in acknowledgement. "But I am not ungrateful. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Peter returns.

Clearly done with the awkwardness of gratitude, Strange crosses the living room threshold, passes Wade and rePete, and enters the bathroom. With his back turned, it's difficult to see what he is doing, but the large, expanding motions of his arms are reminiscent of the way Baldy spellcast. Warm light fills the small space—a literal sparkle of magic—and the webbed-up body of the Forsaken One rises out of the tub. When Strange exits the bathroom and heads back towards the portal, the body bobs along behind him; both Wade and rePete take a step back from it, perturbed.

"Strange," Peter says.

The Sorcerer Supreme pauses at the threshold of the portal, cocking an eyebrow.

"Can we have five minutes?" asks Peter. When Strange hesitates, Peter adds, "I'll keep it PG. Promise."

Strange's gaze flickers from Peter's face to Deadpool. Deadpool kicks up a foot and flattens a hand under his chin; add in a halo and a set of baby angel wings, and he'd be the leather-wearing, katana-wielding picture of innocence. It isn't fooling anyone.

"Five minutes," Strange concedes. "And if you are not back in our dimension by that time—"

"I thought we were keeping it PG?" says Deadpool. "I mean, the fic rating is M for Mature Audiences, so it could have adult content. [ Proceed ] or [ Go Back ]? Myself, I'm always logged in on multiple devices—"

"I will never understand you," Strange hisses. Then—with a dramatic whirl hindered by asynchronous twitching of his cloak—the Sorcerer Supreme and the unconscious form of the Forsaken Dipshit cross the portal back into their original dimension.

"We bonded," Deadpool says into the silence.

RePete barks a laugh. "Does bonding mean something different in your universe or…"

"No, it definitely means the same thing," Peter says. "It just means something else to Wade."

"I've been thrown out a window three times in the past twenty-four hours," Deadpool tells them cheerfully. "One time, the window was actually open first!"

Wade legitimately does not know if Deadpool is joking or not. He himself has been defenestrated a half dozen times, and none of them have been fun overtures of friendship. Wade considers asking, but before he can even open his mouth, Peter reaches up towards his husband's masked cheek and gently says, "Wade."

Deadpool tilts his head downwards.

"We don't have a lot of time," Peter says. "And I want to talk to Wade before we have to go."

"Leaving me for the better looking version, baby boy?" Deadpool teases. "I thought you liked the forgotten slice of salami that is my face."

"Forever my favorite kind of meat," Peter grins. Then, more seriously, "Without commentary, please. It's important."

"Ugh, fine," Deadpool whines. "The things I do for that ass."

Peter rises onto his tiptoes and presses a kiss against Deadpool's mouth. It's a small gesture, but it speaks to the years they've been together; it's the kind of kiss that can only be given after it has been given a thousand times. It should make Wade jealous, as the other things concerning Peter and his spouse have made him jealous, yet it does not. Seeing this kiss only makes Wade ache.

Falling back to his heels, Peter and Deadpool separate for the first time since the portal opened. Peter's hand skims down Deadpool's arm, a reassurance, before he turns around and walks towards Wade. Over the top of Peter's head, Wade makes eye contact with Deadpool; Deadpool smiles and gives Wade a thumbs up. He's startlingly blasé about the fact that he's interacting with an alternate version of himself, though Wade supposes that, after a while, one gets used to the weirdness.

"Kitchen?" Peter suggests.

It's as good a place as any, and Wade follows Peter back to where they had been minutes before. The sink is still filled with water, though most of the suds have dissolved, leaving behind a murky sheen. In the living room, Deadpool has approached rePete; whatever conversation they're having is no more than a low, undecipherable murmur.

"So." Wade rubs the back of his neck, unable to look at Peter directly for fear of what his face will give away. "I guess this is goodbye—"

Peter makes the same high, choked noise he made when Deadpool came through the portal, and flings his arms around Wade's shoulders, face tucked into Wade's throat. Wade immediately wraps his arms around Peter's waist, closes his eyes and dips his own head down, hiding himself in Peter's embrace. Wade hasn't been hugged like this in years. Not since Vanessa. He feels a small part of him break as he hugs back, uncaring that he's holding Peter too tight.

"I'm so glad you broke into my apartment," Wade tells him, voice low. He can feel the hot threat of tears building behind his eyes. "Pete—"

"I know, Wade," Peter whispers. "I know."

For a minute, they say nothing. They just stand there and hold each other. Wade—who has a reputation for being a chatterbox even in the most dire of situations—finds himself unable to speak. He wants to tell Peter everything he feels roiling in his chest, but articulating those feelings into the right words is impossible. It shouldn't be. Wade's only known Peter for two days. Two long, odd days in which he's done things he's never done before: he's shot at a shadow; made a spider-themed superhero some pancakes; attempted to read several scientific papers about space-time; tried to track down the most powerful sorcerer in the universe; participated in a fight with a wizard from another dimension; met an alternate version of himself; and found himself here, back in his apartment where it all started, saying good-bye to the man who changed his life.

"I'm never gonna see you again, am I?" Wade croaks.

"Probably not," Peter says. His voice is as gentle as Wade has ever heard it, but each syllable still feels like a blow. Wade knew, conceptually at least, that he would have to eventually say goodbye to Peter; he just didn't think it would be so soon, and the sense of sudden loss swells in his chest.

"It's just…" Wade swallows. "You made me feel… less alone."

Peter inhales shakily. Loosens his arms. Falls back just far enough so he can reach up with both hands and cradle Wade's jaw. His thumbs are under Wade's still closed eyes, brushing away the tears that have managed to escape. The tenderness of his touch is a contrast to the crushing weight of Wade's loneliness; Peter's presence had kept the worst of it away and, for the first time in years, Wade had been unburdened and happy, if not carefree. To go back to the way things were even forty-eight hours ago feels cruel.

"Wade," Peter says, smudging more of Wade's tears from his cheeks. "Baby, please. Look at me."

Helpless to do anything but obey, Wade opens his eyes. Peter's own eyes are glassy and his mouth trembles as he attempts a watery smile.

"I'm so happy I got to meet you," Peter tells him. "Both again, and for the first time. But we both know that I don't belong here. This isn't my universe, and I need to go home."

"I know." Wade's hands briefly tighten around Peter's waist in contradiction. "I just… wish we had more time. I'm not ready to be alone again."

"You won't be." Peter's hands slide further back, fingers overlapping on the nap of Wade's neck, and give a reassuring squeeze. "I don't know if you noticed, but this universe's version of me is standing in your living room, flirting with my husband, who is another version of you. And maybe it's corny of me, but I like to think that in every universe that has a me and a you, we're… together."

"That is corny," Wade admits. "But I like to think that too."

Peter smiles again, and it's more solid than the last one. He says, "It will be okay," and slowly releases Wade. A wild thought tears through Wade's brain—what if he grabbed Peter and just never let go—but he knows Peter's right. No matter how much Wade wants him to stay, Peter needs to return to his universe. Wade's hands slide from Peter's body and fall limp to his sides.

"Five minutes, Peter," Deadpool says, raising his voice slightly.

"Alright," Peter answers. He touches Wade's cheek one more time—the side of his face that's marred by his scar—then heads back to the living room. Wade follows as though he's being tugged along by an invisible string. He watches unblinkingly as Peter gathers the folded remnants of his Spiderman costume from underneath the coffee table, bundling the red and blue spandex beneath one arm, then goes to stand by his husband. The portal shines golden around them, illuminating their bodies in warmth.

"Got everything?" Deadpool asks, holding out a gloved hand.

"Yeah." Peter slips his hand into Deadpool's. "Let's go home."

Both of them look back as they go through the portal. Deadpool gives a wink and a jaunty salute—the same thing Wade would have done, if their roles were switched—while Peter gives a small wave. He says, "Thank you for everything, Wade," and then—

And then they're gone.

The portal fades without fanfare. The circle shrinks, cutting off the bridge between their dimensions, and the golden sparks of magic fade to nonexistence. All that remains is Wade's familiar apartment and the two people who stayed.

For a long moment, Wade stares at the negative space where the portal had been. His glimpse into the world beyond and the lives it contained feels like a metaphor. It probably is a metaphor—something about love, something about chance, something about possibility, blah blah blah—but Wade doesn't want to think about it right now. Right now, it still hurts. Hurts not because he lost it, but because it happened. It's a clean hurt, though, the kind Wade knows he'll get over once enough time has passed; the kind of hurt that will be eventually forgotten, and replaced by fondness and nostalgia.

"So," rePete says gently, walking over to Wade.

Burying his hurt for later, Wade scrubs the last of the damp from his face and turns to look at rePete. No, that's not fair. Wade turns to look at this universe's Peter Benjamin Parker. Peter, who doesn't trust Wade like other Peter did. Peter, who doesn't know Wade like other Peter did. Peter, who likes Wade enough to flirt with him, but remains both a stranger and a potential future.

"So," Wade echoes.

They stare at one another silently. Assessing. Acknowledging. Wade's seen how in love Other-Wade and other-Peter are, and he can admit that he wants that. He wants it so badly he can feel it like a knife that's been left in him for too long, deep and aching and bleeding sluggishly. But as much as he wants to be known—like he is, in another universe, by another Peter—Wade is completely, soul-shakingly terrified. He's been alone for years. Not just in the three years since he and Vanessa broke up, but in the years before that:

As a dishonorably discharged fuck-up taking odd jobs to meet ends.

As a soldier who learned a million ways to kill someone but couldn't form a single genuine emotional connection.

As a snotty teen who broke rules and had his bones broken.

As a scared kid who missed his mom.

Wade wants to be somebody to someone. And he knows he might have that with the Peter in front of him, if he can take this small leap of faith, if he can put in the work, if he can allow himself to be vulnerable enough to be known. It's not like it was with the other Peter—who already trusted him, knew him—but if it means having something like that? If it means not being alone?

Wade can be brave.

"Okay, elephant in the room," Wade says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. His eyes slide from Peter's face to the coffee table, still a little off-kilter from where Strange had slammed his shin into the corner. "But our alternate universe selves are like, super in love and happily married, and frankly, I'm jealous of those assholes. And I'm not saying that we're obligated to... follow in their footsteps, because I know that I'm not exactly like that Wade Wilson and that you're not exactly like that Peter Parker, but honestly? Cards on the table?" Wade gives a small, choked laugh. "You're overwhelmingly the kind of guy I go for—in multiple universes, it seems—and I would absolutely kick myself if I didn't at least try to get your number."

"Are you... asking me out on a date?" Peter asks, his tone vaguely unsure.

"Uh, badly, but yes." Wade takes a deep breath. Squares his shoulders. Looks up at Peter, with his big doe eyes and his freckles and his thick brown curls, and says, "I, Wade Wilson of Earth-867-5309 or whatever the fuck that wizard man said, am formally asking you, Peter Parker, out for an awkward dinner of greasy wings and cheap beer, whichever night you are available."

Peter bites his bottom lip and tilts his head to the side, and asks, "Whichever night?"

He still sounds unsure. Wade tries very hard not to deflate and jokes, "Too desperate?"

"Well, it's only..." Peter checks his watch. "Four in the afternoon, and we did just eat, but I could really go for that beer. This afternoon has been an absolute clusterfuck, and I don't want to process it until I'm alone in my shower."

"Gonna have a little existential crisis?"

"Medium sized one, probably." Peter drags a hand through his hair before grinning at Wade. There's a mischievous twist to it that makes Wade go weak at the knees. "Anyway, there's a pub near my place that does three-dollar domestic pitchers until six. Unless… you want to wait?"

"Fuck that," Wade replies. "Let's go get crunk on cheap beer and make awkward small talk. Talk about the weather. Talk about our exes. Religion, politics—literally anything but the multiverse, please."

"Agreed. The multiverse is definitely third date material."

Third date. Just the suggestion of it makes Wade smile so wide that his scar hurts. It makes him think that Peter wants this as much as he does, that Peter saw the same thing Wade saw when their counterparts came together. It won't be easy—no strong relationship is built without testing its foundations—but it will be worth it. Wade and Peter have seen that.

"Oh, and Wade?" Peter says. "One more thing before we go."

"What is it?" Wade asks, raising an eyebrow. "It's too late for take-backsies, you know."

"Not a take-backsie," Peter assures.

"Okay then." Wade spreads out his arms wide, as though daring Peter to give it his best shot. "Lay it on me, Parker."

Peter grins. Takes a step forward. Both of his hands slide around Wade's neck, pulling him down, and then Peter is kissing him, firm and sure. Surprise keeps Wade still for less than a second—but surprise cannot hold against the rush of happiness and giddy delight that quickly follows. Wade tilts his head to deepen the kiss and his fingers come up to clutch at Peter's denim clad hips; he can hear the way Peter's breath hitches, feel the way Peter smiles against his mouth. It's their first kiss but, somehow, it's like they've done it before. Like the kiss is an infinite constant within infinite possibilities.

And as they fall further into one another—standing together in the apartment where it all began, and then continued—Wade decides he can live with those odds.

end.

#spideypool #deadpool #spiderman #wade wilson #peter parker #pairing: wade wilson/peter parker #rating: m #fandom: marvel

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calciseptinefic · 1 year ago

Text

then out of nowhere, somebody comes and hits you with an ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || Part 10 notes: Title from 'Mad Sounds' by Arctic Monkeys. Many thanks to babygato for her beta on this chapter. this fic is also available on ao3 warnings: none

← previous: Part 9

Wade does not think as he drops the take-out bags—

Yanks both tactical daggers out from the sheaths strapped to his boots—

And sprints into the alley after the other Peter and the shadow that took him.

There is nothing but unnatural dark down the alley. It's as though the early afternoon sun has been switched off as easily as lamplight, plunging Wade's surroundings into black. His eyes struggle to adjust, darting this way and that, desperately searching for variations in shade—

But there is nothing.

Nothing.

Wade's defensive stance becomes more rigid and he clenches his fists more tightly around the hilts of his daggers. He slides one foot forward and feels the solid reassurance of the ground. Sucks in a hard breath. Closes his eyes, despite the illogic of the action, and listens—

"Hello?" a voice yells as though from an immense distance. "Hello? Can anyone hear me?"

It's other-Peter. The panic in his voice is evident, a thin thread strung taut through the syllables. Wade aches to answer—to assure—but he doesn't know if this darkness goes both ways, doesn't know if whatever waits beyond is blinded as well or has the advantage. So he stays motionless, straining to hear.

Wade does not have to wait for long.

"Sorcerer Supreme." Another voice resonates through the gloom. It is little more than a rasp but it comes from everywhere, impossible to pinpoint. "We meet at last."

"Excuse me?" Wade hears other-Peter call out. "What did you say?"

"Sorcerer Supreme," the voice reiterates more loudly. "We meet at last—"

"Sorry, but... sorcerer who?"

"Do not play childish games with me, Strange!" the voice hisses. Agitation makes the infinite layers sharp and painful to listen to. "You shall not mock me! I have brought you here to pay for the innumerable and immeasurable crimes of your predecessors—"

"My what now?" other-Peter asks. Oddly, the panic in his voice has faded, and has been replaced with genuine confusion. "My predecessors? Like... my parents?"

"Not your parents, you ignorant fool!" The layers change again, becoming discordant notes heaped together in a headache-inducing cacophony. "Your predecessors! Those who have come before! Those who have previously held the sanctimonious position of Sorcerer Supreme, and wrought their ignoble version of justice across the multiverse! How they performed careless and thoughtless deeds, how they purported falsehoods and lies and—oof!"

The voice is abruptly cut off. There is a dull, heavy noise—the familiar sound of a body hitting the ground—and the sudden return of light. Wade opens his eyes and immediately winces; even the shady dimness of the alleyway is blinding after absolute dark, and tears flood his eyes to soothe the burning adjustment. Wade wipes the wet away roughly.

"That's a hell of a mission statement," says other-Peter. "Are you the one who brought me here?"

No—not other-Peter.

Peter Peter. Who… should be back at the apartment, waiting for Wade.

That sneaky shit, Wade thinks as he forces his stinging eyes to stay open. He must have been following me.

Further down the alley, Peter stands in front of other-Peter with his arms crossed, wearing the clothes from this morning plus the mask and boots of his superhero costume. On the ground is a third man, his limbs and deep purple robes splayed across the dirty ground. His head is devoid of hair, the skin fish-belly white, and there is a fractal tattoo in the middle of his forehead, a spiral that slowly fades as it spreads outwards, down over his eyes and the bridge of his nose, and back towards the crown of his skull.

"Spiderman." As he struggles to his feet, Wade realizes that Baldy’s voice is no longer magnified and directionless; it is just a normal voice and it comes only from his mouth. "You are not meant to be here."

"I figured that one out on my own, buddy. Can you tell me something new?"

"I will not kill you if you hand over the Sorcerer Supreme." Baldy lifts both hands and holds them out in front of his chest; they hover parallel to one another, palm facing palm, as though he were holding an invisible basketball. "My quarrel is not with you."

"You seriously think the guy behind me is Strange?" Peter jerks a thumb back at other-Peter. "With those baby cheeks? That lack of questionably fashionable sideburns? Come on."

"A paltry illusion spell," Baldy spits. Behind Peter, Wade sees other-Peter—ugh, this is so confusing—sees rePete mouth the words 'illusion spell' like he's never encountered the concept before in his life, even theoretically. "A second warning, Spiderman. Stand aside and allow the Sorcerer Supreme to face the consequences of his unchecked actions."

"Sorry." Peter shrugs. "Not gonna happen."

"Very well." Baldy nods once. "Your misplaced loyalties have been marked. Goodbye, Spiderman."

Several things happen in quick succession. Baldy contracts his hands, fingers rigid, then rapidly pulls them wide. A net of sickly green light sparks into existence in the space between his palms. When he pushes it away from himself, it condenses into a single bolt, heading towards Peter—

Peter grabs rePete around the waist and shoots a web, lifting the both of them off the ground—

The bolt strikes the building behind where they had just been, melting the exterior wall as though it were acid—

And Peter shouts, "Wade—!"

RePete is falling. Wade immediately drops his knives and braces himself. He's strong—works hard to stay that way, because you never know when brute force will save your life—yet even he knows that catching a full-grown man who is sailing through the air towards him won't be easy.

And it isn't. He manages to catch rePete in the least awkward way possible, with no hands in inappropriate places, but he still falls backwards, landing hard on his back with rePete on top of him. One of rePete's bony elbows hits him in the solar plexus and he grunts. For a moment, both of them lay there: Wade, struggling to breathe, and rePete, struggling to mentally process what just happened.

"Up," Wade wheezes, patting rePete's shoulder. "Can't—"

"Oh my god, I am so sorry," rePete says, immediately clambering off Wade and kneeling on the ground beside him. His hands hover unsurely over Wade's chest. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Wade winces as he sits up. There will be a spectacular bruise in the middle of his torso—one to match the bruise Peter gave Wade yesterday when he elbowed him too hard in the ribs—but the hurt of it is smothered by the adrenaline pounding through his veins. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good, I just—" rePete shakes his head in disbelief, doe eyes wide behind his glasses. "What the fuck is going on?"

Further down the alley, Peter is high on the wall of one of the buildings, crouched against the brick as though gravity were optional. Baldy is moving his hands again and that sickly green light once more grows between his palms. It isn't smart to use the same move twice, though; now that Peter doesn't have to worry about rePete's safety, he drops down and shoots his webs the moment before Baldy pushes the lightning out, catching Baldy's wrists and forcing the bolt to go directly upwards instead of causing more property damage. Baldy snarls and yanks his hands back, sparks fading from his fingertips.

"Neat trick," Peter says he lands with barely a sound. He puts his hands on his hips. "Haven't seen an acid spell before."

"In our universe, that 'trick' would melt the flesh from your bones."

"But not in this one." Peter cocks his head. "Who did you say you were again?"

"I do not have a name," Baldy spits, as though the very idea were deeply unpalatable. "Like all members of my order, I have shed my identity to prevent the hubris caused by the formation of self. Know instead that I am one of the Forsaken! We, the Forsaken, who were cast out from Kamar-Taj millennia ago by the first master of the mystic arts, Agamotto!"

"Agatha who?"

"Agamotto!" Baldy shrieks. "Agamotto! The first Sorcerer Supreme! And he—" Baldy turns to point a finger at rePete, who is still kneeling on the ground beside Wade, completely baffled, "—shall be the last of Agamotto's corrupted legacy!"

"Yeah, still not the Sorcerer Supreme, dude," Peter says as rePete whispers to Wade, "Is this some sort of flash mob? Are we being recorded?"

"Uh, yeah," Wade says. Such an explanation is better than any lie Wade could come up with at the moment, as he's too preoccupied by the fact that Peter is fighting a nutbag who can do magic. Wade grabs his daggers and gets to his feet. "Just stay behind me, in case the pyrotechnics get weird. Okay?"

"Sure," rePete says as he also stands. Thankfully, he does as Wade asks, hovering close as he peers around Wade's shoulder to watch Peter and Baldy duke it out.

Clearly frustrated, Baldy tries forming another spell. Peter simply stops him by knocking a hand out from the configuration, and the green light that had started to form fizzles away harmlessly. Baldy steps back and tries again—but again, Peter strikes, disrupting the spell before it can be completed.

"Curse this dead world!" Baldy hisses and, to Wade's vague surprise, abandons his spell casting for hand-to-hand combat. Well, he doesn't completely abandon magic. While he fights—the sharp and offensive jabs reminiscent of Northern-style martial arts—Baldy also moves his fingers in small circles to create small spells, flicking them from his fingertips like darts. Peter dodges most of them but some of them hit, eating through cloth to get to the body below.

Watching Peter fight is both thrilling and nerve-wracking for Wade. Thrilling, because it's obvious that he knows what he's doing—his movements have form and are executed perfectly, which comes both from natural talent and years of practice—and nerve-wracking because it's also obvious he's slowly losing. Wade doesn't know why. Maybe it's because those spells hurt more than they appear to, or maybe it's because Peter has to shield both Wade and rePete. Whatever it might be, it's costing him, and Baldy is pressing the advantage.

Not for long, Wade thinks, shifting both his weight and his grip on one of the daggers. Just wait. Just...

There are no openings. Peter can't move out of range unless he wants to risk exposing Wade and rePete to Baldy, and they both move too quickly for Wade to intervene without potentially hurting Peter. It fucking sucks having to wait for an opening while Peter takes another acid spell—

And another—

And—there!

"Spidey!" Wade shouts, dagger already in the air, already running forward. Peter—wobbling from a nasty blow to his side—lets himself go down and gets out of the way as the knife flies true and strikes Baldy in the fleshy hinge where arm meets chest, sinking to the hilt. Baldy gasps, hand going up instinctively, and in a second Wade is on him, punching him as hard as he can in the jaw.

A satisfying crack echoes in the alley.

Wade's knuckles scream.

Baldy lurches back, surprised, incapacitated, and Wade jumps—gaining momentum—and slams the heel of his boot into Baldy's solar plexus. Baldy goes down, gasping, his hands rising once wildly to perform another spell—

Wade punches Baldy again, though this time in the temple, and Baldy crumples, unconscious. Wade waits to see if he'll come out of it—counting slowly to ten—before straightening his spine and uncurling his sore fingers, gently shaking them out and swearing. Then he looks over at Peter, who is upright but clutching at his side. Several of the holes in his clothes are smoking.

"You okay?" Wade asks.

"Nothing a little aloe vera can't fix." Peter nods at Baldy. "Thanks."

"I'll be your element of surprise anytime, baby boy," Wade answers. Then, "What do you want to do with him?"

Peter says nothing as he comes closer. Nudges Baldy with his boot. No reaction. Even when Peter pulls the dagger out of his shoulder, Baldy doesn't do so much as twitch.

"He'll be out cold for a few hours at least," Wade says. Peter wipes the dagger clean on Baldy's dark purple robes and hands it hilt-first back to Wade. Wade sheathes it and the other knife while Peter webs Baldy's barely bleeding wound shut. "You can lift him, right?"

"Easy enough," Peter answers.

"Take him back to my place?" Wade suggests. It isn't ideal. It's broad daylight, and few of the buildings in the area are tall enough for people not to notice someone leaping from rooftop to rooftop, but it's not like they can leave a fucking wizard behind a random garbage bin. "You can web him to the bathtub."

"It's as good a plan as any." Peter sighs again. Then, "We need to bring Peter back, too."

"Me?" Wade glances over his shoulder. RePete is standing an arm's length away, hands twisting around each other with anxiety. He's pale beneath his freckles. "I don't—I don't understand what's happening. How do you know me? Why did this—this man attack me? Is this some sort of prank? Did MJ put you up to this? Because this isn't funny and I really don't appreciate being thrown around and threatened."

"Sorry," Peter says automatically. "And it's... it wasn't a prank or anything. MJ's got nothing to do with it."

"Then—then what the fuck is going on?" RePete looks desperately between Peter's masked face and Wade's scarred one. "If this wasn't—I don't know, some sort of stupid video stunt or something—then what just fucking happened? You threw me like a bag of flour and stuck to the wall and you—" rePete's eyes slide back to Wade, "You stabbed that man in the shoulder and he did magic? Real fucking magic? And he thought I was strange—"

"Dr. Strange," Peter says. The interruption causes rePete to halt mid-tirade. "Sorcerer Supreme. In... my universe. I'm beginning to think that this universe doesn't actually have one. Sorcerer Supreme, I mean."

"What."

"Look, I know this is really complicated and surreal—"

"I think the word you're looking for is insane—"

"But can we please move this discussion back to Wade's?" Peter gestures behind Wade and rePete, toward the entrance of the alley. A handful of people have gathered, though none of them have been brave enough to venture forward.

"Motherfucking shit balls," Wade hisses.

"Exactly," Peter agrees. "I'll take the Forsaken One, and meet you and Peter back at your place before that crowd gets any bigger—"

"I am not going with you!" rePete all but shouts, flinging his arms out for emphasis. "Have you lost your fucking minds? That weirdo just tried to kill me and you just tried to kill him—"

"Trust me, Petey Pie, if I wanted him dead he'd be dead—"

"Wade, not helping—"

"And you guys know who I am and I have no idea who you are and I am freaking out because I was just getting some fucking lunch and instead got ambushed by knock-off Voldemort, some sort of man-spider—"

"Spiderman," Wade and Peter correct in tandem.

"—and Freddy Krueger's stupid hot cousin—"

Wade blinks. Hot?

"—so pardon me for not wanting to go to some random apartment with complete strangers and potentially get murdered!"

RePete's rant has turned into actual shouting. He's panicking, Wade gets that, and he’s trying to be aggressive to cover up the fact that he's scared shitless. Wade knows from experience that it would be best to back off, to give rePete time to cool down, but unfortunately, they have no time left and they cannot leave him here. One of the bystanders behind them is probably dialing 9-1-1 at that very moment and Wade hates, hates, hates that he might have to haul rePete over his shoulder and book it—

"Peter," Peter says. "Look at me."

RePete's gaze snaps to Peter, and Peter takes off his mask.

It's like seeing double. Peter's hair is mussed from the mask and rePete is wearing thick browline glasses, but everything else is the same: the shape of their brows and the slope of their noses, the round swell of their bottom lips and the angles of their chins. All the helpless anger in rePete's expression transforms into blank shock. Wade wonders how bizarre it would be to stare into a face identical to your own when no mirrors were involved.

"W-what?" rePete stammers. "You... You're..."

"You," Peter confirms. "Well, I'm me, but I'm also you. Sorta. I'm you if you were from a different universe where you got bit by a radioactive spider at fifteen, and were subsequently hit with the double whammy of puberty and sudden mutant superpowers. Fun times. So please trust that you can trust me."

"I—" RePete's eyes move from Peter's face to Wade's. "And are you—from another universe too?"

Wade shakes his head and says, "Home grown, baby boy."

"Oh." RePete looks back at Peter. "So... other universes exist."

"Yes."

"Where there's... magic?"

"Yes, though not everyone can use it. Kinda like Harry Potter? You have it or you don't—"

"Pete," Wade interjects. Both Peters look at him simultaneously which—trippy. "We can do this at the apartment. But we need to leave before someone calls the cops."

"Right." Peter nods, then turns to rePete. "I'm going to take the Forsaken One back, and you're going to go with Wade. I know you don't know him, but I trust him with my life, and he'll keep you safe. So just follow his lead, alright? I'll answer all your questions then. Promise."

It takes a moment for rePete to consider his options—to weigh his potential safety against the appeal of having his questions answered—but eventually he nods his agreement, curiosity winning. Peter's shoulders sag with relief; like Wade, he too was probably considering how much it would suck to have to take rePete back to the apartment against his will.

"You got this?" Peter asks Wade as he tugs his mask back on.

"Don't worry about us," Wade says. "I've been doing stuff like this before you had chest hair."

"Whatever, grandpa." Peter picks up Baldy and hauls him over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. Baldy is not a small man by any stretch of the imagination, but Peter moves as though he's weightless. "See you at home."

Wade does not watch as Peter goes further down the alley, slides behind one of the dumpsters, and begins to quickly scale the wall. Instead, he's pulling his phone out of his pocket, turning on the video function, and slinging an arm around rePete's shoulders. He laughs—as loudly and genuinely as possible—and proclaims, "I think we got it!"

"What?" rePete says.

"The shot!" Wade turns them around and pulls rePete back to the street. A handful of people are standing there, their expressions a collective mishmash of confusion and worry. "Oh, hey guys! Didn't see you there. None of you were recording that, were you? That'd be copyright infringement, you know."

"Copyright?" someone says.

"Yeah! For my sweet ninjas vs wizards movie!" Wade holds up his own phone, wiggling it. He looks at each person; several of them are holding their phones, but none of them appear to be recording. Small miracles, Wade thinks.

"That was... for a movie?"

"Uh, yeah." Wade smiles as charmingly as he can, despite the fact that his scar always makes his mouth lopsided. "We're filming it on my phone so we can put all the money into special effects. Looked real, didn't it?"

Every single person falls for Wade's fabrication hook, line, and sinker, and their consternation practically melts off their faces. There's no doubt in Wade's mind that they saw Baldy's bright green spells, Peter's preternatural parkour, and Wade's own brutality, but now they'll be explaining away the blanks with preconceived notions about Hollywood movie magic. The idea that it was real magic, real superpowers, and real violence will fade from their minds and be forgotten.

"Oh, and look! Our lunch!" Wade lets go of rePete to grab the bags of Thai food he dropped earlier. "Can't believe you started the scene early. Here—you get to carry one as punishment."

"We didn't start early," rePete says as he rolls his eyes and takes the bag. His lack of resistance erases any last shred of doubt their onlookers might have had, especially considering how he had been screaming bloody murder just a couple minutes ago. "You were late. As usual."

"Don't bring my punctuality into this."

"And what punctuality is that?" rePete drawls.

RePete's ability to shoot the shit—to lie—is so markedly different from Peter's inability that Wade nearly drops the act in surprise. The only reason he doesn't is because he's a professional, goddamnit, and he's not about to be outdone by a highly bangable ex-mathlete in red Converse All Stars.

Hah, Wade thinks smugly. Called it.

"Ah, whatever," Wade says. He slings his arm back around rePete's shoulders and tries very hard not to think about how nicely the other man fits beneath him. "Let's get back before the food gets any colder. I'm fucking starving."

Part 11

#spideypool #spiderman #deadpool #wade wilson #peter parker #pairing: wade wilson/peter parker #rating: m #fandom: marvel

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