Chapter Text
Peter wondered what people would remember him for once he finally died. He had told himself many times that one day, a mission would finally be his last, and that because of it, he ought to mentally prepare himself to meet the dark, cold embrace of death. And for a while, he thought he reached a point where he was no longer afraid to meet his end. Oh, how wrong he had been.
As he held onto his side, which was bleeding profusely, dark liquid oozing out from the cracks between his slippery fingers, he resisted the urge to laugh at his own stupidity. He wouldn't even die as Spider-Man, a hero. No, he’d die as plain-ol’ Peter Parker, a broke college student in his ridiculously cold, and not to mention empty, shitty apartment. This was not how he pictured his death. No one would remember anything about Peter Parker, dead or alive, he grimly thought. Although he was realizing it now, the truth was always the same–the only people who ‘knew’ Peter Parker didn’t really know Peter Parker.
An eerie exhaustion was beginning to spread throughout his limbs, and while his body seemed to be trying to relax itself, his mind began to race. He swallowed thickly, wincing at the iron flavor that coated his tongue. Peter’s anxiety spiked immensely at that, and he hoped that at least maybe his ability to feel afraid would pump some extra life into him. But didn't he read an article about how people and animals get one last burst of energy before dying? Shit. Was this it? His last hurrah? Oh, please don’t let my last ever thought to end with the word ‘hurrah,’ Peter thought frantically as he rolled to his semi-good side (the side with the least amount of stab wounds) with a pain-filled sob. His breathing was heavy and labored, and he knew he didn’t have much time. His phone was inches away from his pale, shaking fingers, and once he finally grabbed it and brought it to himself, he wondered who to call. 911? No, they’d search his apartment, find out who he was. Would it matter anymore? I mean, he’d be dead. But what if he somehow survived and they found out anyway? That’d be a huge waste, and… Fuck. Too many thoughts and not enough time. Peter needed to do something, anything. Bloody fingers smeared red all over his phone’s screen as he scrolled to Deadpool’s contact, and without a second thought, he pressed the call icon.
“Yellow!” The mercenary loudly proclaimed in his very best ‘white dad’ voice. Wade answered his phone immediately, thank goodness. At least he’d hear the voice of someone familiar.
“Spidey, is this a booty-call?” Wade gasped, "Oh, man, finally. Been waitin’ for one, I think we’ve definitely reached that level of bromance–”
“Wade.” Peter croaked, his voice unsteady and sounded just as wounded as he felt.
“This. Shot. I’m…” he struggled to find his words, the pain and numbness too much for him to bear. “My location. I’m…I’m sending it. Please, help me.” he rasped in desperation as he frantically pressed the pad of his thumb on the ‘send’ button, hoping his location was successfully sent. Either his phone died, he accidentally hung up, Wade hung up, or Peter passed out–either way, he didn’t remember what happened after he pressed ‘send,’ when darkness filled his vision.
======================================
When Peter came to (which he didn’t expect), he felt like he was on fire. Somehow, the pain was worse. He let out a pitiful groan and tried to move, to alleviate any sort of pain he could, but two large hands grabbed at his shoulders. He flinched and tried to move away, but those hands were strong. He was tired. So, so tired. Sleep, he wanted to sleep…
“Spidey? Nope. No nap time, not yet.” Wade spoke firmly into his ear, instead of his usual joking manner–not that Peter could notice in his state, where blood was sluggishly seeping from his stab wounds. All he could manage was a breathless wheeze, followed by the most painful coughing he’d experienced. Each jostle made the pain worse. Sleep was an escape, and he wanted to give into exhaustion.
“Webs. I’m serious, don’t you dare try to sleep, not until I say it’s safe.” that voice sounded even closer, though his hearing was muffled and odd. “Open your eyes, Spidey. Stay awake.”
Peter’s brain was registering that someone was stitching his sides, that was the center of his awareness, but the voice above him was starting to become a little bit familiar the more it spoke to him. He tried to lift his head, his cracked lips parting as he gasped in pain, his bleary eyes trying their best to open like the safe voice was telling him to. They eventually cracked open, and he couldn't really see well past the blinding pain and his blurry vision. But he could make out a large figure, red and black.
“W…Wade…?” Peter whispered quietly, his voice cracking.
“Yeah, Spidey.” Wade breathed out, relieved to find some coherence in the injured hero. “It’s Wade, keep those pretty eyes open and on me,” he said in his best steady voice, his gloved fingers working quickly on closing up those open wounds, cringing every time he had to dig out a bullet and pierce his skin. There was so much blood, and for once, the sight of it genuinely worried Wade. Every stitch helped stop blood loss, letting his healing factor start and attempt to mend himself as best it could.
Peter couldn’t help another loud gasp of air when he felt more awake, which was a good sign, yes, but it meant he was even more aware of everything going on. Somehow, he was able to see Wade’s expressive eyes enough to see the extreme anxiety practically vibrating off of the mercenary. Peter's advanced hearing was starting to normalize, now able to pick up on Deadpool’s loud breathing.
“Healing factor,” Peter quickly supplied with a shudder, his voice louder this time in an attempt to comfort Wade despite actively bleeding out. He locked eyes with Deadpool’s white ones, unaware that his face was no longer hidden behind a mask.
“I’ll be okay.” Peter took a gasp of much-needed air between his words, “ Jus’ need to… control…bleeding. Let…Let me.” Peter aimed his wrist down towards his stomach and sides, his fingers trembling as he pressed down on his web-shooters to activate them. Webs shot out in their usual fashion--harsh and unforgiving. He cried out at the extreme pain of shooting himself with his webs at such a small distance. While it hurt and he was definitely crying at this point, it did the job of patching him up extremely well.
When he had done it, he heard Wade make a very alarmed sound of protest, but once Peter felt himself properly secure, he let his head fall back onto the cold floor with a thump, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Hands were on him again. Warm and big, they checked his forehead, and he felt one of them cradle the back of his head in a way that was uncharacteristically gentle for someone as dangerous as the one and only Deadpool. He would have commented on that very demeanor, but now Peter was truly exhausted and felt pretty confident that a nap wouldn’t end up becoming an eternal slumber. He vaguely heard Wade start talking above him, who sounded noticeably less stressed, and Peter took it as yet another reason to allow himself some well-needed sleep. Peter's red, puffy eyes slowly shut, his wet eyelashes causing a tear to travel down his pale cheek as he drifted out of consciousness in Wade’s protective arms.