This chapter chewed me up, spit me out, stole my dog, committed tax-fraud in my name, and ran me over with a cement truck.

There's a line Wade isn't supposed to cross. A thin fragile line that he keeps to one side of at all times, promising himself he wouldn't tramp over it without the full approval of the person on the other side.

It continues to amaze him just how easily he breaks those promises.

He hasn't yet, but he's pacing the roof, pulling at hair he doesn't have, because he's this close to breaking into the Daily Bugle and embezzling Spider-Man's address from their employee records.

He'd cut himself from his web and fell 700 feet (only barely catching himself on the edge of the building and scaling back up) and was now stuck toying the line between friendship and utter-betrayal-of-trust. Wade supposed he already breached the "utter betrayal of trust" part while (lightly) stalking Spider-Man, but this was a whole nother level.

Fuck, he wants to shoot something. Nothing unfrazzles his nerves better than the delicious belch of a gun. But there's nothing to shoot except the building or himself, so he alternates between wringing his hands and compulsively checking his weapons.

This is bad, one of the unhelpful voices in his head chirps. A no good, very fucked up situation you've found yourself in, Wilson. You never fail to impress.

"Shut up," Wade hisses, but they're not wrong.

Somewhere out there, probably slamming into buildings and colliding with billboards, was a Spider-Man high off his rocker on a drug they knew nothing about. Ponytail said it was Acid, but Wade wasn't so sure. He's done plenty of LSD's—way back when he was pretty and they worked on him—and whatever is in Spider-Man's system seems...different.

It's affecting him longer than either of them thought it would, for one. Spider-Man's metabolism isn't as good as Wade's, but it's still impressive by human standards, and it takes a lot to bring him down. Whatever's in this Dorothy stuff is no joke.

And for two, Spider-Man left in a hurry. He was frantic and embarrassed, and as far as Wade is concerned, this was his first experience with LSD's, so he could be spiraling into a bad trip for all he knew. Wade knew from experience how bad those can be. Depending on the drug (and how strong it is) you can hallucinate some pretty messed up shit. It can sabotage emotions and make you feel paranoid, too. Make you feel things you don't want to feel. Spider-Man is already a wound-up ball of anxiety, it wouldn't take much to stir him into a tizzy. Add super powers to the mix, and well...

"You were supposed to be watching him," Wade snarls at himself, counting the bullets in his glock. "He's probably out there fighting a bench or something."

Well, knowing Spider-Man, he's probably heading home. Somewhere familiar and safe. But Wade can't dig up his address because that's crossing a line. You know, that pretty little line he was talking about earlier. He already felt (sort of) bad about watching Spider-Man at work, he'd feel like an absolute creep watching his home too. It's not normal to spy on your best pals, or so Cable says.

Wade's stomach rolls. He can't risk his friendship with Spider-Man. It took too much time and effort. The slow up-hill climb from I-hate-and-can-barely-tolerate-you to patrol-partners-with-weekly-fast-food-hangouts. Spider-Man might forgive him for stalking his job, but following him home? Peeping on his private life that he was so careful to keep under wraps? Yeah, Wade may as well throw himself off the Brooklyn Bridge now.

Buuut, if Spider-Man is having a bad-trip, he can end up lashing out. He can do a lot of destruction with those powers of his, to himself and others, and he'd never forgive himself if he hurt an innocent bystander.

Wade threw his hands in the air. "Fuck it!"

He's reaching for the maintenance door when he notices the silver cuff still locked around his wrist. Spider-Man's web-shooter. Wade completely forgot he had it on. He whoops, sprinting back to the building edge. Web-slinging is exhausting, and if you weren't careful, you'd tear a muscle or pull your arm out of place. But it covered a lot more ground than going on foot. Besides, ripped tendons and dislocated arms aren't a problem for Wade.

Still, he takes a second to stretch his arms and adjust the web-shooter. He's never used one before (unless you counted that one comic issue), but he's seen Spider-Man do it a million times. How hard can it be?

He promptly shoots a web and misses his mark by a dozen feet. Wade scowls as the web-line drifts, flapping gently in the wind. Shaking the useless line off, he aims again, adjusting where he needs, and shoots.

It latches onto a building, and he whoops again.

"I'm coming, Webs!" He shouts, and jumps.

And crashes into a wall five seconds later. And then falls an additional 20 feet before shooting another webline, stopping his descent. His arm jerks, popping loud, and he almost lets go of the web as pain blooms in his shoulder. Dislocated. As to be expected.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Wade hisses, grabbing the line with his good arm and planting his feet on the side of the building, a lost mountain-climber sorely confused with his terrain. "Could've gone worse. My neck could've snapped."

He resets his arm when he makes it to the roof. Okay, Spider-Man made it a lot easier than it was. But Wade can figure this out. It's all in the body, right? Twist the back, point the hips, show off the booty—Spider-Man 101. Easy peasy.

He steps onto the ledge and aims again. "Alright, take two."

<><><><>

For once in his life, Wade isn't batting zero with Lady Luck.

Being weapons-savant, Wade figures out the webshooter in no time and is swinging like the world's craziest Tarzan. It's a lot less graceful and impressive compared to the real deal, but Wade doesn't think he's doing half bad. Spider-Man can claim his little gadgets were "tools" all he liked, but Wade knows a weapon when it crosses his grubby hands. The things he could do with these doohickeys.

But that's not the lucky part.

He pauses after a particularly rough landing to wait for his broken ankle to mend when a shriek catches his attention. Followed by a bunch more shrieks, and what can he say? He's curious.

"What's going on over here?" he muses, dropping onto the building's fire-escape to peer into the slim alley below. The origin of the scream comes from a grungy woman pinned to a wall by something white.

"Ohhh. Shit." Wade scales the fire-escape with the speed and finesse of an amateur parkour-ist, landing with a loud thud. The woman flails, her screams turned to heaving breaths and grunts as she yanks on the web cocooning her entire left side. She's not very successful. That webbing was made to hold villains a lot stronger than her thin frame can provide. She's lucky none of it caught her face.

"Hey, hey, shhh," he shushes her when she notices him. She stops struggling for all of 10 seconds before Wade pulls out a knife and screams again. Yeah, he can't blame her. He should know better than pulling a weapon on someone already scared shitless. He lurches forward, pressing his hand to her mouth.

"Easy," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you, but I do need you to be an itsy bit more quiet. Capeesh?" She shakily nods. "Great! And your prize," he slices through the webbing, "a free detangling from this goopy goo. There we go. Now, speaking of aforementioned itsy bitsy, you wouldn't happen to have seen a red and blue superhero around here by any chance? About ye-high, goes by Spider-Man? Tight spandex, great ass, and loopier than a fruit loop?"

Her eyes flicker to a half-open dumpster against the opposite wall.

"Awesome! Thanks for the help. You can go now." He steps away, and she hot-foots it out of there at record speeds.

Overflowing garbage bags surround the dumpster, spilling rotting junk and black juices onto the cement. Wade approaches cautiously, and when he's close enough, peers slowly over the top as to not startle the person within. Inside, Spider-Man hunches over himself, legs pinned to his chest, and breathing heavier than a panting dog. One arm he keeps wrapped around his legs and the other has the heel of his hand pressed tight against one of his eyes. He's half whimpering and half muttering, the words so jumbled its hard to decipher. Judging by tone, Wade doesn't think the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man is feeling all-too friendly.

"Hey," Wade says, and that's enough to send Spider-Man reeling backward, hitting the back of the dumpster with a painful CLANG! Wade winces.

Spider-Man's hands shoot up, but Wade dodges the webs easily, tapping down years of military training and habits that make his fingers twitch towards his guns. Trying to pin down Spider-Man in this state was going to do more harm than good, and it'd likely end with Wade glued to the wall with several broken bones to match.

He waits until Spider-Man lowers his hands, pressing them to his face again with a pained keen, before climbing inside, taking care not to startle his friend as bags crinkle under his weight.

"Hey, it's okay. It's okay. It's me, Wade. I know you're off the fritz right now, but you're gonna be fine. I don't know what that drugs' doing to you, but it's probably why everything is going coo-coo crazy. But it'll wear off, so just...don't freak out."

Spider-Man's breathing doesn't lighten. Tension builds in his body, bristling and snarling like a caged animal prepared to bite. Still, his head jerks to the side, absorbing Wade's words.

"Wade?" he says, like he's not sure it's him.

"Yeah, it's Wade." Wade holds out his hands placatively. "Your buddy Deadpool. Merc with the Mouth and Killer Ass, but they usually keep that last bit out because it's too clunky. What's going on, Boo?"

"I...I don't know..."

"That's okay. We'll figure it out later. Right now, I think we need to get you out of here and somewhere warm and comfy, dontcha think? I like dumpsters as much as the next guy, but we can better."

Spider-Man doesn't hear him, or maybe the words just aren't registering, because it doesn't look like he intends on leaving any time soon. Wade still counts it as a win when Spider-Man allows him to scoot closer.

He pauses when Spider-Man makes a distressed noise in the back of his throat, heart pinching in concern. It's rare seeing these small moments of weakness. Spider-Man simply never allowed it. On the occasions that he didn't limp home to lick his wounds in private, sitting still long enough for Wade to attempt some level of medical treatment, he barely uttered a word, much less a noise of pain. Whether it was stitches, road-rash, burns, dislocated limbs, concussion, or broken bones. He tightened his jaw and stared at the wall, enduring it all. The guy had the pain tolerance of, well, a superhero.

Never in the year that he and Spider-Man have been partners has Wade heard him make a noise like that, and it's concerning.

Wade's mind flails in response, jumping between how he's going to make this worse and the idea of calling someone more equipped to handle it. Like the Avengers, or the Fantastic Four. One of them has to have a magic cure-all, fix-it pill. But he doesn't have either of their numbers and they're too far away to leave Spider-Man here to go knock at their doorstep.

So what now?

His thoughts turn to the journal sitting in his apartment, tucked safely inside one of his duffel bags. He thinks of the observations and notes inside, the ones he's been collecting on the man trembling in front of him. What he wouldn't do for it now.

Well, there is one thing he can try. Wade doesn't know if it'll work—doesn't really expect it too—but it's all he's got.

Carefully, he lowers his hand to Spider-Man's wrist, watching the man's quivering frame for signs of fear or discomfort. He doesn't grab it, just lays his hand on top, resting it there. Spider-Man flinches, and Wade would've pulled away if not for Spider-Man's finger flicking against his gloves. It flicks again, hesitant and unsure, as if dipping his toes into a puddle and expecting a shark bite. But he doesn't pull away.

Taking that as a go-ahead, Wade spread his fingers down Spider-Man's wrist, mimicking the way Spider-Man had done it for Spidey Jr, and strokes the area above his wrist joint. To his great surprise, and even greater relief, Spider-Man exhales shakily and leans against the dumpster, shoulders sagging.

It's not perfect. Tightness lingers in his arms, his legs and hands, like a strained rubber band ready to snap. His breathing is still raspy and labored. But his hand unsticks from the dumpster wall and wraps around Wade's forearm, clutching it like a piece of driftwood amidst a stormy sea.

"There we go," Wade murmurs. "Just like that. See, I'm a friend. I'm not going to hurt you."

"There are things," Spider-Man whispers, swallowing hard and nervous. "Th-things everywhere. Watching us."

That...is very concerning. Wade glances outside the dumpster, but it's just the two of them. He doesn't have an OP 6th sense, but he's positive the alley is empty. He's heard of bad drug trips, but he didn't think hallucinations were a common side-effect. For hallucinogenics, maybe, but for LSD's?

"Acid my ass," Wade growls. He's going to hunt Ponytail down and give him a very stern talking to with his trusty little knives.

In the meantime, Wade takes Spider-Man's other wrist and rubs it too. "They're not real, I promise. And when was the last time I lied to you? And that one time I told you I didn't eat the last taco doesn't count. Technically, I hate half of it and a pigeon stole the rest. That's a half-lie. Point is, nothing is going to get you on my watch." He looks around the dumpster again. "Now, how about you come with me, okay?"

Spider-Man's grip tightens and the bones in Wade's forearm creak. Any harder and they'll snap clean in half. Wade doesn't stop rubbing.

"Can't." Spider grits out, shaking his head with the intensity of a stubborn child refusing to go to school. "I can't go out there. They - they're everywhere. I can't. They'll - they'll -"

Wade shushes him, leaning in to keep it soft. "Hey, I won't let them get you. You know me. I'm Deadpool. If anything even tries, they won't make it two feet without saying hello to Bea and Arthur." He indicates to his strapped katana's with a tilt of his head.

Spider-Man considers this. Let it muddle through his thoughts and grind through the gears in his brain before nodding. It's small and timid, but it's all Wade needs. Tugging on his wrists, he pulls Spider-Man closer, helping him stand among the uneven ground of trash-bags and cardboards boxes. As he aids Spider-Man in climbing out, a perfect mold of the hero's hand imprints into the dumpster's mouth. Wade stares at it.

Spider-Man is losing control of his strength. If that's not a sign they need to skedaddle as fast as humanely possible, then Deadpool will receive his Honored Citizen Award in the mail soon. Thank Beyonce he found him before anyone else did. Except that one lady, and she was lucky to make it out unscathed.

A frightened Spider-Man is a deadly one.

Wade whispers support and soothing placations as he fishes his phone from his pouches and dials a number.

"Hey, Dopinder," he says when the recipient picks up on the first ring, "I need a favor..."

<><><><><><><>

Dopinder picks them up from the same alley.

Wade tells him to shut off the radio as he helps Spider-Man inside, because sensory overload is a bitch, and the driver does so with little argument. He does a double take when Wade shuts the door and settles into the backseat, eyes darting to the passenger seat where Wade normally sat, then back at Wade, before slowly pulling onto the street with more grace and patience than he ever has before.

"Who's your friend, Mr. Pool?"

Wade half rolls his eyes, too focused on making sure Spider-Man won't punch the cab's old worn seats into fluff. The iconic red and blue suit isn't hard to place, any 5-year-old on the street can name the hero on sight.

"Just a work buddy," Wade chirps. If Dopinder really doesn't know he has one of New York's most well-known superheroes in his cab, then Wade will keep it to himself. For Spider-Man's sake.

The hero himself stares transfixed out the window. Wade follows his eyes to the street outside, wondering what he is seeing in the shadows. He wants to turn Spider-Man away, to have him close his eyes until they're somewhere less populated and loud, but that won't help. So, he does the next best thing and retakes Spider-Man's wrist, rubbing it again.

Sensing the contact, Spider-Man leans into Wade, his grip on the seatbelt loosening. His eyes never leave the window. He's still shaking, and every so often his breath catches in his throat, like an invisible boogeyman keeps popping in front of him. How long has it been since the injection? Close to an hour, maybe two, Wade thinks. How long until it clears out of his system?

LSD's—if that's even what this drug is—were normally taken in small amounts. The tiniest dot or thinnest square of solvent paper, and Spider-Man was injected with enough to OD several regular men of his age and size.

Wade has a feeling this drug isn't your run-of-the-mill drug.

He grimaces, leaning in, finding comfort in being close to the other man, even if he isn't the one who needs it. He moves his fingers over Spider-Man's wrist to check his pulse, which is beating faster than it should be. Erratically. Wade's no doctors—he does the breaking, not the healing—but he has a feeling that isn't good.

"Hey, buddy o' pal," Wade catches Dopinders eyes through the rear-view mirror, which the driver had been glancing through sporadically to look at them. "How about we speed up a little? As graciously with as little bumpy-ness as possible. My friend here is...sick, and he needs soup and bedrest."

"Of course, Mr. Pool." Dopinder affirms with a determined nod and speeds up. It's still a tad too bumpy to be comfortable, but Wade figures the sooner they make it to his safe house, the better.

<><><><><>

When they arrive at the safe-house, Wade pays Dopinder his usual fee: a nice crisp high-five. Two, in fact, as an extra incentive to keep quiet about this late night call.

It's not an old gutted building or dingy scab-of-an-apartment he usually stays in while kicking his feet up in New York, but an old warehouse near an isolated wharf. Mostly abandoned and off the record, paid for in cash under the table. No one would even know it exists unless they wandered by and broke in. Which wouldn't be a good idea once they realize who was squatting in this shit hole.

And shit hole it is. It's been a while since his last visit and the state he left the warehouse in isn't earning him brownie points from the rodents who'd taken up residency in his absence. The consequence of his neglect is apparent from the fine layer of dust, mold, and half-eaten takeout cartons that long since died under unnatural causes.

Wade slaps dust off the couch as best he can, finds a moth-eaten blanket more or less suitable for use, and sits Spider-Man on the couch with it wrapped around his shoulders. He'll find something more comfortable and less grimy later.

Spider-Man huddles into the couch corner, curling into a tight ball that would've been nigh impossible without his flexibility. Wade gets to work making the place more acceptable to live in. Or sit in. Or breath in. Really, he may as well be cleaning a bio-hazard.

"This is what you get for not hiring that fucking mid," he grumbles, loading his arms with old plastic bags, containers, and empty bottles, shoving them into a garbage bag. "It's not enough to buy the outfit, you gotta commit."

Once the bag is full to bursting, he ties it up and sets it aside to burn later. The two-seater couch is stained with food and only a little blood, so it's a far cry better than some of the other furniture he's owned. At least, he doesn't think he blew his brains out in that one.

That honor was saved for the mangled armchair decomposing five feet away. And the old port-a-potty he'd stuffed in a corner of the room. He'll steer Spider-Man clear of that.

Thank Death Spider-Man doesn't have any open wounds. Just being in proximity of the "kitchen" will garner an infection. Wade casts a worried glance at Spider-Man, who hadn't budged from his position. He'd curled the blanket tight around himself, so only the top of his head was visible, reminding Wade of a child hiding from the monster in their closet. Wade frowns, fretting with the lip of a moldy container.

Hopefully, this spiral won't last long and they can go somewhere less revolting. That isn't a health-hazard if you breathe in too deeply. In the meantime, he finds another garbage bag and fills it with everything in sight.

"It's gonna be okay, Webs," Wade says, and the lump underneath the blanket flinches. "It's 2:03, so it's only been a little over an hour. Knowing your healing factor, as shitty as it is, it shouldn't take much longer."

The muffled noise he gets in response doesn't sound reassured.

Wade keeps up a steady stream of chatter as he does the house-cleaning. He knows from personal experience that a bad trip without someone there to ground you makes it so much worse. It's easy to disassociate from reality, so every 15 minutes he tells him the time too.

"It's only been fifteen minutes," Wade soothes when a pair of gloved hands start strangling their blanket.

"It's feels so much longer," Spider-Man whispers, muscles bunched so tightly Wade stops being the perfect housemaid to lean over and gently squeeze his shoulders, soft enough not to startle him. He follows the same pattern he'd done back at the dumpster, rubbing Spider-Man's shoulders slow and gentle. Spider-Man immediately relaxes into the touch, leaning into it the way a frightened pet might, seeking comfort. Wade is more than happy to provide.

Good thing he picked up that little trick. He doubts he would've been able to get Spider-Man to calm down so quickly without it. He switches from massaging his shoulders to rubbing down his arms, slow and firm, to convey as much "safe" as possible.

"I know," he says. "Feels like high school math all over again."

"I liked math."

Wade snorts, rolling his eyes. "You would. I'm not even surprised. There was nothing normal about you before you got your powers, huh? Liked math, what kind of freak likes math? Fine, what subjects didn't you like?"

It takes a minute for Spider-Man to answer. "Gym. I didn't like gym."

Wade raises a hairless brow. "Really? You? Mr. Tarzan? Alright, fine, it's going to feel like a very long gym class, with scary demons coaches and gremlin jocks. But it's not as long as it feels, alright. See, it's only been," he glances at his My Little Pony watch, "five minutes. Probably felt like a whole hour, huh? You're going to be just fine. Just hang in there, buddy."

And hang in there, Spider-Man does. Or at least he tries. As soon as Wade finishes the would-be living room, with the scarce cleaning supplies on hand, he joins Spider-Man on the couch for a break, sitting on the opposite end so the other man see's him and knows he isn't alone. Ten minutes later Spider-Man jumps off the cushion like Mephisto poked his ass with a pitchfork, perching on the top of the couch, clutching the frame with his hands as his breathing sky-rockets.

"Get away," he wheezes, tearing strips of polyester off as he shoots a web at a corner of the room. There's a hysteric slip in his voice. "Go the fuck away! I swear to god, if you don't-"

"Whoa, whoa, easy slugger," Wade jumps up, placing himself between Spider-Man and whatever figmentation is picking a fight. "Look at me, Spidey. Yeah, right here. Right in my big dumb mask. Some people say it looks like a really fucked up panda, so look into my stupid panda mask, full Po the Dragon Warrior shit. Listen to me."

It's hard to tell if Spider-Man is looking at him, but he isn't shooting the wall, or Wade, so he assumes he's not being ignored.

"Alright, breathe with me, Webs. Five seconds inhale. Eight seconds exhale. Okay. Inhale," Wade breathes deeply. "Exhale." He lets it back out. "Inhale...exhale..." he keeps it up, urging Spider-Man to mimic him until they're breathing in sync.

"Yeah, Colossus taught me that little trick. It's nice, isn't it? Getting all that oxygen in the brain. Delicious." Wade rambles, coaxing him back on the couch. The back is, unfortunately, mangled in the process. Wade keeps up a steady stream of, "It's okay," and "You're safe" until Spider-Man looks less like he wants to rip apart the furniture and more like he wants to hide in a box. Sadly, there are no boxes Wade can offer as optimal hidey-holes from the big bad monsters.

As Spider-Man sinks back in his designated corner, Wade's eyes drift to the web he'd shot at the wall, curious about what demons were playing peek-a-boo with New York's boy-scout.

Heh, actually, despite Spider-Man's pesky no-killing rule, he isn't much of a boy-scout. He's relayed enough stories that involved good old-fashioned B&E, stealing evidence from police precincts and crime scenes, general vigilantism, and the odd bit of arson to be considered a boy-scout. Hell, he'd even stolen an ambulance once!

But he has a shining moral compass, and his day-to-day life is as normal as any other citizens, so what skeletons were hiding in his closet? What lurked in the recesses of his mind, turning up now to haunt him? Wade can only guess, but whatever it is, it makes him itch to grab his katana's and bury them in something warm and fleshy.

Instead, he buries his fingers in Spider-Man's shoulders, rubbing down his upper arms until Spider-Man's shaking isn't at seizure levels. Wade doesn't return to his spot on the couch and goes back to making this warehouse more live-able. The section he dares call a kitchen is an atrocity, and he doesn't even want to check the port-a-potty.

"Should've just brought him to the apartment," Wade grumbles, scrubbing one of the few pans he'd stashed away, almost impressed with the amount of grease that comes off. "Was just another thirty-minute drive...so much better than this dump...he's gonna hate it when his brain is back to normal...fucking disgusting...a landfill would've been less of a health hazard..."

He peeks at Spider-Man sometime later. The man is curled back into a ball, the blanket burrito'd around his body. The drug might finally be filtering out because his breathing isn't as erratic and he's not shaking as much. Wade is taller than Spider-Man, wider too, but that doesn't mean Spider-Man is a string-bean. He has an impressive build and plenty of hard-packed muscle (a side-effect in their line of work), so it's almost comical how small he can make himself look.

Over the next hour, Wade finishes the make-shift kitchen, just shy of bleaching every surface, before heading to the port-a-potty, and YEP that's an atomic disaster. He's lucky he doesn't have any open words. Healing factor or not, he isn't surviving that.

It's while toting a bundle of old clothes strewn about the port-a-potty that he detours to check on his guest and has to do an immediate double-take. Spider-Man is fast asleep, the blanket a twisted snake around his torso and legs, mouth slightly parted, and arm dangling over the side of the couch. From his fingers, his mask stares at Wade, wide-eyed and innocent.

Spider-Man's bare face becomes a blaring red light shooting a WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! message in Wade's head that has him dropping the clothes and spinning around.

FUCK! Spider-Man seriously needs to stop pulling his mask off in front of Wade because, dammit, the temptation to look is too strong. Wade is allowed to see Spider-Man's face when the hero is in his civvies, not the Spider-Man suit. Seeing his face with the Spider-Man suit felt like an invasion of privacy. Like he was doing something he knew he wasn't supposed to do. A shy teenager seeing a porn-magazine for the first time. It's not the same when Spider-Man is in his civvies. The magazine is at someone else's house, at that point, so it's not really his fault, is it?

"You're a meat-pocketed, puss-leaking hypocrite," Wade grouches into his hands. "A two-timing, no good liar and you're so fucking lucky that drug drop happened because he was going to dangle you off the Empire State building for a week."

Wade enjoys tugging on the line, trying to reel Spider-Man in, but not when it has the Lochness Monster on the other end. A thought he should've considered before he took up his observational habits, but hindsight really is 20-20.

He mutters more insults at himself as he scoops up the clothes and scurries away. If Spider-Man is asleep, that probably means the drug is subsiding and his body is finally flushing it out. Wade's not sure when he'll wake up, but he'll be hungry when he does.

Spider-Man likes pizza, right? Yes, of course he does. They have pizza all the time. It's a Wednesday night special. Wade shakes his head, focusing on tracking down his burner phone instead of thinking about the way Spider-Man's hair stuck out in so many directions.

"Burner phone." He tells himself firmly. "Burner phone. Burner phone. Brunette phone - no. Fuck."

He finds it on an old microwave, two rotations from exploding, and punches in the first pizza place that comes to mind. He orders the desired amount for two superhumans, and then argues with the worker on the other end about the address. Several threats of injury—and even more bribing— later, Wade makes a mental note to find a new safe house as he tosses the phone on the counter and stalks to the living room.

Only to double-back when he remembers the very maskless Spider-Man and veers to the port-a-potty to pretend to scrub the floor, keeping his eyes trained on brown bloodstains so they don't stray to his unconscious guest.

<><><><><><>

Spider-Man wakes up a little after the pizza arrives. The smell is probably what rouses him. He groans, pulling himself up on trembling arms, and blinks blearily, smacking his lips to get rid of the pasty taste on one's tongue after sleeping like the dead.

Wade is sitting in the stained armchair with his legs propped over the side, mask pulled halfway up his face to gnaw on a slice of pizza as he plays on his phone. He'd moved the chair, so it was facing the wall, not the couch, but he see's Spider-Man sit up from the corner of his eye. He frees one hand to point at the stack of pizza boxes on the duct-taped table.

"Foods all yours," he says around the slice in his mouth, spilling grease down his chin. "Arrived a few minutes ago, so it's still warm."

Spider-Man rubs his head with a groan, hunching over, before lethargically grabbing the box at the top of the stack. His fingers graze his face and he freezes. He presses his palm against the side of his forehead, then his cheek, before twisting around frantically.

"Where's my mask? Why is it off? Did you-"

"Easy buckaroo," Wade flaps a hand at him, "you took it off yourself. I would've put it back on, but that probably would've freaked you out. But don't worry, I was a good boy. Didn't sneak a peak. Not willingly, at least. You should really warn a guy before taking that thing off. Second time," he held up two fingers for emphasis, "that's twice as many times as I'm sure you're comfortable with. You really should figure that out. It's becoming a problem. And you know what they say about bad habits."

"Wade-"

"But yeah, I didn't take it off. Cross my heart and wish to die. I'll swear on Blind Al's grave as soon as she kicks the bucket. Get me a Bible and I'll swear on that too. Whatever suits your fancy. But I didn't do it."

"Wade. Calm down, I believe you." Spider-Man pulls the pizza box into his lap and digs in. His appetite is raring to go, as Wade suspected. That's a good sign, even if he's too tired to panic over being maskless for an indeterminate amount of time. "How long was I...uh..."

"Higher than a helium balloon? Longer than I thought you'd be. Roughly," Wade glances at his watch, "three or four hours. With your superhuman-ness, I figured it'd be one, two tops. But that was a shit-ton of drugs they pumped you with, so I guess your shitty healing factor couldn't handle it."

Spider-Man's mask is back on now, pulled up to his nose, so Wade adjusts his chair so they're face-to-face. A long string of cheeses forms a bridge between Spider-Man's lips and the slice held sacredly in his hands.

"You know," he says around a full mouth, "just because I don't have a heal-from-all healing factor, doesn't mean it's shitty."

Wade snorts, "If it can't 'heal from all', then it's not doing a very good job, is it?"

"We can't all walk off a gunshot wound."

"How unfortunate for you, given your line of work."

Spider-Man looks like he wants to argue, but ultimately shrugs and continues stuffing his face. Wade lets him inhale a few slices before addressing the tremors still racking his frame.

"How're you feeling? If you're queasy, you probably shouldn't eat a lot. I just cleaned the floor and I don't want all my hard work to go to waste."

"I'm," Spider-Man sucks in a small breath, lenses contracting in a way that means his eyes are closed. "I don't know. My heart is still kind of...racing. I feel a little drowsy. My head hurts," as if remembering, he presses his fingers into his temple. "I...I can remember...things. Like freaky things. Coming out of the floor and ceiling. Staring at me."

Wade ignores it as the character in his games dies and sits up. He considers rubbing Spider-Man's wrists again, to soothe him, but he's more lucid now and Wade's not sure if the act will get him tossed out a window.

"Yep, those are hallucinations for you." He says, leaning forward, feeling somewhat awkward as he knit and unknit his hands. "Do you...want to talk about it? Maybe? I mean, they can be pretty scary, so if you want to, like...talk...I can listen..."

Spider-Man smiles, but it looks like he's trying to swallow a metal ball. "No. Maybe later. I just," he takes another breath and picks up a fresh slice of pizza, "I'm just hungry right now."

Wade holds his palms up. "Amen to that, babe. Pass me a box, would ya?"

<><><><><><>

They end up dragging out Wade's old gaming console. The cracked TV barely flickers to life and the games are several years old, but they make jokes about the characters and scrounge up obscure challenges as they play, so it's a lot more fun than Wade expects.

The pizza is finished with little mercy and even less fanfare. Wade offers to order more. His safe house is already compromised, after all, but Spider-Man turns him down. Of course. From what Wade's gathered in his observations, Spider-Man has a hard time letting people dote on him.

Seems just like the bastard.

He regrets it the moment he lets the words slip out. "You should let people help you out. Your skinny ass needs to eat more."

Spider-Man tensed, allowing Wade to finish off his avatar with a flurry of moves that would be impossible outside pixels. Wade doesn't celebrate his victory. His blood turns cold and his stomach drops, feeling like he'd made a terrible mistake. A poker player revealing his hand too soon. As though he'd lost a silent game with himself.

Good job, Wilson. You were the only player and you still manage to lose.

He doesn't look at Spider-Man and quickly starts a new match, getting a few good hits in before Spider-Man shakes his head and half-heartedly attempts to defend himself. It's silent for a period of time before the other shoe inevitably drops.

"How long have you been watching me?"

Wade considers not answering. Or avoiding the question like he did at the warehouse. Couldn't be condemned to a crime he didn't confess to, right? That's how this worked. He's behind in "Law and Order" but that's a legal excuse, he thinks. It makes sense. It's not like he said anything condemning. He could've easily been talking about the way Spider-Man inhaled his food on patrols. If you catch him without his shirt, it's obvious he's not eating enough.

Instead of saying any of this, Wade's shoulders sag and he doesn't have the heart to block the succession of unrealistic attacks that drop his avatars life bar into orange. He doesn't know if Spider-Man is projecting through the game, but just in case, he takes stock of the closest exits.

Then again, if Spider-Man kicks his ass, Wade will not stop him.

"Only two weeks," he admits. "And just that. I promise."

Spider-Man's tone is harder and his jabs on the controller more hostile, but he refuses to look at Wade. "Did you look into me? Get all my information from your merc buddies?"

Wade snorts unintentionally. "What buddies? You're one of the few people who actually puts up with me," for however long that will be, goes unsaid. "And no, I didn't. It was just some...light observation. I didn't follow you home, or look into your private life, or even uncover your name. I only watched you at work and on occasionally errands. I don't know your address. And before you use it against me, I've already seen your face, so that's nothing new."

He doesn't have the right to defend himself, but his hackles are raised and it's second-nature. Vainly, Wade tries to pull his avatar back from the brink of death, but Spider-Man isn't having any of that and depletes the rest of his life-bar with a cold-cut vengeance. He doesn't revel in his victory either and instead of opting for another round, drops the controller like he was the one to get his spleen drop-kicked out of his body.

"So you don't know who I am?"

"No," Wade insists, turning sideways to look at him. "I don't."

Even though he had an idea who he might be. Spider-Man's a photographer for the Daily Bugle, a news company with a reputation for slandering Spider-Man's name while sporting some of the most amazing pictures of the hero that should be nigh impossible to get. Pictures that have the photographer's name printed in the corner. Putting together the pieces wasn't rocket science.

Doesn't matter, though. Spider-Man knows how easy the dots are to connect. It's probably why he fought so hard to keep his civilian life a secret from anything and everyone. He makes a frustrated noise and the cord he's fiddling with bends between his fingers. Wade might've been concerned he would ruin the console, but he doesn't actually care. He plays with his own controller, pushing buttons into memorized combo moves against an adversary neither of them sees.

"Why?" Spider-Man finally growls, and if Wade gives it more thought, he can detect the splintering hint of betrayal in his tone.

Wade crossed a line. They might've been crime-fighting buddies for a while, but despite the limits Wade gave himself, he still crossed a boundary that he wasn't supposed to cross. One of those silly lines he was raving about in the beginning.

His heart falls at the same time his hackles raise. Shame, indignation, guilt, annoyance, all those good chemicals that made him want to walk into oncoming traffic.

"I wanted to figure you out." Wade doesn't mean for it to be defensive.

"You wanted to figure me out?" Spider-Man's scoff is thick with derision and disbelief. "You followed me around, behind my back, so you could 'figure me out?'"

"Well, anything sounds dumb when you say it like that."

"It's dumb, regardless. What did you need to figure out about me?" Spider-Man demands, finally letting go of the cord. "We've been patrolling together for...how long? Almost a year? What the hell did you need to figure out?"

If only you knew. Wade wants to know everything. All the feelings he plays off as a joke, the light-hearted attempts at seduction, curl back their shriveled petals to reveal the bare bones of his heart and he wants to vomit. He wants to know everything about Spider-Man. How he sounds in the morning, voice rough with sleep. How he wears his hair. What his favorite juice is. If he likes his sandwiches with the crust cut off. He wants to memorize the curve of his lips and those dark eyes that he hasn't been able to get out of his head. He wants to dissect Spider-Man's habits, tells, and behaviors like a deranged scientist and commit every detail to memory.

He wants to know his name.

But how the fuck was he supposed to say any of that without coming off as, well...Deadpool.

"Have you noticed how fucking weird you are?" is what tumbles out of his mouth. His hope for a helpful brain plummets head-first into a vat of lava.

Spider-Man's lenses narrow and his lips flatten into a hard line. "Nice." Is all he spits out. He gets to his feet, securing his mask over his chin and tugging his webshooters (both of them) to make sure they're snug. "Thanks for letting me recover here, but I need to go home."

Wade's head snaps up, and he scrambles to his feet. "Are you sure? You don't feel any-"

"I'm fine," Spider-Man snaps, already stalking to the closest window. "If there's any of the drug left, I'll sleep it off. I've got work tomorrow. But," he glances over his shoulder, "you probably already knew that."

Before Wade can string together the words to attempt an apology, or point out that tomorrow is Saturday and he, in fact, doesn't have work, Spider-Man is gone and Wade is alone with nothing but the obnoxious music coming from the TV. His fists clench and unclench at his side.

He turns, walks to the TV, and kicks it very, very hard.

<><><><><><>

Spider-Man avoids him for the next couple of days. After a game of hide-and-seek through the city that results in Wade getting his feet webbed to the sidewalk, he comes to the conclusion that Spider-Man wants to be left alone.

That's probably for the best, anyway. You can't throw a pebble five feet into New York City without hitting a hero, and the only reason they don't boot Wade out of their territories is because Spider-Man is always there to "babysit" him. Not that a lot of them could truly stop Wade from doing a job if that's what he wanted to do, but no one enjoys talking about that.

So, he takes a few hits that bring him to a handful of long distance locations like Norway, Japan, and even a backwater town that isn't on a map. Far away from the 5 boroughs and steaming-pots dressed in red and blue spandex. He takes his frustrations out on whatever poor bastard thinks it's a smart idea to get between him and his targets, and rakes in enough money to replace his warehouse ten times over.

Not that he does. He'll have to find a new one when he inevitably pops back to New York, but that's even more incentive to avoid the city. He hates apartment hunting. Even if his hide-outs were rarely apartments and more on the side of gutted, run-down buildings that should be condemned, torn down, and rebuilt. He has a few other safe houses scattered around the boroughs, so he doesn't necessarily need a new one, but he likes having a variety to go to when the voices get bad and his skin is eating him alive, and he just needs a few hours of peace with a bullet in his head without some nosy neighbor doing their "civic duty" and investigating the loud BANG coming from his apartment.

He learned his lesson after the many, many times he's woken up in a morgue, on a hospital gurney, or in a body bag. Pro tip: if you want to die in peace, pull the trigger somewhere people will mind their own damn business.

By the time Wade wraps up his last contract, he decides it's time to dip his toes back into the City that Never Sleeps.

He arrives with little fuss. Instead of donning his suit, he dresses in the superhero patented hoodie, pants, and ball cap, wandering the streets and pretending to be just another civilian. He keeps his head down, sticking close to buildings, so he doesn't have to stray too far into crowds, unsure if he can handle being gawked at today.

Fortunately, New York isn't a stranger to weird and grotesque sights, given the number of alien invasions and villain attacks it's witnessed. It'd be worse if Wade strutted around in booty-shorts and a crop-top, but all things considered, New Yorkers were good at ignoring people outside their social sphere.

Wade buys himself a hot-dog and munches noisily as he trudges blindly through the streets. He's near Central Park when a crowd of tourists nearby suddenly starts gasping and pointing, aiming their cameras at the sky. Wade shrinks into his hoodie as a shadow zips across the ground and steps under the awning of a shop as Spider-Man swoops between the buildings, disappearing seconds upon arrival. Must be running late.

Even when the coast is clear, Wade stays under the awning until the shop-keepers give him the stink-eye and he merges back into sidewalk traffic, monitoring the sky just in case. He can avoid Spider-Man all he likes, but Lady Universe has a way of smashing people together who don't want to see each other, just for shits and giggles.

When walking gets boring, Wade calls Dopinder, who's an endless stream of chatter about his life, wife, kids, and strange new hobbies. It's a relief to, for once, not have to be the one fueling the conversation, and he appreciates Dopinder catching his mood and keeping the one-sided chat running on his own. He drops Wade off in a relatively calm neighborhood. The building he enters his well maintained with all its windows intact and flower boxes decorating the red-brick walls. The flowers are brown and yellow now as temperatures steadily decline.

It's the home of numerous families, mostly divorced or widowed with kids, who needed a cheap place to live. Even the odd mutant or two who wanted a place to stay that wasn't a street bench. Wade pays to keep the building sustained and the rents low, but he doesn't stay here often.

Being so close to children reminds him of Ellie, and that's an open wound that refuses to close. He's still not allowed to see her until he "gets his shit together," and just the idea of seeing her strikes him with terror. Besides, he doesn't want to lead any of his unfriendly "work-acquaintance" to a place overloaded with families. As Deadpool he's scared off any trouble, from motley gangs and drug peddlers, but even he has his own rogue gallery (albeit it's not as impressive or iconic as a certain spider-themed hero), so he avoids this place, careful to leave no crumbs behind.

But not today. He has a couple of extra suits stored here and he needs somewhere to hunker down as he safe-house hunts.

For the first time since arriving in the city, he doesn't have to plaster on a fake smile as the tenants out and about greet him. The kids jump around like little monkeys, asking how "Mr. Wilson has been," or "how long will you be staying?" and even "what did you do while you were gone?" They trail after him like a paddling of ducklings, exited at the prospect of a story Wade will have to pg-ify for their innocent ears.

Despite thinking of Ellie, heart squeezing painfully, he can't help grinning all the same and tousling a few heads before pulling himself away.

Inside his apartment, he plops onto the dust-infected couch, sneezes, and dials a familiar number. Weasel knows not to leave him to voice-mail and picks up on the third ring.

"Oh Weeaasseel," Wade moans into the phone, earning an exasperated noise as his reward.

"I swear, if you called me while jacking off again, I'm sending someone to cut off your dick."

Wade snickers, adjusting his position so he's lounging on the couch, Victorian-dame style. "You always say the nicest things. Do you want my dick, Weasel Weiner? You can have it. I'll grow a new one."

Weasel makes a disgusted sound and Wade laughs again.

"Keep your penis to yourself, Wilson. And stop calling me Weasel Weiner."

"Fine, Weasel Weenie."

A sigh. "Why did you call me?"

"I'm safe-house hunting in New York and I need some options."

"I thought you already had a safe house there. Several, actually."

"Yeeah, well, one of em' got discovered, so I had to flake on it."

"Why? Who found it?"

Wade shrugs, fiddling with the draw-string of his hoodie. "Doesn't matter, just got compromised, okay? You know I don't like people knowing where I'm squatting."

"Then why don't you stop ordering takeout while at the safe-house? Have you ever considered that you're making your own fucking problem?"

"All the time," Wade chirps, dipping his head in agreement, "but that's not the point. What have you got for me?"

Weasel sighs for a third time and a few minutes pass as he looks through whatever the hell Weasel does to get his information. "Hmm, looks like there's a few places in the Bronx and Upper-East side of Manhattan that look like your kind of squat. Pretty remote and abandoned, or as close as they can be. Oh, there's one in Hell's Kitchen that could work."

Wade snorts in so much dust he sneezes twice. "Yeah right, Dare Devil would piss himself in anger if he thought I was trying to set up base on his turf." He rubs his nose. "I'll give those other places a lookie-loo though. Gimme an address."

"Anyone would piss themselves in anger if they had to look at your ugly mug on a weekly basis," Weasel grumbles. "What would you do without me?"

"I'd probably have better self-esteem, for starters."

"Yeah, well, whatever. I'm sending those addresses now. Try not to compromise these ones. You do, and I'm sending the X-Men your street number."

"You do that and I'm calling the cops on your little establishment, Weasy-kins. How's your side business as an arms-dealer going?"

Weasel grumbles again and Wade grins at the ceiling. Ah, he's missed these squabbles. His grin falls when Weasel adds, "Oh hey, also, what's up with your boy? Spider-Man?"

Wade cocks his head, the finger curling around the hoodie string freezing as he looks up. He pulls the phone away to squint at it, as if to transmit his scowl over the wire. Did Weasel know about their falling out? He shouldn't. Wade's mentioned nothing, and Spider-Man sure as hell wouldn't. He's only met Weasel once, and that was through a phone call Wade made.

He puts the phone back to his ear, wringing the string more aggressively. "What about him?"

"His name's been popping up in the city's underbelly for a few weeks now. I know you were on your monthly murder-spree, so I couldn't ask about it. It seems like he's been catching the attention of quite a few people."

Wade sits up slowly, shifting the phone to his other ear so he can dig out his non-work phone and search up the most recent Spider-Man news. He follows several tags. There's nothing out of the ordinary. Just the same Bugle reports slamming Spider-Man's name and the odd fan-tweet about a spider sighting. In fact, despite the strange decrease in low-level crime, nothing about the last few weeks stands out. Not even the usual spin of the supervillain roster.

"Who's been asking about him?" Wade asks. "And what do they want?"

Weasel pauses for a beat. "Are you using your Deadpool voice on me? Stop it. I'm not the one asking about him. I'm just picking up chatter."

"Weasel," Wade growls.

"Okay, okay. I'm not sure, alright. It just started as whispers, but they've been picking up. Not sure what they're after, but your boy is under surveillance. Someone is looking for something and they think he has it."

"Do you know what it is?"

"If I knew that, don't you think I would've sold that information to SHIELD by now?"

Wade growls into the phone.

"Kidding. Jeezus. What's got your panties in a bunch? No, I don't know what it is, but they're getting itchy. You might want to let him know before something goes down. I'm going to hang up now because I don't feel safe where this conversation is headed."

He knows better to hang up on him though, and it's Wade who ends the call. He bounds off the couch and flings open the door of his closet where a nice, dusty array of red suits is hanging up.

He has a spider to talk to.

<><><><>

Wade knows there's something wrong with Spider-Man the moment he lays eyes on him. Unlike earlier, he's close enough to pick up every hitch and strain that ripples through the hero's body that's not noticeable from the ground. Before Wade pulls himself into view, he peers over the edge of the building, doing a quick glance over to pick out any injuries.

Nothing jumps out at him.

As expected, Spider-Man tenses, sensing him there, and Wade silently pulls himself onto the rooftop. Spider-sense is still a little snitch, he sees. Spider-Man slowly stands to his full height, easing out of his crouch the way an aching grandpa might pull himself out of his chair. To add another tally to Wade's growing chart of concern, Spider-Man turns his entire body towards him instead of simply glancing over his shoulder, as he normally would've. Like he was concerned about pulling a muscle, or moving too fast.

Wade swings his hands by his side, wishing he had something to offer, like a burrito, or maybe a time-machine. "Hey Spidey..."

"Deadpool," Spider-Man curtly nods back, and it feels like a nerf-bullet in the eye. If Spider-Man's still angry but acting polite, Wade is farther in the doghouse than he thought.

Another minute drags by.

Wade coughs into his fist and takes a long, sweeping look around the rooftop. It's close to Wade's third favorite food-stand. "So, um...how've you been?"

"Fine."

"Uh-huh," Wade eyes Spider-Man's stiff posture, not bothering to be subtle about. "I'm sure."

Fuck, he should've brought pizza to break the ice. Spider-Man is biologically drawn to anything greasy and full of calories, and it'd buy Wade a good ten minutes to say his piece before the hero's patience wore thin.

When the silence stretches like a taut rubber band, Spider-Man breaks it with a sigh and gently folds his arms over his chest. "What do you want, Wade?"

There are a million things Wade can start with. For one, he's curious about the spontaneous decrease in crime. Even with a city full of heroes, that kind of change in such a short time is weird AF. For two, why the ugly underbelly of the city was setting their sights on Spider-Man's sculpted ass. And for three, call Spider-Man out on his obvious bullshit "I'm fine," when Wade can clearly hear his hisses of pain.

Instead, what tumbles out of his mouth is, "Are you still mad at me?"

He resists the impulse to smack his head into the nearest wall because he can feel Spider-Man's judgmental eyebrow raise.

Spider-Man hums too loud and taps his chin in exaggerated contemplation. "Hmmm, am I still pissed you followed me behind my back, completely crossing a line we promised to not cross, and then disappearing for weeks on end? Yes. Yes, I am still pissed."

Wade holds out his hands. "Okay, yes, I can see why you're still mad. A simple, 'yeah dude' would've sufficed. And you know, we never actually agreed not to cross that line. No words were spoken, so I wasn't bound by any verbal contract. And lastly," Wade planted his hands on his hips, scowling, "why are mad I left? I was giving you space. You know, that thing you do when the other person needs to cool off?"

"It was an unspoken agreement, Wade, so don't even try to play that card. I never asks about your scars or your past, and you don't look into my life."

Wade concedes that point with a half-hearted shrug. It had gone primarily unspoken. Spider-Man never brought up Wade's scars, or the rumors about his past, and in turn, Wade didn't snoop for information. It was a good symbiotic relationship that didn't involve actual alien parasites. Technically, Wade still knew little about Spider-Man, but he can see where the line was breached. He's mentally unstable, not stupid.

"Okay, fine. That's fair. I yield to your logic and accept all consequences of my actions. If that doesn't get Mr. Responsibility horny, then I don't know what will." he crosses his arms. "But I still don't know why you're mad at me for leaving. I thought you wanted time away from all," he gestures to himself, "this."

Spider-Man glowers, shoulders tightening. A tell-tale sign he doesn't want to talk about it. He's stubborn that way. But Wade is a hell of a lot more stubborn. He's had many years to perfect the art.

He doesn't give Spider-Man the escape and leans to the side to look into those narrowed lenses. "Why are you mad I left, really?"

Spider-Man ignores him for a solid five minutes, eyeing the next building over, contemplating a new, safer vantage point. But Wade has a reputation to uphold when it comes to people ignoring him, and not even Spider-Man can pretend he doesn't exist for long. Wade has a habit of pushing buttons without even saying anything. It's his real superpower.

"Because you didn't own up to what you did, alright," Spider-Man inevitably snaps. "You just upped and left, hoping it would fix itself by the time you got back. That's why."

Wade squints at him. "Bullshit. What's the real reason?"

The response is to be expected. An angry Spider-Man who doesn't want to be called out. What Wade doesn't expect is the crisp sound of tearing flesh when Spider-Man's head whips to the side to glare at him. Before Wade asks what the ever-loving fuck that was, Spider-Man is in his face, lenses narrowing into slits.

"Fine! It's because you just left. You walked away. Yeah, I was pissed, but that didn't mean I wanted you just disappear. I know you'd rather swim in acid before talking about your feelings. I get it. Emotions suck. I don't like doing it either. But I would've rather we talked about it then getting nothing but radio silence for five fucking weeks."

Wade blinks several times, the only physical sign he's absorbing Spider-Man's outburst. The words fall around his head, tumbling together, until they're hit with the logic hammer.

He squints and then scowls. "Okay, but you were the one who ignored me first. I tried to talk to you for three days," he held up the appropriate amount of fingers, "and got nothing but the cold shoulder. Hypocrisy, what is thy name?"

It's hard to tell with the mask on, but Wade's gotten really good at reading Spider-Man, and right now he thinks the other man wants to tear his hair out. He makes a frustrated noise and stalks away, returning to the ledge where Wade interrupted his brooding, rubbing his temples.

His voice quiets to a mumble meant only for himself. "I don't have the energy for this right now. Ugh, why does it have to hurt so much? Fucking hell." He sounds tired. He switches to massaging his forearm, digging deep into the skin, kneading the flesh. When that doesn't satisfy whatever ache he's nursing, he slips off his glove to give it a more hands-on treatment.

The reminder of Spider-Man's aches and pains brings Wade back to the reason he came here in the first place.

"Hey," he says, easing back a little so the tension can smooth out, "I know we did that cute little thing were we misunderstand each other and its blown way out of proportion and we have a moment—classic us—and I promise we'll get back to apologies and shit later, but first," he takes a few steps, "what's been going on while I was gone? And why do you sound like you got beat up by a cracker?"

Spider-Man doesn't bother turning around this time. "What are you talking about? It's been quiet since you left. Hardly a crime bigger than the occasional purse-snatcher. And I told you, I'm fine."

Wade eyes him again and takes a strategic step to the left, just in case Spider-Man makes a run for it. He'll know the moment the man lifts a finger. "Yeah, okay, cause that's super convincing. Seriously, Webs, are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine. I don't know if you were there, but you skin went," Wade mimics a ripping sound with the hand movement to match, "and that's kind of concerning. You're not hiding injuries again, are you?"

"I need someone to fight to hide injuries."

Wade grits his teeth, a slash of irritation cutting across his chest. "If this is a pride thing, stop playing with the stick up your ass and just tell me if there's something wrong. I didn't bust my legs tracking you down to pretend your hunky-dory-dandy."

Spider-Man blows out an annoyed puff of air and turns sharply, a single finger in the air to signify a point he's about to drill into Wade's head, but they both freeze as a cracking, splintering sound erupts beneath Spider-Man suits. A sound on par with someone taking a handful of spaghetti noodles and twisting them in half.

A beat.

Spider-Man hunches over himself, groaning in pain, hugging his arms around his torso. Wade lurches forward, arms out to grab him, so he doesn't tumble off the building, but Spider-Man teeters away, a hand coming up to keep Wade at arm's length.

"Fuck," he wheezes, small and tight. "Fuck. I - I gotta go." He stumbles away, prying an arm from his torso to shoot a web, but Wade is faster and grabs his bare forearm.

"Hold the fuck up McFucking Liar Ass, you're not webslinging like this. Are you trying to kill yourself?! Hell to the no, not on my watch. What the mcfucking fuck is going on. Sit down. Sit down."

"Let go, I'm fine," Spider-Man rasps, which is pitiful because he can't even uncurl himself long enough to tug his arm free. He looks and sounds like he was sucker-punched in the gut with the Infinity Gauntlet.

Wade grips his arm more tightly. "No."

"Let go."

"No."

"Let. Go!" Spider-Man rips his arm free, but it isn't the only thing that comes off.

Wade stumbles back, barely catching himself, and slowly looks down at the long strip of skin clutched in his fist. A large wet spot glares from Spider-Man's arm, angry, red, and painful.

Wade shrieks. Spider-Man shrieks. They both shriek, looking between the wad of skin and the gaping wound, and then Spider-Man throws himself off the building and swings away at record-breaking speeds, cracking all the while. Wade throws the skin across the roof, flapping his hands to get rid of the feel.

He's seen a lot of gross messed up shit in his lifetime. But that was his gross messed up shit. Spider-Man isn't supposed to have this kind of gross messed up shit. Skin-peeling was something that happened to people like Wade, and Frankenstein's monster, and dead corpses. Not from Spider-fucking-Man.

"Fine, my ass," Wade seethes, rubbing his hands on his pants. "Not when your skins coming off like you've been doing the behind-grind with a cheese grater." He leans over the edge of the roof to get a sense of the direction Spider-Man fled.

"Deja vu."

Whatever injury Spider-Man is trying to hide is slowing him down. Wade watches him disappear behind a building not too far from where he's at. He'll have to track him the old-fashioned way. A good ol' game of eye-spy with webs strands and hope he's going in the right direction.

Or he can go to the Bugle and finally get that address. It'd save him time and energy. But he'd have to risk people being there and Spider-Man getting more pissed at him, and all the good stuff. He wars with the option as he scales down the building and trails Spider-Man from ground level.

Turns out, it's not as hard as he thought. Normally, it would've been nigh impossible to track Spider-Man from the ground, especially at his full strength. But tonight, Spider-Man is not at his full strength. He's slow. Sloppy. It's laughably easy to follow his trail to a dingy-looking apartment building that's not fit to house Logan. Windows are grimy and cracked, the bricks look a breeze away from crumbling. It's a demolition job waiting to happen.

He spots Spider-Man disappearing around the side of the building and gets there in time to watch him pull himself through a window on the 5th floor. Worry clashes in Wade's stomach with serrated knives, hacking at his innards. He hesitates for a split second before jogging to the old rusted fire-escape and heaving himself onto it.

"He's going to be so pissed," he mutters to no one as he puts a foot in the rung ladder. "So pissed. Even more than before. He's going to web me in a cocoon and drop me on the X-Men's doorstep. He's going to drop-kick me to Avengers Tower with a restraining order. Gonna fill all my socks with spider-glue."

When he gets to the targeted window, it's still open. He knocks on the upper pane before peering inside. "Spidey?" He hopes his manners pull him points for all the boundaries he's about to break. "I know you want me to go away, and I totally get that, but I'm pretty sure your body just ripped itself in half. Also, I pulled off a chunk of your skin—sorry about that, by the way—but I'm pretty sure that's not normal. I'm not a doctor and I don't know shit about medical stuff, but I think our skin is supposed to say on our bodies."

A loud ghoulish groan filters through the room and Wade's head cock to the side.

"Go away," Spider-Man moans out of sight, in the least sexy way possible. "Please, Wade. Just leave me alone." There's a flurry of movement as a hand reaches from the floor, on the opposite side of the bed, pulling a blanket down.

Wade clicks his tongue, stepping inside. "No can do, Webs. You see, I have this annoying little habit of being concerned when my buddy ol' pal starts shedding skin. It's very un-apeeling, if you know what I mean."

Spider-Man's chuckle is rough and full of pain. "Funny you word it that way."

Wade rounds the bed and nudges the lump on the floor with the toe of his boot. Spider-Man huddles underneath the blanket, crunching and cracking as he moved. Wade crouches, poking gently at what he hopes is Spider-Man's butt.

"Hey," he says, "Seriously, what's wrong? You sound like the worlds yuckiest kit-kat."

The hands curled around the blanket flex and Spider-Man attempts to squeeze himself into the floor. "Just go away," he tried again, in vain. "I'll come find you in a few days. I'll explain everything then, just...don't worry about it. The doors right over there, lock it on your way out, if you don't mind."

"Or you can explain everything now," Wade suggests with a huff. "Look, I know I come across as an asshat with the soul of a troll, but you can't expect me not to worry when you're snapping, cracking, and popping like a rice-crispy commercial." Softer, he says, "I...I know I crossed some boundaries with the whole...you know, stalking thing. I'm sorry, and I totally get it if you don't trust me, but fuck, Spidey, look at you. You can barely move. Can't I at least take you to Stark's ivory tower to get you some medical help?"

"No hospital. No Stark Tower."

Deadpool lets out a hard breath, pinching the bridge of his nose to keep his frustration in check. Getting mad would only push Spider-Man's buttons and make it worse. It's easy to raise the guys hackles.

"Will you please tell me what's wrong? Pretty please, with all my guns and swords on top. I'm begging here." Wade considers for a moment. "I'll buy you food. Whatever you want. And I promise I won't take you to a hospital, no matter how bad it looks."

Spider-Man goes silent and Wade can almost hears the gears spinning in his head. He has to strain his ears to pick up what Spider-Man mutters into the dirty floorboard.

"It's...really gross."

Wade can't hold back a snort. "Spidey-babe, I can handle gross. I mean, have you seen this face? Nothing gets as revolting as seeing that in the mirror every morning."

That doesn't help and Spider-Man curls up tighter. Wade digs his fingers into his thighs so he doesn't just rip the blanket off and strip Spider-Man down for bodily injuries. Patience has never been his strong suit. He likes head-on approaches. Loud explosions, popping guns, and chaos to fill the world outside his head. The only times he sits still is when he's by himself and there's nothing to distract him from the off-kilter way the world tilts. Everything moving a little too far to the left. When the voices are too loud and the weight on his chest too overwhelming, and the bite of a bullet is the only thing that can shut it all up.

But it pays off this time. Wade waits patiently at Spider-Man's feet until the blanket shits again.

"Fine," is Spider-Man's quiet reply. "But just..." he seems at a loss for what to say."

It feels like a million years for Spider-Man to sit up and drop the blanket into his lap, squeezing it between his hands. His shoulders hunch and his head bows like he's embarrassed. Ware stares at the wild mound of dark hair with wide eyes, paralysis seeping into the rest of his body as Spider-Man slowly lifts his head to meet Wade's eyes.

It's every bit how Wade remembers it...and somehow worse.

Even through the dull light of the window, it's obvious something's wrong with Spider-Man's face. It's not ridged or textured like Wade's, but dry and stretched, pulling over his cheekbones like strips of wrinkled leather. His skin is ashen and gray, the color of dead cells and flaking skin. When he blinks its a slow, strenuous movement, his eyelids too stiff to perform their function smoothly.

Wade inhales sharply. "Oh baby, what happened?"

"Spider powers," Spider-Man says with a wry grin that stretches the skin on his face. He drops it quickly, looking away. "It's...a long story."

"Does it hurt?" Wade asks, reaching out to touch, but drops his hand when Spider-Man flinches.

"Yes. But I'm used to it. Happens every eighteen months or so. Lasts only a week."

Wade shifts his legs, hands clasping over his kneecaps. "What is it?"

It's amazing seeing Spider-Man's face up close. Wade gets to watch the indecision flicker like a shadow across his face, at his lips as they pull into a contemplative thin, and the furrow that digs between his brows. It's mesmerizing the way Wade can see him get lost in thought, and he has the compulsive urge to gently tuck the hair that falls into Spider-Man's eyes.

Wade eyes the glistening red spot on Spider-Man's arm, grimacing. It's probably uncomfortable wearing his suit. Wade can sympathize. Discomfort flutters across Spider-Man's face too, as if he's just remembering, and Wade interrupts his thinking by gently putting a hand on the man's knees.

"Tell me later. Come on, it's uncomfortable on the floor." He helps Spider-Man to his feet. The latter doesn't drop the blanket, keeping it bunched around his shoulder, as if prepared to duck under it at a moment's notice.

"So," Wade shuffles his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. "What do you normally do when you start," he gestures to Spider-Man's face.

'Molting," Spider-Man explains.

Wade stares in disbelief. "Molting." He's read about spiders shedding their exoskeletons, but he never imagined...

"Yes, molting," Spider-Man folds his arms, crackling like aluminum foil. "I thought you could handle it Mr. I've-Seen-Worse-In-the-Mirror."

"Ouch," Wade barks a laugh.

"Hey, those were your words. Not mine."

"Touche. Alright, what do you normally do when your molting?"

Spider-Man shrugs, his defense slipping as he cast a look to the side. "Just kind of hole up in here until it passes. Take a bath. Attempt to read a book. Watch stuff on my phone. You know, just let it do its thing."

"Oh." Wade nods, looking around the room. It's every bit as messy as he imagined. "Do...you need any help?"

Spider-Man's head snaps up as he scrutinizes Wade for several seconds. Wade wonders if he knows how expressive he is. He can see Spider-Man's hesitation in the downturn of his lips and the upturn of his brows, as clearly as if someone had painted the words on his forehead in red pen.

"No," Spider-Man finally says. "I can't really rush the process. It only makes it worse. And, well...it's still really gross."

Wade steps back, rocking on his heels. "Ah, okay. Yep, yeah, that makes sense. So, um...is it alright if I at least checkup on you? To make sure you're not going full raisin? I mean, if you are, I wouldn't mind have a raisin-face buddy. I'll make shirts. But mostly to make sure you're not, you know, keeling over like a dead fly. Also, I can bring bath salts if that'll help. Or lotion? I don't know what people need when they may, but say the word and I'll buy a bunch of it." Wade has one foot out the window, fending off his plummeting heart as he furiously kicks his leg to untangle it from one of Spider-Man's discarded shirts.

He's rambling to himself when a hand drops on his shoulder.

"I don't need help pulling off my skin," Spider-Man says, a smile making the edges of his lips crack. "But I wouldn't mind some company."

Wade smiles back. "I'll order pizza." 

Hahaha, I think the spider quirk for this chapter is obvious, but...

Molting! Spiders molt their exoskeleton. In the Ultimate Spider-Man comic-verse it's already canon that Peter Parker's skin is extra tough/thick. When a nurse tried to poke him with a needle, it was very hard TO poke him with the needle. For this story, yes, Peter's skin is extra tough, and if you were to actually pay attention when you touched him, you'd think 'huh, is skin supposed to be this hard? Or is it just muscle?" Peter do have muscle, but it's also his skin just being extra hard, because it's not exactly an exo-skeleton, it's just an extra thick layer of skin (which also means it's harder to stab/slice him, but not impossible.)

So, when he molts, it's him growing out of his skin. The skin dries up, and since it's so thick, it actually gets leathery. Molting is extremely painful as it makes his nerves extra sensitive to touch, and peeling his skin away tugs on the tissues underneath. Whenever he moves too quickly, it cracks his exo-skeleton, which is why he sounds like a pop-rock. He usually has to take a week off to finish molting. There are more little facts I have on his molting process, but you'll see those next chapter.

As for LSD's, I've never done drugs, or had a bad drug trip, but I did my best. I did find some cool tips on what to do if someone you know if going through a bad trip and you can't get them any help, which is: 1) staying in the room with them, 2)  periodically telling them the time (or how much time passed) so they know the trip isn't going to last forever, 3) get them to breathe deeply to calm down, and 4) just making sure they know they're safe. Also, I got to say, I'm a sucker for those Spideypool scenes where Wade takes Peter to his apartment or one of his safehouses to take care of him.

BIG THANKS TO MY BETA-READER PETER! You're amazing!

Hope you enjoyed!