red :: spideypool au

6

[ DISCLAIMER: PREVIOUS CHAPTERS HAVE BEEN EDITED/LIGHTLY REWRITTEN. ]

Peter heard the door above him slam an hour or two before the sun rose. A sound sleeper would never be bothered by such a noise. But Peter was on the ceiling before the door had a chance to be locked–either way, it was not.

The boy was plastered against the paint. Wearing nothing but soft plaid boxer shorts. His chest was up against the ceiling, and it took a few moments to separate skin from the dry wall's popcorn-like texture.

"Really?" asked Peter, but he was talking to his body. His hormones and instincts played tricks with him every morning.

When Peter's back hit the bed again, he was out for a little while longer.

The door above him did not slam for hours. In fact, all was quiet for a while, and he was able to find sleep once more.

Instead, he woke up to the sound of his security alarm beeping at the expected slam of an upstairs door. But he was not on his bed nor the ceiling. Peter was on the floor to the left of his bed, his nose cozied into small fibers of black carpeting with a bad taste in his mouth.

Thankfully, the teenager was already on his way to Wade's apartment. The recalibration of his father's new security system set him back only sixty seconds. He saved time by rolling his eyes as he walked the stairs up to the apartment above.

He knocked on Wade's door–half-dressed with messy, stray hair blurring his ever-so-perfect vision.

"Who is it?" Wade asked, but his tone was quite normal.

"It's Peter."

The door opened quickly, and Peter walked in without a second thought.

"Uh... don't get me wrong here, baby boy. But why are you here?" Deadpool stood in his uniform, backtracking his way to the couch with little effort.

Oh. Peter thought, confused. For he did not remember opening his door in a half-asleep haze. But his eyes latched on to the blood covering Wade's suit–and the remarkable scars peeking out from behind shreds of suit.

"Blood. I could smell blood."

Wade did not question it any further, but perhaps he should have. "Don't worry, I can take care of myself, doctor."

Despite the words, Peter still followed Wade to the couch.

"Have a seat?"

Peter did, not really caring that he was shirtless and sitting on a stained sofa that reeked of copper. He inhaled deeper. It was the same scent traveling through the vents and into his own bedroom.

"You're not wearing a shirt."

"You are hurt. What happened?"

"It's just work," said Wade, pulling a collection of trinkets from his pockets. He rolled them around in his left hand like soft coils of red and black clay.

"Oh," Deadpool began, remembering, "I may actually need your help. It would save some time."

Peter raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Here," Wade held out his left hand, dropping its contents into Peter's waiting fingers.

They were fingers. The collection of trinkets and soft coils of red and black clay were Wade's four fingers of his right hand–minus the thumb.

The threats of Wade's suit released a generous amount of blood onto Peter's palm as the fingers rolled around every which way.

Peter jumped, dropping the trinkets like they were live bugs or hallucinogenic drugs.

"What the heck was that for?" Wade gasped, watching his fingers tumble to the floor, his ankle interrupting the journey of his middle finger and sending it under the couch.

"What the fuck?" Peter yelled, eyes finally awake. "W-Why are your fingers not connected to you?"

"Just 'cause they're not connected doesn't mean you need to drop them on the floor!" Wade responded with equal enthusiasm. "Pick them up! Five-second rule."

It took Peter many seconds to collect Wade's fingers. Wade took it upon himself to count each second as he voiced the spaces between them.

"I hope you don't work at a restaurant."

Peter grunted, pulling Deadpool's right hand over to his lap. "How did this happen?" His voice was gentler, for his vocal cords noticed just how tired he was on the inside.

"It was like a Charlie bit my finger incident. But the one where–instead of filming it–the parents kept screaming for Charlie to bite harder to soothe his childish oral fixation." Wade kept himself busy playing with his remaining fingers. He went through several symbols with them, but his left hand was not quite the same without the right. He could make the whole with his thumb and pointer finger, but he needed his right hand to form the penis. It didn't stop him from trying.

"Well, then how did you get them back?" Peter asked, laying each finger where he assumed they had been hours earlier. Knuckle-up, he reminded himself.

"Oh, I didn't have to." Wade relaxed against the couch, letting Peter tend to him as if he were getting a manicure. But unlike the last time Wade went, he could actually understand what was said, as they both spoke the same language.

Before the teenager could question him, the older man continued.

"They were hanging there like strings dangling from a windchime, y'know? But they were not making any cool noises, so I pulled them off the rest of the way."

Peter huffed, rolling his eyes again. He waited until Deadpool's animated white eyes concentrated on the other side of the room before he began his work. He attached each appendage with strings of webbing, twining his material around Wade's knuckles and securing them to his palm.

The smell of Wade's blood was so strong he could taste it.

"My downstairs neighbor is Spider-Man."

Peter frowned, for he did not think Wade was paying attention. He had gone off on a rant about windchimes for a minute, so the boy thought he was in the clear.

"Shut up," the boy finally said with a heavy, exaggerated sigh.

"Tell me, Spidey, does Papa know?" The tone was teasing.

"I said shut it, Deadpool." Peter snapped, pressing the tips of his fingers against the crevices of Wade's newly attached fingers.

"You hoe-ass fatherfucking cumdumpster," was the response; Deadpool plucked his hand from Peter's the second he got the chance.

"It is our secret, alright?" Peter had calmed down for the moment. He crossed his arms in defeat, watching Wade's bloody hand recoil.

"Oh my gosh," the man gasped, but you could not see his mouth. "We are so close we share secrets." He waited a few seconds before continuing. "Guess what? My middle name is Winston."

Peter shook his head. The secrets were hardly comparable.

"I don't like your daddy very much. Just a tinman with no heart and no soul. Maybe a brain, but I will believe it when I see it."

"He is not my daddy."

"Then who's your daddy?" Wade arched an eyebrow, but the majority of his seductive expression was covered by his mask.

Peter only rolled his eyes. His muscles remembered the movement, for it was one he did frequently.

"Look at you, all teenager-like and pumped full of angst like a state fair's cream puff. We are so going to get along."