This fic doesn't follow any canonical timeline. Just think of it as another alternate universe instead :)

Peter is thirteen the first time his left palm goes blank. As most preteens, he's in the habit of religiously checking his soul marks, since it's the closest he can get to his special person as it is. He glances at the black, ink-like number on his skin before stepping into the hot shower. It's always a surprise where on the danger scale his soulmate is. This time they're a solid ten, but by the time he dries off, the number has faded off his skin, something it's never done before.

First Peter freezes in place, his eyes transfixed on his palm. He drapes the heavy towel over his head, and slowly brings down his right hand to examine it too. The familiar, scrawled W hasn't disappeared, but it looks faded. Like the lopsided B on aunt May's right palm which lost its color only half a year ago.

He wants to scream, but doesn't. Instead he stands naked on the soaked bathroom mat, clutching his left hand and shaking, until his knees fold beneath him and he sinks to the floor.

His soulmate is dead. Dead. Gone from this world before Peter even met them. An incredibly lethal person who slid between one and ten on the danger scale all the time, and yet they . . . disappeared.

Tears blur his vision. He wouldn't believe it if the proof wasn't before him. Peter doesn't know anyone besides himself who would have a ten on their palm, ever. Most people's numbers don't go past a five their whole life. His soulmate is regularly a ten. How could such a person die? How could Peter's person die, just like that?

A silent sob racks through him and he goes to wipe his tears, but pauses, his hand hovering in the air and snot running down his face.

The W is black again. Not faded, not grey like aunt May's B. Peter blinks and raises his left fist, digging his nails into his palm. If the number isn't back on his skin . . .

But he doesn't have to finish that thought, because it is. It's a one, but better than a blank palm. Maybe Peter's soulmate was sleeping and something happened? They couldn't have died, right? Or maybe they are sick, maybe they're undergoing surgery? Maybe it was a close call.

Peter is eternally grateful for the people saving his soulmate's life, probably at some hospital, somewhere in the world.

He refuses to think about how the number was a ten the moment before going blank.

After the first time, his palm goes blank again one month later. And again. And again. And again, and again, and again, and-

~o~

When Peter is fourteen, Aunt May calls his school and makes an appointment for him. "For the doctor to take a look at your soul marks, Peter," she says. Dr. Jackson smiles tight-lipped and nods with faux-understanding when Peter describes how the number bounces between one and ten, how his left palm often goes blank only for the number to reappear a minute, an hour, or three later.

"Tens aren't unheard of," he tells aunt May on the phone later the same evening, unaware of Peter curling up against her on the worn couch, holding his breath to eavesdrop while staring at the paused television screen where Carrie Fisher, starring as princess Leia, lies in her golden bikini and chains with Jabba the Hutt looming behind her. "Neither is the initial or danger scale fading away and returning again. But I've never heard of anything like what Peter described to me. It's safe to say it's a wild imagination or paranoia that is the underlying problem here. Maybe a meeting with the school counsellor-"

Peter stuffs his face with popcorn and chews loudly to drown out the rest of the conversation. When the call ends, aunt May purses her lips, but doesn't say anything. Peter scoops up another handful of popcorn and brings them to his mouth. His palm is blank beneath the white miniature mountain of snack.

"It happened again," he says and swallows. His mouth is dry, not only because of the salty popcorn.

"I'm sure it'll come back." Aunt May hugs him closer, leaning her head against his. Running her own blank palm up and down his arm. "Don't worry, sweetie."

"Yeah." Peter bites his lip and nods. "It'll come back. Yeah."

He whispers those words to himself too, for good measure. In five minutes, a one appears on his palm, rapidly climbing until it reaches six, seven and eight. Aunt May squeezes him closer, studying his palm over his shoulder.

"Do you want to meet with the school counsellor, honey?"

"No."

"Okay," she says and presses her lips to his hairline. "Okay."

They finish the movie in silence, but Peter can't stop tracing the number on his palm with his fingertips. Aunt May's grip of him never loosens.

They don't call any doctors to examine his marks again.

~o~

He's fifteen when a radioactive spider bites him, and with the bite comes the weirdest set of superpowers. Peter becomes Spider-Man, a whole other person, and a secret. Before, he was nothing but a nerdy teen with a tragic backstory, probably a three on the danger scale at best. Possibly not even that, considering how Flash Thompson and friends effortlessly pushed him around like a ragdoll in the school hallways. He wonders what numbers show up on his soulmate's palm when Spider-Man swings to stop bank robberies or hurls cars across the streets.

These are the questions Peter asks himself at four in the morning when he lies in bed tracing the W on his palm, trying to fall asleep after an exhausting patrol. And there's more of where those came from. When he zips up his Spider-Man suit and pulls the mask over his head, he adopts a new identity. Does the letter on his soulmate's palm reflect that? Is there a S on their palm when Peter crawls up skyscrapers or does it remain a P?

It probably does. Peter is the one in the suit, whether under an alias or not. He refrains from asking anyone about how the soul bond reacts to secret identities; it's too suspicious a question.

When Peter acts as Spider-Man it's harder to obsessively follow his soulmate's danger scale rise and drop. Sometimes he lands on rooftops just to tug his left glove off and check on them. Occasionally his palm is blank, but mostly not. The numbers still bounce around though. After fifteen years of exposure to the volatile danger scale, it's a game to Peter.

Sometimes he even bets . . .

("If it's a five, I'll go home and finish that essay on Of Mice and Men. If it's not, I keep patrolling."

Peter removes his glove, revealing a daunting five on his palm. He stomps the rooftop.

"Dang it!")

. . . other times he lets his soulmate decide for him.

("If it's five or below, I'll bring aunt May the red roses, if it's above, I'm buying the pink ones."

Peter unclenches his fist and finds a three. He blinks and sees a seven. Again, and it's a four.

"So what's it gonna be, huh?" he asks his hand, shaking it. The florist squints at him, her own hand hovering below the counter, no doubt ready to press the panic button hidden somewhere under there. Peter leaves without his flowers.)

Frankly, he doubts his soulmate's existence. Peter is old enough to understand that something is wrong. This is not normal. He, or the bond, may be broken. It makes sense, he's had the marks since birth. Either his soulmate is older than him or . . . W isn't real, or at least they're not who Peter expects them to be, based on the danger scale.

Maybe they're not a W at all. Maybe they're an upside down turned M and Peter is broken and that's why the bond doesn't work the way it should when he's around his soulmate. Surely it's enough if they have a P on their right palm?

That's what Peter hopes at least.

~o~

Sweet sixteen. Peter sits at an empty table in the school cafeteria and saves peas from drowning in the yellowish watery soup, AKA the "mashed potatoes", when MJ plops down next to him. She's hasn't been to school in the last two days and hasn't replied to Peter's text messages. He even installed Facebook Messenger on his phone in case she had dropped hers in the toilet bowl and wanted to contact him.

"Guess what?" is the first thing she says. Peter can't bring himself to glare at her for ignoring his worried messages. Her eyes were glowing with joy.

"What?" he asks.

"I met my soulmate at Bay Terrace, can you believe it? His name's Patrick. He stumbled into me and his forearm got stuck to my neck. It was hilarious. You guys have to meet, you'll like him."

Peter tries to laugh, but ends up coughing. "I'm happy for you."

MJ smiles wider, not noticing how he presses his palms against the tabletop for the rest of their lunch break.

The following weekend, after bowling, sharing fries with Patrick and watching MJ drape herself all over her newfound boyfriend, Peter stops hoping that he's broken. Still, he can't believe that W could be out there somewhere, waiting to get stuck to him for twenty-four hours. Doing his Spider-Man duties will be a pain in the ass if he has to lug around a second person all day, but maybe he can afford taking one day off for his special person's sake.

Granted, W has to exist in the first place to be a problem at all. Peter chokes on that thought.

He hopes so much that W is real.

~o~

By the age of seventeen, Peter earnestly obsesses over W again. While swinging across New York, he spies newly acquainted soulmates on the streets and through high-rise windows. People of all ages navigate the city, awkwardly attached to each other. The vast majority is stuck by their bare hands, in handshakes or by the knuckles where they've brushed against each other.

Where will Peter meet his soulmate? The thrilling uncertainty haunts him.

Maybe they'll bump into one another on the street or at the mall, the way MJ and Patrick did, or maybe it'll be like a cheesy love story turned real. A scene like the ones from the rom-coms aunt May watches on Saturday nights, where they both reach for the same instant noodle family pack in the pasta aisle. When their fingers touch they gasp, and one of them cries too. Peter's undecided whether he prefers to be the one crying, because that'd be an embarrassing first impression to give (not to mention his ugly crying face), but on the other hand, he's not the best at comforting crying people, which might give an asshole-ish first impression. He hasn't tweaked the finer details of this particular fantasy scenario yet.

He strives for patience though. The universe is untrustworthy, sure, and will rip apart any happiness you manage to scrape together at any given moment, but it also has a funny way of pushing the people who are meant to be closer.

Peter watches a woman in a yellow sundress settle on a park bench and rummage through her purse for a thick novel. Her bare leg bumps into a passing woman's, and so they're stuck together, half-yelling as they try to get the fallen one back on her feet. Instead they both topple over, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, the novel forgotten on the bench. Peter chuckles into his mask. Someday it'll be him tripping on love and giggling on the ground, stuck on W. Because if it can happen to them, why not him too?

~o~

Peter is eighteen when Mr. Stark introduces him to their team at the Avengers facility. He thinks "their team" like these superhumans have his back, but that's incorrect because that'd mean he's an Avenger too, which he isn't, not by far. He's merely a backup plan, someone Mr. Stark calls when they need an extra set of hands, and Peter is all too happy to help. He's unsure if he loves or hates that overly compliant part of himself, and how childishly he yearns to belong to this amazing superhero family.

But Peter has his own life and a secret identity. He introduces himself as Spider-Man, and when Hawkeye insists on feeding him cookies, he rolls his mask up to his nose, but no further. He shakes everyone's hand, and makes small talk where he combines politeness with nervous wit.

He removes his glove only once, when he meets Scarlet Witch. The other introductions are done, and so in the quiet, Peter approaches her when she pours herself a glass of orange juice at the bar counter. He already knows who she is, but does his best to not be obvious about it.

"Spider-Man, nice to meet you," he says and sticks his hand out.

She returns his firm grip. There's a black V on her right palm. "Scarlet Witch, but call me Wanda."

Peter slips his glove back on while chatting with her about breakfast juices, persistently ignoring the disappointment burning behind his eyes. It's stupid after all. Only Peter can be ludicrous enough to expect something from the encounter – many people have names that start with W, it's not a big deal.

Peter is so fucking stupid. He tries to fill the lonely hollow in his chest with the few Peter-contacts he has, like aunt May and MJ, but also his Spider-Man acquaintances, the Avengers. Aunt May's interest in him is the only one that matches his interest in her.

~o~

At nineteen, Peter meets Deadpool for the first time. And it's Peter the civilian who meets Deadpool, not Spider-Man the hero.

He's carrying a paper bag with instant noodles and three green apples in one hand, and a pack of toilet paper in the other. His backpack contains three borrowed books on biochemistry and one authentic Spider-Man suit stuffed into the secret pocket at its bottom. Ambling, mostly because he doesn't want to push past the elderly lady in front of him, he plans tonight's schedule. Mid-debate over whether he should take a nap before or after his dinner à la poor college student, a hooded, large man marches past him. In his haste, he knocks Peter's toilet paper package from his hand, but doesn't stop to apologize or pick it up. Peter has half a mind to yell "hey!", but the man is already by the elderly lady. He snatches her purse from her hand and breaks into a sprint.

The lady cries out, trying to regain her balance after the whirlwind of a thief. Peter's paper bag tears when he rushes to steady her, and his groceries spill on the street. Two apples roll out before the wheels of bypassing cars, and Peter screams internally as they go.

"Stop the thief! Someone call the police," a woman shouts after the running man. Peter is ready to bolt, but the lady on his arm clutches him for support and he can't let her crumble to the ground. Besides, he's out as Peter Parker, not Spider-Man, which means no convenient web-shooting without exposing his secret identity and with it endangering aunt May and all his friends, neighbors and anyone else associated with his name. That's a risk he can't take for a purse. Maybe if the lady finds her footing, Peter can dash after the thief, maybe change into his Spider-Man costume behind a dumpster and then-

And then Deadpool, the anti-knight in blood-soaked spandex, steps out of a nearby deli, holding five pineapples in his arms.

"Watch out!" he bellows and puts out his leg, tripping the thief. The man stumbles and crashes to the ground. Deadpool brings a hand to his masked cheek. "Oopsie daisies! This is why we use our walking feet, so we don't get boo-boos on our knees. Also why we don't rob people on busy streets."

The thief groans, but Deadpool has already picked up the purse laying on the ground. "Don't worry though. I'll return this for you." He combs the crowd with his gaze and brightens up – however he manages to do that through his mask – when he spots Peter and the elderly lady. With a pineapple bouquet and purse in hand, he saunters up to them and bows deeply, like a gentleman asking a maiden to dance by offering her bag back.

"Madam," he says and the lady chuckles and pats both Peter and Deadpool on their arms, saying "oh, thank you, dear, such lovely, polite young men" as she goes to give an arriving officer her statement.

With the lady on her way and the culprit collected by the police, Peter assesses the damage to his remaining groceries. Two noodle packages are trampled beyond salvation, but he gathers the three remaining ones that appear somewhat okay-ish, or at least edible enough, and gingerly examines the one apple that hasn't become sauce yet. It doesn't look too fresh, but he's still taking it home.

"You're throwing those away, right? Littering is a serious problem."

Peter jolts and when he looks up, Deadpool gestures to the noodles lying around. He had expected the notorious mercenary – because yes, Deadpool's reputation precedes him and Peter has heard enough gossip (and seen enough pictures) from the Avengers on the rare occasion he meets them to recognize the man, despite the fact that Spider-Man hasn't ever personally run into him – to leave by now, and not stick around and watch Peter crawl along the filthy streets of New York City.

"Yeah."

"Good boy." Deadpool cocks his head to the side. "Looks like dinner's ruined."

"I'll figure something out. Though I was really looking forward to those apples . . ." Peter bites his lip and eyes the smeared asphalt.

"Aw, no worries, you can have some of mine. I bought four extra. Always buy spares, so you can lose some on the way. And always bring extra grenades, just for fun, and bigger fireworks. So, do you want one?"

"I, uh, it's okay, you don't have to-"

"Two it is, there you go."

"Thanks," Peter stutters, when Deadpool drops the fruits in his lap.

"De nada," he says over his shoulder, already on his way. He continues talking in Spanish, but Peter doesn't catch what he says. It probably isn't meant for him anyway.

When Peter gets home, he scrutinizes the pineapples, but there's nothing suspicious about them. He cuts one up and nibbles on the slices while writing his four-page biochemistry paper.

~o~

Peter meets Deadpool again two months after their last run-in, but this time as Spider-Man. He's sitting on the ledge of his usual rest stop rooftop, tracing the two on his left palm. The low number floods him with serenity, a security that it won't disappear any time soon. Every time his palm goes blank, the danger scale has been pushing ten. He scans the darkened streets below, most of which are at rest after a busy day of New Yorkers stomping around. Granted, the city never sleeps, and some have to sacrifice their sweet dreams to keep this greater cause alive. Deadpool included.

"Oh my God? If it isn't Spider-Man himself, my idol! I need your signature, so I can get it tattooed on my biceps."

Peter jolts to his feet and swirls around at head spinning speed. His breath catches because – what? There stands the infamous Merc with a Mouth, hands on his hips, as if he hadn't crept behind Spider-Man without triggering his spider senses. Peter yanks his glove hastily over his uncovered left hand.

"Deadpool?"

"Oh, you know me. That's great, we can skip the introductions and go straight to being besties."

Peter waves his hand. "What? No. You're a mercenary."

"Yes?"

"So you kill people? And I don't do that."

Deadpool raises a finger. "Only for money though. Or if they're assholes."

"You say that like it's supposed to make it okay."

Deadpool pouts through his weirdly expressive mask, but Peter stands his ground. He doesn't know much about the mercenary, but he knows enough, and even though Peter doesn't believe in prejudices and rumors, he's not dumb. If the Avengers, AKA the coolest and most super gang of superheroes to ever super tell you to stay away from someone because they're dangerous, then you better listen. Deadpool is insane and he kills for money. He's like a bomb about to explode wherever, whenever, and he doesn't care about who he takes down with him as he goes. He's unstoppable, and immortal – Deadpool cannot die, his healing factor is even more insane than his worldview.

You'd think he'd shun Spider-Man, the one superhero who actively rakes the city for criminals and dumps them at police stations. And yet he's here, although Peter can't figure out why.

"What do you want?" he asks.

"In general or right now? Because I want many things. An unlimited supply of chimichangas, money, people to stop illegally smuggling and selling slow lorises to assholes, sex, world peace, and did I already mention money? Also-"

Peter rolls his eyes behind his mask. He doubts it's even half as impressive as it would be if Deadpool rolled his, but he hopes the point comes across. To ensure it does, he throws his hands up and turns to web himself off the building. "Why do I bother?"

"Whoa, hey, hey, okay, wait! I do have a question."

"Shoot."

Deadpool finger guns him. "Ha! I knew you'd get me."

"I'm out of here."

"No-no, hey, don't go-" Deadpool hisses, cutting himself off with an awed gasp. "Damn, now I got a good look. Spandex really leaves nothing for the imagination. Spidey's got the world's most perfectest ass, confirmed."

"What?" Peter is torn between leaping off the roof and swinging into the night (as he was about to do a second ago) and stomping over to Deadpool and jab his chest, but decides on neither. He thinks of pineapples and the last time he ate some, of their weight in his lap when they were dropped on him.

"Is this a test? Are you testing me? I said, you have delectable curves, Mr. Spider-Man." Deadpool hides his hands behind his back and rolls his weight to his heels. If his mask had lashes, they'd be fluttering. "Did I pass?"

Peter groans and aims at the high-rise across the street. "No, you got a F minus. Don't bother seeing me after class."

He flings himself off the roof, shooting a web to catch himself. Deadpool yells after him, but he can't decipher the words.

If it's important, he's sure the first-class mercenary can track him down later, for better or for worse.

~o~

It doesn't take Deadpool long to find him again.

Three nights after their last meeting, Peter sits on the same rooftop, absent-mindedly massaging the number two on his left palm and contemplating if he should go home. It's been a slow and surprisingly boring patrol for a Friday night, maybe because the temperature dropped out of nowhere. November will freeze his balls off, no doubt. A shiver runs down his spine down to his toes. Yup, that's his cue. He should go home, sleep the cold off beneath his comforter and the quilt aunt May knit him as a house-warming present for his new, ridiculously expensive cupboard apartment. He'll do one more round around the neighbourhood, and then-

"Oh noes, is Spidey cold?" a deep voice asks behind him and Peter shrieks, nearly flipping himself off the roof if not for the heavy hand landing on his shoulder. He grabs the offender's wrist, squeezes and jumps over the ledge in a feat of exceptional flexibility to face whoever managed to sneak upon him without triggering his spider senses.

It's Deadpool, of course, eyeing Peter's movements with an appreciative leer. Peter has never before met anyone who could creep up on him, except for aunt May and his best friends, like MJ, but those people are close to him. Deadpool is not, he's a stranger. A dangerous stranger. Peter squeezes the wrist in his grasp even harder, but let's go when Deadpool goes "owie".

"You can't just sneak up on me without a warning."

Deadpool shrugs and rotates his wrist, which pops obnoxiously. "It wouldn't be sneaking if I warned you first." He raises his other hand and the spicy smell of Mexican food hits Peter. His stomach growls when he inhales through his mask and his gaze zeroes in on the paper bag Deadpool dangles before him. "But I brought apology food?"

"For what?" Peter asks, his answer a puzzled head tilt. "What are you apologizing for?"

". . . Is there some specific answer you're hoping for here? Because if there is, then it totally is that one."

"Not really." Huffing, Peter slumps down on the rooftop, this time with his back to the ledge. He pats the roof and Deadpool jumps the invitation, sliding next to him. The paper bag lands in Peter's lap, like the pineapples had over two months ago.

"Dig in."

And Peter does. For a split-second he hesitates, but leaves his left hand gloveless and pushes his mask above his nose, the way he does for coffee and snack breaks at the Avengers facility. The right glove stays on to hide W's identity, but also his own. W is not the most common initial, and if word gets out that Spider-Man has a W on his right palm, someone might connect Peter Parker and his superhero identity. Spandex suits don't leave much to the imagination after all, and it's not like he can hide his body type as Peter Parker.

It's not until he's wolfed down three whole tacos that he notices how Deadpool has yet to eat himself. He's talking, or broadcasting an internal argument, about whether he's hoping for an early first snow or not (pros: it's pretty, cons: it's cold. It's unclear whether Deadpool thinks it's a pro or a con that everyone leaves footprints. Also, if he does or doesn't enjoy when the snow melts on him. Peter asks if he likes rain for comparison, but Deadpool's answer is incomprehensible), while observing Peter, who wipes his lips and the sauce dribbling down his chin. God, he hopes he hasn't been moaning throughout the meal. He should eat more regularly, but his rent doesn't allow such luxuries.

"Aren't you going to have anything?" he asks, interrupting Deadpool's debate.

"Nah, I'm not hungry." Deadpool leans in closer, his attention gliding from the fourth, only half-eaten taco in Peter's hand to his face. "So, do you forgive me?"

"Err, uh, sure? These are amazing, by the way."

"Yes!" Deadpool pins Peter with a hopeful gaze. "Are we super-friends?"

"I'll consider it."

"That's good enough for me, baby boy."

"Don't call me that." Shaking his head, Peter takes another bite of his taco. "But hey, seriously, what do you want? Why are you here?"

"I want to hang out, obvs. Maybe fight some crime, or whatever you heroes do."

"You mean that?" Peter asks. He wipes his chin again and lowers whatever little is left of his taco.

"Yeah. I've seen you out before and you look a little lonely, huddling on rooftops and shivering all by yourself. My warm arms are always open to cuddle your cute ass, for the record."

Peter elbows Deadpool in the side and gets a mock-hurt "ouch" in return.

"Thanks, but no thanks. And FYI, I'm not lonely. I just work solo."

"Same difference."

If Peter was any more immature, he would've stuck out his tongue. Instead he stuffs his mouth with food like a mature person. Deadpool continues blabbering next to him. Once he's gorged two more tacos, Peter rolls his mask down and pulls on his glove, though not before checking the number on his palm. A two. He hopes his soulmate's contentment rivals his own.

"Thanks for the meal," he says and pushes the half-full paper bag toward Deadpool. "I'll be going now. But, I'll see you around?"

"Heck yeah, Spidey baby, picnic nights are a thing now."

"Sorry, but I can't bring any food. I'm too broke for that kind of fun."

Deadpool flails with his arms. "Don't worry about that. I have a dozen reward cards to my favorite Mexican places so I'll bring the food, you just eat."

Peter does his best to swallow the laughter bubbling up his throat at the sight of a tall muscular man in red spandex and eight visible weapons on his person flapping his arms around like he expects to rise off the ground if he tries hard enough. A giggle escapes, but at least he doesn't go down without a fight.

~o~

Picnic nights do become a thing. Peter doesn't take Deadpool seriously the first or the second time, but the third time Deadpool appears behind him on the usual rooftop, he isn't surprised anymore. After that he almost expects the company. And food. God, Peter's starved. He wonders how he survived before without Deadpool buying him takeout two to five days a week. He voices his awe, which gives Deadpool reason to act all smug.

"Next week I'll buy you all the chimichangas you can eat, sweetums. Someone's gotta feed New York's hungriest little spider, and the responsibility's mine now."

Peter shoves Deadpool's arm, but doesn't stop eating, because he is hungry. Ever since Peter became Spider-Man his metabolism has ran high, and he simply can't afford enough food to satisfy his unreasonable urges. Deadpool must experience similar problems, maybe, but he has a small fortune that Peter can only dream of to spend on jumbo-sized takeout meals ten times a day if he so wishes.

"It's Monday. Won't I see you before next week?"

"Nah, I'm outta town."

Lowering the burrito in his hand, Peter turns to study Deadpool's masked face. He has yet to see Deadpool remove any parts of his suit – he never eats, but chats constantly about whatever while Peter empties his food bags.

"Why? For work?"

"Yeah, work. Got some bad, bad people to unalive."

Peter frowns at the ground, sucking his lower lip in thought. For once, Deadpool doesn't fill the silence with his nonsense.

"I don't like it."

"You don't have to. These burritos don't buy themselves, baby boy. Someone has to work for that sweet, sweet bread."

"Still. I know that the hero business doesn't pay well . . . or at all, actually. I get nothing for patrolling all night and The Daily Bugle does its best to dig dirt on me every day. But it's my responsibility regardless, because I have these abilities."

"Sounds to me like you're in dire need of a sugar daddy. But hey, I volunteer. I'll buy you the world with my dirty, sexy money."

Peter wrinkles his nose. "No thanks."

"I could be Spider-Man's sponsor?"

"Nope."

Deadpool shrugs. "Suit yourself, but the offer still stands if you ever change your mind."

"I won't," Peter says and gulps down the rest of his burrito. A minute ago he would've picked up another one, but he doesn't want the food anymore, not after that conversation. The paper bag crinkles when Peter nudges it with his knee.

Sure, Deadpool is dangerous, calculating, and intelligent in a limitless, damn-this-man-is-out-of-his-mind way, but Peter knows not to take Deadpool seriously too, considering the jokes he cracks and the weird sentiments he sometimes communicates (he hears colored voices that argue in his mind and is often roped into arguments with them. Deadpool also believes some invisible spirits find entertainment in spying on them from behind a "fourth wall"). But it's not always obvious in which emotional lane Deadpool drives; the lines get blurred and Peter doesn't know if he should be serious or not. Deadpool is nothing but a grey blur of morality and immorality, sanity and insanity, safety and danger.

The ambiguousness has a charm, but Peter knows better than to fall for it.

"What would your soulmate think if they knew you promised me something like that?"

"They're just a kid, Spidey, like you. They wouldn't mind. Besides, once they see me, they're going to freak out."

"No way," Peter says. "How many years can you possibly have on them?"

"Twelve and some. One fine Tuesday morning I rose from my beauty sleep and the markings were there."

A kid like Peter for a soulmate, huh. A heaviness settles in his stomach at Deadpool's dismissive words. Should he expect a similar attitude from his own, older soulmate too? "What does it matter though? They're probably old enough to date now anyway. I don't see why they'd freak out."

"Because I look, quote, like an avocado that had sex with an older avocado, unquote. That's a compliment by the way, from Weasel."

Deadpool has mentioned Weasel before, but the exact nature of their relationship remains obscure. Though if Peter has to take a wild guess, he would say that they are friends. If Deadpool even has any of those, considering his profession and general absurdity.

"Can I see?" The words are out of Peter's mouth before he realizes they are his. He splutters. "Or I mean, you never take off your gloves or your mask when we eat and maybe if you showed me now, you'd be more comfortable with me next time, if there's a next time, you know, I just thought-"

Deadpool interrupts him. "Woah, cool your spider balls, you sure you want to? Once you've seen it, you can't forget. Fair warning."

Peter nods and Deadpool shrugs, falters, before he rips the glove off and wiggles his fingers, displaying the deformed number one on his palm.

A gasp slips between Peter's lips when he examine the bare skin before him. Wide, angry red, thin pink and bumpy silver scars crisscross Deadpool's flesh, the wounds slowly healing and splitting open beneath his gaze.

"Ugly, I know. Sorry to fuel your nightmares." Deadpool chuckles, about to pull his glove back on.

Peter grabs his arm. "No, wait, it looks painful. Does it hurt?"

"It's not painless, but I've had worse. Hey, don't frown like that. You're far too cute to worry your pretty little head over a few healing scars."

"Will you tell me how you got them?" Peter whispers.

"Cancer. When they scanned me, I lit up like a Christmas tree, Hazel Grace. It was everywhere. I was desperate, applied to this research program called Weapon X. They promised me a cure, but didn't mention that the treatment was a special, mind shattering brand of torture. And I did get my cure, though in hindsight it's more for mortality than cancer. The superpowers and the perfect, permanent Freddy Krueger cosplay look are just a bonus. End of fairytale."

"Wow." Peter's hands fall to his lap. "So these scars, they're all over you?"

"Yup," says Deadpool, popping the p at the end. "It's a never-ending fight. The cancer tries to kill me, but my healing factor keeps singing no-not today, no-no-no, not today, every day, and there's no end to it. I hoped to get cured for the kid, but that backfired big time. I wouldn't want to find out I'm my soulmate." He tilts his head, as if listening to something. Peter's educated guess is the colorful voices in Deadpool's head. "Shut up, you guys aren't my soulmates, you make me blow my own brains out all the time." He pauses. "Fair point, I'd want me dead too. Maybe you are my soulmates."

Peter picks up a burrito from the bag. "Did the voices come around when you got your marks?"

"Ha! If only. Mrs. Flores' class would've been so much more fun if they had."

"Then they're not your soulmates, DP," Peter says and bites into his food. The spicy chicken flavor explodes his mouth.

"The name's Wade Winston Wilson."

"So I've heard."

"Let me hear you say it like you're ready to web me to your bed. Come on."

"No."

"I'll serenade you until you do. Follow you all night around. The voices are assembling a playlist right now."

"Only Disney princesses fall in love within one song," Peter says and yanks his mask lower over his warming cheeks.

"Ooh, irony. This'll be like from one Disney princess to another."

"I don't get the joke?"

Deadpool laughs and Peter opens his mouth, but nothing comes out – because what is he talking about? The joke must be on his expense, because Deadpool refuses to explain, already singing, non-stop until the end of patrol. Peter webs away accompanied by song.

"Call my name, when you're lonely, when you're tired, when you're blue, so call my name, when you need me."

(Peter does call Deadpool's name, although later. He's standing in his bedroom, Spider-Man mask on the floor, the rising sun illuminating his bare palms.

"Wade," he says in the quietness, clenching his fists. Peter has done this often enough, getting his hopes up and watching them crash down again.

No more, he promises himself. What does waiting for his soulmate give him anyway? They might not turn up until he's sixty-five and by then . . . Well, who knows if Spider-Man lives that long. If- if someone else is interested and Peter is interested too, then it can't be wrong.

After all, there's many dangerous, flirtatious and attractive people whose name starts with W hanging around the neighborhood.)

~o~

Peter turns twenty before the Avengers do something about his and Wade's familiarity.

To Peter's cutting disappointed and abundant relief he has never become a member of the superfamily. Sometimes they ask for his help, sometimes he goes to briefings and missions, shares cookies and sips coffee with the other heroes, but he never feigns belonging. The Avengers is the big league; they are the people that matter while Spider-Man, who doesn't matter, plays in the sandbox that is New York City. But belonging or not – Spider-Man associates with them. And Deadpool associates with Spider-Man. Which means, Deadpool associates with the Avengers by extension, and that is no good.

Peter should have expected his superhero colleagues' reaction. They've warned him about Deadpool, about his unique antics and his violent, bloody career. And what does Peter do? Makes friends with Wade. The Avengers aren't ecstatic at the news.

So it shouldn't surprise Peter when Iron Man joins him on his afternoon patrol. Wade has been on a job for the past two days and may be back anytime, maybe tomorrow or next week. He does that once or twice a month, going out to do what mercenaries do for a living. Peter has yet to pick up a pattern of his disappearances and reappearances. Wade is unpredictable and makes decisions seemingly on a whim, though Peter doubts the reality of that. Wade might be impulsive, but he's not motiveless, no matter how well he plays the part of a fool.

"Mr. Stark," Peter shouts when Iron Man rockets out from an alley of the street he's swinging across. He hasn't been able to shake the honorifics over the years.

"We need to talk," Stark says through his suit and speeds up toward the roof of the building Peter is hanging off, leaving him no choice but to abruptly change his course and hope he won't splatter on a window like the bug he is.

Peter's spider instincts are better than that of course. Besides, spiders don't splatter on windows, they're nothing like flies after all. He uses the momentum of his swing to get high in the air, and lands in a crouch on the roof. Stark's Iron Man mask has already folded away to expose his face.

"You don't know what you're getting yourself into," is the first thing he says, before Peter has the chance to right himself.

"Huh?"

"I know you're eager and feel responsible to stop every pickpocket and green goblin out there, but there's a limit to what you can and what you should do." Stark puts a hand on his hip, a metallic clank following his movements. "Stick to webbing muggers to walls and helping grandma and grandpa across the street."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm talking about Deadpool, kid. Your new friend? Wade Wilson."

"Yes?" Peter runs a hand over his masked head, wishing he could tug at his hair. "Deadpool's been around. I haven't forgotten what you've told me, but I thought it wouldn't hurt to give him a chance? He's an okay guy, I swear, and he hasn't killed anyone."

Stark snorts. "Hasn't killed anyone? His name's Deadpool and he's a mercenary. Killing people is his job, that's what he does, even before Weapon X came along and gave him a permanent makeover. He loves bloodbaths and watching life leave his victims' eyes."

"I know you think that, but from what I've seen-" Stark rolls his eyes and waves his hand dismissively, but Peter plows on "-I'm serious, Mr. Stark. You haven't spent time with him. He's more than that and I can't turn my back to him. He might be a mercenary, but anyone can change. Wade hasn't killed anyone here."

"Wade? Oh so you're on first name basis?"

"Everyone knows who Deadpool is," Peter says with a level voice.

Hardness glints in Stark's dark eyes. "And does he know who Spider-Man is?"

"No."

"So you admit you can't trust him?"

"It's not about trust. I haven't taken off my mask for you or any of the other Avengers either."

Stark sighs. "You mean well, but not everyone can be saved. All I'm saying is don't let your stubbornness or pride in the way. Scramble and hide in time, before something explodes and takes you with it. That's all I'm saying. Get it?"

Peter stands up straight, clenching his fists. He nods once. "Yeah."

"Good. Deadpool can come handy in . . . some situations, but he's untrustworthy. His loyalty can be bought, and if you pay well enough, it could be anyone's head. Anyone's." Stark jabs a finger in Peter's direction. "He's a capricious weapon built to slaughter, a menace on a good day and a disaster on a bad one. Nothing about Wade Wilson is safe or sane. Don't get your webs too tangled with his, Spider-Man."

When Stark rockets into the horizon, Peter stays and watches him leave. The words nothing about Wade Wilson is safe or sane bounce around in his mind with an intensity he can't ignore. That's what Stark said. Not safe, not sane.

And yet, Peter can't help rejecting those words, rather turning to their polar opposites. Peter's spider senses never tingle around Wade, never give him a reason to duck or to kick, or bash Wade's face in.

How could something so not-dangerous be unsafe? If enjoying Wades company means insanity, then Peter doesn't want to stay sane.

~o~

Wade didn't lose his antics on his latest job. He still argues with the colorful voices in his head – Peter doesn't question how Wade hears colors, he just accepts it – and sometimes addresses an invisible presence ("write the full scenes, you coward!" Wade says and waves his fist in the air, despite that it's only him and Peter and not a writing hand in sight). So Peter isn't boggled when he says "time's slowing down again", merely picks up another slice of the pepperoni-jalapeno pizza with extra cheese Wade had brought for their picnic night.

"Yeah?"

"Something interesting will happen soon. You probably think I'm not making sense, but no worries, you don't have to get it."

And he's absolutely right, Peter "doesn't get" what Wade is on about because time flows like always, but what else is new? You have to be Wade to understand Wade, but Peter understands him most of the time, and that's more than . . . anyone else around can say, so it's fine.

"Uh huh," Peter says and takes another bite.

It's been a week since Wade showed up after his business trip and one and a half since Stark interrupted Peter's patrol to question his and Deadpool's relationship. Peter has done his best not to let Stark's words get to him, but who is he kidding, he was lectured by Iron Man from the Avengers and if that's not terrible enough on its own, the worst is that he has a point.

"You just wait, sugarplum, and you'll know I'm right."

In his peripheral vision, Peter sees Wade push his mask over his nose and bring a slice of The Ultimate Meat-Lovers Pizza to his scarred lips, though the gloves stay on. His gaze doesn't linger on the scars that grow, shift and fade in plain sight along Wade's neck and jaw; he's just happy to share the meal. They've come a long way since Wade removed his glove the first time. The scars look the same, still hellishly painful.

Peter licks the leftover cheese off his uncovered left hand. His soulmate is a one on the danger scale, which isn't unusual for the times he and Wade hang out. It's funny how both of them have fallen in a similar rhythm. Is Peter's soulmate out there somewhere, sitting on a rooftop and looking down at the world below them too?

But no, Peter's gone over this many a time: wondering about his soulmate does him no favors. He beats the tight feeling in his chest with a mental stick, searching for a distraction.

"Mr. Stark sought me out the other day," he blurts out.

Wade makes an offended sound and waves his half-eaten pizza slice in the air. "The sentient, flying tin can? Why?"

"He wanted to talk."

"About what?"

Peter shrugs. "Us, I guess."

"Us as in, you and me? Ooh, smells like drama. Did he confess his undying love for you? If I were you, I'd pick me. Obviously he's all sort of pretty and flashy colors and whatnot, but a robot? All hard angles and sharp edges. Me on the other hand, I'm flesh and blood, a human. A real man. Unless cyborgs are you thing? I could totally dress in scrap metal if that makes you happy. Ooh, a recycled iron dress does sound great!"

"Sounds uncomfortable." Peter scrunches his nose. "I'd hate to scale walls with a bunch of metal hanging off me."

"Yeah, sure, but that's haute couture for you, baby. It's art, not leisurewear. You like sundresses better?"

"Um, sure."

"What color? Yellow votes yellow, White thinks cerulean."

Peter examines his lap, running a gloved finger over the red and blue parts of his suit. "Tell White to think darker blue. Like navy?"

"Brilliant, Spidey, brilliant. With a little white bow on the front. I'll make us matching ones." Wade claps his hands together, then drops them. "So, do I have a rival now? Iron-Can what's-his-nuts? Can we fight for your hand?"

"You want to fight Stark?"

"If it's for your virtue and affection, I will. At least until your soulmate turns up because man, that's someone even I won't try."

"I can fight for my own virtue. Besides, Stark feels like a distant uncle, so please stop that." Peter pauses. "He thinks I'm in over my head befriending you."

"Oh." Wade leans back. "And what do you think?"

"I think you're fine. Just remember the no killing rule, all right? Or I'll kick you out of town."

"I've been good." Wade raises his greasy, gloved fingers. "Scout's honor."

"I'll take your word for it." Peter bites into another pizza slice. "I've thought about what you said when we first met."

"Jog my memory? I've said a lot of things."

"About wanting to do what heroes do. It's not like you haven't been stalking me already during patrols-" ("Only to ensure your safety," Wade interjects) "-so you might as well join me. We could be . . . a team. If you'd like, that is."

Wade gasps and raises his hands to his cheeks. "Are you proposing to me?"

"Yeah okay, never mind."

"No-no-no, wait. Are you serious? You'd take me with you? I'd be your apprentice? Hero-in-training?"

"Err, why not? If you want to? You can tag along and we can help grandma and grandpa across the street and stop a few robberies as long as you don't kill anyone."

"Oh my god, someone pinch me, this is like my ultimate daydream. No, I take that back. Don't pinch me! Next thing we know, we'll touch hands and turn out to be soulmates."

Peter chokes on a piece of jalapeno. He coughs and gags and hits his chest.

"Bad joke?" Wade asks and pats Peter between his shoulder blades.

Peter inhales deep and shakes his head. His vision swims and nose runs. "No, just unexpected."

Unexpected considering that he and Wade have never touched bare skin. Every time they eat, Wade makes excruciatingly sure that Peter has picked his food first and that they never have their hands simultaneously in the takeout bag. He suspects Wade's skin condition has something to do with it.

"It's fine, I wouldn't want to soul bond with my ugly mug either, no hard feelings here."

"That's not it." Peter tucks his hands between his thighs, his ungloved fingers digging into his suit. "I just try not to think about them."

"Why? They hurt you?"

"No, but I've spent all my life pining for my soulmate and they never turn up. One moment I think I found them and the next I'm disappointed again. I guess I'm tired of waiting, you know? They'll come when they do. I need to live my life, with or without them."

Wade wipes imaginary tears from beneath the white eyes of his mask. "Daddypool's proud of you, you've matured so much, my little spider."

"Shut up." Peter kicks Wade's boot. "I'm twenty."

He freezes when the words leave his mouth, but Wade doesn't take notice, in favor of screeching "Spidey's a fledgling", like Peter didn't accidentally reveal a huge clue to his secret identity. Tension coils tighter around his torso.

"I'm legally an adult."

"Who can't legally drink," Wade cheers. "Not that drinking is any good anyway. Healing factor kind of cancels all the fun. On the plus side, no hangovers. Though there's no being tipsy either, so that's kind of-" and here Wade turns his thumb down and blows a raspberry. "Did you know that nothing works? I've tried every drug there is and none bring relief. Except putting a bullet in my brain. That one works wonders, for a little while."

"No killing," Peter says on automatic.

"Not even myself? I never stay dead anyway, it's not the same."

"Doesn't it hurt?"

"Eh." Wade waves his hand with an air of indifference. "Barely."

"Uh huh." Peter gnaws at his bottom lip. "Barely."

~o~

Picnic nights still happen and so do joined patrols. Where Peter used to swing through the city and huddle on rooftops listening to the police radio he borrowed without permission two years ago, where he used to march into dark alleys and shiver in the cold rain and snow alone, he now does all those things in company. Except the swinging part. If they're in a hurry, Peter webs them to the crime scene, carrying Wade like a living backpack, but otherwise they're walking. Sometimes Peter swings overhead while Wade takes the streets, or climbs the buildings for variety's sake. But honestly? Most of the time they jog to crime scenes side by side, dodging New Yorkers like professional slalom skiers, and on occasion they merely . . . stroll around. Which is awkward as heck, but they're a team and Wade doesn't have web-shooters so Peter sucks it up and takes two hundred selfies a week with the fans they run into.

Together they hang around empty backstreets listening to the police radio crackle. When there's trouble in the neighborhood, they stalk to the site as a team. When it snows or rains, Wade digs out animal themed umbrellas from one of his bottomless pouches. Or convinces Peter to end patrol early, to pop into a restaurant, go home or maybe spend the evening at one of Wade's safe houses. On the streets, they chase pickpockets and bank robbers, help old ladies carry their groceries and save cats from trees. Sometimes they fight a cheesy villain or two.

The public is ignorant to who Deadpool is. They speculate that one night, Spider-Man acquired a random muscly, katana wielding side-kick from the superhuman factory that produces superheroes with tragic backstories to save New York City with him. They call Deadpool cool. And sure, he carries more weapons than most villains and his jokes are the very definition of inappropriate, but it's all right because he's Spider-Man approved.

Obviously the media jumps and runs with it, and not even Peter can keep pace with the journalists when their fingertips graze a keyboard. Spider-Man's image is rebranded in the month following the first time he and Wade were caught on camera.

The teasing Spidey replaces the more stoic Spider-Man. Rescued civilians, admiring fans and sharp reporters all hear Deadpool yell "Spidey" when Peter webs up his target or when they chase Frankenstein's Cyborg Monster From Space down the streets. The media claims the nickname. No more articles about how "The Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man saves the day once again!", instead it's just "Spidey spotted at yet another taco street stand" or even "Spidey-Pool stops another robbery!"

Because yes, their common fans have started to call their officially unofficial team "Spideypool" to Wade's immeasurable amusement. Peter doesn't get the joke.

Together they make the headlines, people tweet about them, their ginormous pictures parade on the front page of every newspaper in the city, videos spread like wildfire on the internet, winding up on national television, and fans make blogs to worship their hypothetical abdominal muscles and post blurry pics of their asses (Peter wasn't aware of these blogs until Wade informed him that he could spend hours scrolling through them).

Peter calls Wade Deadpool on the field and by name in the privacy of New York's rooftops. Wade doesn't give a fuck and calls Peter whatever he pleases, whenever. They've never formally introduced themselves, never shook hands. Wade doesn't know Peter's name.

But they have a name as a team. Fan clubs. Media attention. The boy next to Peter on the subway has a Spideypool keychain hanging off his Iron Man themed backpack.

Peter watches the keychain pendulate as the boy wiggles in his seat. When he catches Peter looking, a toothy grin splits his face.

"Do you like them too?" the boy asks and angles the backpack in his lap toward Peter.

"Um, yeah, sure. They're cool."

"Yes." The boy beams. "Deadpool is super cool. He's all like-" he raises his hands to mimic holding swords and makes a whooshing sound as he swings his arms, spit flying from his mouth "-and stops all the bad guys. Then the police puts them in jail, because they're caught red handed. My dad says so."

Peter frowns. "What about Spider-Man? He catches bad guys too."

The boy pokes the keychain. "Yeah, he can lift cars! I've seen him on my way to grandpa. Two times! But that was before Deadpool. He flies in the sky and shoots webs from his butt, like a real spider."

"I'm not sure if-"

"That's what spiders do. My teacher told us so in class."

Peter's face flushes. "R-right."

The train halts and the boy's mom grabs his shoulder, telling him it's their stop. Hopping up, the boy slides his backpack on and waves. "Bye!"

Peter waves in return and reaches into his pocket to check his phone, but doesn't get far when the boy cries out.

"It's Deadpool! Ma, look, it's him."

And sure enough, it's him, in flesh and red spandex. Wade whoops and high fives the "little dude" on his way into the subway car where he plops down next to Peter.

"Man, it's exhausting to be so popular."

Peter snorts.

"Well, aren't you cute? Do I know you from somewhere? I feel like we've met before." Wade cocks his head and scratches his temple.

"I don't think so."

"Huh, all right. You a fan then?"

"You could say so," Peter says drily, making a point of lowering his voice a tad so Wade won't recognize him.

"Oh, a sceptic then. I can work with that." Wade nods. "I'd be wary of myself too. But Spidey is too good for this world. You can quote me on that. So you better not be anti-Spidey or this thing between us will never work, honey."

"Do you call everyone that?"

"You mean honey? Nah, only the cutest ones."

Peter's earns burn and he checks his left palm for comfort. His soulmate is a four on the danger scale. Wade whistles.

"You got a feisty one. Spidey's never goes beyond a three. He got one of the normal types who are a one most days and a two when stressed. Not that there's anything wrong with your average Smith from Anytown, but personally I'm stuck on the crazy train and the ride isn't about to slow down."

Peter's jaw drops before he catches himself. His soulmate a supposed average Smith from Anytown? Didn't Wade know the first thing about Peter's person?

Though when he thinks back on his time with Wade, their night picnics on the roofs where he sometimes strips his left glove and how his soulmate shines with their low number, he realizes that no, Wade doesn't know anything about his soulmate and the troubles they have caused him.

"Do you know them?" Wade inclines his head to Peter's palm where the danger scale drops to a three.

"I don't and I'm not in a hurry to find them either."

"How so?"

"I don't think you should pine for one person all your life. You never know when you'll meet them, if ever."

"Huh. That's what Spidey says too."

"And?" Peter glanced at Wade from beneath his lashes. "You don't agree?"

Wade lets out an anguished groan. "By Odin's sweet old wrinkly balls, you're too much. I swear I could never disagree with you or Spidey. You're both too adorable for that, my heart can't even."

"I'm not adorable. And neither is Spider-Man," Peter says, unable to keep the annoyance from his voice. "He can lifts cars."

"Yeah, no, you're totally right, that's exactly what he would say. You've just never seen him when he's not lifting cars or chasing bank robbers. He's a real sweet pea, like you. With a great ass." The white eye lenses of Wade's mask narrow. "Hold on, I might have a type."

Peter wants to screech, but sucks on his cheek instead. The subway comes to a stop and Wade dances to the door.

"I'd love to chat some more, angel cakes, but I'm afraid duty calls," he says, saluting and slipping out of the car.

When Peter's stop comes, he looks more at his hands than the streets. The number on the danger scale is climbing again, from three to four, to five and six, skipping to eight, nine, ten-

And bam. Peter's palm is blank again by the time he reaches his hole of an apartment and sits down at his rickety kitchen table.

He closes his fist and shoves it between his thighs, waiting for whatever hit his soulmate to pass, mulling over Wade's obviousness about how far from the average Smith from Anytown his soulmate is.

~o~

"You know, our fans love us."

Peter glances at Wade out of the corner of his eye lens, replaying their meeting on the subway earlier today in his mind. With his mask on, Wade will never know how much Peter ogles him under the pretense of counting the heartbeats of the urban beast of a city around them.

"This is the most popular I've ever been," Wade continues. He holds his fateful companions Bea and Arthur, as Wade calls his katanas, in his lap as he scrubs the already gleaming edges and swings his legs to the beat of a tune only he hears. Maybe the voices sing for him. "It's all thanks to you."

"I'm pretty sure you'd win the popularity poll between the two of us." Peter shifts to lean his chin on the arm propped up by his knee. "Not that I mind." And he doesn't. Fame didn't matter when the Daily Bugle dragged Spider-Man's name through the mud, dirt and dung, and it doesn't matter now. Peter wears the superhero suit because he has a responsibility to the world and because he loves his city.

"No way. You're the proper one with morals and smarts and stuff. I'm a maniac with a dozen weapons on my person at all times." Wade grins at his katanas. "And what beautiful weapons they are."

"No killing."

"No killing." Wade sheaths his blades. "I've been good. Do I get a reward?"

"What do you want?"

"A kiss?"

Humming, Peter regards Wade, who raises his palms in surrender.

"Kidding, kidding! I want burritos."

"Of course you want burritos."

"Pretty please?" Wade asks, his voice going up in pitch and ending up squeaky.

Peter sighs and stands to stretch his arms. "Fine. I'll go get us burritos."

"Thanks babe, love ya. Here, take this." Wade pulls out a wad of bills from one of his many pouches. Peter opens his mouth to object since he should pay for their food sometimes too, he already relies on Wade all too much to feed his bottomless belly regularly, but Wade cuts him off before he can choke the words out. "I'd get them myself, but this is supposed to be a reward, so I allow you the privilege of going in my place. You can keep the change too, I have enough coins lying around. I'll wait right here." He demonstrates by wiggling his hips where he sits on the ledge.

"No killing" is all Peter says, when he swings off the building. Wade's wolf whistling companions him around the block and he's unsure if he's more annoyed over Wade's ridiculousness or that his cheeks traitorously heat up beneath his mask.

While waiting for his ordered three takeout bags of burritos, Peter contemplates Wade's desired reward. Should he be worried that the idea of pecking Wade on the lips isn't revolting to him the way it probably should be considering he has a soulmate out there, yet to be found? He shouldn't be disappointed that Wade changed his mind either. It was a joke, he didn't mean he actually wanted to kiss Peter. If Wade wanted that, he wouldn't be so cautious about as little as brushing hands with Peter.

And in all honesty, Wade flirting with Peter, but not craving anything beyond that makes all the sense in the world. Peter is the age of Wade's soulmate and Wade has made it clear his special person is too much of a child to take seriously. Wade doesn't want a soulmate. Sure it's because he thinks he's not any good and doesn't deserve some innocent kid as a partner, but still. Besides, he flirts with everyone, even Peter in his civvies on the subway.

The woman behind the counter pushes the takeout bags into Peter's arms, muttering in Spanish and impatiently wiggling her fingers at him. He drops Wade's cash in her open palm and she cocks her hip while counting the bills. Peter is out of the door before she finishes. No way in a million years is he pocketing Wade's change and if he takes it back to the roof, Wade will refuse to accept it and instead try to slip it into the back of Peter's suit without him noticing. He knows because it has happened before.

The most embarrassing part of the whole ordeal was that Wade succeeded in hiding the coins and bills without Peter being none the wiser. The mercenary can dead-ass sneak money into his skintight suit without his spider senses alerting him.

When Peter swings back to the roof, full paper bags in hands, Wade still sits in his spot on the ledge, humming a song Peter recognizes as something aunt May and uncle Ben used to waltz to in the living room when he was just a kid, before his uncle died and his soulmate's danger scale disappeared for the first time.

"Dinner's here," Peter says and plops one of the bags into Wade's lap and the other between them, before seating himself. "I ordered a little of everything. Mostly burritos though."

"Mm, baby. You're perfect." Wade licks his uncovered lips and bites into a burrito. It's debatable whether he's talking to his food or Peter. "I could go crazy for you. Absolutely bonkers. Off my rockers. Downright insane." Wade swallows. "It's a pity I'm already way, way past that. I've lost so many marbles I've started to gain them again, but in negatives. Got a whole pile of those. Could fill a ball pit with 'em."

Peter rolls his mask up the bridge of his nose, pulls his left glove off and chooses a burrito from the takeout bag. "A ball pit? Sounds fun."

"Right? Be careful with the marbles though. We don't want you choking on them."

"I'll hold my breath," Peter says between bites.

"Do that. And shut your eyes too, I'd hate to be the reason for Spidey to go blind. Though then you could become Daredevil's apprentice. Daredevil Two. Spider-Devil. Dare-Man. Devil-Man. Devil-Baby."

"Not a baby."

"You can't even legally drink," Wade says and laughs deep from his chest, as if it is the best joke he ever heard.

Peter refrains from poking out his tongue and immerses himself in his meal instead. Wade hums while stuffing his face with burritos, holding one in each hand. And curse him for waving his arms around and attracting Peter's attention all the time, forcing him to keep an eye on Wade's movements and making his heart clench.

"Hey Wade."

"What's up, sweetums?" Wade says through a mouthful of food. A strip of chicken hangs from his lower lip.

"You're not insane."

"Huh?" Wade's mouth falls open, before he gathers his bearings and gulps. His chuckle has a nervous edge to it. "Baby boy, what are you talking about? Am I rubbing off on you now?"

Peter shakes his head. He's undecided about where the conversation is going, but plows on still, forcing the words out. "You told me yourself. You have a whole ball pit of marbles. That's more than most people have."

"In negatives. I'm pretty sure that makes me . . . definitely not sane."

"No, it means you see the world differently. If you take a color negative photograph the picture stays the same, but the colors don't. Your world's just in different colors than most people's are. It's simple."

Wade snorts. "Yeah, 'cause my world's red. Painted with blood."

Peter doesn't reply. What can he say? That Wade's profession is okay? It isn't. Or that he's being dramatic? Peter doesn't know what Wade has gone through, just that it was bad, so bad that it ripped Wade into pieces both physically and mentally, so bad that even the Avengers gave up on him. Maybe his life is painted in blood.

"I died earlier today," Wade says out of nowhere. "This one guy in a blue suit emptied a whole round in my head." He raises a finger in Peter's direction, rummaging the paper bag in his lap. "I didn't kill him though. I just turned the other cheek, like JC himself told us to."

"You did?" Peter asks, doubt coloring his words.

"Nah. I stabbed him in the foot, threw him over my shoulder and put him in the timeout corner until Po-Po came to collect him and his buddies. He wiggled around and garbled like a toddler the entire time. Childless life is blissful life, let me tell you."

"That's plausible." Peter huffs and reaches for another burrito, when Wade's words sink in. He retracts his arm, turning to Wade who pigs out on his own food. "Wait, what did you say?"

"Childless life is blissful life?"

"No, before that. About . . . dying?"

"Oh yeah." Wade straightens his back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing guacamole across his cheek. "I died today. Got a headful of bullets and went offline for a moment or two."

Peter stares at him in silence. Then glances at the danger scale on his left palm, which is settled on a one. Earlier though, his palm was blank. No number at all, almost as if his soulmate died . . . and came back?

But no, this can't seriously be happening to him. Peter is pulling a MJ out of his ass again, but instead of a MJ it's a Wade. Just because he wants someone to be his soulmate, they necessarily aren't that to him. It's a mere coincidence. A big, ugly coincidence, but one nonetheless.

And since when is Peter hoping for Wade to be his soulmate? Can't his heart respect any of the boundaries his brain decides on?

"What-" Peter's mouth is dry, so he swallows. "What do you think happens to your soulmate's danger scale when you die?"

Wade hums. "Maybe it freezes or drops to a zero. Could fade out or disappear too. I haven't thought much about that. Most of the time I don't drop dead anyway, unless someone splits my head open or blows my brain out. Why are you asking?"

"Curiosity, I guess." Peter swings his leg to straddle the ledge, facing Wade. "You know this danger scale raises and drops a lot." He waves his bare left hand. "Sometimes it's a two, sometimes a five and sometimes a ten. Sometimes it disappears altogether. Like today."

Wade falters, his masked face angling from Peter's face to his palm and face again. His jaw tenses, flexes, until he breaks the strained silence.

"I didn't know that."

"Yeah." Peter looks to his soulmate's danger scale and the three etched into his skin. His gaze glides to his right palm, still covered by a glove. The W pulses in its confines.

Acting on impulse, Peter bites his teeth into the glove's fingertips and pulls it off. A million thoughts whirl through his mind, screaming at him, ordering him to slow down and think before acting, but it's too late for that, because he has already raised his palm and presented it to Wade.

"Bet you didn't know this either," he says, breathless despite not having moved. His thighs clamp down on the ledge between his legs. His palms barely tremble.

"Where are you going with this?" Wade asks.

"We haven't touched once." Peter reaches his hand out. "Touch me."

"No."

"No?" Peter echoes. His thighs are cramping, as is his stomach. "It's only a touch. It won't hurt, right? Then we'll know. Nothing has to change, we'll just know."

"Nothing has to change?" Wade scoffs. "This way or that, everything will change."

"It doesn't have to-"

"Yes it does." Wade's gaze is sharp, biting into Peter's skin even through the lenses of his mask. "Tell me, Spidey, would it be worse if we did or didn't get stuck to each other?"

Peter shakes his head, refusing to consider any of the options and what they would entail.

"That's what I thought." Wade stretches and walks to the edge of the roof. There, he turns to glance at Peter over his shoulder, his mask pulled back in place. "Eat your food, sugar cakes, and take the rest home."

And with that, Wade leaps to the neighboring roof, and the next, and next, and next, until he's but a distant red-black dot floating above New York City's streets.

~o~

Peter's a week from turning twenty-one when he and Wade get in a brawl.

Since forming their team, endearingly dubbed Spideypool by the public, they've run into various trouble. Some more severe threats like small- and medium-time villains, aliens from space and one or two deranged doctors who think they are chosen to be The One to Dominate the World, but as a rule they fight petty criminals, like bank robbers, car thieves and druggies whose idea of an income is purse stealing. And sure, sometimes they get hurt. Wade regularly takes knives to the thigh or arm and Peter bruises his ribs or sprains his ankle in fights, but that is about that. Nothing a little rest can't fix. Though in Wade's case, resting means keep-going-the-cut-will-heal-in-less-than-thirty-seconds-anyway.

They never talk through the soulmate thing, the fact that Peter's danger scale is anything but what Wade expected it to be, or the W on his palm. Wade doesn't share his soulmate's initial and avoids brushing against Peter. Life is the same as before Peter's confession, with picnic nights and shared meals that Wade pays and Peter gobbles up. Besides eating and goofing off on rooftops, they fight crime, pose in selfies and stroll across New York City in search for cats to rescue from trees and little ladies with grocery bags to carry.

Once, Peter tries to introduce himself. He only gets to "my name's-" before Wade interrupts with "hush, I don't wanna hear". Peter's mouth clicks shut and he doesn't try again. Yes, nothing could be more normal between them, nothing except for the aching loneliness in his fingertips when he catches sight of Wade's scarred skin.

The fight is a large one. Not enough to be a battle or to pique the Avenger's interest, but intense enough to be too much for Peter to handle by himself. Having a teammate alleviates Peter's Spider-Man burdens, despite that Wade leaves for private missions bimonthly. Sometimes he's gone for a few days, other times a few weeks or even a month. The media has obviously noted Deadpool's disappearing trick, but since Spider-Man performs the same magic number when he's injured and needs rest or when college gives him a third degree ass-kicking, no extreme speculations arise around Deadpool's mysterious trips out of town. Peter and Wade are a team, but not a unit. They can work solo. Peter's just happy it's not tonight.

They're in a warehouse, back-to-back, surrounded by men Wade's size AKA men twice Peter's size, and some alien-like slime monster undulates in the building's shadowy corners. All men carry weapons; guns, clubs and blades with well-worn handles. Peter counts their murderous grins closing in on him akin to a bleeding sea lion assessing the sharks circling it. He's only on twelve when Wade groans.

"Man, this shit's dumb. Seriously? Of all the villains, we end up with a bunch of goons and some kind of shadow slime that isn't even canon? Does it have a name or should we just go with shadow slime?"

"It's a drug cartel, DP," Peter says through his teeth. "And I have no idea what that thing is, so be careful."

"Yeah, yeah."

One of the men raises his pistol, aiming at Peter's chest.

"Remember the rule," Peter says. Wade deflats against his back.

"No killing. You got it, darling. And prioritize the ones with firearms. They're more likely to harm you than some dude with a warhammer. That's my personal rule numero uno."

Peter huffs and throws himself to the left, right into the arms of a black bearded man with an axe. A gunshot goes off and the bearded man swings at him. Peter dodges, webs the man's legs together and yanks so he tumbles over. Another man charges at him with a knife, which Peter kicks away before wrestling the assaulter to the floor and tying him to the axeman.

"Sit there and think about your wrongdoings. And no cursing. Yeah, that's right, glare at me all you want, these webs won't dissolve in hours."

The men come at him and Wade one after another, crowding them. Peter glues them to the floor, to the walls, to each other and flicks their weapons out of their hands as he goes. Wade on his part, favors a more direct approach by shooting their legs or jabbing their shoulders with his katanas until they dwindle into wailing lumps. Bullets rain around Peter, throttling his pace because he actually has to avoid getting shot, unlike Wade, who jokes his way through rounds of ammunition and thrown pocket knives lodging into his arms, legs and torso. His suit hangs off him in shreds.

Peter's not doing as bad as Wade is, but once again – if he's shot he won't bounce back from it like his partner in not-crime does. His breath is labored, while Wade's is too wet to call healthy.

"Watch out for No-Face behind you," Wade shouts, though too late. A cool, slick tendril of blackness wraps around Peter's left wrist and wrenches. He stumbles under its force, disoriented by the constant dodging and jumping he's been doing.

The shadow slime wrenches again, but now Peter wrenches back. The black mass lets out a high-pitched screech and tries anew. Peter refuses to move, putting all his weight and strength into anchoring himself in place. It's not much of a victory though, considering he's not moving and an easy target for the men swinging their bats at him. One aims for his temple and Peter drops to the floor to evade the hit. The monster clutches his wrist, travelling up along his forearm.

"Hey, stop that." Peter raises his free hand to slaps the slime, but it rolls aside so he whacks himself instead. Hissing, he attempts to web the monster where he hypothesizes its face to be. It screeches and shudders, trying to shake the web off itself. Its grip retreats to his wrist and Peter doesn't let up his attack, shooting the shadow slime again and again, until the monster's too weak to hold him hostage longer. It doesn't melt well into the dark corners anymore, not with all the web fluid sticking to its body, but it tries, like an ashamed dog.

Free from the tendril's embrace, Peter leaps to web a gun out of a younger cartel members hand. The man must be his age, if not younger. Peter's left wrist throbs in pain and the web ends up splattering across the guy's chest.

"What the fuck?" the youngling yells.

Peter grits his teeth and aims again with his right hand.

"Spidey came all over your chest," Wade cheers. "God, I wish that were me."

The young man looks shocked for all of one second, which gives Peter an opening to immobilize his arms. He webs the youngling's legs together too, for good measure.

His left wrist fires lighting bolts of pain up to his shoulder when he moves, and his ribs throb from being struck by clubs and fists. One man swung at him with a blade too, leaving a shallow cut across his right thigh. Wade is still upright and having the time of his life, one of his arms wound around a pillar, around which he spins with his legs stretched out so he can kick those who dare to step closer to inspect his violent pole dancing.

"I call this one the Terminal Tabletop," he says and strikes a pose, before pulling out his gun and firing at a row of stunned kneecaps.

Most drug cartel members are down. About one third of them are webbed up and the rest lie on the ground, groaning, crying or unconscious, but not dead (Peter hopes). Only a handful stands, cocking their guns or gripping their clubs with white knuckles.

Peter turns his back to Wade and faces the men stalking him. He webs two of them together and plans to add the third man, who brandishes a club, to the pair when Wade booms "I call foul play!"

Peter's attention snaps to the commotion and Wade at its center. Wade, whose arms are pulled back behind the pillar he danced with before. Black slime tendrils worm over his shoulders and ribs, stretching the – oh my god, oh my fucking god – large hole gaping in the middle of his chest.

Chunks of flesh lie by Wade's feet, from where a man has carved into his body with a jungle knife. He and his tall and lanky companion with a gun stare wide-eyed at their macabre handiwork.

"Can these fucknuts even die?" the man asks and Wade barks out a wet laugh from behind his mask.

The momentarily forgotten man with the club slams his weapon of choice into Peter's side and he doubles over, wheezing. His spider senses tingle, warning him for an oncoming blow, and Peter reaches out and grabs the club man's waist and throw him aside where he webs both the weapon and offender in place.

In the meantime, the man with the jungle knife stabs Wade in the thigh and his friend points his shaking gun from one spandex-clad hero to the other. Peter steps toward the trembling man.

"Stay back or I'll shoot."

"Shoot," Peter says, raising his good wrist and webbing the gun from the man, who pulls the trigger just as Peter tugs the weapon forward. The bullet graces Peter's outer thigh, above the slash wound, and he groans, half-stomping, half-limping to the last armed man who still stabs Wade in a frenzy. The tall and lanky one, now without a gun, gets punched in the gut on the way, and he crumbles to the ground. Seizing the jungle knife wielding man by his neck, Peter throws him into the closest wall, hard enough to knock him out, but not enough to kill.

"No killing, baby boy," Wade jokes with a pained grimace, but Peter ignores him. The black slime has slithered its way deep into the wound in Wade's chest, where it keeps digging its gruesome flesh tunnel. Peter curls his fingers around the tendrils and pulls. They follow his lead, until the monster realizes what Peter is doing, and start to squirm in his hold.

"Screw you." Peter grunts, twisting his arms and shooting webbing over the monster, his vision blurring with white hot pain. His left wrist must be broken now if it wasn't before.

The monster shudders and shrieks, but Peter doesn't take pity. He'll keep shooting webs at the shadow slime until he runs out of web fluid if he has to. Fortunately, it doesn't get that far. Inch by inch, the monster retreats into the shadows, easing its grip of Wade. Peter keeps aiming and shooting, over and over again, until the now white monster wobbles into the corner of the warehouse and slips out through a crack in the wall.

"Did you get it?" Wade asks, from where he slid to the floor.

"No."

"Another day then. It got your strength. Could lift cars."

Peter huffs. "But it won't."

"No, it won't. We'll stop it before then."

Peter looks to Wade. His left leg is stripped of flesh and skin and his arms hang limply by his side, broken beyond recognition. Half of his suit is gone, and the gaping hole in his chest hasn't even begun to mend together. Peter's head spins at the amount of bones, muscle, sinews and bruised skin before him, and his body would throb in sympathy if he let it, but there's no time to freaking out about this impromptu human anatomy exhibition.

"Oh shit, oh fuck, oh my god-" He discards his gloves, never mind his broken wrist, and pulls his mask to his nose, swaying until he's straddling Wade with his knees, but not sitting down on his mutilated thighs. "Oh my god, are you all right? What- I can see right through you, I could put my hand through your chest, oh my fucking-"

Peter presses his bare palms to the wound before him. Maybe not the most hygienic thing to do, but it's not like he carries a first aid kit with him and it's better than his bloody Spider-Man gloves. Logically, he knows Wade would be dead now if he could die, but he's not, so it's all fine, but at the same time, nothing is fine because he can see right through Wade and when he presses his hands down his fingers slip into the hollow of his chest, and oh fuck-

Peter's left wrist protests, as does his thighs and his breath is a bit too fast for his bruised ribs. He tries to shift his hands to ease the pain, but his fingers refuse to budge from the edge of the wound where his skin rests against Wade's bare chest. He tries to pull back again, but falls on his ass, landing in Wade's lap.

"What? I can't move, I can't- I'm stuck!"

Wide-eyed, Peter tilts his chin up to stare at Wade, who stares back.

"You're stuck?"

"I am."

"Are you sure?"

Peter leans backwards, his hands not even twitching where they're glued to Wade. "Yes!"

"Have you tried relaxing or flexing or whatever you do to unstick when you wallcrawl?"

"Sure, yeah, but I'm not doing this, it's not a spider grip, I can't control it! I'm stuck to you and I can't move."

"That's not possible, you're the sticky one, not me, so maybe you should try again. Maybe you're in shock. Can adrenaline make you sticky? Unless-" Wade's bewilderment morphs into an epiphany. "Wow. By Logan's hairy ass." He laughs, his head falling back. "I don't believe it either, White."

"What?" Peter asks. "What did White say?" His head spins and he's stuck to Wade's by his bare hands, where he touched around the gaping hole in Wade's chest. His wrist is broken and his thigh bleeds and his ribs might be cracked and Wade's arms are too broken to work and his leg is a mess and Peter's stuck to Wade. He's stuck!

"My arm." Wade's right shoulder cracks and pops when he forcefully twists it around until he can raise it off the floor. "Give it another minute and we'll be back in business. Just sit and hang on tight, and baby, we'll be fine, all we gotta do is be brave and be kind."

"You're not making any sense." Peter scrunches his nose. "Did the voices say something? You can't just sing it away."

"I'm sharing my talents! It'd be selfish to hide them, you know."

"Sure, but do you have to share them right now?"

Peter stares at his hands. His palms and slender fingers with old scars and blue veins beneath his pale skin, both used to sticking and unsticking to walls, windows and ceilings at Peter's subconscious demand, helping him move in places and positions humans shouldn't be able to. Now they're resting against Wade's scarred chest, or at least the bits of chest that he has left.

For once, Peter cannot unstick. He's physically unable to. Which is strange and alarming. Unless- But no. But . . . yes?

"Wade?"

"Yes, baby boy?"

"I think I found my soulmate."

The tall and lanky man lying by their feet moans and coughs up blood. Wade turns his head from the man to Peter, the leathery parts of his suit creaking as he does.

"Yellow was wondering how long it'd take you to get it. White lost the bet." A wide grin spreads across Wade's masked face. "Babe, call the Gendarmerie Royale du USA to pick up these idiots. This bloody dump isn't a romantic enough location for soulmate talk."

"I would if I could, but my hands are kind of occupied."

"Oh, my bad. Don't worry. Yours truly will take care of it."

And Wade winks. Peter still doesn't know how he gets his mask to do that.

~o~

Glued to Wade's chest by his palms, Peter almost wishes their first touch would've been an innocent knuckle-brushing on New York's busy street rather than . . . whatever this is. At first he insists on walking from the crime scene, but that means he has to waddle backwards on one injured leg, because if they reverse roles Peter can't see a damn thing over or around Wade's giant-ass shoulders without climbing him like a tree or crab walking while craning his neck to see where they're headed, which would be hilarious if it wasn't so frustrating. They settle with Wade's plan, which is for Peter to wrap his "lil' spider leggies" around Wade's hips and hang on tight while Wade does all the leg work, literally. Running and climbing buildings with a grown man clinging to him proves to be nothing to the mercenary, which shouldn't surprise Peter, but somehow still does. The ride is so smooth, as if he carries injured soulmates on the regular. Peter begrudgingly admits that wanting to walk himself was a dumb idea.

"Usually I'm the one doing the carrying," he explains curtly when Wade prods him about it, which earns him a laugh so hearty the vibrations reach his bone marrow – and soul. At least someone finds Peter's predicament amusing.

They wind up at one of Wade's apartments.

"Mi casa es tu casa," he says and kicks a stray pizza box on the floor toward the pile in the corner. "También the trash's casa. This is their home as much as yours or mine."

"I know. I've been to your safe houses before, remember?"

"Oh yeah. But this - this is the main crib. Behold!"

Bullet holes and dried stains decorate the cracked, white walls and the bathroom door is off its hinges, a pink, glittery door curtain replacing it. A row of pizza boxes tower in the corner of the living room, empty bottles litter the kitchen counter and a burrito wrapper or two carpet the floor, joined by torn and dirty clothes and towels. Despite all this, the apartment feels bare, safe for the tattered recliner in front of an 82" inches television mounted on the living room short wall and the two sturdy stools tucked beneath the kitchen counter. And the weapons; weapons everywhere. Guns, blades, brass knuckles, grenades, axes . . . the shovel leaned against a pile of pizza boxes.

Wade's hand sneaks around Peter's lower back when he pushes into the bedroom and Peter squeezes his thighs where they're wound around Wade's hips. A queen sized mattress lies beneath the window in the middle of the room and a blue drawer, covered by an array of gun parts, occupies one corner. Bloody sheets and comforters crowd around it. Wade picks up a towel, examines it, throws it aside and picks up another one.

"Bingo! Found a clean one." He tucks it between their bodies, using Peter's arms as a shelf, and moves to rummage his drawer for sweatpants. "Hold these."

"Do I have a choice?"

"No. Sorry, honey."

They pass through the pink door curtain into the bathroom, Wade's hand protectively cupped over Peter's neck, as if getting hit by a few plastic marbles could kill him. He sits down on the edge of the bathtub and Peter rests his feet against its cool bottom, next to the heap of clothes Wade dumps there.

"Let's stitch you right back up," Wade says and pulls out a thin dagger. Peter yelps when the blade cuts into his suit by his hip.

"Hey, don't ruin my work uniform!"

"No can do, your thigh is bleeding and I can't check the wound with all this sexy spandex in the way."

Wade's uncovered, scarred fingers skim over Peter's bare flesh, sticking to him like well-chewed bubblegum when he peels the costume off. The knife cut is long, but not alarmingly deep, and the bullet the tall and lanky man fired at Peter merely grazed him. Wade doesn't hesitate, doesn't fumble, when he cleans the wounds and dresses them. Undressing isn't as easy, at least not on Peter's part because, hey – his both hands are stuck to Wade's chest, which thankfully healed on their way to the apartment. Wade ends up cutting Peter's suit off him and replacing it with sweatpants. Peter's cheeks are aflame; he's unable to pull the pants up himself and he wears no underwear beneath his Spider-Man gear. On the other hand, neither does Wade beneath his Deadpool costume, or so he understands based on Wade's thriumped "samesies!", though he doesn't undress to prove it. Peter's unsure if he's relieved or disappointed.

Once nurse Wade deems his patient adequately dressed, he provides "dark lunch" at the kitchen counter, where he sits down on a stool with Peter's legs hanging over the backrest. The menu consists of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Pop Tarts, Wild Berry Pop Tarts, Corona Extra, three days old whole milk, and water. Peter tries everything except for the beer (because that'd be illegal and Peter Parker is a law-abiding citizen despite his vigilante-ish extracurriculars) and milk, which smells like it hasn't seen the inside of a fridge since it left the grocery store a week ago. Though without the use of his hands, he doesn't "try" the menu as much as it's fed to him, with Wade's babbling as entertainment.

Every time he tries to steer the conversation toward something more serious and soulmate-y though, Wade force-feeds him another pop tart or pours more water down his throat. That's fine, they'll be stuck to each other for twenty-four hours total so Peter can afford patience. Wade won't be able to avoid the Serious Talk for that long.

He relaxes in Wade's lap, shirtless and in too large, baggy sweatpants, drinking in the sight of Wade's scarred jawline and his moving lips hovering in front of Peter's own.

But Wade possesses no endless supply of pop tarts, though he does have a concerning amount of beer stocked in the fridge. Peter closes his lips tight when he's offered more water, while Wade refuses to take the hint and downs four, eight, eleven beers, until Peter's patience burns out and he takes to using his super-strength and super-flexibility to wrestle his legs around Wade's neck and kick any incoming bottles out of his hands.

"Enough stalling, it's time we talk," he says and Wade whines pitifully.

"Let's get comfortable first," Peter suggests next, taking his legs off Wade's shoulders, making him whine even higher.

"Imagine all the things we could do with flexibility and strength like that," he sniffs, making grabby hands at Peter without actually touching him. "Even the spider monkey."

Peter wrinkles his nose and Wade hooks his arms beneath Peter's thighs, deep in discussion with the colorful voices in his head about the most difficult, ridiculously named sex positions and about how great ceiling sex and web bondage sounds. Because it's easier to joke about them being intimate than to discuss them being soulmates, apparently.

In the bedroom, Wade yells "incoming!" and falls backwards on the mattress with Peter on top. Their chins knock together and Peter's face sinks into the clean pillow, which muffles a pained "oof". Before Wade can launch into another monologue, Peter pushes off his chest and sits on his stomach.

"Can you take your mask off?" he asks.

Wade licks his lips, hesitating.

"You can take off mine too. First, if you want to. But only if you'll take off yours after-"

"I get to unmask Spidey? Deal." Wade squirms like a happy worm, his uncovered fingers reaching out toward Peter's neck. There's a disfigured P on his right palm and a two on his left one.

His fingertips brush over Peter's bare skin, gently sticking to his flesh, no doubt a side-effect of their soulmate-y situation. Peter takes a deep breath when Wade cautiously starts to roll up his mask, up the bridge of his nose and past his ears. Wade's fingers pause beneath Peter's eyes, his expression unreadable for once, before he yanks the rest of the Spider-Man mask off in one go.

Peter yelps and Wade gasps.

"Hey, we've met before on the train!" Wade waves his hands in the air as if in greeting. "Hi there."

"Yeah, hello to you too. You've also dumped two pineapples in my lap. My, uh, dinner noodles got wrecked when a thief snatched some old lady's purse a few years ago."

"That's why you looked so familiar. Fate, you pulled a good one on me there." Wade leers. "No offence to good ol' Hemsy, but if Spidey was an Avenger, he'd be the sexiest one. You're the cutest, most adorable-" Peter frowns and Wade's tone picks up its pace "-handsomest, most charming, super-strong, super-flexible, young sexy thing I've ever seen. And you're my soulmate, can you believe that? Little me, matched with you? Cupid must've mistaken, maybe shot the bow while high, just for shits and giggles. But oh well, no take-backsies. This is it for us, you and me. Forever together as soulmates."

"Thanks for the compliments?"

"You're welcome, baby boy."

"Peter." Peter swallows and presses his lips together in a small smile. "It's Peter Benjamin Parker."

"Peter," Wade repeats, tasting the word. "Peter Benjamin Parker, you look just like a Peter. How didn't I piece it together the moment I saw you?"

Peter chuckles. "Too busy waxing poetry about my ass to think, maybe?"

"We're on the same wavelength, you and I, honey-pie."

"And now, you."

"Me? I'm Wade. Wade Winston Wilson."

Peter raises an eyebrow and takes on the most disapproving look he can muster. He tries to channel the energy aunt May radiates when she's unhappy with him, but doubts the effect is the same. "Show me your face."

"Do I have to?" Wade sulks. "I'm feeling shy now that I've seen what a beauty queen my soulmate is. I'll have you know, I was one sexy beast back in the day. Not so much anymore."

"Beauty queen and the sexy beast. The most beautiful love story ever told."

"I mean it's all right." Wade shrugs. "There's no smut, but a few tropes and references worked in. Some better than others. Meh."

"Sometimes I wish I'd understand what you're saying."

Wade chortles. "We all do, Pete."

They fall into a brief silence, which Peter breaks. "The mask."

"What about it?"

"Take it off."

"For a minute I dared to hope you'd forget about it."

"Never. If you don't do it, I'll pull it off with my teeth."

"Ooh, there's a kinky idea, let's do that one."

"Wade . . ."

He huffs. "Fine."

Wade's hands hover over his own face, his fingers twitching. Between Peter's thighs, his chest expands when he breathes in deep-

-and yanks his mask off, dropping it on the pillow, his eyes squeezed shut.

Peter doesn't shut his eyes. The opposite in fact, he stares, drinks in every detail, however insignificant. If Peter could touch Wade's face, if his hands weren't stuck, he'd run his fingers over every bump and ridge along his jaw, his nose, his scarred lips, his hairless eyebrows and over his scalp. He'd avoid irritating the open wound above Wade's right ear and the red, newly formed scars on his cheek and forehead. He'd kiss the healing silver lines marring his flesh.

He'd kiss the mouth, too.

"Open your eyes, please," he whispers. He's closer than he realized, he must've leaned in, supported by his hands (he can't feel his left wrist and that can't be good, but it doesn't matter, not in the moment) on Wade's chest, his lips ghosting over a scarred nose.

Wade gulps and obeys. He has no eyelashes, no facial hair. Fine wrinkles surround his eyes and there's a scar on his left eyelid. His eyes are so pale blue they look grey.

"Sexy beast," Peter whispers and Wade cracks a forced smile.

"What if I want to be the beauty queen?"

"Then you can be. We'll take turns. Or do both without breaks. You and I. Beauty queen and the sexy beast times two."

The last of the tension bleeds out of Wade's muscles. "That's a lot of spicy energy right there, sweetums."

"Sure is."

A serious glint flits through Wade's eyes. "Are you happy, Peter?"

"I, uh, think so?" Peter tenses. "Why do you ask?"

Wade scoffs. "You think? Try again." His expression softens. "You didn't want to find your soulmate, you told me so. Is it because of the fucked up danger scale?"

"No! Not the danger scale. I-" Peter swallows. "I didn't dare to think it'd be you, because every time I've met someone I've even remotely liked, it's never them. It would've been too lucky of a coincidence."

"You liked me?" Wade asks. "Like-liked? You did that before all this?"

Peter's face heats up beneath the scrutiny. ". . . Yeah? That's why I couldn't believe it at first. I thought it to be impossible. People have secret crushes on their soulmates only in cheap rom-coms."

"Oh-hoh-hoo, babe. You had a crush on me. That's embarrassing."

If Peter's hands weren't stuck at the moment he would've shoved at Wade's arm. And still, out of his mouth comes a barely dismayed "we're soulmates."

"Still. Though that's not even half as embarrassed as I should be. I crushed on you so hard, honey cakes, you have no idea. Or maybe you do. Lucky for us, I feel no shame, so it's all cool beans. So if you've now processed my exterior and come to terms with my minced meat mug . . . Wanna have wild, Spidey-powered sex?"

"Wade, no, my hands are stuck to your chest."

A wide grin spreads across Wade's face. "I know."

Peter shakes his head and Wade pouts.

"Then, may I interest you in a kiss instead?" he asks, puckering his lips and raising his head off the mattress in a supremely uncomfortable angle. Peter regards the offer with narrow eyes, before laughing at the ridiculous display and bending down to meet him halfway.

Peter's lips brush against scarred ones when he speaks next.

"I'm interested."

~o~

It's the night of Peter's twenty-first birthday. He patrols his city, first with Wade and then alone, webbing two muggers to a wall and helping a six-year-old find her mother while his soulmate is off somewhere doing whatever by himself.

Which is cool. Peter's a strong, independent twenty-one year old white boy who is also Spider-Man. He can survive without Wade for a night. Even if it's his birthday and Wade is his soulmate. It's all just . . . super cool. Chill. Peter's doing great!

He kicks with his legs where they hang over the edge of their designated picnic night high-rise. He wonders if he's been moving too fast, if he's suffocating Wade with his neediness. Maybe he shouldn't have moved into Wade's place the day they unstuck from each other. Did Wade have second thoughts now that Peter had made home of the apartment, bringing in all his experiments, nerdy books and hung up that Star Wars themed clock Uncle Ben had bought him when he was ten above their shared bed, also with Star Wars themed sheets (which Peter had splurged on when he was nineteen, because he can buy geeky stuff like that himself too, thank you very much)? Does the age difference bother Wade, is Peter too childish for him? Is it even possible to out-childish him? But it had been Wade who insisted that Peter would move out of his "nerdy shoebox" and into Wade's apartment. He would've been happy to play "just roomies" if that was what Peter needed to agree to move in. And honestly, Wade's place is a palace compared to Peter's old apartment. They can date like this too. They can be date-mates of one week who sleep in the same bed and eat breakfast together every morning, who patrol together and sometimes shower at the same time. That's fine. They can be date-mates of one week who act like an old married couple, because they've been friends for years. Also because they're soulmates.

Peter found his soulmate. It's his reality, his soul is bound to one of the most dangerous supers ever, and yet he can't stop smiling about it. "Wade is mine," he wants to howl into the night. "He's mine," he wants to yell at overeager Deadpool fans and the Avengers who have yet to overcome their disapproval of Wade. He doesn't though. Primarily because Spider-Man is peaceful and good-natured, and secondly because part of the superfamily or not, Peter respects those heroes way too much to ever yell at them. Admittedly, Wade makes one shady character and even Peter was wary of him at first.

But to think how far they've come. Peter, who obsessed over W and soulmates well into his teens, when he decided to take a one-hundred-and-eighty degree shift and say fuck soulmates, he can date whoever he wants. And Peter happened to want to date Wade, the person the universe had meant for him all along. Funny how that worked out.

Someone groans behind him, followed by a thump and the clinking of what sound like a dozed glass bottles. Peter turns to regard the newcomer over his shoulder.

"Whew. I hope you didn't wait long." Wade pretends to wipe sweat off his masked brow.

"I started to think you wouldn't come."

"Wouldn't come?" Wade asks in a scandalized cry, clutching his non-existing pearls. "Baby boy, what? I wouldn't miss this for anything. Okay, maybe some things, but-" He catches sight of Peter's pursed lips peeking out from behind the Spider-Man masks, and hurries to continue. "Anyway, I had some trouble getting booze, you know? They wouldn't sell shit if I didn't show ID and with the mask and all . . . but I got my stuff in the end, all right."

"What did you do?" Peter asks, suspiciously eyeing the black tote bag with the clinking glass bottles. The print reads "HO BAG" in a thick, red font. Wade's self-satisfied tone combined with the vague story doesn't bode well.

"Don't worry about it, darling." Wade plops down next to Peter. "Enchiladas?"

Peter hums an affirmative, waving his hand in Wade's direction, coaxing him closer. "So the booze is in the bag?"

"Right on! You're such a smart baby spider." A takeout bag drops in Peter's lap. "Or big spider, I guess, with you turning twenty-one and all. Adult spider. Fully-grown spider. A manly, hairy, super spider. You should start growing pubes and that cute fluffy hair of yours for the both of us, and I'll handle all the extra legs. We have to celebrate that, with . . ." Wade rummages through the tote bag. "I say, tequila."

"Whatever, just give it here." Peter heaves a resigned sigh and reaches his hand out. Wade pops the cork off with a cheer. He's hounded Peter about getting drunk for a week now, claiming that his own healing factor is too strong for him to get drunk or high or anything, but that he'd love to experience it through Peter instead, that is, if he can get drunk. Otherwise they're stuck sober together.

Peter takes a gulp from the bottle and grimaces at the burning, putting the drink aside in favor of an enchilada. "Do you feel responsible for me?"

"Absolutely. We're soulmates."

"No, I mean like, because of my age?"

"What? Where is that coming from?" Wade snatches the enchilada from Peter's hand and replaces it with a bottle of cherry liquor. "Drink up."

So Peter drinks. It tastes better than the tequila, sweeter, fruitier, so he pours it down his throat to get it over with, until Wade lowers the bottle for him.

"Whoa hey, slow down or you'll puke all over yourself."

"When we first began hanging out, you called me a child. You told me your soulmate was too young for you. Like me."

Wade doesn't reply. He lets go of the cherry liquor and Peter clutches it tighter.

"I only turned twenty-one tonight. You're thirty-three. Does it feel like a mistake to you? Is it a problem to you, am I-"

"No."

"No? What about that time I asked you to touch my hand and you ran away? You didn't want to touch me."

With a jerk of his wrist, Wade pulls the mask up to his forehead, to look Peter in the eye. "It's not a mistake. I never thought it'd be a mistake."

"You didn't?"

"Of course not. I just . . . needed to keep you at a distance."

Peter swallows. "Why?"

"Because I was afraid." Wade gestures with his arms, opening them, and letting them drop again. "Of wishing you to be my soulmate. Of you being my soulmate. Of you not being my soulmate. No option seemed good, I knew it'd get messy either way. I didn't want lose the connection between us. However hard it might be to believe that a charming persona such as myself wouldn't be loved by all, I'm actually quite lonely. So I panicked and solved the problem. Created some distance between us. It served as a reminder to myself, to not make it messy."

"And you did that by calling me a kid?"

"It was White's idea," Wade says and grimaces. "Yellow's right, your ideas suck, Whitey. I don't care if it's true, if it wasn't for you we would've slapped Pete's ass two years ago." He turns to Peter with wide eyes. "Honeybun love with kisses on top, can I slap your ass, please? I need to win a bet to establish dominance over some assholes in my head."

Peter shakes his head before throwing it back to wash his guts with cherry liquor. Some spill down his chin.

"Look what you made him do," Wade shrieks, but calms down the second after. "Oh right, this is what he's supposed to do. Chug it, babe!"

A cap clinks against the ledge when Wade uncorks what Peter presumes to be a beer. Wade can't get drunk anyway, so he wouldn't waste the stronger stuff on himself when they have yet to figure out if Peter handles them just as well as he does. Peter almost hopes he won't – getting drunk sounds like a much needed change of pace. With his luck he won't though.

"Well, White's an asshole." Peter wipes his face with his sleeve and pushed the empty liquor bottle aside, grabbing the tequila instead. He grimaces and brings the drink to his lips. "I've been in love with you for years. But-" Peter takes a swing. "But if you had slapped my ass, I would've chucked you off a roof, crush or not."

"Wouldn't have expected anything less. Any honey-pie of mine shouldn't stand such disrespect and sexual harassment."

"Damn right." Peter wiggles the bottle to hear it's contents slosh around. It sounds like the sea or a muddy pond, the kind he used to stomp around in as a child. "But you were wrong. Being with me, being my soulmate, it's not messy at all. I'm very organised, aren't I?"

"Sure you are. I was wrong and you were right." Wade chuckles. "You're a dream, baby. A wonderful, very organized, wet dream. I could bust a nut for your thought alone. And I have, too. Not gonna hide that from my soulmate."

"Really?" Peter stops downing tequila to squint at Wade. "Just like that?"

"Well, not just like that, but with a helpful hand and a vivid imagination . . ." Wade wiggles his non-existent eyebrows.

Peter raises his bottle in cheers. "Classy."

"Only for you." Wade winks, wringing another snort from Peter, who has yet to let go of the tequila. The taste is awful, but he's growing numb to it. In fact, he's already emptied half a bottle.

Wade speaks up again, unprompted, which isn't uncharacteristic for him at any rate. His somber tone, however, is.

"I'm not perfect. You could argue that I'm not even good. Many do. And I don't want to lose you." Wade's gaze locks with Peter's. "That's why I was scared to get stuck on you, to be your soulmate. I don't want to ruin you by tying you to myself."

"You couldn't ruin me if you wanted to." Peter smiles at the tequila in his hand, before introducing it to Wade. "Is this bottle half-full or half-empty?"

Wade cocks his head to the side. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't know." Peter giggles and gulps down some more of it, before pouring the rest over the ledge, along the cracks of the high-rise's wall. "Now it's a waterfall."

"Huh. Sure looks like it." Wade squints at the tequila running down the wall, then at Peter. "Are you drunk?"

Peter laughs. "I feel stupid. This is really stupid. We're both stupid."

"Totally, but at least you can consider this experiment a success. Spider-Man can get drunk."

Wade grins wide and Peter grins back, just for the sake of the happiness. Watching Wade's eyes scrunch up, accenting the wrinkles at their corners, his lips stretch and his teeth show makes him giddy, little tremors of love tickling his heart and shooting joy in every direction until each of his cells are vibrating with it.

Is it possible to be high on love, Peter wonders.

"Let's make it worse. More stupid." You're supposed to act stupid when you're drunk, aren't you? That's why Wade handed him the tequila in the first place. For stupid, drunken fun.

"Whatever you want."

"Do you still want to slap my ass?" Peter asks, unable to stop smiling.

"You mean to crush White beneath my supremacy? Always."

Peter nods, schooling his face into a serious expression. "Okay. But only once." A smile creeps through the cracks of his façade. "And only if you catch me."

And Peter pulls down his mask and leaps off the roof. Drunk or not, his Spidey instincts kick in reflexively. He shoots a web at the building across from him and disappears behind its corner, down the streets, toward the city center.

Behind him, Wade shouts. Peter can't hear him for the wind whooshing in his ears and his own giggles, but he knows it doesn't matter. After all, if it's important, Wade will repeat it once he catches up.

Because he will. Sooner or later, for better or worse, Wade and Peter will always get tangled up. They'll have to iron out their insecurities, figure out their shit, together.

Eventually. Just not tonight.

If you enjoyed, please leave me some feedback!

I thank my dear friend and beta, Robyn, for looking over this fic before I released it in the wild! Your support means so much to me x

You can find me on tumblr as sweetsoursugarcube

If not anything else, you can always yell at me about the dumbest reference you caught me sneaking in here. Or spideypool, that works too