"Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth." 

-Oscar Wilde

It took Peter eight minutes and thirteen seconds for him to fall asleep.

It took Wade twenty-nine seconds to sneak out of the apartment, and his mind was fucking reeling.

(Spider-Man, relaxing against a phone box, murmuring close to the receiver of a red plastic phone. "Anyways. To answer your question, yes, I think I can help with some F.E.A.S.T. stuff. Chinatown, right?"

The next day. Meeting him, Peter Parker, angelic-looking and all pretty, cute as a gosh-darn button. Helping out that very day, at F.E.A.S.T., particularly the one in Chinatown.)

This should have been obvious, honestly. Wade didn't know how to feel. He sort of felt like being sick. The not so-fun kind of blowing: blowing chunks on the sidewalk of this sad little Chinatown street. What the everloving fuck—

("Hey, are you okay?" Wade asked, following Spidey out of the warehouse. "You seem kinda freaked out. Not that I blame you! That whole thing was creepy as fuck, it's just, you know. You look like you were possessed in there or something."

"Yeah," Spider-Man breathed finally as he stepped into the cold outside. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just— Just probably won't sleep tonight."

The next time he saw Peter– Darker circles, and exhaustion in every blink. Someone who had seen something beyond any kind of comprehension. Peter looked haunted, and Wade finally, finally understands why. The pieces are falling into place with each horrible click.)

He crossed the street and bounded for the subway, his head fuzzy as the memories back and forth tumbled like shoes in a washing machine, a constant stream of THUDTHUDTHUDTHUD as his final braincell bounced around the walls of the washy-steel prison.

He walked onto the subway train and stood, gripping the pole with white knuckles and wide eyes. Maybe he should rethink his career choices. Clearly he sucks at being a mercenary, missing the biggest details LITERALLY right in front of his face, and another face that he wanted to kiss, and worship, and shit!

("What the fuck." Wade had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk when he saw it. "Your face. Who hurt you?"

Foundation dripped from his cheek to reveal a smear of familiar colours, the yellows and purples and blues that come with territory that Peter shouldn't be anywhere near. Shouldn't be anywhere near; unless he was fucking SPIDER-MAN.)

Maybe he should work as a clown. Or an actor in a horror movie. He definitely had the looks. He could work in those seasonal Halloween houses, just chase people around with his mask off– he would even heal from the punches and kicks from all the scared patrons, it would be the perfect gig!

Wade sighed harshly and dug the steel-toe of his boot into the grooves of the train's floor. Weasel. Weasel will help him get his head on straight. Weasel will tell him he's overreacting about all of this— that he's being stupid and overthinking things like the big dumb (great) ass he is.

(Spider-Man, sweating, panting, half-dead and adding blood stains to Deadpool's couch. He whimpered painfully, his voice a weak raspy thing, like the chirp of a baby bird with broken wings. Upon being asked, Spider-Man, now conscious, went completely lax against the couch, and Wade heard the softness in his voice. He said her name like a prayer, a quiet sigh. "Gwen."

"I lost my girlfriend." Peter had dark circles painted in deep, sickly smears under his eyes. His nose was red, but the rest of his face was so pale, a white that matched the cheap fabric of the torn curtains bundled around his body. The same softness. "You probably heard of her, actually. Gwen Stacy."

Boy, had he.)

The subway slowed to a stop and Wade yanked himself off the train, heading towards Sister Margaret's with a heady zeal to iron out his thoughts. It was too early for the place to actually open, meaning that he'll be sitting in his own silence at least until Weasel opened the doors. Fine. Wasn't like Wade is a stranger to his own head.

He snuck in through the backdoor, this rusty thing hidden behind a dumpster, that was hidden behind a brick wall, that was hidden behind the normal mind's natural instinct to avoid anything that looked as if it could cause bodily harm. Then he took a seat in the back of the dark, dingy bar and pulled his hood up over his head.

He waited.

He thought of the memories over again, and broke them down each bit by bit.

The phone call— the one that started it all. He must have been calling May, Wade realized, because Peter Parker doesn't really have anyone else. Peter Parker was Spider-Man, and when Spider-Man crawled back home at the end of a day where he got beat up by the city he loved, he called May Parker, and could only lie to her. The reality settled in Wade and made his shoulders slump like a sick dog.

The dinner at F.E.A.S.T— where Wade saw firsthand the effects Spider-Man had on himself. Peter Parker, who smiled at him so gently, as he carried the heavy weight of an atlas on his shoulders, and he did it alone, he lost sleep and woke up alone, he saw the unimaginable and went home alone. (Wade did all of these things too, but at least people knew.)

Wade wondered how many lies Peter had told in his lifetime. He wondered how many times he hid his face with makeup when it wasn't hidden by a mask. He wondered how many times someone took the time to notice how hauntingly drained Peter looked when he thought nobody noticed. (Wade wondered, and he noticed, and he knew the answers weren't what he would like them to be.)

The real kicker, Wade decided, was that he was ready to ignore the insanity of it all– because, and get this, he almost thought, if he squeezed his brain and wrung it out, hung it out to dry on the fire escape, he almost thought he loved Peter Parker. But Peter Parker was Spider-Man. And mercenaries should not almost love superheroes, especially ones considered the "Golden Boy of Manhattan."

The door creaked open. Footsteps began and then stopped.

"Holy fucking shit," Weasel said bluntly. He flipped on the lights and lowered his gun down. "You dumbass, I nearly shot you. You're supposed to text me before you break in here."

"My bad," Wade said sweetly. He did his best attempt to swing around in the chair, which ultimately resulted in an ungodly screeching noise as the metal legs scraped against the concrete flooring. He yanked his hood down to reveal the crazed look in his eyes. "Maybe next time."

"Sea Breezes?" Weasel guessed, making his way behind the bar. "Rollercoaster crashed?"

"That's one innocent way to put the absolute fucking–" Wade broke off with hysterical laughter. "Fucking one-way ticket right up the devil's mother's asshole show that just took place."

"That was creative and disgusting."

"My new drag name." Wade sighed heavily and heaved himself off the chair, slumping over to the bar. He collapsed on a barstool and dragged a bowl of pretzels closer to him, and began munching on four at once. "Please welcome to the stage, Creative'n Disgusting!"

"What happened?" Weasel asked plainly, assembling the drink. "Did he finally take off his blindfold and he saw your face? Did the wicked witch give him his vision back and he saw your face? Did th–"

"It has nothing to do with my fucking face, you dis-righteous dick. Dis-righteous? Unrighteous? Whatever, it's not alliterative. Fucking listen," Wade swallowed the glob of chewed pretzel and leaned forward. "What do you do when you accidentally learn a superhero's identity?"

Weasel blinked at him, and the glasses he wore made his wide eyes exceptionally comedic. "Please tell me this hypothetical question is actually a real question and also about Spider-Man."

Wade groaned obnoxiously and let his head fall onto the bar with a thud.

"What the fuck," Weasel screwed the bottom portion of his face up and resembled his name well. "How is that a bad thing? That's fucking— That's so cool. What's his eye colour? Does his name start with D? I always imagine him to be like, a David, or, like, something biblical. Like John."

Petey, Peanut-Butter Pete, Peterific, Pepperoni Pizza Peter, Petey-Pie, Peter Piper, Peterincess, Peter-Peter-Pumpkin-Eater—

"First of all," Wade held up one finger. "Shut the fuck up, I'm not telling you any of that shit because of the Superhero Bro Code. Clearly you've never read Deadpool Annual #2. Shame on you. The homoerotic tension in that issue alone singlehandedly ended queerbaiting."

"Fine," Weasel crossed his arms. "At least tell me this: is he a good person out of the suit? Or is it all for show. I have a running bet with someone on this. Don't make me lose fifty bucks."

"He's the nicest guy you'll ever fucking meet," Wade said without hesitation. "He's the closest person on this planet to a saint, right under Betty White, may she rest in peace."

Weasel pumped a celebratory fist. He grinned and then passed the Sea Breeze over to Wade. "So what's the problem? You know Spider-Man and he isn't a huge dick."

"The problem?" Wade guffawed. "Ha! The problem is that he's in huge fucking danger, and I can't help him because he doesn't know that I know his identity."

And that he's hopelessly in love with the guy, and probably ruined his chances just by being himself, but that's neither here nor there.

"Danger," Weasel repeated. "What, like the Employer guy?"

"Yeah. His name is Rory Reyes," Wade drank from the glass and clinked it back on the table. (Weasel frowned and typed the name into the computer behind the bar.) He shook his head. "If I know his identity, this fuckin' Rory asshole is more likely of knowing it too. I'm telling you, Weas, this guy is fucking gross. Not a trustworthy bitch!"

"He's a redhead," Weasel announced dumbly. He tilted the screen over to Wade, and the same picture that was on the Oscorp badge was on the screen. "No criminal record, but there's an old address listed on his last employment records. If he still lives there..."

Wade downed the rest of his drink. "Send it to me."

"Got it."

"This guy, he's a psycho," Wade went off. "He calls me, just randomly, and he's all breathing into the microphone like he's waited his whole life to audition for Scream, and then he talks about Webs like he's the Mad Hatter with a dissection fetish. Actually, Mad Hatter might have a dissection fetish. Okay, maybe he's just the scientist Mad Hatter. Fucking, whatever, he wants to kidnap Webs for his secret mad scientist bullshit, and it can't happen, okay?"

"Kind of reminds me of..." Weasel trailed off. "Except you know. If Spider-Man got taken the whole city would freak out, cuz he's like, an actual hero with a heart of gold and all the other metaphorical bullshit."

Wade clenched his fists. He smiled sharply, warning in his eyes. "Reyes isn't Francis."

"'Course he isn't," Weasel said quickly. He almost looked apologetic. He sighed. "Sorry, Wade. I'm just looking at the similarities, yknow?"

"Yeah." Wade huffed. "The similarities."

The Employer had the potential to be worse than Francis, which is something Wade unfortunately realized the moment he and Spidey walked into that warehouse. If nothing else, Wade could recognize the machinations of somebody who would go the furthest possible distance to get what they want.

Sometimes if Wade closed his eyes too long he was still stuck in a freezing cold building. Sometimes if he fell asleep he still thought he was choking on ash, dying and re-dying and re-dying once more. Sometimes when he looked into the eyes of strangers, he just saw Francis: with the gaze of someone who he knows won't ever stop hurting him.

Nobody deserved that.

Especially not Peter Parker.

"Even more reason to beat his ass," Wade decided with finality. "

He pulled his burner phone out, because as far as Peter knows, Deadpool and Wade are different people, and he's not the one going to break that illusion yet.

[Deadpool: West 139th Street, New York, NY, 10037]

[Deadpool: used my super powers to find reyes apartment]

[Deadpool: see u there tmrw?]

[Spider-Man: 👍]

[Spider-Man: How'd you get the address?]

Wade's heart fluttered. Traitorous little blood organ.

[Deadpool: u rlly don't wanna know how a merc gets his info bby boy]

[Spider-Man: Yikes]

Wade sighed, staring at the messages.

"...Do you want another drink?" Weasel asked him. "A hit? You can pick from the gold cards. I got new ones."

Wade doesn't answer, running his thumb over the power button of his phone. His other phone buzzed this time, and he switched them out to check the new message.

[Peter Parker: Hey, Wade! There's a charity event going on at F.E.A.S.T. tomorrow, it's like a Christmas gift wrap-and-donate type thing.]

[Peter Parker: Was wondering if you were going to be there? It'll be lots of fun!]

Wade's lip quirked up in a smile. He couldn't help it.

[Wade Wilson: i'll b there😘😘]

"I want to tell him," Wade announced. He pocketed his phone and looked up at Weasel. "Spider-Man. I want him to know that I know."

"I think that's a dumbass idea."

"I don't care," Wade pushed himself away from the bar. "It's important to me. He deserves trust and honesty and all that gooey shit."

Wade was gonna romance the shit outta Peter Parker by respecting his boundaries and clean moral code. May the mighty god of superhero bullshit help him on his journey.

Weasel smirked. "Alright, Wade Wilson. Just bring him around to meet us sometime, ok?"

Wade smiled. "Yeah, maybe when Canadians become second best."

Silly, hopeful, Weasel. That'll never happen.

The next day, he showed up and F.E.A.S.T. is decorated like the elves worked there themselves. Garlands over the doors, tables set up in the front lobby with rolls and rolls of colorful paper and Santa hats strewn around like second nature. A fake Christmas tree was assembled just behind the tables, in front of the wall with all of the staff's pictures on it, and it was adorned with rainbow lights and plastic ornaments, but also a variety of little paper tags with names on them.

Wade stood helplessly with two bags chock-full of children's toys.

(So far he's told the fellow customers at the nearest toy store that he had five kids, then it was one but he liked to spoil her, then he worked at an orphanage, then it was that he had a shopping addiction, then it was that he had a whopping eighteen children, and he stopped remembering what he told them after that.)

He dropped the bags to the side of the tables and ventured past the lobby to look for Peter, and as he's searching the place, there's a rough hand on his shoulder that has him turn around with a very calm alarm.

An old man gave him a very grumpy glare. "You're the new volunteer."

Wade immediately made himself look as non-threatening as he could. He believed firmly that even with his best efforts it would still be akin to putting a cap on an exploding bottle of soda. Soda full of mentos. "That would be me. Do you need—"

"No." The blunt reply came quick. His nostrils flared. "Heard you were a veteran. I'm a veteran too."

Not technically a lie, but Wade's pretty sure that a grand total of nobody would be happy with him calling himself a veteran. Including himself. He didn't voice that. This guy was probably just justifying his scars.

"All of us here," the old man continued, jerking his head around the full gymnasium. "That Parker kid helped save our lives. He's family to us, you understand me?"

Oh, Wade got it now. He's being given a shovel talk.

"Yeah," Wade nodded. "I understand."

"He's been through helluva lot," the man continued, his glare deepening with the addition of a sour sneer on his mouth. Aggressively protective. "I haven't seen the kid look like that to anybody for a long time. If you even think about breaking his heart, you're gonna have a lot of angry people at you."

Something in Wade's chest shifted. Relief, but in the form of pressure, his heart squeezing. A realization: Peter Parker took care of his community with everything he had, and in return, his community took care of him.

"Good," Wade said finally. "He deserves people looking after him."

The man studied him, narrowing his eyes through his scowl and keeping his mouth set in a firm frown. After a long few seconds, he nodded once and left, going back to watching the television set up in the corner.

"Wade!" Peter called, grinning from the west entrance. Wade jerked his head up, took in the sight of Peter with the most ugly Christmas sweater he's ever seen and a red-and-white pointed hat. His name was written in his slanted scrawl on a nametag that sat on his chest. He stumbled across people to get to him.

Wade's heartbeat instantly ticked up a few notches. Okay, a lot of notches. He smiled back anyways. "Hey, Petey-Pie."

"I've got something for you," Peter said, holding his hands behind his back. Wade noticed that the dark circles under his eyes were lighter now, if even just a bit.

Wade's eyebrows raised, and he pressed a hand to his heart. "For little old me? Petey, you shouldn't have."

Peter laughed, the most beautiful sound, and pulled his hands away to reveal— another red-and-white hat. "The most expensive and luxurious gift, only for you, my liege."

Wade started fanning himself with his hand. The smile was becoming hard to fight. "Oh, I feel faint just at the sight of such a gift."

Peter laughed more and then gently tugged Wade down to him by his sweatshirt. He fitted the hat over his head carefully and grinned brightly. "Looks perfect."

Spider-Man is gonna be his absolute cause of death. It's official.

"Thanks, Pete," Wade smiled. "So, what can I do here? Are we wrapping stuff?"

"Right." Peter walked back into the lobby, Wade following behind him, and gestured to the table. "This is basically where the magic's gonna happen. People can come in here and donate gifts, or they can donate money to get their gifts wrapped. How are your wrapping skills?"

Wade smiled pleasantly. "I know the lyrics to every Salt-N-Pepa song."

Peter snickered. Wade committed the sound to memory as he wrote 'Wade' on his own name tag and stuck it to his sweatshirt.

"Nah, I'm awful at it," Wade huffed with amusement. "I did bring gifts, though. Got lots of dirty looks from Black Friday Moms shopping this morning."

"Surely you're not awful," Peter tried. He paused. "Wait, you brought gifts?"

"Oh, yeah," Wade crossed to the other side of the table and picked up the two large bags. "Ta-da."

Peter's face softened into something sweet and reminiscent of awe. (Wade thought for one terrifying second how he wouldn't see it again after he told Peter the truth.) "That's... That's awesome, Wade. Let's start with those ones."

Here's the thing that Wade quickly learned: Peter Parker is good at a long list of things. Wrapping is probably number two on that list.

He watched as Peter managed to speed through an entire bag of toys. The lines on the paper folds? CRISP. The tape distribution? Perfect down to the centimeter. The clean cuts and measurements? A seamstress could cry.

"May taught me," Peter explained. "We always use newspapers at home, though. Less waste. Do you wanna start the other bag?"

Wade looked at the large bag as if it would bite him. He grimaced and took a toy out. He laid the wrapping paper down, a green one with a mistletoe pattern on it, and put the toy– a robotic dog– directly in the middle. Cut a square. Folded the paper over. It didn't fit.

"Nice," Wade commented. He cut another square. Laid it on top. Folded the two pieces inward on the toy to ensure it was fully covered, so matter how messy— aaand the paper ripped. Wade froze. He slowly looked behind him, to see Peter watching with a pained amusement.

The first gift ended up being a gross collage of clunky paper. Wade smacked a bow on the spot where the paper had ripped. "Never happened."

"That looks great," Peter said solemnly. He went over to the tree and took off a paper tag. "I think Lacey would really like that one, she wants to grow up to be a veterinarian."

How sweet.

"I mean, as long as you don't see the gift, it's fine!" Wade defended. He taped the paper tag to it.

"Right," Peter grinned. He took the gift and put it under the tree. "How about you focus on putting tags on? I'll wrap."

"Sounds great."

The doors opened at twelve. People poured in and Wade got to watch Peter be incredibly kind to stranger after stranger, asking them how their Holidays are going, who their gift is for, smiling softly and listening to life story after life story. Some people that came in, Peter recognized. People that had used F.E.A.S.T.'s services in the past, that Peter and May had helped get back on their feet.

All the while Wade stood behind the table, cracking jokes, putting tags on gifts, occasionally asking volunteers which gift would better fit a particular kid. There's a boy who loved cars. A girl who loved chemistry. A kid who loved puzzles.

At one point May had made her rounds, and she was dressed in a matching sweater to Peter with a reindeer headband, and she left a radio playing Christmas music on the table. Peter had turned the volume up and nodded his head along as he wrapped gifts.

"Hello, Wade," May said with a warm smile. "It's so lovely to see you. Are you having a nice time?"

"Always," Wade grinned at her.

"I'm so glad."

The song 'Christmas Wrapping' came on, and Peter stepped away from the table to let other volunteers fill in. He was dancing, bobbing his chin back and forth and moving his shoulders up and down. He tapped May on the shoulder.

May looked over at him and laughed, before she began dancing too. Peter took her hands and led her beside the tables, where he twirled her around and the two of them were laughing and moving along to the music.

Wade smiled from where he watched beside the tree, but then Peter pulled back from May and gestured to him to come over. Wade raised his eyebrows and pointed to himself. 'Me?' he mouthed.

And just like that, Wade was dancing with May and Peter in the lobby of a charity center, The Waitresses ringing out through a speaker sitting on the table. It almost felt to Wade like family.

When the event ended at five, the tree ended up spilling presents all across the floor, all equally beautifully wrapped in fun colours and Christmas-y patterns. (Other than Wade's which was tucked at the very back.) Each kid at F.E.A.S.T. had gotten about three to four gifts, and they raised four hundred dollars, which according to Peter was the best results they had gotten for the past five years.

Peter and Wade just finished helping pack stuff back up, tables, wrapping paper, trash, stuff like that. Now was his moment. How do you tell Spider-Man that you know he's Spider-Man?

"Hey, uh..." Wade swallowed. "Pete, can we have a quick chat?"

Peter nodded, looking at him with a thoughtful concern. "Sure, of course. I'm actually— I'm supposed to meet a friend right about now. It's really important, they're expecting me. Not that this isn't important too! But, uh, can it wait just a few hours?"

Holy shit, Peter was talking about him. Him, as in Deadpool. Peter– No. Spider-Man is supposed to meet Deadpool. The irony.

Wade cracked an awkward smile. "I mean. I totally get your mission here, but, you might want to know this."

"I'll text you as soon as it's over," Peter promised. He smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry. As soon as it's over, and then we can talk. I really gotta go now, though, but I'll see you soon."

Wade opened his mouth, but Peter was gone. Slipped away like sand through a sift. Like a slimy eel in a dark river. He was practiced at getting out of conversations, Wade understood, but too bad he didn't know the right conversations to slip out of.

"'See you soon' is right," Wade huffed. "Too bad Spidey's got a head start."

He needed to get his suit.

Maybe Deadpool could tell him, instead.