"And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness." 

-Sylvia Plath

The snow was beginning to fall faster. Winter was coming. It was apparent in the city every way Wade turned. They put up the Christmas tree, the one up in Rockefeller—Tourists started showing up everywhere, cameras and big fluffy scarves.

He had something he needed to check.

Wade entered an empty Sister Margaret's, feeling the chill in his bones and a usual dread. "Hey, Weas."

"Oh no." Weasel rolled his eyes with a loud groan. He looked at Wade with exasperation and crossed his arms. "You only show up when shit goes south. What did you do?"

"I didn't do shit," Wade defended. "I came to check something! I'm using my resources. I'm a good boy."

Weasel looked cautious, with about as much worry as somebody could get with a history of working with mercenaries that had tricks up their sleeves, or in Wade's case, a leather suit. "Alright, I'm listening."

"I need you to look someone up in the system," Wade said. He sighed and looked down, an uneasy feeling came over him just at the thought of asking. "Is there a Peter Parker anywhere? A hit, maybe? Criminal record? Anything suspicious?"

("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.

That had been concerning enough.

And then he lied about it.

"I'm being serious," Peter had said slowly. Wade didn't like how people sounded when they lied often and were bad at lying. "I'm totally and completely safe. It was just a freak accident, nothing else. Take a breath, okay, big guy?")

"Peter Parker?" Weasel asked. He shrugged and walked behind the counter. "The name doesn't sound too familiar. This have anything to do with that Spider-Man case you've got going?"

"No," Wade said with a shake of his head. He faked a cheesy grin. "Just a little side mission, you know? Not the main quest."

Weasel typed the name into his computer. Wade studied his next expressions very carefully.

He was reading.

Scrolling—Wade heard the electronic mouse, bit by bit.

Weasel narrowed his eyes. "There's a Peter Padilla? Straight red hair, scar over his cheek—"

"Not him."

"Then..." Weasel glanced up. "Nope. No hit."

Wade sighed with relief, the air leaving his chest in a big rush. Motherfucker. He laughed breathlessly. "Great! That's—Okay. Awesome."

"Why'd you ask me to do that, Wade? Who's Peter Parker?"

"Ah," Wade shrugged him away. "Just didn't want to end up dating a mob boss again. Mistakes happen, you know?"

"You went on a date?" Weasel raised his eyebrows. "You? Went on a date? And he went on a date with you?"

"Bitch?" Wade tilted his head. "Listen, I know I'm unloveable, but he doesn't. You better not screw this up for me, Weasel. He's adorable and kind. And really smart. And he's slightly beat up all the time, so excuse me for being kinda concerned!"

"Right," Weasel scoffed. "Well. I'll be here with the Sea Breezes when that shit goes tumbling into a dump like a rollercoaster on the fucking fritz."

"Thanks," Wade said blankly.

Weasel clicked his tongue. He took a glass from behind the counter and poured a drink into it. "Want one?"

Wade huffed and sat up on a barstool. "Just one. I don't want to be wasted the rest of today, or rather, the next two minutes. I've got shit to do, people to find, places to be, blah blah blah blah."

"People to find?" Weasel passed the drink over. He poured himself one too.

"Yeah, that whole Spider-Man thing? Total crazy case, by the way. He's not the bad guy. The Employer is. He's got this whole back-alley lab thing going on, with fuckin'... there are spider jars and it's all in this abandoned warehouse, and it's like—"

"What the fuck are you talking about? The Employer is a super villain? Is that what you're saying?"

"Yeah. Big time."

"I would say I'm shocked, but I mean... Some random guy with a creepy voice that won't say his name versus notorious hero Spider-Man?" Weasel clicked his tongue. "Should've seen it coming."

Wade nodded, picking the drink up and swirling it around in thought. "Maybe he's being abused."

"Who, The Employer? That's certainly a supervillain backstory, but—"

"No, Weas," Wade interrupted, still looking down. "I don't mean The Employer. I mean Peter."

"Oh." Weasel leaned on the side of the bar. "You got any evidence? I mean, other than the bruises."

Wade ran his tongue over his teeth in thought, rolling back over all of their previous interactions. Thanksgiving is the one that shows up with the biggest alarms in his head. Peter even from the moment he walked in that day looked exhausted, and it only grew as the evening passed. Then there was the rooftop.

("What about you?" Wade asked. "What kinda shit keeps you up at night, Petey-Pie?"

Peter looked away. He stared at the city, and Wade saw the flash in his eyes that told him he hit a target. Like breathing, Peter raised his hand and scratched incessantly at something behind his ear. Like he was trying to get rid of something. Like he wanted something gone.

"What's that?" Wade asked, gesturing up to Peter's ear.

Peter quickly blinked and pulled his hand away from where he had been scratching. He threw on a smile and lifted his short hair up to reveal the discoloured skin, white and healed over in a little mark. "Ah, nothing. It's just a scar.")

Wade clenched his jaw. The lying, the scar, the bruises, the distant look in his eyes... It was all suddenly a bigger possibility than he wanted it to be.

"Are you gonna go all merc on him?"

Wade quickly picked his head up to look at him.

"You've got that look in your eye," Weasel gestured to his face. "Not that it's easy to see with all the fucking scars and shit. But it's there."

"No, I'm not gonna 'go all merc' on him." Wade snapped with a frown.

"Don't look at me like that!" Weasel said defensively. "You literally beat up assholes for a living. If he's in a bad situation, then you could like.. I dunno. Stalk the guy around a little."

"Oh, yeah." Wade said humourlessly. "Great A-class idea. Stalk the guy I like. No. This isn't a hit, Weasel."

"Wouldn't be the first time you stalked somebody you liked."

Wade glared darkly.

"Shit, fine." Weasel threw his hands up. "Just trying to help. Christ."

"I already got your help," Wade said, pulling away from the bar. "Thanks for double-checking that my date wasn't a mob boss. Real appreciated. Now, I—"

His phone started ringing.

"...I am going to answer this call," Wade said simply, reaching his hand into his pocket. He pulled his phone out and couldn't help but smile at the contact. "It's Peter."

"Answer it then, loverboy."

Wade flipped him off and then answered the phone, getting up from the bar and pointedly walking to the other side of the room. "Hey, Petey-Pie."

"Hi, Wade," Peter greeted cheerily. "Um... So, I know we only went out, like, a couple of days ago, but—"

Wade tucked himself closer to the phone and grinned softly.

"—I was wondering if you wanted to come with me while I went out for some errands?" Peter questioned, his voice stringing higher at the end. It melted Wade's heart that Pete could be nervous. To prove his theory, Peter cut back in with another fast set of words. "Unless that's weird. I'm just going shopping for May, it's not like... fancy, but I like hanging out and— Maybe this is too weird, actually. I'm just gonna—"

"I'd love to!" Wade spoke up. "That sounds fun. I'm not doing anything else, you know? Just, uh... sitting. At home."

Across the bar, Weasel raised an eyebrow at him and mouthed something mean.

Wade stuck his tongue out back.

"Okay," Peter said. Wade heard a smile in his voice. "That's great, then. Um... Do you want to meet me at 71st street station?"

"Gotcha."

"Okay," Peter said again. Smile still present; his voice was soft. "Cool. I'll see you there. I'm just picking up some groceries for May, so, it shouldn't take too much of your day or anything..."

"What time?" Wade asked, laughing quietly. "I mean, I'm more than happy to just stand out there all day, it's really not an issue, but—"

"Oh!" Peter let out an embarrassed noise and stumbled. "Right, um. How about one? In the afternoon, not the morning."

"Cool." Wade looked up at the clock on the wall. "See you in an hour and a half, Petey."

"Yeah! See you."

Wade smiled and hung up the phone, then tucked it close to his heart. He looked up at Weasel with an exaggerated expression of adoration, all big eyes and pouty lips. "He's so cute, Weas."

"And you're so not," Weasel scrunched up his nose with disgust. "Get out of here. Go find out why Petey-Pie looks like the before picture on an illegal boxing addiction advertisement."

"You're such an asshole." Wade groaned obnoxiously, stuffed his phone in his pocket, and headed toward the exit. He waved a haphazard goodbye and left Weasel without a second thought.

There was a lot to ponder on his speed-walk to even lower Manhattan. His mind was like a tilt-a-whirl of everything Peter Parker, a nervous laugh, a scratch to the ear, freckles under his eyelash and a maroon sweater that marks Wade's favourite grand theft.

Wade always knew that his loyalty was easily won by sweet faces and kind hearts, but he already knew that he had a long list of things he'd do to keep Peter safe. Maybe that made him crazy. Maybe he's the one who needed someone else to check on him, make sure he was alright in the head—

He was running late. Fifteen minutes up, he hadn't even made it to the bus station yet. On his way there was a nice flower stall with the most sad-looking half-wilted orange roses on sale, and Wade suddenly felt everything in him jitter with excitement.

He pulled off to the side and pointed to a bouquet of the mopey orange-ish brown flower-resembling things in the seller's hands. "How much?"

"For the bouquet?" The seller asked, an old woman with deep frown lines on her wrinkled face. "Young man, please— Just take them. I don't even give a shit."

Wade grinned wildly and reached for a bouquet, then tucked it in the crook of his arm—(a dried petal flew off a rose with an audible crisping noise as it finally broke free from the pack of other dried petals)— and fished a hand into his wallet, handing her a twenty dollar bill.

She took it and raised it to the sky for a moment, looking equal parts grateful and exhausted. "Bless you."

Wade was back on his way, now adorned with a wrinkled bouquet that he held in an iron grip while he trekked down the street. He felt deeply crazy about the whole thing, a man buying roses for his date to the grocery store just because he could, just because he wanted to. He couldn't even feel embarrassed by the state of the poor things, and only had the slightest worry that he hoped Peter felt the same careless way about them too.

He jumped on the bus and counted the minutes till it reached his next stop. There was this real judgy teenager staring at him, narrowing his eyes and looking down at the flowers in Wade's arms.

Wade narrowed his eyes right back.

The bus stopped and Wade got up quickly, trailing off to the station.

When he finally entered, he spotted Peter standing as far away from the band playing as it looked he could, squinting mildly at his phone with earbuds plugged into his ears. Dorky sweater layered with an equally dorky jacket—Whatever, he looked gorgeous. He hadn't noticed Wade enter yet.

Wade managed a handful of steps forward before Peter's head jerked up in acknowledgement. The grin that bloomed on his face was causing Wade serious heart palpitations, and he had to wrangle his mouth into a matching grin that he hoped didn't out his absolute disgusting fondness.

"Hope you like dead things," Wade said dumbly.

Peter raised his eyebrows with surprise. His eyes flickered down to the bouquet. Then back to Wade. He narrowed his eyes and smiled slyly. "I hope you mean the flowers."

Holy shit of ass, Peter was teasing him.

"Duh," Wade snorted. (He cringed internally. 'It's the flowers most of the time, anyways.') He handed them carefully, but clicked his tongue when he watched another small handful of petals clatter to the ground. "Aww. That's a shame. Old granny's losing her hair."

Peter laughed quietly and held the bouquet as if it may crumble to dust, which it definitely might. His eyes softened kindly as he looked back up at Wade. "Thank you for the flowers. Wish I came more prepared, all I have is a Metrocard and one of May's reusable grocery bags."

He held up the grocery bag— Wade glanced at the floral print fabric and smiled. "Cute. Looks like something she'd pick out."

"Yeah, I made them for her," Peter looped the bag's strap back over his shoulder.

"Wait, you made it?" Wade smiled wider. "You sew stuff?"

Peter shrugged indifferently.

"I can too," Wade said proudly. "I sewed up a suit."

Oopsie.

"Wedding suit," Wade clarified, emphasis on lied. Then he got smacked with what he actually said, and clarified again: "Not mine! Not my wedding suit. I'm not married."

Peter blinked, opening his mouth and then closing it like a confused goldfish stuck in a coral maze. Finally, he grimaced out an awkward smile. "Um...That's cool. I... sewed a— a suit, uh... too."

Wade wanted to scream loudly. Very loudly.

Instead, the subway pulled up and the doors screeched open. Peter gestured forward. "After you?"

"Yes," Wade said quickly, walking forward and sitting in an empty seat.

Peter stepped in after him and sat right beside, close enough where Wade could see the knot in his tangled earbud wires, and the faint scar behind the left of his— Wait a second.

"Are you wearing makeup again?" Wade asked, furrowing his eyebrows. "You're not, are you?"

"No?" Peter frowned and touched a hand to his own cheek. He gave Wade a look of puzzlement. "I'm— Do I look like I am?"

"No, but you—" Wade tilted his head. His bruises were gone. He shook his head and grinned brightly at Peter, albeit still lost. "You look great. Thought you'd be still scraped up though. I only just saw you a couple-a days ago and your bruises from getting mugged looked pretty bad, figured they'd be... you know."

"Oh." Peter blinked. "You remembered that?"

Refraining from telling Peter that it's all his one-track mind could fucking think about, Wade shrugged and put on the most light-hearted jokey tone he could manage. "Not exactly forgettable. What if you were a criminal mastermind or something?"

Peter let out a soft laugh, glancing down at the floor. He scratched at the scar on his ear again. "Definitely not a criminal mastermind."

Wade considered him for a moment.

Well, at least that wasn't a lie.

"Seriously," Wade nudged his knee. "Where'd you get that scar, honey buns?"

"'Honey buns'," Peter repeated with a ridiculous smile. He shook his head. "You're funny."

"So're you. Dodging the question and all," Wade nudged his knee a second time. He felt someone across the subway looking at him and pulled his hood up over his head on instinct.

"You don't have to talk about it," Wade continued. His voice got softer with understanding. "I know what it's like to not wanna have to talk about scars. Believe me."

"I do believe you," Peter murmured. He stared at Wade's eyes in thought, eyebrows crinkled inwards slightly and bottom lip tucked in as he chewed on it nervously. His hand sank down to his pocket and he huffed quietly, breaking their eye contact to meet the ceiling of the subway.

Wade remained quiet. The ball was in Peter's court now. He could continue the conversation or change the subject, and Wade would be happy and willing to listen any way the ball was tossed, or however the hell the analogy went.

"I got it in an accident," Peter spoke up. He sighed. "In, uh...In a lab. Got bit by something, and it left a mark. I was fourteen."

"Lab accident at fourteen?" Wade raised his brows. "Youch. What were you even doing? When I was fourteen I was chucking rocks at cars and flicking pen ink at girls I liked."

Peter shrugged. "Field trip. And why would you do either of those things? Pen ink, dude?"

"It was readily available and less gross than a spitball. What would you do?"

"Talk to her?" Peter suggested.

Wade burst out with fake laughter, shaking his head and waving Peter off. "Talk to her? Impossible. No way. That never works."

Peter smiled something sweet and playful. "I talked to you. And technically you're still here, so maybe it does work. I dunno."

"Aw," Wade gushed, his heart swelling up and causing an uncomfortable lump in his throat that definitely wasn't the cancer. Hell, he was swooning. Embarrassing. "You're adorable, Petey-Pie. I'd definitely splash you with pen ink if I had some."

"Oh, lucky me," Peter wiggled his eyebrows.

The two of them dissolved into laughter as the subway plunged forward on the rails. When it stopped on the next station, Peter patted him on the arm and stood up. "That's us, Wade."

Wade followed him off the subway, out of the station, up the street— He was like a lovesick puppy.

"Do you want me to hold the bag?" Wade offered as they walked into a small market.

"Sure," Peter smiled and slid the strap off his shoulder, handing it over to Wade. Then he pulls a post-it out of his pocket and turns it over in one of his hands, reading over the list. (In his other hand, he holds the sadly limping bouquet of dying roses.)

Wade leaned in closer, and he swore it was just to read the list, he swore, but he was close enough to smell fresh soap and vanilla, and he's pretty sure he's about to be a victim of spontaneous combustion. Peter leaned close to allow Wade to see the small post-it even better.

"We need to get sugar, milk, cinnamon, nutmeg," Peter listed off.

"Eggs," Wade continued.

"Almond extract, dark chocolate chips, yogurt, and maple syrup."

"May likes to bake?" Wade guessed.

"Yeah. Cookie season."

"Ah." Wade held the bag carefully, pleasantly swinging back and forth on his heels. "We should go check out the spices and stuff. It'll be in the same place."

"I like your plan," Peter gave him a grin and took off walking in that direction. He looked back over his shoulder to make sure Wade was following, and called back: "Teamwork makes the dream work, Wade! We could get this done in record time?"

"And what's your record time, hm? Got yourself a grocery PB?" Wade looked around in the aisle for any of the ingredients he remembered on the list.

"Oh, yeah, don't you?" Peter joked. He took a small glass container of nutmeg off the shelf and walked over to Wade, who put it into the bag. "Mine is five minutes. I was late for work, it was a whole thing."

"Sounds like it," Wade took a jar of cinnamon off the shelf—half off price. He put it in the bag.

"Pretty sure almond extract should also be in this aisle," Peter said, scanning the aisle with narrowed eyes. His expression lit up, and Peter walked over and leaned up effortlessly on his toes, picking a small bottle off the top shelf and showing it off to Wade with a proud smile. "I was right."

Hell. He was adorable. Peter walked over and put the bottle into the bag.

"Sugar?"

Peter looked up. "Hm?"

Wade hesitated. "Isn't that on May's list?"

"Oh." Peter's cheeks and ears bloomed red. "Yeah, it is. Uh—"

Peter looked around the aisle quickly and then reached behind Wade, picking up a bag of sugar and putting it into the grocery bag before he could even think twice. "Got it. Let's go get the milk and eggs and stuff. Can't bake without 'em."

So the two of them get the milk. The maple syrup, which Peter found as they were crossing the aisle. (Wade was offended when he saw it, pitching a whole damn fit and rightfully so because it wasn't even the good stuff, the good stuff being anything created in motherland of maple syrup, Canada. He made a mental note to get May a genuine bottle of the right kind as soon as possible.) The yogurt, which they found next to the milk. It all sat comfortably heavy in the grocery bag strapped over Wade's arm.

"Last thing is eggs," Peter said, walking down the cold aisle. "Wanna grab a carton?"

"Yep-yep." Wade strolled over to the eggs and picked up the first carton of twelve he saw, then nearly slipped as he turned around.

Peter widened his eyes and jumped forward, catching Wade and the carton before either hit the ground.

"Nearly dropped the eggs," Wade said with surprise, slowly standing up straight and regaining balance on his feet with Peter's help. "You're like a superhero or something."

Peter laughed dryly. "Are you alright?"

"I'm great!" Wade put the carton of eggs very carefully into the bag. "Let's check out and get this stuff delivered though."

The groceries in total cost twenty bucks. Wade paid for it, much to Peter's embarrassment and insistence— but Wade was the one to hand the money over first, so Peter could kindly suck it.

On the subway back to Queens Boulevard, Peter shared his earbuds with him. Handing off his phone, Wade got to scroll and pick one of his playlists, and grinned wildly as he looked at his options.

"Holy shit, you dork. You named all your personal playlists after 80s movies," Wade pointed out. "Back to the Future?"

"Those are songs I listened to in high school."

"The Princess Bride?" Wade glanced up.

"Love songs. Duh."

"Karate Kid?"

"...Work," Peter answered shyly, his ears going red.

Wade hummed with interest and selected the playlist on shuffle. His cheeks warmed as Peter shifted closer, as some unfamiliar tune played softly in his ears. He can't remember the last time he was this close to someone who wasn't beating him up or trying to stick a knife through his heart.

(A cruel part of him taunted it was the only reason why he was so happy right now; that Peter had gotten this close and hadn't hurt him yet. He pushed the thought away before it could fester.)

The subway stopped only a few songs in, to which Peter quietly patted him on the shoulder again and stood up, pausing the music and turning off his phone. He unplugged the earbuds and wrapped them up, tucking them in his pocket. "This is our stop."

"Cool." Wade stood and looped the bag back over his shoulder. "To Miss May's house we go."

Peter smiled sweetly and they walked onto the platform.

The walk to May's house isn't terribly long. It was exactly how Wade would have pictured it— Small, quaint, suburban. Paint chipping off the white siding, unbloomed flowers planted at the side of the small stairs leading to the porch that looked far more alive than the ones currently in Peter's hand. Humble is a good word to describe the place. It only made sense that the Parker household resembled their nature, he thought.

Peter walked up the steps and dug a hand into his pocket for his keys, all while Wade stood behind him with a sudden burst of nerves. He thought of the implications, all too late. Surely May wouldn't mind that he was trailing around, right?

He felt like a fuckin' teenager at the ancient age of thirty.

The door opened before Peter could finish even fiddling with the keys in the lock, and May stood in front of them with a pleased grin. She had a holiday sweater on, which Wade absolutely adored. It looked homemade.

"I didn't know I would get to see both of you today," May gushed. She stepped aside. "Both of you come in!"

Peter walked in and kicked his shoes off at the entrance— Wade noticed with amusement that there was a scuff mark on the wall from where he'd probably done the same thing his whole life. Then he walked down the hallway and ducked into a room. "I'm gonna put your groceries away, May!"

"Thank you, Peter!" May called back to him. She turned her full attention to Wade and smiled brightly. "This is really good news that both of you are here. Now there are two strong boys to help this old lady with the tree."

Wade blinked as he looked around the house, taking in the homey furniture and comfortably lived-in antique aesthetics. The aforementioned tree stood a medium height in the corner of the room beside the television stand. He pulled his hood down from his face and smiled politely. "Yeah, I can totally help."

He hadn't decorated for Christmas in a few years, never had the heart to do it after... but May asked for his help, and she'd been nothing but kind to him since they'd met. The least he could do is put a few ornaments up, or whatever she needed.

"Can you put the angel up on the top of the tree for me, dear?" May asked, taking the plastic figurine out of a box and unwrapping it from the bubble wrapping. She held it out to him without looking up from the box, continuing to rummage through it.

Wade smiled and took the figurine, reaching up and situating it on the top of the tree. "Nobody's called me dear in a real long while, May. I didn't know I still had 'dear' status."

"Of course you do," May clicked her tongue. "Everybody does."

"Even criminals?" Wade asked, testing the waters cautiously. He looked up and felt a nervousness in his stomach. Shame. Guilt. "Y'know, people who can't be saved?"

May looked up from the box, and jutted her chin out confidently. Her eyes were full of conviction, more serious than Wade had ever seen her.

"Everyone can be saved, dear."

Wade felt a chill run up his spine, and tried to Will away the sudden very embarrassing tears in his eyes. Gross, emotional vulnerability. He nodded at May quickly and prayed she changed the subject.

Thankfully— May looked back down at the box with a smile. "Come here and look at these. They're ornaments of Peter's baby photos."

"Oh?"

"May!" Peter called out loudly from the kitchen.

May laughed, and pulled out a glass spherical ornament with a cutout of baby Peter, button nose, big brown eyes, pudgy cheeks and all; sitting inside in a puddle of gold glitter. On the front, written: 'Peter's First Christmas! ~ Mary and Richard Parker.'

"Holy shit," Wade whispered in awe. "That's the cutest baby I've ever seen in my life."

"I think there are more in here—"

"MAY—"

Both of them fell into laughter this time, and Peter came walking back into the living room with a pout. "Are you two ganging up on me behind my back?"

"Definitely not," May said with a hum.

"Yes," Wade agreed with a sage nod. "And I'm definitely not May's favourite."

Peter laughed and stepped forward to dig through boxes, picking out more ornaments to decorate the tree with. May came around to his side and wrapped an arm gently around his back while she explained where she wanted certain ornaments, which Wade watched quietly from a distance.

It was such a loving family, and Wade was close enough that he might be able to pretend for even half a moment what it would be like a part of it.

His phone rang, stealing him from his thoughts. Wade blinked in surprise and pulled his phone from his pocket, looking down at the contact.

Unknown number.

His chest became a cavity of dread, like an ink bleeding on paper, staining the joy from that evening into something awful. He cleared his throat and gestured outside with a fake smile. "I have to take this! I'll be back real quick."

"Okay," May smiled back kindly.

He disappeared out the door and answered it, putting it up to his ear.

("Spidey?" Deadpool lunged upwards, seeing the unconscious man crumbled on the floor of the empty warehouse. "Shit! Oh shit. Shit shit shit. Please don't be dead.")

Then he was silent.

Dead silent.

He stared blankly into the air, listening to the birds chirping outside and leaves rustling from wind, old houses and windows creaking from the powerful gusts.

("It's me! It's Deadpool. You know? Guy who yanked a bullet from your body a while back? Saved your ass?" Deadpool heaved the lifeless body out of the warehouse breathlessly. "It's Wade— Agh. It's Wade Wilson. Fuck, you're heavy. Are you made outta solid muscle or something? You look like a twig.")

He could stand there for several hours if he wanted to. Deadpool's done it before, just letting his catch mumble and stutter over his own words while he sharpened knives in the corner. Cleaning a gun silently while a hit desperately bargained for life. It was rare, but if he was pissed enough (and don't get him pissed enough) then it was possible.

His head was crystal clear right now— an almost death was an attempted murder.

("Wake up," Deadpool said frantically, shaking at Spidey's shoulders as the man leaned against his couch. He pressed his ear against his chest— Faint heartbeat. "Fuck! Fucking— Damn it! Come on, Webs. Breathe. Just breathe. Dumbass, idiot hero bullshit, going in there alone— People need you, you fucker! You can't die. Wake up, damn it.")

He straightened his spine and held the phone to his ear like a statue.

After a minute of crackled quiet, The Employer spoke up.

"It would be wise of you not to step in again," The Employer rasped lowly. He took a deep breath, then a scattered exhale. "There could be... consequences."

"What are you doing with that blood?" Deadpool demanded. "You motherfucker, I will find you. Don't think I won't."

There's a laugh, something bitter and twisting in response.

"What are your plans?" Deadpool bit out, gnarling the words in his teeth.

The laughter quieted to a tired sigh. "What I should have been able to do years ago."

Wade opened his mouth, but the phone clicked as the Employer hung up. He cursed loudly and brought the phone away from his ear.

For not the first time, he needed to find Spider-Man, and fast. This whole case was becoming a real pain in the nards.

He glanced up at Peter and May through the living room window, standing on the cold porch outside. No time to say a cute goodbye to their date, no time to make up a crappy lie.

[Wade Wilson: srry I had to dip😨work emrgncy ☹️☹️ super sux. we should schedule a date to that theater sum time tho... txt me tonite?]

[Wade Wilson: had lots of fun grocery shopping with u rose boy]

The response came in a few moments later, when Wade was already halfway down the block.

[Peter Parker: I had fun too. :) Hope your work thing gets taken care of okay - and thanks for helping me with said shopping trip.]

[Peter Parker: P.S. I should be calling *you* rose boy. You're the one who bought them! :P]

[Wade Wilson: i'll workshop it]

He turned his phone off and boarded the subway, mentally buckling down for a long trip back to his apartment. He yanked his hood up.

He sighed simply. "Shit."