red :: spideypool au

1

Peter impatiently knocked on his upstairs neighbor's door. His knuckles grazed the door twice. Knock. Knock. He was far from pleasant. But the resident responded in seconds, seemingly desperate to do so.

"Who's there?" The sing-song voice came from behind the door. The question was followed by relentless muttering; as usual, Wade was talking to himself extensively.

"Peter Parker. I live underneath you," grumbled Peter, voice thick with annoyance. It was a bitter tone, but Peter found it fitting in such a situation. There was blood in his bucket.

"That sounds hot," Wade hummed, his voice muffled greatly by the heavy wooden door. If it was possible, Peter would have been the one to hear the smile on Wade's lips.

"Open the door." There was no 'please', and there would definitely be no manners. Peter had a damn bucket collecting blood that was dripping from the ceiling. Therefore, Wade did not deserve Peter's hidden formality. "I live on the floor below, and we need to talk," Peter clarified.

"We are talking, Peter Parker. My name is Wade W. Wilson, and it is a damn good pleasure to meet you, my alliteration buddy."

Peter slammed his hand on the door, demanding it to open. Telekineses was not on Peter's long list of powers, so the door remained stiff in its place. To be fair, most of his gifts had revolved around tiny arachnids.

"Has anyone ever told you to be patient, Peter Parker?" Wilson grumbled, still immobile. "Give a man some time, you one-pump chump. You can't have everything right away. Shit takes a few minutes."

Peter gave him time. In fact, Peter gave him plenty of time before he decided to knock again. He'd busied himself wiping the sleep out of his eyes and evaluating the healed paper cuts, but those actions had grown rather tedious. So he brought his knuckles to the door.

"Oh, you're still there." Wade seemed disappointed. Honestly, that hurt Peter's feelings, but they grew back quickly. Call it a mental healing factor. "You're a persistent motherfucker."

"What's taking you so long?"

"I am healing," said Wade nonchalantly. "I need to gather myself, so just relax, Peter Parker."

"That's it, Wade. I will give you ten seconds to open this door. I think you owe me an explanation."

"We've never met. Have I done something to you? Oh," Wade gasped dramatically, "did I put the dog shit in your mailbox? I could have sworn I put it in the landlord's. We pay to live here, so she shouldn't let her dog shit all over the lawn. Maybe we should start a petition. If you don't sign you get dog shit too. That kind of thing."

"What?"

Wade hummed, already distracted by something else.

"No, I have blood leaking from my ceiling, and it's coming from your apartment, so I deserve an explanation before I contact the landlord."

"Oh."

Peter waited, having lost his patience before he even reached Wade's door. "Are you going to make me count?"

"You see, lovely neighbor of mine, I was baking a pie. I seemed to have spilled some raspberry sauce all over. It's like all over the carpet of my room. It must have soaked through." Wade was hardly even trying to convince, and instead he held a certain degree of humor.

"You're really going to make me do it." Peter sighed, unfolding his arms and cracking his knuckles theatrically to get the blood running.

"Do what?"

Without another word, Peter took the doorknob in hand; he gripped the sturdy metal with all his strength, and he broke it. The screws gave out, sending the other half tumbling to the floor. He had no clue what he was getting into, but he opened the door anyway.