Peter impatiently knocked on his upstairs neighbor's door. His knuckles grazed the door twice. Knock. Knock. He was far from pleasant. But the resident responded in seconds, seemingly desperate to do so.

"Who's there?" The sing-song voice came from behind the door. The question was followed by relentless muttering; as usual, Wade was talking to himself extensively.

"Peter Parker. I live underneath you," grumbled Peter, voice thick with annoyance. It was a bitter tone, but Peter found it fitting in such a situation. There was blood in his bucket.

"That sounds hot," Wade hummed, his voice muffled greatly by the heavy wooden door. If it was possible, Peter would have been the one to hear the smile on Wade's lips.

"Open the door." There was no 'please', and there would definitely be no manners. Peter had a damn bucket collecting blood that was dripping from the ceiling. Therefore, Wade did not deserve Peter's hidden formality. "I live on the floor below, and we need to talk," Peter clarified.

"We are talking, Peter Parker. My name is Wade W. Wilson, and it is a damn good pleasure to meet you, my alliteration buddy."

Peter slammed his hand on the door, demanding it to open. Telekineses was not on Peter's long list of powers, so the door remained stiff in its place. To be fair, most of his gifts had revolved around tiny arachnids.

"Has anyone ever told you to be patient, Peter Parker?" Wilson grumbled, still immobile. "Give a man some time, you one-pump chump. You can't have everything right away. Shit takes a few minutes."

Peter gave him time. In fact, Peter gave him plenty of time before he decided to knock again. He'd busied himself wiping the sleep out of his eyes and evaluating the healed paper cuts, but those actions had grown rather tedious. So he brought his knuckles to the door.

"Oh, you're still there." Wade seemed disappointed. Honestly, that hurt Peter's feelings, but they grew back quickly. Call it a mental healing factor. "You're a persistent motherfucker."

"What's taking you so long?"

"I am healing," said Wade nonchalantly. "I need to gather myself, so just relax, Peter Parker."

"That's it, Wade. I will give you ten seconds to open this door. I think you owe me an explanation."

"We've never met. Have I done something to you? Oh," Wade gasped dramatically, "did I put the dog shit in your mailbox? I could have sworn I put it in the landlord's. We pay to live here, so she shouldn't let her dog shit all over the lawn. Maybe we should start a petition. If you don't sign you get dog shit too. That kind of thing."

"What?"

Wade hummed, already distracted by something else.

"No, I have blood leaking from my ceiling, and it's coming from your apartment, so I deserve an explanation before I contact the landlord."

"Oh."

Peter waited, having lost his patience before he even reached Wade's door. "Are you going to make me count?"

"You see, lovely neighbor of mine, I was baking a pie. I seemed to have spilled some raspberry sauce all over. It's like all over the carpet of my room. It must have soaked through." Wade was hardly even trying to convince, and instead he held a certain degree of humor.

"You're really going to make me do it." Peter sighed, unfolding his arms and cracking his knuckles theatrically to get the blood running.

"Do what?"

Without another word, Peter took the doorknob in hand; he gripped the sturdy metal with all his strength, and he broke it. The screws gave out, sending the other half tumbling to the floor. He had no clue what he was getting into, but he opened the door anyway.

What he saw, however, was impossible for one to predict.

Wade Wilson was dressed in red and leaking red. In fact, most of what Peter saw was red. Wade remained on the floor, his face pressed into the drenched carpet. The circle around him was red and dark, so Peter knew he had found the source. Wade was to blame for Peter's leaking ceiling, and that was clear.

Wade's right arm was severed; the tissues of Wade's body had tried desperately to grab hold of the lost limb. The sight was horrific. That did not stop Wade from running his mouth, piercing Peter's train of thought. Words ran out of his lips just as fast as the blood did from his veins.

"It's really not that bad."

"Holy shit," Peter finally yelled. His tongue stressed every syllable, trying to give him a chance to come up with the next thing to say.

"I mean, I think I can feel my fingers." Wade giggled. "Are they moving?" No, because the arm was not connected.

"How are you lucid? How are you...breathing?" Peter entered the large room, bypassing the couch. The door slammed shut, handle dropping. The boy approached Wade's side, fingers lingering over the dismembered arm. Peter grimaced, yet he tried to make sense of the situation. The teenager failed desperately.

"I think there's more blood on the carpet than there is in my body," said Wade, deadpan. His voice remained severely muffled and wet in the moist carpet. "That's a problem."

"What do I do? Oh my God, what do I do?" Peter was still running his hands down the length of his neighbor's suit. The situation was not normal, and it took his neighborly responsibilities to a whole new level.

"Flip me over. I dare you to flip me over," Wade rushed hastily. "Do it. I triple dog dare you."

Peter did just that. He grabbed the hard muscles of Wade's side and pushed. More blood seeped out, and it clung to Peter's fingers as if it was searching for a new body to posess. At that point, he had trouble acknowledging the detached arm. It was receiving no tender, special care. Was it a lost cause? Such a dilemma was not appropriate, especially when one took human anatomy into perspective. There was no going back, and Wade would never be ambidextrious.

But the other side of Wade was far worse, and it further explained the bodily fluids–and why there was so, so much of it.

There was a hole in Wade's chest, and Peter knew a lot of shit was supposed to be there. The gash was deeper than deep, and blood gushed from it mercilessly. Though shattered, there was a ribcage beneath the hanging flaps of skin and suit. Everything was red, however, and Peter found it difficult to decipher the difference. The gurgle of blood aided in his decision making as he tore back the suit. The organs that made noise were ones to be avoided, for Peter knew he could fuck things up all the more.

"Son of a bitch. Holy shit, oh my fuck. What the fucking hell?"

"Made you look," Wade's animated eyebrows moved beneath the mask, painting the pleased expression in great detail. "I would tell you to put pressure on it, but that would take CPR to a whole new level. And my ribs are already cracked, so thanks but no thanks."

"This is impossible."

"It is impossible," Wade confirmed as if it were necessary; he was not going to argue.

The aorta was severed, explaining the copious amounts of blood. The heart sputtered, emitting wet, abnormal noises. There couldn't be much left, to be honest. From just a few years in anatomy classes, Peter knew Wade did not have enough to function on.

"Let's play doctor," Wade began. "Take a blanket from the couch and cover my chest. Just don't look at it, and then everything will be fine. Out of sight of of mind, y'know? All fixed without seeing the face of crippling graduate student debt and finger-up-the-ass examinations."

Peter frowned and presented Wade with a scolding, annoyed look of protest. "That's not how it works."

"Yes, that's not how it normally works. But don't worry, baby boy, everything's gonna be just peachy."

"You're not human."

"Really?" Wade gasped loudly, albeit it was exaggerated and fake. "I had not noticed that."

Peter ignored him, for he would worry about the logistics later. Instead, he was trying to think of possible ways to fix his neighbor's body. For a while, he only came up blank. There was no taking the man to the hospital, because Peter knew well he could not bullshit an explanation. And every instinct told him not to move Wade any further. All together, it was best to avoid touching Wade's body. Peter didn't need more blood in the bucket below them.

Eventually, Peter created a half-assed plan that could only fix one of their problems. The gaping hole in Wade's chest, however, would take a genius, and that was far beyond Peter's biochemistry capabilities.

Finally, Peter gripped Wade's right forearm. It wasn't connected to Wade's body, but Peter had to pretend that was fine. If he worried about the limb, then it would only cause him to panic. Once again, the forearm met the flesh of Wade's elbow. Within seconds, Wade's fibers and tissue took hold of the forearm, but they would need assistance.

"What are you doing with my special arm? I need him. I am lonely." Wade worried, but most of his concern stemmed from humor.

Peter ignored him and grabbed hold of the limb. He took his time excreting the silk substances from his wrist. The web was unlike the others, for he used it to keep Wade's pieces attached. After the initial connection, Peter was able to expel more webbing, securing the forearm. He wrapped the wound multiple times, panting heavily as he avoided anxiety or the likes of a panic attack.

"Holy shit-fuck, what drugs are you on?" The white eyes of Wade's mask widened. His neck grew sore, but he was too busy lifting his head to evaluate Peter's work.

Peter sat back, letting the arm fall to the carpet with a wet thump. The teenager wiped his bloody hands on his red sweatshirt with a frown. Finally, he rubbed his wrist, burdened with surprising insecurity.

Finally, Peter found it in his best interest to take a red blanket from Wade's couch. Thankfully, it was easy to find, for Wade was short on furniture. Regardless, Peter stood and used the material as a cover, placing it over the gaping hole in Wade's damaged chest.

"Good job, baby boy. It's for the best. Best doctor I could ever ask for."

"What the fuck?" Peter repeated. He sat down once again, his clothes absorbing Wade's blood, intestinal fluid, and bone matter.

"It was nice meeting you too, Peter. We should do this again sometime. Oh, do you mind if I borrow some soft tortilla shells?" The mercenary hummed, choosing to further dismiss the situation.