Ne Me Quitte Pas

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/48791140.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category: M/M
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Deadpool -
All Media Types, Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Marvel
Cinematic Universe RPF, Deadpool (Comics)
Relationship: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Peter Parker & Wade Wilson, Peter Parker
& Tony Stark, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker
Character: Peter Parker, Wade Wilson
Additional Tags: Graphic Description, Violence, Blood and Violence, Fluff and Angst,
Angst, Ouch, Gun Violence, Sickfic, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Hurt
Peter, Wade Wilson Loves Peter Parker, Protective Wade Wilson,
Wade Wilson Takes Care of Peter Parker, Oh boy this one is sad, It has
a Happy Ending Though, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, maybe
smut, but not yet, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst and
Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, My First Spideypool Fic,
Spideypool - Freeform, why isnt that a tag, Identity Reveal,
Relationship(s), Alternate Canon, Songfic
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-07-23 Updated: 2023-07-26 Words: 2,975 Chapters:
2/?

Ne Me Quitte Pas
by M005HR00M

Summary

“HI spidey, DP here! Fonud u all bangrd up in that alleyway, wanetd to make sur u wer
okay. Cute boxers btw. ALso- I know ur awake. Luv, Deadpool”
Wade’s horrible handwriting made Peter smile, and the comment about his boxers made
him flush. He also eventually felt his heart sink. Deadpool. Deadpool, the Merc with a
Mouth, found him vulnerable in the alleyway. Did he even have his mask on? Oh god.

After Spiderman gets shot and left to die in an alleyway, Deadpool comes to the rescue.

This fic has heavy descriptions of blood and injury!!

Title from Ne Me Quitte Pas by Regina Spektor

Notes

WELCOME!!
Shes back, shes amazing, and shes not writing about minecraft!
My previous fics will forever be missed, and may we pray for the day that they get updated.
 Let's hope this one actually gets an ending!

See the end of the work for more notes

 stumbling through the streets they say "Sir, do you got a light?"

He didn’t know where he was. The streets all looked the same. His curls stuck with sweat to his
brow, and his breathing was labored. He was sprinting, he was leaping, he was vaulting over traffic
and trash cans. His legs ached and his heart raced. Panic flooded his system when a gunshot
sounded, grazing his right ear. He prayed to anything above that he would make it out of this alive,
he had homework to do and people to see, his aunt had dinner ready, his friends needed his help on
that one project, and he still hadn’t messaged Tony-

One gunshot.

Two.

And suddenly he was on the damp floor of an alleyway, shivering next to a dumpster. He knew
three things; one, ouch. Two; it stinks. Three; the stray cat sitting across from him is eyeing him
funny, and it’s pissing him off. He takes a ragged breath, waiting for his stupid healing factor to
kick in, putting pressure on the hole through his stomach. He could feel the warmth of blood
sticking like syrup to his gloved hand. Deep down he knew that his healing factor wouldn't do
much, maybe stave the bleeding enough to call a cab. He would need at least 12 stitches, and he
couldn’t do that until he got home.

He silently beat himself up for finding himself in this situation. What kind of superhero gets lost in
his own city, nevertheless gets chased by someone they are supposed to apprehend? He was
basically useless. Now, sitting in an alleyway at 10 pm, Peter felt hopeless. His nose was runny, his
eyes were tearing up, his nose hurt from getting punched, and everywhere else hurt from being
shot.

He wailed in indignancy, punching the ground so hard that it cracked under his fist. He felt like a
child throwing a tantrum. He sure as hell wanted to be held and cared for like one. He was
certainly missing that sweetness. He yanked his mask off roughly when it started to get hard to
breathe. He tasted blood. He let his head fall back onto the brick wall behind him.

He closed his eyes, letting the frustrated tears fall. They forged burning trails down his cheeks. He
let his head rest against the concrete wall, feeling the cool of the stone on his throbbing head. He
had been late to class this morning because of this stupid cold he had, and sitting on the frigid, wet
streets of New York wasn’t going to help much. His body was distressed from the cold, the
wounds, and the fatigue. His healing didn’t know where to start, so he was stuck, shivering,
miserable, and hurting. Shutting his eyes tight. He grimaced. The tears mixed with blood rolled
down his chin. Letting his body go limp into the wall, he let out a shuttering breath and fell into a
lonely darkness.
____________________________________________________________________________
________________________________ ________________________________
________________________________ ________________________________ _____________

Hands wrapping around his waist, tugging his mask back over his head. Being carried in large
arms. Whispered reassurances floating around his head. A large hand on his wound. Being lain on
a soft mattress with no sheets. Rough hands treating his injuries. Fierce eyes stared at his bullet
wound. The eyes soften to look into Peter’s. A hand wrapped in leather wrapped around his.
Another hand on his cheek. His eyes slipped closed once again.
___________________________________________________________________________
________________________________ ________________________________
________________________________ ________________________________
_______________

He came to sluggishly. His eyes were crusted closed, and his shirt was sticking to him from his
sweat. He was feverish and his stomach hurt. It stung, too. Smaller scratches littered his body, and
it felt like there was a bowling ball on his chest, restricting his breathing. He kicked off the
blankets, which were strikingly soft today, and curled into a ball on his side. When he did so, there
was a sharp pain across his stomach. He looked down, lifted his shirt up, and gasped at the
stitching he saw over his bullet injury.

He shot up, wincing as he did, and whipped his head around. His vision blurred as he did so,
shaking slightly from vertigo. He wasn’t well enough to be doing this much movement this fast.
His suit was hung up near his- the bed. His hands flew to his head, thankfully realizing his mask
was still on. He heard thumping footsteps coming from outside the room he was in, and quickly
relaxed his body, trying to pretend he was still asleep. He evened his breathing, resuming his
position on the bed.

The footsteps stalled when they reached the outside of his door. A tentative hand pulled at the
knob and the door was opened. Peter tried his best to keep from tensing. He heard the person come
closer, placing something that sounded like a tray on the bedside table. He heard the person take a
breath, and suddenly there were gloved hands lifting up his shirt. Miraculously, Peter stayed still.
He assumed that he’d be able to fend for himself if the person decided to try anything, but for now,
it was safest to keep calm.

The hands explored his wound, pressing on some stitches and checking on others, eventually
applying a cool cream that soothed some of the irritation. A thermometer was placed on his
forehead, and a sharp intake of breath was taken. Suddenly the person ran from the room, and Peter
risked a glance at the thermometer. 104.8. That was a high temperature, and even for his healing
factor, that was a lot. He quickly closed his eyes when he heard the person approach again.

A cool rag was placed on his brow gently. It felt heavenly. The relief caused him to release a deep
breath he didn’t know he was holding, and luckily his capturer- caretaker? Just laughed and put his
shirt back over his torso. He heard the man- presumably, stall at the side of his bed before they
took Peter’s hand and squeezed it, leaving the room with a huff. Peter cracked an eye open, taking
in the room. It was an average, even above average apartment room, with a closet, a bed, a bedside
table, a lamp, and a few shelves. The shelves held a few books and a singular throwing star.

The walls were grey, with the furniture to match. Not much was expected of this room, apparently.
Sparse furniture and decoration, likely a safehouse for whoever was holding him here. He looked
down at his shirt, realizing it was large on him. It had cartoonish figures all over it, childish. He
also realized that he was just in his boxers, which made his face heat up. They were red and black,
the ones that Deadpool jokingly gave him for Christmas a month ago. They were purposely a size
too small, to show off his- um, features. Of course, this was something DP would do, even if he
didn’t know the man all too well.

He looked to his side and realized the tray placed there was full of pancakes and juice, and the
smell had his stomach grumbling. He hadn’t eaten since the day before he got shot, which could've
been days ago. He didn’t want to trust the food. He knew better, this could have been Green Goblin
or Doc Oc, who would poison him. But this could also be some innocent soul who just wanted to
care for their friendly, super, strong, amazing, neighborhood spiderman…..

He decided against it. Looking closer, though, there was a small piece of paper on the tray. It was
folded and looked like it was ripped haphazardly from a notebook. Picking it up, Peter noticed the
chicken scrawl handwriting on the paper, he could decipher it, just barely.
“HI spidey, DP here! Fonud u all bangrd up in that alleyway, wanetd to make sur u wer okay.
Cute boxers btw. ALso- I know ur awake. Luv, Deadpool”

Wade’s horrible handwriting made Peter smile, and the comment about his boxers made him flush.
He also eventually felt his heart sink. Deadpool. Deadpool, the Merc with a Mouth, found him
vulnerable in the alleyway. Did he even have his mask on? Oh god.
 And if you are a deity of any sort then please don't go
Chapter Summary

Recovery and Deadpool.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Peter could feel his heartbeat racing in his chest. He was in Deadpools apartment. Stupid, stupid,-
obviously not his apartment. In one of Deadpool's safehouses, he wouldn't show Peter where he
lived. As he was analyzing the room, he was in shock. He held the note from breakfast, dreading
when Deadpool would come in next. And on top of all of that, he doesn’t know if DP has seen him
without his mask.

All he remembers is being chased, gunshots, and pain. He really should've taken a sick day,
because now he really feels like shit. On top of the gun wound (which stings like hell), he had a
fever of what felt like 500 degrees, He was nauseous, clammy, weak, hungry, and miserably
congested. He felt like crying again. Looking back down at the note, reading it for the 500th time,
memorizing the handwriting and misspellings as if they would tell him what to do. He reached for
the bedside table to place the note back down, stretching his stitches in the process.

Inhaling quickly through his teeth, he grasped at the wound, breathing heavily.
He could cry, fuck it, he is crying. He misses Aunt May. He misses Tony. Fuck, he misses DP. At
that moment, walking into a hunched-over, heavy-breathing, tearful Spiderman, Wade Wilson
walks into the room.

“Welcome back Spidey! I gotta admit, finding you bleeding out in an alleyway was not how I
expected us to start our patrol,” Deadpool says. Peter wrenches his head up to look over at his
friend (?), not even knowing how to respond. He was a wreck. He was in pain. He was sick. His
nose was running.

“Hi, ‘Pool.” Peter greets.

Deadpool deflates visibly. Yellow and White are arguing about how to take care of the poor boy,
while DP is looking heartbroken at the spider in his guest bed. He walks closer to Peter and pulls
up a chair next to his bed. He sees the uneaten breakfast and reaches for the tray.

Peter watches him do this, looking utterly defeated. DP picks up a forkful of pancakes and makes
sputtering noises, imitating an airplane. His attempts to make Peter laugh are futile, as Peter just
turns his head away.

“You need to eat something, spidey. You need it to kick in your healing factor for that nasty
wound. I think it's infected, you've been running a high fever baby boy.”

Peter looks over at Wade, realizing that he doesn’t know about Peter having been sick previously.
Maybe it's for the best, he wants to get out of here as soon as possible.

“You don’t need to take care of me DP. I’m Spiderman, I always get up. I can take care of myself,
I'll be on my way.”

He moves to get out of bed, only to crumple to the floor. A mix of pain from the wound and being
faint from a cold. Deadpool giggles and helps Peter up, placing him back on the bed. Peter pouts,
and even with the mask on, Wade can tell he's unhappy.

“Yeah, you're not going anyway for a bit, now, here comes the airplane!”

Wade takes a fork, continuing making the noises, until the fork is right in front of Peter’s face.
With his mask on, he can't get to Peter’s mouth, so he settles for booping Peter where his mouth
would be. Peter relents, rolling his mask up so his mouth could hang open.

“There you go baby, good job!” Wade praises.

Peter blushes and turns his head away while Wade coos. He chews the food slowly, getting the
aftertaste of his own blood out of his mouth. He takes a sip of the water after Pool hands it to him.
He didn’t realize how dry his throat was, so he ended up downing the whole glass. The pancakes
were good, amazing, even. He got lost in his thoughts about Aunt May and how she was holding
up, he doesn’t know how long it had been or where his phone is. Maybe he can ask DP to call her
on his phone. He didn’t realize he was staring until he heard DP’s voice.

“What’s going on up there Spidey? I know I’m a lot to look at, but I can practically see the gears
turning.”

Peter blinked up at Wade with a hum of acknowledgment. After finishing a whole plate of
pancakes and some fruit, his metabolism and healing factor were working quickly to make up for
lost time. He was wiped. With a yawn, he responds to Wade;

“Not much, just thinking of a person I gotta call when I get out of here. Have you seen my phone?”
Says Peter.

“Yeah, it was smashed to bits on the pavement when I found you. I wouldn’t even have seen it if I
hadn’t been covered by your mask,”

Peter pauses at that and looks up at Pool.

“My.. mask?” Wade looks like he’d seen a ghost, or, had just been caught in a lie.
“What do you mean, I never spoke about a mask, what mask? You never take your mask off,” He
frantically rushes. Peter thinks hard, all the way back to that night, but comes up short of any time
he took his mask off.

“Pool, you didn't happen- you didn’t see me without my mask, right?” Peter pushes. Wade avoids
looking at him, which basically answers the question for him. Peter's breath quickens, and he feels
every cell in his body go cold, which is ironic, with the fever.

“Deadpool. You didn’t see me without my mask, did you?” Thi was phrased more like an
accusation, as they both knew the answer by now. Wade takes a deep breath and looks at Peter.

“When I found you, you didn't have your mask on. Part of me wishes you did because it was not
pretty,” Peter gasps, assuming that Wade meant his face wasn’t pretty. He turns to look at his
hands as tears form.

“You were covered in blood and bruises, and I didn’t even recognize the suit until I looked down.
Your mask had been in your hand with your phone, and I,” His voice breaks. “I couldn’t, I didn’t
know what to do. My hands wouldn’t move, and I knew they needed to, and you needed help, or
you would di-” Peter places a hand on Wade’s. Peter can tell how scared DP is, was. His heart
hurts that he was the one to find him, but he's grateful.

“So, you’ve seen me. I’m sorry, I’m not some model, I’m not handsome or cute, I wish I could be
everything you wanted,” Peter looks down at their intertwined hands. Tears have soaked his mask,
and it's sticky on his feverish skin. Everything is too much. He’s hot, sick, wounded, and Wade’s
hand on his is too much, and he can feel his shirt on his skin, and his hair is stuck to his forehead
under the mask, and he can’t breathe,-

“What are you talking about?” Wade sounds heartbroken. Peter looks up from under his eyelashes
at him. “You were gorgeous. Even with blood smeared on your chin, and bruises on your eyes, and
a hole through your stomach. Even when I thought you were just some dude bleeding on the street,
I was going to take you home. You’re gorgeous.” Wade looked so earnest. Peter’s eyes drift from
his face to Wade’s hands holding his, to his utility belt. The red and black leather sheaths guns,
katanas, throwing stars. It was so authentically Deadpool. Peter was smiling. He’d never been
called gorgeous before. A hand leaves him, and soon Wade’s hand comes up to his chin, holding it
more delicate than anything he'd ever seen him handle, guiding Peter's eyes to look up and into
those blue eyes. Wait, blue eyes?

He gasps and takes in the features of Deadpools face without a mask. Rough, textured skin due to
genetic mutation, beautiful eyes that hold so much story, thin lips, pale, discoloured skin. Wade is
heartbroken by peters reaction, but underneath the mask, Peter is smiling. He was so happy to
finally see his partner in crime-fighting of four years. Wade breaks the eye contact to look at the
floor. He hears light shuffling, and suddenly there is a clammy hand on his cheek, guiding him up
to see Spidey in all of his maskless glory.
 And damn. Without the blood and tears, he's still bruised and cuts liter his face, but seeing his eyes
for the first time, Wade is breathless. Like honey and coffee, Spidey’s eyes are brown. And they
are looking at Wade with fear, but also with adoration and love. Wade reaches up a gloved hand to
cradle the one on his cheek.

Peter smiles, and you might as well stab Wade because he's dying. If he could still blush he would.
Oh damn, this might be the only thing that can kill him. Peter giggles at Wade’s astounded
expression.

“Hi Deadpool, I’m Peter Parker. Your friendly neighborhood spiderman.” What a dork. A cute
dork. A hot dork. Wearing boxers that Wade gave him. And Wade's shirt. Wade grins and sits up
with new energy. Mindful of his injuries, Wade tackles Peter onto the bed and pins him.

“Hi Peter,” He says breathlessly. “I’m Wade Wilson, your not-so-friendly neighborhood Merc-
with-a-mouth.” Peter smiles up at Wade and hugs him, almost breaking a few bones with his
strength. Wade hugs back lighter, so as not to agitate any cuts.

Peter is floored. And tired. And slightly (very) in love.

Wade is very energetic and very in love.

Chapter End Notes

Okay, so this came out a little later than expected. My least favorite part is the posting
process. The editing, formating, spell checking, gross. And I had to do it THREE
TIMES. One because I fucked it up and closed the tab, two because AO3 died as I had
my cursor over the publish button, and now, a day after I gave up on publishing this
one.

End Notes

Leave kudos if you liked it and comment on what you want to see in the next chapter!
Thanks for reading loves <3

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