Work Text:
In. Out. In. Out.
Peter tried to keep his breathing steady as he tentatively removed his bloodied hand from his even bloodier stomach to assess his wound. Bile rising in his throat, he squeezed his eyes shut, averting his gaze as his head pounded with nausea.
Frankly, he was surprised he was still conscious, much less alive. Not for long, something whispered in the back of his head, quickly filling him with panic as he struggled to breathe once more.
He turned his head, squinting against the sun and across the rooftop, his phone glinting almost tauntingly at him.
Stretching his arm and wincing as black spots danced across his vision, he grasped it, digging his cracked fingernails under the cover, struggling to open it and silently cursing himself for never updating from his flip phone.
Finally prying it open, Peter squinted, blinking his vision into focus before finding the 2, and sighing in relief as he heard the number auto-dialing. Even in his clouded state of mind, he knew it'd just be a waste of time to call for any sort of medical attention. Nobody had found a cure for this damn poison yet, and he didn't want to squander his last moments being hurried to a hospital when he knew it would do no good.
"Hey, baby boy!"
"Hey, Wade." The brunet winced at the loud pitch but found a smile tugging at his lips in response to the familiar greeting. "What's up?"
"Nothin' much," Wade hummed. "Just png..." His voice started fading as Peter felt a flash of heat run through his body, causing him to wheeze as his breath was briefly stolen from him.
"You okay, Pete? You sound pretty beat up." He sighed at his friend's worried tone, knowing he'd have to lie to him.
"Nah, I'm fine. Just been running a lot, these calves don't tone themselves." He managed to get out, his voice notably weaker.
"What, now you can't handle a little sprint? You're getting weak in your old age, Spidey," Wade teased, a subtle hint of worry in his tone.
He snorted. "Yeah, sure, says Mister-I-watch-a-show-from-thirty-something-years-ago."
"I'll have you know Bea Arthur is queen! Beyoncé who?"
Peter's laugh suddenly turned into a cough, soon leading to hacking. Black spots danced in his vision as he tried desperately to control his breathing. To focus on Wade's shouts of concern and not on the veins of poison that were finally reaching his heart.
"Wade." He wheezed.
"What's up with you baby boy? You hurt? You know from the past not to lie to me, I can see right throu—"
"Wade." He said firmly, finally getting Wade into a surprised but tense silence. "Wade, shut up and listen, I don't have a lot of time left..." He paused, swallowing back bile.
"Wh-whaddya mean you don't have—" Peter cut him off with a small noise, knowing he couldn't risk getting choked up on tears before saying what he had to say.
He took in a final weak breath, intent on making his last words worthwhile.
"Wade, I... I love you."
"Wha- Peter? Peter?! Peter!"
It was no use. Wade's screams fell on deaf ears, his beloved's lips having said their last words.
Later on, his dead eyes would not see the shaking figure clad in red, his face unchanging as tear upon tear fell upon it.
His bloody mouth wouldn't answer the desperate, unintelligible questions his ears would fail to hear.
His limp body wouldn't feel how carefully, yet tightly and desperately Wade clung to it.
That's when it hit him. That's all this body was: a body. An it. Spider-Man, a hero to all, New York's famous wall-crawler, his Peter, was now nothing more than a decomposing bag of flesh and bones. He was dead. It was all that was left.
A spark lit in his eye, something old and almost forgotten. A spark that had fueled the flames that killed and destroyed and ripped limbs from their bodies, that spoke of vengeance and torment.
The fire that made Wade Wilson… Deadpool.