For a moment, Wade didn't know where he was.

It took him a minute to piece together how he'd gotten there and what he'd down last night. Not because he'd been drunk and had no immediate memories. He had plenty of those, believe him .

No, he was confused because he was in Peter Parker's room, in Peter Parker's bed, and he wasn't sure why. Next to him, Spider-Man was fast asleep, bare naked - minus the mask covering half of his face.

It was still dark, meaning the sun wasn't up, but dawn was approaching fast enough that he could still make out the room. He stared up at the ceiling, then at the clutter around him, unchanged since the last time he'd been here.

Spider-Man wants some nookie and the first place he takes you is his BOSS'S room. Either he's got the chillest boss EVER, or he's trying to stick it to Parker.

Do you think they had a falling out? Did he only sleep with you to make Parker jealous?

You know what? Yeah, that makes sense. He knows its tense between you and Parker, sleeping with you is the perfect revenge.

Wade's face pinched and he looked over at the other man, searching his bare skin like it might reveal an underlying motive.

But that logic didn't click for him. Spider-Man had nothing but confidence that Parker was good, and he never hinted towards animosity. Hell, he was the one who wanted to prove to Wade that Parker wasn't a bad guy.

Soooo...fucking you in his bed proves he's not a bad guy? That doesn't prove anything other than that Peter Parker is, at the very least, a CONSIDERATE scumbag.

The inclination sits wrong on Wade's chest and makes him want to squirm, but he doesn't want to wake up Spider-Man. He doesn't want a confrontation yet. Not until he can get his thoughts in order.

Good luck with that.

Or, another voice continues eagerly, maybe this was just the first place he thought to take you because he and Parker get funky in here all the time. He wouldn't take you to his REAL apartment because that might give away something about is identity.

Wade liked that explanation better. Spider-Man not trusting him with his identity felt more familiar than using him as a fucktoy to get back at his boss. If he had been aware of a plan involving fucking Spider-Man to piss off his boss, he would've happily joined; he just wanted to be in on the scheme, not an accessory.

But we're so good at being an accessory!

Besides, he still wasn't sure where he stood with Peter Parker. He had doubts that Parker was as bad as he was being led to believe. His contact said he would get proof so long as he was patient, and Wade has been patient. In his own way.

Carefully, he climbed out of bed and sought out one of his pouches that had been tossed on the floor the moment they teleported inside. He scrounged through it until he found his phone.

His work phone.

Like an omen from the heavens – or maybe hell - a message sat in his inbox from his client.

"Good job distracting Spider-Man. Now, if you want proof that Parker's corrupt, head down to the sub levels of Parker Industries. Bad things happen throughout the night and early mornings. You'll find evidence there."

Wade shot a look at Spider-Man, like reading those words might rouse him from sleep so he could argue with Wade about snooping and the morality of Parker.

Hey, are we ever going to tell him that we fucked Parker twice?

Oh SHIT, what if Parker was only fucking us to get to SPIDEY? Is that why Webhead made a move? Because he was getting back at his boss for sleeping with us by SLEEPING WITH US?

"No," Wade muttered. "Maybe?...No, he wouldn't...would he?"

Only one way to find out.

Wade made a face, "Wake him up and ask?"

No stupid, head down to the sub levels and see once and for all if Peter Parker is secretly a malevolent piece of shit.

That didn't make a lot of sense, but it didn't include confronting his hero and crush and potentially finding out he was a toy being used between two people, so he opted for that one. With the finesse of a merc of his ability, he collected his clothes off the floor without disturbing his (lover? Boyfriend? Fuckbuddy? Once in a lifetime pity fuck?).

He had most of his suit with him, but unfortunately, if he wanted to check this out without tipping anyone off, incognito might be better. So, he picks through the discarded clothes around the room for something anonymous to wear. He finds an old baseball cap by a backpack and shoves it over his head in lieu of his mask, which he couldn't find. It might still be at the club. Thankfully, Parker is a guy who enjoys baggy clothing, and Wade finds a hoodie that fits him reasonably well. It's still a little tight, but it does the job. He finds a pair of the baggiest pajama bottoms in Parker's drawer next, and his ready to confront Parker Industries deepest, darkest secrets.

The only weapon that survived the trip was a single gun, so he pops into the kitchen to grab the largest knife. Just in case.

It's quiet this early in the morning. That pocket of time suspended in silence, just before the morning crew got to work and the night guards swapped with the day shift.

Inside the building, it's easier to get to the sub levels than he's expecting. Then again, he doubts anyone is expecting him. It's easy to dodge most of the cameras now that he's got a layout of all of them from Parker's tour, and Peter had been more than happy to supply Wade with any information he wanted on the security ins and outs.

Either very stupid of him, or he thought that would be enough for Wade to give him the clear. Wade was going with the former.

He makes it to the sub levels, and with the clearance card he'd swiped from Parker's desk, every door opens to him with wide arms. As he stalks the hallways and peers into rooms, he keeps an eye out for incriminating evidence or hints of dastardly deeds.

To be honest, he doesn't want to find anything. He wants to believe that Peter Parker is a good guy, for Spider-Man's sake, and maybe for his sake a little, too. He wants to put all of this behind him and make pancakes and play domesticity before life drags him back to its regularly scheduled shitshow.

But Wade Wilson doesn't get nice things.

And what he finds makes his stomach churn violently.

It's a lab of sorts, filled with machines and equipment that lend it that much credibility. There's a gaggle of people in starch white uniforms, fitted with black evil scientist gloves, medical masks, and the Parker Industries logo stamped in red on the back. They're surrounding a person suspended from a contraption, their arms and legs cut off into nubs, a shaved head, with breathing tubes coming out of their nose and mouth. The display is sick and inhumane. The noises that come out of person's chest, choked from the tubes, is heart-wrenching. The way their eyes roll with tears and pain. When those eyes flicker to glance at Wade, he recognizes the look. He sees it in the mirror all the time.

That's the face of someone who wants to die.

His stomach heaves and rolls, not so much from sickness, but from the sheer violence of emotions that rattle his core. Shock numbs him, because out of everything, he hadn't been expecting this. Regret splinters him, because he was hoping – praying, wishing - that his client was wrong. Disgust infects him, because he'd touched Parker; slept with him, laughed at his jokes.

And anger. Anger that rolled over him like a tsunami, a force of overwhelming power that engulfed cities, and ruined lives, and destroyed everything .

Wade chuckled, shoulders jumping with it. Parker had been close. He almost got Wade. Almost had him convinced that he was the saint everyone painted him as. But he'd lied . To the public. To Wade. To Spider-Man.

One of the scumbags holding a scalpel turned at the sound of the door opening, "Mister Parker, it's kind of early, is everything-" they stop at the sight of Deadpool darkening their door.

"That's not Parker." His colleague said, backing up.

"No. No it isn't," Wade said, voice heavy enough to crush spines. He tightens his grip on the knife, catching the fluorescent lights on its metal surface and drawing the eyes of the soon-to-be corpses. "Don't worry though, your boss is next. Just as soon as I finish playing operation on alllll you little roaches," he flipped the knife up, sauntering over, one deadly step after the next. A predator finding its prey and thirsty for blood. A manic grin split his lips, doing nothing but highlighting the rage burning in his eyes.

"Unless you grow faint at the sight of your own intestines hitting the floor, I suggest shooting yourself in the head now. But really, I'd rather you didn't." 

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)