"Finally, in a low whisper, he said, 'I think I might be a terrible person.' For a split second I believed him - I thought he was about to confess a crime, maybe a murder. Then I realized that we all think we might be terrible people. But we only reveal this before asking someone to love us. It is a kind of undressing." 

-Miranda July

Peter got the message from Deadpool yesterday morning about Reyes' apartment— a cheap place in Harlem, a little ways away from The Employer's warehouse. Deadpool is supposed to meet him here, but he hasn't shown up yet. He should really wait. He should really wait.

But he didn't want Reyes to get away.

Spider-Man put his ear against the door and concentrated— he didn't hear anybody. Not the beating tell-tale heart of a criminal, not the footsteps of a thief. He turned his gloved hand on the knob and the apartment door creaked inward slowly.

It's empty. A breeze from a crookedly opened window flowed in and caused the papers pinned haphazardly across the span of an entire wall to rustle. Peter exhaled quietly and took a silent step forward to inspect them.

The papers are strung across in a similar investigative fashion. Shelves are hung up in the empty spaces between them, and the weight of the journals, notecards and coloured tabs sticking out at odd ends, sitting messily on top of said shelves cause them to bend in a dangerous curve.

Peter looked down at the desk sitting against the wall, littered with items. An ashtray sat on top of a book on Insect Haemolymph, which was precariously close to the edge. Rings from a coffee mug were stained deeply and overlaid several times across the wood of the desk, as well as the papers on top of it, scrawled with messy handwriting. Blueprints. Maps.

Peter frowned. He turned around and stalked to the kitchen, purely out of curiosity, and opened the fridge. He widened his eyes looking at a jar with the sleeping corpse of a spider in it residing by the egg carton. Sure, that's normal. He closed the fridge.

He pulled his phone out to call Deadpool, wondering when he was getting there. After all, they were supposed to be investigating together. He selected the number and put it up to his ear.

The phone rang.

A crunching sound boomed outside, shaking the walls of the apartment. Peter's neck prickled with a sharp warning pain, the hairs standing up, one by one in quick succession.

He narrowed his eyes.

Another crunching sound. This time, an electric hum followed, loud and buzzing darkly. Peter saw the figure of The Employer rise outside from the crooked window, tilting his head like a puppet on strings. The helmet and trim of the chest plate glowed a vibrant indigo, and he hovered closer and closer, staring directly at Peter.

He felt like prey, like the spider in a jar, like Reyes knew something he didn't.

The phone rang.

And then it picked up.

"Spidey. Yeah. I'm almost there," Pool answered. "Do you have time to talk?"

"Not really." Peter swallowed, keeping his voice as steady as he could manage. "Pool, he's here. We need a plan, fast."

"What do you mean?" Deadpool asked suddenly. "He's there? Like right now?"

"I mean like he's staring dead at me," Peter explained slowly, not moving a muscle as he made direct eye contact back with The Employer. "I'm gonna have to just fight him."

"Webs, you know I adore you, and admire your strength and bravery and whatever the fuck else, but if you try and take him on, he could fuckin'... I don't know, he's fucking dangerous, you could die. Get the fuck out of there and wait til I'm there at your side."

"I don't really have a choice," Peter said lowly. He didn't know what he'd say if he tried to come up with a reason why he didn't have a choice. Did he ever?

He was in such a good mood before this. To think, only an hour ago he was having the time of his life.

"He took your blood," Deadpool insisted. He's panting lightly now, out of breath. He's sprinting. "What if he— fuck the Pacer Gram Fitness Fuck— what if he stabs you with a needle full of mysterious science junk? Just wait, get the fresh motherfuck out of there."

Peter licked his lips. His eyes darted to the door. "How fast can you get here?"

"I'll be there in like, two minutes!"

Peter bit his tongue. A choice had to be made here. He was just tired of making the wrong ones. He exhaled stiffly through his nose. "That's not fast enough. I'm fighting him."

"P—"

The window crashed in loudly as The Employer burst through, breaking chunks of the wall and bits of glass in with him. Peter dropped his phone as he flung back.

The Employer charged at Peter, who leaped up to the ceiling and dropped down with enough force to land a kick. The kick was powerful enough to knock Reyes back, but he recovered quickly, sneering angrily.

He blasted up a few feet in the air with the suit's jet pack, barely missing the ceiling of the crummy apartment, and shooting himself back down to swing a punch. Peter dodged it, grabbing the fist of the suit and throwing it away from him.

"I haven't danced like this since high school," Peter commented, attempting to trip The Employer by kicking his leg under.

Reyes shook his fist out at his side and the gun extended from his arm. He shot a round at Peter, who jumped around the apartment to escape the raining bullets. The final one grazed his shoulder as he dropped back down to the ground, and he winced, putting a protective hand up instinctively to the wound.

"You're a pest," Reyes hissed out. He bounded forward, letting the weapon reload as he instead decided to throw a series of simple punches.

"I'm a delight!" Peter yanked himself up in a high jump and wrapped himself around the back of The Employer's jetpack, trying to rip the tech apart with his bare hands.

Reyes didn't like that.

He began to fling himself into walls, destroying the plaster, the woodwork, the furniture, in an attempt to knock Peter off. Peter was denting the jet pack, at least, in his effort to punch the device enough for a screw to break loose.

"What the hell did Oscorp make this out of?" Peter wheezed, his fist already bruising. He slammed painfully into a brick wall but continued holding on.

Finally The Employer reached his gun behind him. Peter's sense flared and he jumped up just as shots began firing off again, a rapid fire of pops.

Peter rolled away and shot a web at The Employer to pull his arm down, but the stream of bullets caught him by the side. He muffled a pained gasp and stuck the first web to the floor before firing another one to The Employer's chest. He stuck the end of that web to the floor too and jumped to a different side.

Reyes struggled against the webs and blasted back with his jetpack. He tackled Peter as he did so, and the two of them went right through the wall and into the public hallway.

"Dude, why are you airing our dirty laundry?" Peter stumbled, struggling to find something to grab onto from where Reyes had him pinned down.

Peter blinked quickly and then received a hard punch to the jaw. He heard something crack. He croaked weakly. "Was that an answer?"

"I'll have to find out what makes your particular species blabber so much," Reyes remarked snidely, squeezing a hand around his throat and then kneeing him in the ribs with the full force of his armored suit.

Something snapped. Peter nearly threw up as a sharp throbbing pain washed over him immediately. He grimaced. "Oh, that didn't feel right. Hey, you're a doctor, right? I don't have healthcare, but I'll give you a knuckle sandwich if you can check that out for me, free of charge!"

Another sickening crack to his ribs.

His insides felt warm and bubbly, and not in the fun way. It made his skin crawl, like the acid in his stomach was threatening to escape through his veins. Like maybe, possibly, he had internal bleeding.

"It didn't have to be like this. This wasn't part of my plan," Reyes said mournfully. His tone changed to something sinister and angry. "But then you had to get your mercenary involved, and you had to go searching for things that needn't be explained to minds as simple as yours."

"What can I say?" Peter smiled crookedly, his mouth tasting of iron and his lips red of blood. "I'm curious."

He pushed up with all of his might and regained weak ground, standing with a lean as the world moved tilted in the hallway. He squared his hips and clenched his fists.

The Employer chuckled darkly. "You really are moronic."

Peter wheezed lightly and grinned back. "Please! It's my best quality, right next to beating bad guys."

The Employer lunged again, but Peter punched the jet pack as he flew forward and didn't pull his strength.

His fist goes right through the box, compacted circuits and all. It sputtered and Reyes fell to the ground. He swiftly turned his head and gave a blank look of seething through the Oscorp helmet.

"Oh nooo," Peter said, pulling his fist away. He swallowed the blood pooling in his mouth. "Did I do that? My bad, buddy."

Reyes seemed to twitch before charging at Peter with concentrated rage. Peter saw the attack coming and dodged downwards, swinging his legs under and causing Reyes to tumble to the ground.

Peter grunted with effort as he swung another calculated punch to The Employer's arm. The suit cracks in two, bullets falling loose and hitting the floor with a series of clinks. He broke the gun, at least. Peter felt the smallest sense of relief at that.

On a roll, he threw another punch at the helmet. A piece of it cracked off, revealing a sliver of grey skin underneath. Peter opened his mouth to quip.

The Employer's suit glowed a neon violet now, all at once. Peter's senses barely had the time to warn him before he jerked still, electricity running through his body. He clenched his jaw hard, his vision swam, everything he was looking at was a flashing image of highly saturated bits and pieces of the hallway.

The electricity stopped just as quickly as it began, and Peter fell backwards. He gasped for air. "Fried spider, should be, against, the rules—"

The Employer kicked him back, and Peter rolled willingly, still trying to let his mind regain control over being tazed, or something. He blinked several times and pulled himself up, letting instinct take the wheel where his mind was failing.

Reyes's heavy boots stomped forward and tried to kick Peter down again, but he managed to roll out of the way and web his foot. Peter yanked the web down and The Employer tripped.

He took his chance.

He weaved forward and webbed The Employer half against the wall and half on the floor where he sprawled out. First by the helmet, then by the arms, the chestplate, the legs, making it nearly impossible to get out. He broke the jetpack. He broke the gun. Unless The Employer had any more tricks up his sleeve, he wasn't escaping that easily.

He stood up, faltering to the side and leaning against the wall of the hallway. The Employer jerked from the webs, but they held stable.

"I think now's the time I make a joke about a spider catching his prey," Peter chuckled weakly. Everything in his body felt like it was on fire. "I'll let you know when I think of one."

He exhaled shakily and limped back to the destruction of Rory Reyes's apartment. He spotted a phone in the rubble, and fell over his own weak feet trying to walk towards it.

Peter pulled himself up as far as he could, leaning against the wreckage of the fallen fridge in the kitchen. He dialed Pool's number and held it to his ear, looking helplessly at the remains of a jar, broken glass all over the kitchen. He narrowed his eyes puzzledly at the spider that had previously lay dead in it, who was now skittering over bits of wood on the floor.

"Spidey?" Pool breathed heavily. "Shit, I'm right at the stairs."

"I gottem," Peter slurred. He pulled his mask up over his mouth and wiped away the blood from his mouth. "He's webbed... webbed up in the hall, so be careful where you step."

"Are you okay?" Deadpool demanded. Peter could hear him, now: Another pair of heavy boots, bounding up the stairs across the building accompanied by the jingling of weapons, and the rustling of leather chafing against leather. Peter smiled lightly.

"Not feelin' great," Peter admitted. "Hey, you'll— you'll fix me up, though. You've got those tweezers, right?"

"Forceps," Pool corrected. "You got shot?"

"Don't remember."

"You don't remember if you got shot?"

"Mm. Don't remember if it went in." Peter looked down at his body. His ribs were sticking out at odd ends. He couldn't feel much but the general white heat of his body trying to comprehend the number of injuries he had. "Maybe I did? There's a lot of..."

The red of his suit was significantly darker, more like a deep burgundy from the blood seeping into it. The blue was in the same state. Blood was pooling out onto the tile floor beneath him.

He thought distantly, and with faint amusement, how funny it was that The Employer missed his chance to easily get his blood. A dazed laugh croaked out of his throat, then died with a wisp of air and a grimace.

"Pool, I know I can trust you now," Peter murmured, hearing the man in question sprint down the hallway. "So. You gotta tell my family stuff if this doesn't, uh, pan out. Y'know?"

"Shuddup, Webs." Pool wheezed and finally got to the apartment, throwing his phone to the side and running over to him. "You can't help but get yourself beat up, huh? Fuckin' peachy, is what that little talent is. Fuck. You can't heal like I can, dumbass."

Peter smiled up at him. It fell away as the pain grew worse. "Stop bullying me when I'm dyin'. Kinda sucks, I just started dating this cute guy. Really like him."

"No," Deadpool said firmly. "You're not dying. I'm not letting that happen. I'm bringing you back to my apartment, and you're gonna live, you dick."

Pool looped an arm under his body and helped him up on his feet. He held most of the support, Peter was able to lean fully against him as they walked, but still he cried out in pain just from the movement.

"Wait. We can't go yet," Peter mumbled. "Gotta call the cops. Tell 'em we got the guy who robbed Oscorp."

"Yeah, I think you're hallucinating, baby boy. There's nobody in the hall. Just a bunch of burnt black goo on the wall and overall property damage that's bound to give at least three people in construction jobs a midlife crisis."

Peter paused. He looked up. "Wha–?"

Deadpool gestured to the hallway. Peter turned his head to look, dreading what he'd see.

As horrifically expected: The Employer was gone.

"Ugh," Peter managed, his eyelids drooping. "Why can't I have nice things?"

He collapsed into Deadpool's side.

The panicked trek to Deadpool's apartment took twenty minutes. The taxi cab had sped faster than Peter had ever gone in any car, which Peter supposed was understandable when your passengers are Spider-Man and a mercenary with katanas and guns easily in view.

Now after being hauled around by Deadpool's surprisingly strong arms, Peter sat on the rim of Deadpool's bathtub, his suit stripped off with bandages and hello kitty bandaids littered all over fresh wounds. His skin was raw from injury, and stained pink from the blood that had been towel-washed away, said collection of towels sitting in a bloody heap at Pool's feet, right beside the bullets that were removed as expertly as they could be removed.

All that's left was his mask, secured on his blood-sticky face. Deadpool stared at it with silence, the question laying unsaid between them. Peter stared back.

"Okay," Pool broke, sighing heavily. "We gotta talk."

"You can't take my mask off," Peter said immediately.

"Webs," Deadpool practically begged. "I know you have cuts on your face. We gotta clean them or they'll be infected."

"I'll heal! You don't need to take my mask off."

It was a weak argument. They both knew it. But it was Peter's last defense.

Pool exhaled stiff and slow. Peter knew he was being ridiculous about this, somewhere deep in the back of his head. His identity was one of the only things he had left, though. He couldn't just—

Deadpool raised his hands to the edge of his own neck, and pulled off his leather mask. Heart-shaped scar on his nose.

Peter's mouth opened, but nothing came out. He blinked several times, remaining very, very quiet.

"This really wasn't how I wanted to do this," Wade mumbled.

Wade, covered in blood, but not in the way Peter feared it would happen. Wade, smelling of gunpowder and leather. Wade, standing tall with weapons strapped to his back. Wade, at his side. Wade, stitching his wounds. Wade, Wade, Wade.

It was Wade Wilson who asked him why he was bruised. Wade who helped him buy groceries for May. Wade who gave him a sweatshirt in the bitter cold. Wade who showed up in the early morning before the sun rose to sit with him after a nightmare.

It was Deadpool who was sent to stalk him. Deadpool who threatened him. Who got him into this mess.

...Deadpool who saved his life. Pool who had his back. Pool who pulled him from that rooftop, and that apartment, and that warehouse...

And yet the question remains.

Does Wade know?

He always tried to be so careful, but Deadpool— Wade had always been smart. For all his practice, his whole life, was Peter ever that good at keeping secrets?

"Deadpool," Peter said firmly. "I can't."

"Why not, huh? What'd you do?" Deadpool, Wade, joked softly. "You kill someone?"

Peter clenched his jaw and stared at him silently. His throat burned from holding back tears.

Wade's amusement faltered. His eyes went stern, but patient. He was listening completely. "What did you do?"

Peter looked down. "I didn't... I didn't kill anyone, I just— the identity thing, it's—"

"I know," Wade murmured. Quiet. Steady. He was so... calm.

Peter shook his head jerkily. His voice trembled like the last leaf gripping onto its branch. And it felt like his heart was aching, like it sat in his chest and rotted to the middle, sitting like a decaying fruit and making him sick. "Don't say that. You don't get it."

He can't know, Wade cannot know.

"Lately it seems like everything I touch just dies." Peter said, exhaustion thinning his words to something desperate. "I don't want you getting hurt because you know my identity. I can't do it again. There's— There's people I gotta protect. I'm tired of burning down forests, Pool. I'd rather just live in the ash. Might by comfy, I don't know. Warm."

"Been there, done that. Wasn't as comfortable as you'd think. And anyway, despite the fact it sounds like you just threw up a poetry book," Wade replied, poking Peter on his masked cheek. "Gimme your hand."

Peter's eyebrows furrowed with confusion, but he holds out his hand and lets all the trust in Wade sit at his fingertips, outstretched and vulnerable for the whole world to see. The silence in the room was overpowering, every soft creak in the tiled floor as Pool moved forward echoed throughout the space, and Peter could hear their breaths following each other's pace.

Slowly, Wade took Peter's hand, and moved it right to his chest, resting it just over his heart. He stared expectantly at Peter, as if something remarkable had just happened and he was waiting for Peter's response.

Peter chewed on his bottom lip, staring back at him in the quiet and trying to Pool together the meaning for whatever Wade was doing.

"Webs." Deadpool huffed a fond laugh. Why was he fond? "C'mon."

"I'm sorry," he smiled weakly. His own heart raced. "I don't get whatever this is. You've got a nice heartbeat though. Strong."

"That's the point!" Wade insisted. "I'm still here. You have my heart in your hands, and I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere, baby boy."

Oh.

He knew.

Peter slowly pulled his mask off, and held the crumpled thing in his hands. And now they were just Peter Parker and Wade Wilson, together in a blood-stained bathroom with a bucket full of torn secrets between them. Shame.

Peter looked down at the floor.

He bit hard on his bottom lip, he tried not to show how it was trembling. The edges of his vision blurred heavily with tears and he kept his mind off of it by looking up at the ceiling.

"Peter? Please look at me."

Peter faltered, inhaled sharply through his nose and the breath stuttered in his chest. He looked at Wade. He tried to reel it back, he tried to corral the agony and put it back into the cage of his ribs.

"I'm sorry," Peter said quietly, his voice wrecked. "This whole thing. It's my issue. I'll—I'll fix this. I don't want you in danger, okay? You should stop helping me."

The Employer got away. Melted webs. Everybody's in danger now. Wade is in danger.

"What? That's fucking ridiculous, Webs."

Peter sniffled once. Twice. He shook his head to deny it, but the movement let a tear fall down his cheek and gather at the indent above his top lip, and once the first one fell, others fell to match its course.

Wade wiped them away in a simple motion from his thumb. "Baby boy, this wasn't your fault! Is that what you've been thinking this whole damn time?"

Peter stayed silent.

Wade's thumb drifted over the smoothness of his cheek, and Peter's eyes fluttered closed as he leant into the touch. Wade cupped Peter's face, delicately leaving a finger under his jaw and sweeping his thumbprint over Peter's eyelids.

Gentle; Peter thought. In every movement. From the way his breath slowed to the way he caressed Peter's face, he was so careful. This was a man who had death written into his skin, who was covered in scars of a bloody past that still left him stained, whose tongue had formed the most abrasive curse words—and yet here he was in all of his darkness, and Peter wanted to drown in its overwhelming safety.

A gentle giant.

Wade carefully brought his thumb further up and brushed it over Peter's eyebrow, smoothing it out.

"I'm going to help you," Wade said firmly. "We're taking him down together, Peter. You and me."

'Okay,' Peter thought.

Wade pulled his hand back. "I'm gonna fix up your face now, alright?"

Peter nodded tiredly.

So Wade began.

His hands moved expertly, sticking a butterfly bandage over a cut through Peter's top lip. "You should stay low for a while. At least to heal, before we go out and find this son of a bitch."

Peter was quiet, studying the stress in Wade's blue eyes and the unnatural lack of lightness in his voice. He couldn't reply without messing up the bandaging—he had a feeling Wade knew this and was taking full-advantage against his stubbornness.

It was weird to be in this scenario with Wade. He almost couldn't wrap his head around it. He was used to Deadpool while in the mask, and Peter Parker as an entirely different world that had nothing to do with Spider-Man. But Wade was more careful than Deadpool was, and there was something familiar about that. He could get used to this, maybe.

"I hope you know how I'd do nothing more than sit here for hours stitching you back together after your fights, baby boy, but it isn't pretty. It doesn't make me feel good, seeing you all beat up."

Wade sighed and grabbed another bandage, moving to his eyebrow. "I know I already said this, but— just because you have a healing factor doesn't make you immortal. That's my schtick. Get your own traumatic comic book superpower, you know?"

After a beat: "You have such adorable freckles on your nose."

Peter, despite the tiredness and pain, cracked a smile.

Wade groaned. "Great. Your beautiful smile split your lip open again."

A soft laugh escaped Peter's lips—and that's how he knew he was really tired now, because his ribs erupt away in agony and the smell of fresh copper hit his nose again and he kept laughing.

Wade rolled his eyes and held his hands away from Peter's face. "Okay, Pete. I get it. You're high on exhaustion. Let me finish your fuckin' dressings please so you don't bleed out on my bathroom sink."

"I won't bleed out," Peter defended, trying to stifle the fighting laughter in the bubble of his chest aiming for his funny bone. (Not anatomically correct, there's really no accurate description for the sort of loopy-laughter reaction he's having.)

"Good." Wade set the first aid box down, presumably giving up on his meaningless task of trying to fix up every little scratch. "Congrats. Your homosexual beat me to fixing your lip, it's healing on its own."

"Homeostasis?" Peter guessed, still smiling. "I don't think that's the right term."

"I've heard it both ways."

"I thought you couldn't reference anything from before 2005, Pool."

"I am in love with you," Wade said seriously. "Now go get some rest, please. Don't worry about getting the bed bloody. Or sweaty. It's seen worse."

"Wait." Peter paused, suddenly putting a hand on Wade's arm. "Was all of this—"

He hesitated. Started again, quietly. "That first time, did— did you only talk to me because you knew I was Spider-Man?"

He didn't know what he would do if Wade looked at him and said yes.

But he didn't. No, instead, Wade's expression went gentle, he tilted his head and exhaled softly through his nose.

"'Course not. This was a happy little coincidence, Petey-Pie. Should've known the best person in the world was also Spider-Man as a side gig."

"Oh."

And for just a moment; the worry melted away.