A/N: Well, my love for this pairing hit me hard and fast. I decided to try my hand at sharing the love.

Just to note, this fic may be a tad slow to progress to the yummy parts. However, I assure you the wait will be worth your while (I may be new to the fandom, but not to writing slash). When it does get there, it will most certainly exceed fanfiction's smut standards, and I will begin posting to an alternate website (I will provide a link in the future).

Until that time though, please enjoy! Comments, constructive criticism, and ideas are welcome (though I can't promise that they will be incorporated).

Disclaimer: As usual, I do not own Spider-man, Deadpool, or any associated characters.

Font Clarification: Narration, speech, etc...

Peter's thoughts, occasionally to emphasize words (the difference should be apparent)

Wade's thoughts

Emphasizing words

Over the few years that Peter had known Deadpool, his opinion of him had gradually shifted from blatant distaste, to tolerance, and finally to a strange sense of friendliness and trust. Due to the nature of Deadpool's work, they hadn't crossed paths too terribly often, but had teamed up on enough occasions to have formed a bond of sorts. Maybe that was why when Peter came across the mercenary's battered and unconscious body in an alley while patrolling one night, he decided to take him back to his apartment to look after.

Peter grabbed the larger man's body with little effort and made his way back home, wondering along the way just what had happened to knock the immensely resilient man out of it. Reaching the fire escape outside of his living room window, Peter finagled his cargo in with some effort, and carefully laid him down on his couch. It was a bit hard to tell through the shredded remnants of the red and black spandex body suit, but he could see still-wet blood coating most of Deadpool's body. Where exactly he was injured was impossible to tell, not that it mattered. Peter was well aware of the man's healing factor, and figured he'd be completely healed in less than an hour, whatever the damage might be. Nonetheless, Peter retrieved a bowl of hot water and a washcloth before pulling a chair from the dining room table to sit facing the couch. He hesitated before sitting, once more looking down at the mess of ripped spandex and blood before him, and grabbed a pair of scissors as well.

He quickly got to work removing the remnants of the older man's suit. Peter didn't even have to consider whether or not to leave the merc's mask intact. He knew just how important maintaining a secret identity was to most superheroes, and to remove it would be the ultimate sign of disrespect. Instead, he began cutting at the neck, slowly moving his way down. Having a few years of experience dealing with a variety of mutants under his belt helped to dull his shock when he saw just how scarred Deadpool's body was, but he still shifted uncomfortably in his chair, again wondering just what in the hell he'd been through to get them. His mind lingered on the thought while he continued snipping away, pondering the specifics of his "advanced healing" that had left him a patchwork mess of scars. When he finally finished undressing the man, Peter pulled a blanket from the back of the couch and awkwardly covered the merc's essentials, unwillingly and enviously taking note of his exceptional male physique.

Peter grabbed the washcloth from the bowl of water, squeezing out the excess before beginning the arduous task of cleaning up what seemed like at least a gallon of semi-dried blood. He ran the cloth gently down the contours of the older man's chest and stomach, rinsing it in the bowl every now and then. Quickly falling into a thoughtless rhythm as he lifted and shifted the man's body to reach his sides and back, Peter's mind wandered, finally starting to question his actions over the past hour. Why did I feel the need to go this far? Sure, we've worked together in the past, and I don't hate the guy, but it's not like we're friends either. I know damn well that he'll be fine regardless of what's done to him. Ruining my damn couch with bloodstains for no reason... More and more he started cursing and questioning himself, realizing just how thoughtless his spur-of-the-moment decision had been. Of all people, Deadpool? To my apartment? The man is absolutely insane! Even if we have a bit of a rapport... If he comes to while he's still here, I'm risking my identity- God, I'm going to have to move again, and I just got settled in.

Peter realized he was talking himself into a mild panic and consciously pried himself from his current stream of thought. He swallowed and looked back down at his hands, laughing despite himself when he realized he was still fully suited up, having not even thought to take off his gloves. He didn't bother to rectify the situation, figuring it was too late to remove them anyways. At the very least though, his own thoughtlessness had lightened his mood a little. His identity was still concealed, all the way down to his wet and bloodied gloves, and Deadpool was still unconscious. If he was quick and lucky, Peter still had time to finish cleaning his wounds, put some clothes on him, and drop him off on some roof a decent distance away. His identity and address would remain unknown, and all would be well. Deadpool wouldn't even know that Spiderman had been there. Sufficiently calmed, Peter quickened his pace and finished cleaning the last smudges of blood from the merc's legs. Time being of the essence at the moment, Peter decided to leave the cleaning up until after he'd returned from dropping Deadpool off, instead hurrying to his bedroom to try to find some clothes that would fit the significantly larger man.

Unbeknownst to the young hero, and as the universe's way of rewarding his goodwill of not removing the mercenary's mask on principle, Deadpool followed him with his eyes as he left the room. He had woken up at about the same time as Spiderman had started cutting his clothes off. Wade had been so intrigued by the scene playing out before him that he had actually managed to keep his mouth shut. He laid perfectly still, watching with exponentially growing interest as the kid stripped and washed him. He and Spidey had worked together often enough in the past to have a tentative friendship (at least from his point of view) but he couldn't imagine the kid cared for him enough to worry about his wellbeing, especially not to the point of giving him a sponge bath and lovingly cleaning his wounds. He looked around the room, wondering if the younger man had actually brought him back to his house. It was small and clean, but still looked lived in enough for Wade to assume that this was actually where the kid lived. He shifted his eyes as far as he could without moving his head to scan the room, but to his disappointment, couldn't find any identifying paraphernalia.

He again began wondering why Spidey was tending to him. Last he remembered, he had had just finished a hit; a bit of a messy one that had landed him with a number of slashes here and there. All in all, they looked a lot worse than they actually were, though his suit was definitely in need of some tailoring (it was probably beyond saving now...). Hell, even if they'd been severe, he'd have been fine in no time. He had settled down for a celebratory dinner on the roof of the first building he'd come to after procuring it (chimichangas, naturally), and had dozed off after glutting himself, too lazy to make his way back to his apartment yet. He partially remembered waking up after rolling off the side of said building in his sleep into the alley several stories below, but, again, was too lazy to get up at the moment. Now, somehow, here he was, naked in what he assumed to be Spidey's living room, getting a complimentary wipe down from his young acquaintance. Hey, he was a deep sleeper.

Wade heard footsteps approaching and did his best to keep up a convincing air of unconsciousness while watching from the corner of his eye as Spidey approached carrying a pile of clothes. He felt his pulse quicken a bit as he realized what was about to happen, and briefly considered if it was about time for him to "wake up". Nah.

Peter sighed as he set the clothes on the chair he'd pulled up next to the couch. It had proven rather difficult to find something that might fit Deadpool, and he still wasn't even sure what he'd picked out would do the trick. Still, he removed a pair of sweatpants from the stack and kneeled at the end of the couch, doing his best to start working the merc's feet into them. He grunted and cursed quietly as he shimmied them up, shifting to kneel between the older man's legs. At the same time, he started to despair as it was growing increasingly difficult to push the pants higher. He was now certain that they were too small, and momentarily considered just wrapping a sheet around the mercenary and leaving him to his own devices. However, as it had several times already this evening, his conscience got the better of him, and he continued struggling to clothe the man. He was, after all, the one who had decided to bring him here and cut his clothes off. He couldn't just leave Deadpool naked on a roof.

Peter finally managed to get the pants most of the way up the older man's thighs. He tossed the blanket that had been covering Deadpool's pelvis aside, but balked when he saw that the man was very erect, actually falling backwards, and only just catching himself on the arm of the couch. He swallowed and looked away, feeling his face burning under his mask. He had felt a pang of jealousy when undressing him, but his bitterness was increased tenfold now. He could only attribute his not noticing before to the way he'd heaped the blankets on the merc, and couldn't help but wonder how long it'd been like that. Peter swallowed again and pushed the thought away, telling himself it was just since he was unconscious and cleaning him off had involved a lot of touching. He moved to hover back over the man and continued his fight with the elastic band.

After a few minutes without any further progress (at least partially caused by him doing his damnedest not to look at or brush again the offending... appendage), Peter decided that he'd have to change his position to get more leverage. Sighing for what was probably the hundredth in the past ten minutes, he worked one knee between Deadpool's waist and the back of the couch, and placed his other foot on the ground to brace himself, effectively straddling the older man. Leaning over the merc and taking a tight grip on handfuls of elastic, the young brunette gritted his teeth and pulled with the best combination of force and care as he could muster at his current frustration level. The pants finally relented and slid up past the man's hips in one solid motion.

Now the only problem remained was that a certain part of the mercenary's anatomy was left protruding from the waistband. Peter grimaced at the whole situation, vowing to never again involve himself in "rescues" that included clothing unconscious acquaintances as he lifted and wiggled the waistband as much as possible, hoping things would fall into place. He didn't even need my damn help. This is what I get for being nosy. Friendly neighborhood Spiderman- self-appointed self-righteous meddler and all-around idiot... After what felt like the most painfully awkward eternity, praying Deadpool wouldn't pick that moment to regain consciousness and repeating his mantra a self loathing, everything was finally properly stowed.

All this while, Deadpool was stuck in the most hilarious limbo. He'd not experienced a lot of physical contact since the whole Weapon X and cancer and horribly disfiguring scars thing, which tended to drive people screaming in the opposite direction, so he was actually quite proud of himself for not getting hard the entire time Spidey was rubbing all over his body (not that he was into guys, but that was more gentle caressing in a few minutes than he'd had in the past several years combined). What surprised him was, after all of that touching, which he would have understood getting hot and bothered over, his switched had been flicked watching the kid struggle to put pants on him. Well, it was actually mostly the grunting and cursing that did it... for some reason. He wasn't too sure himself, but it certainly did the trick. Then, when he watched the kid pull the blanket away and damn near fall off of the couch, he really started feeling it. The voices in his head were strangely silent, and he couldn't even gather his thoughts enough to question why he was saluting the sky with such enthusiasm. But, oh, when Spidey moved to straddle him, leaning over so their faces were close while he continued struggling with the pants... Oh ho ho... And the palpable shame of the kid as he wiggled things into place... Wade was absolutely giddy. He was trying his absolute best to keep a straight face, not wanting to end this interesting situation. However, before the merc had the chance to give himself away, things went awry on their own.

Peter ran his hand over his face, thankful that this god awful experience was almost over. As far as he was concerned, Deadpool was decent enough as he was. He didn't have it in him to try to work the merc's limp arms through the baggy shirt he'd brought out, and it'd probably have woken the man up if he'd tried. Peter really did not want any more to do with the older man that evening, especially if that involved trying to explain to the night's events to him. Alas, his "Parker luck" had a reputation to maintain, and he wasn't about to slip out of this situation so easily.

Feeling more worn out than he had in a very long time, Peter moved to dismount the mercenary. Perhaps due to his exhaustion, and despite his enhanced balance and reflexes, his leg didn't quite completely slip out from between the older man's hip and the couch. He staggered and fell hard into Deadpool's chest. The torque of his leg being pried free, and his continued momentum away from the couch succeeded in flipping the both of them onto the floor.

Peter felt a sharp burn of pain in his side from grazing the corner of the chair in his descent. The breath had been knocked out of him from the combination of hitting the floor with decent amount of force, and then immediately having the much larger man fall directly on top of him. At the very least, he was thankful they'd not knocked over the bowl of bloody water that he'd set on the floor next to the chair. He struggled to inhale, groaning as he tried to lift himself onto an elbow under the weight of the merc, rubbing the already growing bump on the back of his head. Peter felt the man shift on top of him, and could only watch in silent horror as Deadpool worked himself up onto his hands and knees, shaking himself like a wet dog before lifting his head to look at Peter.

"Yo."

Shit.