Wade stares at the time and date and almost breaks the phone.

It's Thursday.

No, you don't understand, it's Thursday . He needs to get back to his apartment NOW. Before Preston shows up and Spider-Man blabs about the switcheroo, and Preston bars Wade from seeing Ellie until he "gets his shit together." Which is so unfair. Do you know how hard it is to get your "shit together" when your life is one long-running stream of diarrhea?

Wade is on thin ice as it is. He had to grovel, beg, and plead for months just to get Preston to agree to a full day unsupervised. Wade had so many things planned. Smiley-face pancakes. The zoo. Shopping. His favorite hot dog stand. Playing catch in the park. Whatever animated movie was playing in theaters. There's no fucking way he's letting Peter Parker ruin all his hard work.

CRACK!

Wade glares at the broken phone, cracked and in pieces in his fist. He didn't even realize he was squeezing it so hard. He hadn't been squeezing it hard.

"Piece of shit," Wade said, throwing the pieces onto the bed. A frantic look around the room reveals no other means of communication. He can't call through a laptop, he doubts a pigeon will carry his message, and Spider-Man's webshooters don't connect to blue-tooth.

Wait.

Wade snatches the Spider-Man mask off the floor. He's overheard Spider-Man have conversations in this thing. Not conversations like Wade had with the boxes, but actual, genuine conversations with people . There must be some kind of comm link or speed dial sewn in. The inside is spider-webbed with running wires and seams, which don't seem too comfy to wear, but they've gotta serve some purpose outside of Spider-Man's nerd aesthetic.

Yanking the mask on, wincing as a few threads tear, Wade straightens the lenses over his eyes and squints as the system boots up. A soft warm hum fills his ears, a faint tech-like whine, as coding runs across the lens screen. System check. Spacial awareness. Notifications. Missed calls. Daily reminders. Parker really needs to pay rent. The lenses are dim, dulling colors, dampening sound, and making edges less sharp. The mask smells faintly of old takeout, but Wade's eyes relax. He was unaware of how much he'd been squinting, or the headache burrowed behind his left eye, until the world was toned down by several shades.

There's no keyboard or buttons to push, no contact list, and no instruction manual.

"Uh...call Wade?" Wade says out loud.

An error flashes in front of his eyes and he jumps back.

ERROR! CONTACT NOT FOUND.

"Call Deadpool?"

ERROR! CONTACT NOT FOUND.

Spider-Man has called Wade's burner before, so he has his number buried somewhere in here. Unless he deleted it last night. Like a piss baby.

"Call Mistake-Pool."

ERROR! CONTACT NOT FOUND.

Well, that's relieving at least.

"Call...Pool Boy?"

CALLING POOL BOY.

"Son of a bitch."

It rings for a while. So long, Wade's worried he's going to be left to voice-mail, which can't happen, Mr. Responsibility , pick up the fucking phone. He's just about to yank the mask off when the ringing cuts off and his voice appears on the other end. Ugh. Weird.

"Wade? Wade, is that you?"

"Spidey?"

Spider-Man breathes in relief. "Yeah, me. I'm in your fucking body."

"Well, so long as you're treating it right."

"Wade!" Spider-Man hisses. He's whispering, talking as quietly as one can when one wants to scream at Wade really, really loud.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'm pretty sure I'm in yours too. Don't worry, I'm treating it with the utmost gentility, as you'd want."

"What are we going to do?"

"Well, how the fuck should I know?" Wade grouses, throwing his hands in the air. "I'm not your fairy godmother. Let me just pull a wand outta my ass real quick. Bitichity-boppity-boo."

"Wow, yeah, if only she hadn't gotten AWAY last night. Maybe we wouldn't be in this mess."

"Fuck off."

"You fuck off."

"Only if you say please." Spider-Man does not say please. "Are you still at my apartment? You better not mess with my stuff. I have a system."

"Yeah, I am," Spider-Man says, shuffling around a bit on the phone. "Your system needs a housekeeper."

"Pot, meet kettle."

"If you touch any of my babies-"

"Your babies are untouched. I don't want your babies. Keep 'em." Wade hesitates, "but speaking of babies-"

"Hey, dad? Can we make waffles?" Comes another voice over the phone, muffled from a distance, but smaller and sweeter. Wade's heart clenches, and his blood goes cold. His hand reaches up to grasp the phone, but all he can do is press his hand to his ear like it might help him hear better.

Ugh, not waffles, Ellie.

"Oh, uh....may-maybe in a second...sweetie?" Spider-Man says and Wade winces, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Let me just finish up this call real quick. It's super important."

"Okay. But you pinkie-swore."

The sound of a door closing. "When the fuck were you going to tell me you have a daughter?" Spider-Man hisses a second later when it's just him again.

"I wasn't going to tell you because it's none of your business," Wade snaps back.

"I'm not fit to be a parent, Pool. I'm not ready to be a dad."

"Welcome to my world."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"You heard her. Make waffles."

"I don't know how to make waffles!"

Wade glances around Spider-Man's feeble "kitchen". "Yeah, that doesn't surprise me, actually. I thought you were supposed to be a role model. Who's my kid supposed to look up to now? You don't even have breakfast materials."

"Shut up! As if you're any better of a role model."

"I thought we already established that. I'm heading over."

"Wait, I just need..." a soft 'fuck' that Wade hears very clearly. "I need you to drop off a couple of things for me. Pictures to the Bugle. And maybe the Feast Center. And maybe ESU too."

"Sounds like you have a busy day. Good luck with that. Start the waffles. I'll be there soon."

"Wade, this is my JOB. I need- holy SHIT, kid, put the gun down!" Spider-Man shrieks.

Wade goes ramrod straight. "What's going on?"

"Wade, your kid has a gun! No, don't point it! Hold on!"

"What's happening to my baby?"

"Okay, okay. put the gun down and I'll-" BANG! A wet noise of pain, a thud, and silence.

"Hey! Webs? Spider-Man? What the fuck is going on? What happened to my baby?"

Spider-Man's voice comes back several minutes later, thick with pain and sounding wet. "Your - your baby fucking SHOT me."

"Huh..."

Yellow always said to start em' young.