He trucked his heavy bag up to Peter's apartment, chest tight with nerves. Would he say something? Would he shed light on what had happened? Should he insinuate he had pieced together what had happened? Probably not but he kind of wanted to. But Peter was hard to pin down, flighty in his own unique way. Maybe that was why Spider-Man was such a prick? He was compensating, either making up for the lack of stability in his real life by being firm or commanding in his alternate life.

He used the key this time to unlock the apartment door and set the key on the counter, locking it once more, thoughts drifting to the day his friend had been agitated about leaving. He wondered if that wasn't something bigger than he'd first thought it to be.

"Wade?" Peter called out, his tone giving away no hint of the pain he knew he was in. It made him sad. Not that Peter didn't sound in pain but that he had the capacity to hide pain that well.

"Just me." He called back, hoping the brunette would rest assured and calm down. He set aside the groceries and took the first aid items into the bathroom, sighing when he set the goods down. "You ready for a lot of stinging?"

"I guess." The young man didn't look up to meet his eye. The answer was no.

"I'm sorry." He said, turning to unpack his supplies and pulled on a pair of gloves. "We could do this on the bed? You'd be elevated and it wouldn't be so.... Uncomfortable."

"I don't want to puke in the bed."

"I can grab a bucket." He offered.

"No. Keep the mess in here," Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath in through his nose. "I'm not . . . I don't want to deal with that." He sounded like he was ready to pass out.

"Are you tired because you're in pain or is it from something else?" Bloodloss? It shouldn't be low blood sugar yet, it had only been an hour or so.

"I'm fine. Wade you don't have to do this, please. I don't want to owe you something for this please just go." The brunette shook his head and looked over. "I know you're trying to help but I don't want your help. Please." Peter was gripping the towel he'd been given to cover up. He wasn't meeting Wade's gaze, but his expression had hardened and he looked more upset and in pain now than he had when he'd arrived with the bag of food.

He knew this was also a possibility, that Peter might choose to back off when asked to produce an answer to Wade's questions. Pushback seemed natural. Spider-Man was well-known for his identity issues.

"You won't owe me anything, Peter. I'm doing this because I know you won't give me an alternative. And unless you want to stand up and march me out of your apartment by the arm, then you're going to sit back and suffer through this. I know if you really wanted me gone, you could punt my ass out of here if you so desired. Pain or not."

"You're saying that because of that incident with the car?" the brunette asked, annoyance lacing his question. To his benefit, it sounds more like anxiety anger than Peter being genuinely angry with him over what he was doing.

"That and other things. Are you going to give me any clues as to what happened or are you just going to get more agitated the longer I stand here?" He asked, watching Peter's eyes dart toward the wadded-up bloody hero suit for a fraction of a second before coming up to meet his again.

"I don't want to explain anything. But I think you have your own ideas and a story that you want me to tell you." Peter glanced away, reaching back and sitting up, grimacing as he got up onto the edge of the tub and slowly slipped back into the porcelain bath. His muscles flexed and he focused on the man's figure. Peter was strong. The guy was skinny and that made the power within his body deceptive. His abdomen flexed and even while hunched and sitting in an unflatering position Wade could see how built he was. He was strong in the way an animal was strong, unsuspecting, and disproportionate. It was a little . . . terrifying actually.

And hot. Peter had a fantastic body but he wasn't allowed to think that while playing doctor because that would be wrong and he wasn't a doctor so that meant he didn't have bad cultural standards and sexism guiding his hands. He was supposed to do his job well.

Admirable.

Peter would be admirable until the latex gloves came off and Peter was at least comfortable and in some pants. Then he could think back and think about other things.

He was proud of himself though. Look at him, he hadn't had a single lustful thought this entire time while having a hot naked man in front of him until said man decided to get lively and perturbed. A low standard but one he wouldn't have accomplished while deranged. Not that most men could handle that much while being themselves, but that meant he was true to his word. He really did care about Peter long before anything else.

"I do. And I think it involves your day job. I think if you were an average guy with average resources, you'd have been noticed by now taking your action shots. People would have noticed you on buildings or in the way. Videos would capture you getting nearly killed or Spider-Man going out of his way to give some random guy a shot of a lifetime on a regular basis.

He passed and waited for a reaction.

Peter stared at him, face relaxing to the point his lips naturally fell downward into a genuine case of RBF- Resting Bitch Face for those who don't know. He shifted his weight and his entire body flinched and his expression quickly lifted as he looked down and leaned away from his major wound.

"There's a lot of speculation. Maybe I'm just good at hiding."

"I think you are good at hiding when you want to. But I also knew that you heal quickly and you have super strength."

"So do half a million other people in this world. Probably millions more." Peter muttered.

"But they don't have jobs selling photos of a highly controversial vigilante who also happens to share some mutation quirks."

"Spider-Man isn't a mutant. He isn't genetically human, thus not a mutant." Peter muttered monotonously.

"If that were the case then he wouldn't be able to donate plasma. They test for things like that." He said, slipping off one glove to pick up Irish spring near the sink. He looked over at Peter, pausing to consider the consequences of his actions before he decided to whip the green bar as hard and fast as he could toward the brunette's head.

"Really? Then I guess he doesn't donate plasma." Peter muttered staring down at his hip as he spoke, hand darting up to snatch the projectile out of the air without even looking. "Wade, I'm not-" Peter cut himself short as he looked up, eyes darting toward his own raised hand. He stared at the bar of soap for a moment and frowned before he scoffed and sent an accusing glare in his direction. "The fuck, Wade?"

"What do you mean? You didn't even know it happened until several seconds of holding onto it. Don't look at me like that." He rolled his eyes, throwing away the glove he'd removed to replace it with another. "Few superhumans have reflexes like that. That was nearly automated. You had no idea what happened until after the fact, your nervous system is moving faster than you are. Funny because it means you're moving faster than the messages traveling between your brain and your eyeballs. You have another sense that allows you to react to your surroundings. People have been theorizing that is how Spider-Man fights for years now. That's old news and generally accepted as fact. How do you explain away that one?"

"What were you going to do if you whipped me in the face with a bar of soap? You could have knocked my teeth out."

"No, now you're just being dramatic. And I would have been down on the floor kissing the ground you walk on, praying that I could work for your forgiveness. Now get on your side, this is going to suck. Did you clean your wound to begin with?" He asked, pulling out a bottle of water he planned to use to gently rinse away debris and nothing else that had started to collect. God knew you couldn't use tap water for that in New York.

The skin was wet, still weeping but not bloody. Anymore... The edges of the wound were white and looked like it needed to be cut away. Generally, the entire area looked okay. Nothing was going to fall off that didn't need to be removed at least. "Do you want a drink before I do this?"

"I don't drink."

"For religious reasons or because you have a tendency to have to worry about an instance where you might need to swing away?" Wade asked, looking over at him.

Peter's expression shifted as he stared at him, going from unamused to something just short of pissed off. His face relaxed and he was hunched over so he had to stare upwards which only intensified the hardened expression. And there he was, the asshole Deadpool occasionally ran into. The air radiating from Peter's tense body felt, well, not unlike Wade was playing with fire. 

He looked away and began to work, gently rinsing the wound with the distilled water. Peter hissed and jerked, looking away and accidentally knocking his head into the tub. His defensive tension subsided and was replaced with pain.

"You know, I'm not your average mutant either. Though technically I am one. I wasn't born one. I don't really remember what I was when I was younger, I've blown my brains out a few too many times and seem to have lost a good chunk of my neuro pathways and God knows what else over time. But I was diagnosed with cancer which I know I've explained a few times but I don't think I ever really explained why I'm still alive, have I?"

"Because of your healing factor. Your body treats itself and would relapse again?"

He dried the wound and took away any dead skin with tweezers, debating whether or not it would be worthwhile to cut away some of the dead edges. Not too close to what was still attached but just enough to get it out of the wound so it didn't get infected or interfere. Peter squirmed a bit but remained staring off into the distance.

"Yes, but I wasn't born with an active mutation. My mutations were induced through a treatment. I thought I was getting myself into something experimental but somewhat legal, you know? I wasn't, I was tortured for months, edging death up until someone decided it was time to take it to an extreme. Eventually, the stress forced my body to adapt to keep me alive and voilà I've spent the last nine years or something edging death."

"Edging death because your body would bring you to the brink or because you bright yourself to its door and you were rejected?" Peter asked quietly. When he looked over at the brunette he was staring off into the middle ground toward his bedroom.

"Both." He answered and threw away what he was using to dry to area and pulled out an ointment to slather the burn in. Peter's entire leg spasmed when he began to squeeze the medicated gel onto the burn. "Have you always been what you are?" The way Peter answered now was going to be detrimental if he denied his claims without rebutting. If Peter said he wasn't who Wade was claiming he was, he'd have pushed past the safe zone and might lose him.

Wade held his breath as the silence drew out. Peter was still staring off, eyes unmoving and expression flat. 

He pressed his lips together, skin prickling with nerves as the silence continued to draw out. He had to bite his tongue to make sure he didn't say something stupid as he carefully spread out the treatment before taking out a sheet of gauze to cover the wound. 

"I . . ." Peter trailed off before he could even begin, frowning and glancing down his body toward the gauze. He watched for a second while Wade taped it into place. "Spider-Man is the result of research in cross genetics and corporate desires to create its own line of superhumans. Weapons."

"Like Project Rebirth?" He asked. He was a Cap fan, he knew his WWII trivia and despite everything he'd lived through still kept his knowledge about the man close at heart, even if the guy wasn't really the hero he'd made him out to be. 

"Yeah, I guess. But the creator of the- the man who made the creatures that awoke the powers within Spider-Man ensured that only his bloodline could adhere to the transformation in order to control the use of his project. Spider-Man was bred into existence."

"Who was in charge of the research?" he frowned. Peter couldn't have made himself into Spider-Man, right? Did he have a brother he'd never mentioned? But that didn't quite make sense either, Peter would have been what, like fourteen when Spider-Man became a thing. Peter Parker wasn't a genius-child like Tony Stark, there was no way a kid was working for a company with the intention of dabbling into genetics and bioweapons as a child. 

"My father made his research for me," Peter said slowly, congested emotions spilling out through his statement. Wade wasn't getting the whole story but he did understand the implications that Peter's father was making something that only he or Peter could use and with it was a clear desire to create something or someone with power. Peter was created and matched to be Spider-Man. A project Peter claimed was to be used as a weapon. Meaning Spider-Man was a creature of destruction. Assuming Wade wasn't making and leaps or bounds with his interpretation he felt was close. Or at least it was something that reflected how Peter felt.

"And you're angry," he observed quietly. 

Peter snorted and finally looked over at Wade, meeting his gaze with eyes alight with craze. "I don't want to be responsible anymore."