Nekomata7

She turned off the speaker mode and pressed the cellphone against her ear, holding it in place with her shoulder while preventing her scrambled eggs from burning. She heard more gunfire and decided they were dry enough already.

—Pool?

She didn't want to ask if he was alright. The man was always alright, and if he wasn't, all he needed was time for his body to put itself back together. He'd be fine.

—There's a... Shit! —another gunshot.—There's a contract out on someone we both know. I didn't pay much attention because it didn't seem that serious, okay? I told myself it wasn't worth getting involved, so I never bothered checking who put up the money or what conditions came with it.

—And I should care becaaause…?

Something exploded and glass shattered on the other side of the line

—Whew! Slippery bastard. Where was I? Right. You care because you like this person.

She turned off the stove and headed toward the fridge in search of cheese.

—Logan doesn't need hiding, Pool. We both know he's perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

The mercenary's laughter nearly punctured her eardrum.

—I said you like him, not that you're trying to get in his pants. Though it's nice to know you also experience feelings toward Logie that aren't purely driven by your pussy.

—I'm hanging up.

—Spider-Man! I need you to hide Spidey for a few hours. Just until I can clear the city of the mercenaries trying to cash in on the bounty on his head.

She shut the refrigerator with a little more force than necessary without taking out the cheese.

—Are you insane or were you fed your dad’s milk as a child? I'm not getting involved in that!

—I really need to teach you the equivalents to your idioms in English. Princess, listen carefully. We don't have much time, and Spidey's heading toward your range. I'm not trying to trick you this time. Just hide him for a few hours. I'll handle the rest. Consider it an official job offer. What's your price? Unless you'd prefer the city to lose its friendly neighborhood hero...

New York without Spider-Man. That was a city she didn't like…

—Am I going to be in danger?

—Not if you do a good job hiding alongside him, and I know you're good at hiding when you want to be.

She bit the inside of her cheek. This was what nearly three years of associating with Wade had led to: babysitting a superhero while the mercenary went around murdering an indeterminate number of other mercenaries. She sighed in resignation.

—You have no idea how much I hate you... Fine. But it won't be my usual rate.

—I love it when you use your business voice with me, Princess. Name your price.

—Ninety dollars.

—Per hour?

—Per minute.

On the other side of the line came the gurgling sound of someone having their throat slit. She served the eggs onto a plate and set them down on the kitchen island.

—Whoa! Not even a friendship discount?

—Final offer, Pool. Unless you can't afford it.

—What if I offer you a night of intense sex instead? I can do that thing you like...

—That's separate from this. Besides, I can make you let me do that just by hinting at it.

Wade laughed.

—You're an excellent negotiator, but I was willing to pay a hundred and let you do it anyway.

—You're a cheap whore.

—Only for you, baby.

She wrinkled her nose.

—Ew. Don't call me "baby."

—Mommy?

—Wade... Spider-Man?

—One day I'm going to get you to embrace your kink. Deal accepted, Princess! The moment you see our little spider, you can start bleeding my wallet dry. I just sent him your location, so you've got... four minutes to get ready. Next time I call, you can stop the clock.

—Sir, Yes, sir.

—OH MY GOD! Don't make me work with an erection! Do you know how hard it is to aim a rifle when your dick is acting as a tripod against the floor?

—Bye, Pool.

She hung up, rolling her eyes. Four minutes, a bunch of hired killers And a hero on his way. Those two were so lucky she appreciated Spider-Man's work.

During the first minute, she shut the windows, drew the curtains, put on her incognito hoodie, and grabbed the dark blanket she kept draped over the couch, which she had to replace constantly because she always used it to keep Wade from bleeding all over the furniture and charging her extra fees at every Airbnb.

During the second minute, she turned on her portable speaker and connected it to her laptop, played the first Daily Mix she found on Spotify, and set the volume to a reasonable level. She needed to create the impression of normalcy: an ordinary night, some music, maybe a few friends visiting. Easy.

During the third minute, she climbed the single floor separating her apartment from the rooftop using the maintenance stairs, expanded her range to its maximum, and forced herself not to throw up. Good thing she hadn't eaten yet. Six hundred meters to the north, she felt Spider-Man's emotional aura.

Right. Right. Right. 

Now for the difficult part: finding the mercenaries following him. If Deadpool had hired her, it meant there were no mutants, mutates, or enhanced humans involved in that mess, at least for now... though that didn't mean ordinary mercenaries couldn't be a problem in their own right.

She filtered out the "normal" people. She didn't need the office workers exhausted from a long day, the students stressed over exams, or the children relaxing at home. She needed to narrow in on the hunters focused on their prey. Those whose emotions resembled Wolverine's concentration in battle and the killer instinct of someone like Deadpool. Building an emotional profile for every kind of profession was difficult, but people accustomed to extreme violence stood out far more clearly than the rest. Soldiers, hitmen, assassins, mercenaries, detectives, vigilantes, some police officers...People like that always distinguished themselves within the vast human mass.

...

There they were. Almost fifteen. Not the best scenario, but not the worst either. Few enough that she didn't need to panic. Numerous enough that she couldn't afford a single mistake. Several of them weren't focused on the hero himself. They were focused on finding him. That reduced the number with their metaphorical, or perhaps not-so-metaphorical, sights trained on him to seven mercenaries.  

At five hundred meters, one of them grew frustrated after losing sight of him. At three hundred meters, two of them passed out. At one hundred and fifty meters, one of them died. Deadpool was closer than she'd expected. In that case, she only had to worry about two. At fifty meters, 9:36 PM, she saw Spider-Man.

Spider-Man knew that touch. Deadpool was a damn idiot. Her? Out of everyone he could have sent him to, did it have to be her? Even setting aside the fact that the woman seemed physically allergic to getting involved in vigilante life and that her appearance probably meant the mercenary had threatened her with something to make her help, she was likely still furious with him.

Great job, Parker. First, you destroy in a single night a friendship (Was she even his friend?)  that had taken months to build. And then, a few weeks later, you drag her into a situation that could very well get her killed.

He couldn't lose someone else because of Spider-Man. He wasn't going to repeat the mistake he had made with Gwen. It didn't matter that Pool had assured him everything would be fine as long as he did whatever his contact told him to do. He wasn't going to involve her in this.

...

He found himself swinging toward the source of that feeling of safety, toward a safe haven. No. He wasn't going to put her in danger. His spider-sense kept a bullet from punching through his chest. It only grazed his side, but now he had another wound bleeding profusely. The pull toward that particular rooftop grew stronger. No. No. No. NO AND NO.

Spider-Man was a fucking idiot. Making her work three times harder for something as simple as drawing him to her exact location! She should have charged Wade the full hundred dollars a minute. She took a deep breath and sent out a powerful wave of urgency. The hero had to come to her. It didn't matter if his honorable little code made him feel like shit for involving her.

—Ven aquí, malparido. (Come here, motherfucker)

Dammit. No. He wasn't going.

He was going and he couldn't even say it was against his will, because his will no longer seemed to belong entirely to him. She had told him she couldn't mentally control people, but this felt awfully close. Or maybe it was simply his own survival instinct clinging to what seemed like his last chance of making it out of this hunt alive. Or perhaps he'd lost too much blood to have the strength to resist. 

Another bullet came flying in his direction. It didn't hit him, but it hit his webline. He barely had enough time to fire another strand and crash, gracelessly and spectacularly, onto the rooftop he had been trying so hard not to reach. He braced himself on his elbows and felt the sharp stab of a broken rib.

—Get back inside... it's not safe.

She covered him with a blanket and urgently guided him toward a half-open door.

—Shut your mouth and walk. Visual illusions are very hard to pull off.

Spidey watched a blurry shape, colored similarly to his suit, shoot off between the buildings. It was like seeing a distorted silhouette of himself swinging away.

—What is...?

—Get your ass inside the fucking building! Now!

The door slammed shut behind him. Only then did he get a good look at her. She was sweating, and a thin stream of blood trickled from one nostril. He was about to say something, but she had already started pushing him down the stairs.

—Stop worrying about other people when you're seconds away from passing out! Walk! If you collapse here, I won't be able to carry you.

She didn't even let him speak. She just pushed him, insulted him, and whispered increasingly urgent orders for him to move faster.A few seconds later, he found himself inside a small apartment. Another door shut behind him, and for a moment, the only things he could focus on were the music and the sensation that his legs were about to give out beneath him.

—No, no, no. Not here. If you're going to pass out, do it in the tub. Walk, Spider-Man. I'm not letting you bleed all over the couch.

Seconds later, he ended up in the bathtub. The blanket draped over him was slowly soaking through with blood. He looked at the woman again. The red trail was now running from both nostrils. She wiped it away roughly before speaking.

—I'm going out for a few minutes. The moment I feel any intention from you to leave this bathroom, I'm going to make you experience endometriosis. Don't. Move.

She grabbed the mop and dampened it with hydrogen peroxide. The blanket had absorbed most of the blood, but she needed to make sure there weren't any traces leading back to her apartment. She stepped outside without worrying about the neighbors. She knew everyone was finding whatever they were doing far too interesting to pay attention to any noise coming from outside their homes.

She cleaned the few drops of blood she found in the hallway and along the maintenance stairs. Only after making sure the two mercenaries who had "seen" Spider-Man disappear between the buildings had moved far away did she dare step back onto the rooftop.

She carefully searched the area near the door, cleaned the blood as best she could, and checked everything three more times. The marks from the hero's fall were still there. She couldn't clean those without making it painfully obvious. But they supported the illusion that Spider-Man had landed there and then swung away from the building.

Now all she had to do was maintain her range at around a hundred meters. Maybe one hundred and fifty, just to be safe. That would give her a manageable perimeter to work with. She wiped her nose again and headed back down to the apartment. He was still in the bathtub.

—Well... now I know you have one foot on the other side. You actually listened to me.

Spider-Man watched her glance at herself in the bathroom mirror and wash her face, wiping away the traces of blood from her lips and chin.

—Are you okay?

The question came out weakly. She turned her head toward him, looked him up and down, and raised an incredulous eyebrow.

—Heroes... —she murmured.— Do you have anything broken?

—No.

—Liar.

Without asking permission, she stepped closer and tugged the blanket aside slightly to inspect him.

—You're losing a lot of blood. Wade's right, your healing factor is a joke.

—Hey!

—If you don't tell me the truth about your injuries, I'm going to touch you, feel them myself, and figure out how bad you really are. Do you really want to put me through that?

The hero tensed, which only made the wound in his side burn even more. Not to mention everything else.

—You wouldn't.

—Want to test that theory?

No. No, he did not. Spider-Man was well aware of the lengths she would go to simply to prove a point or solve a problem in the most efficient way possible. Using his need to protect people against him felt a little low, even for her. At the same time, it was also the smartest card she could play. And, if he was being honest with himself, he hadn't even had time to stop and assess his condition. He genuinely had no idea how badly injured he was. 

He took a deep breath and allowed himself to feel his own body. Both of them hissed through clenched teeth as everything screamed at once.

—You're not touching me!

—I stood too close to you. Now then, what's the medical report?

The lenses of his mask were cracked, yet they still managed to narrow enough to convey the disapproving stare he was giving her. And she thought Deadpool's mask was expressive...

Finally, Spider-Man sighed and let his head fall back against the bathroom tiles.

—There's a bullet in my right leg, three cuts across my back, two more in my legs, a wound in my left side, I think I have one or two broken ribs, I'm pretty sure I have a concussion...And... other things I can't really distinguish from the general pain.

She let out an impressed whistle.

—They really put in the effort tonight.

—I noticed.

—You also have two fingers in your right hand out of place and possibly a sprained wrist.

—Would you get away from me?! Doesn't that hurt?!

She shrugged unconcernedly and pulled out her phone to read a message.

—I've learned to dissociate from other people's physical suffering. I'm aware of the pain, but it doesn't affect me nearly as much anymore... It's like having a limb fall asleep? except it isn't my limb. It's hard to explain. Spending so much time around Wade has allowed me to learn a few things. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I try, I can't second-hand train actual pain tolerance. You should've seen the scene I made last week when I slammed my shin into the coffee table.

Spider-Man stared at her in silence for several seconds.

—Are you... distracting me?

—No. By the way, you've lost enough blood that it's getting harder for you to speak. You're starting to slur your words.

She slipped the phone back into her hoodie pocket.

—I'm going to get the first-aid kit. We need to patch you up.

—I'm not an old sock!

The last thing he saw was her hand making a talking gesture.

She found the bag underneath her bed, but before standing up she took a few seconds to breathe deeply. Spider-Man was seriously injured, and although what she'd said was almost entirely true, the amount of damage he had sustained still exceeded her ability to completely distance herself from it. Thank God she hadn't had to touch him.

She stood up while, several blocks away, one of the mercenaries abruptly turned around and headed in the opposite direction after hearing the unmistakable sound of web-shooters.

He watched her return carrying a Hello Kitty bag.

—Is that your first-aid kit?

—Technically, it belongs to Wade. Every time I move somewhere new, it mysteriously appears among my clothes and happens to contain useful things. First things first, we're going to do something about the absurd amount of pain you're in. —She put on a pair of latex gloves, a mask, and then pulled out a syringe and a small vial.—A nice painkiller so you can stop feeling like a human piñata and we can...

When she turned around after filling the syringe, she found Spider-Man plastered to the bathroom ceiling like...well…Like a spider.

—Seriously? The Amazing Spider-Man is afraid of needles? A month ago I watched the news show you pulling a stake out of your leg.

—Afraid? No. No. No. I'm not afraid of the needle. I'm afraid of any drug that has passed through Wade's hands. He doesn't need medicine. Why would he even keep a first-aid kit? How do I know that isn't... something else?

—Look... you do have a point there. And yes, there are things inside this bag that are better left undiscussed. But the painkillers and the rest of the medicine are safe... I've used them on myself. Now get down from there before you puncture a lung with your own rib.

To both their surprise, the hero climbed down from the ceiling and lay back onto the blanket with a pained groan. She leaned in and inserted the needle into his inner left thigh without warning.

—OW?!

—Don't be a baby. This will help with the pain. Considering your accelerated metabolism, I gave you a higher dose. You should be fine.

—Should be?! That burns!

—Shh. If you stop throwing a tantrum, I'll give you a lollipop.

Spider-Man tried to steady his breathing. Very slowly, the pain throughout his body began to recede, replaced by a pleasant sensation. He felt lighter.

—How did you do that?

—It's not very difficult. You have good legs for injections. Good muscle mass and adipose tissue.

—...Thanks? But I wasn't talking about that. How did you manage to inject me without my, uh, spider-sense warning me?

She laughed.

—Oh my God. You really call it that. I thought that was just one of Wade's jokes. —a cloud of embarrassment washed over him, and she bit her lip to keep from laughing —Your, ahem, spider-sense activates in response to danger, right? Do you perceive me as a source of danger?

—...No? —He looked at her— No. I think you're... harmless.

—There's your answer.

—Are you using your powers to make me trust you?

—Who knows.

Silence settled between them for a moment. She turned back to the first-aid kit and pulled out more supplies. He followed the movement of her hands. She was remarkably precise and efficient.

—Mask.

She said, after a second of hesitation, he removed it. She glanced up and grimaced.

—You only had to uncover your mouth. Hooooly shit, your face is a complete mess. Can you even see through that swollen eye? It's really been a rough night for Spider-Man, huh?

—A rough night, week, month... life.

Something close to sympathy crossed the woman's face. For her to look at him like that, he had to look far worse than he felt.

Whoa. That painkiller was really good.

She leaned over the bathtub to look him in the eye, well, the only one he could actually open, and slid a hand down his shoulder until it rested over his right hand. Then he felt her other hand lift his fingers slightly.

—How's the pain?

—Better. I think I can ge…—the pop of his fingers slipping back into place echoed through the bathroom. —OUCH?!

—There, there. pain, pain go away. It's better to do it when the body's relaxed.

—You're the roughest nurse I've ever met.

She looked genuinely confused.

—I'm not a nurse.

—What? You told us you worked in a hospital.

—Technically, yes. I worked at a hospital for a while… as an Mortician's Assistant.

—WHAT?!

A smile tugged at her lips beneath the mask as she laid out the supplies needed for suturing on top of the toilet lid.

—Right. Right. Right. Now, I don't know if your suit is two pieces or a full bodysuit, but let me see the cuts on your back.

—Wait, wait. Are we really going to ignore that last part?

Despite his protests, Spidey started removing the upper part of his suit. Huh. It was a bodysuit with an opening in the back.

—You're lucky. The cuts on your back have stopped bleeding. I'm going to disinfect them anyway, just in case. —as she worked, she continued speaking —Honestly, it wasn't very interesting. The morgue was isolated from everyone else, tucked away in the basement. It was quiet, peaceful and cool. I could spend hours without feeling anyone.

—Hours surrounded by corpses. — He hissed as the disinfectant touched his skin —Wasn't that terrifying?

—Not particularly. I wasn't surrounded by corpses all the time. I'd go in, do my work, enjoy the quiet, and go home.

She didn't want to talk about the sense of peace she felt being able to look at people without feeling anything from them. Being able to touch them and feel normal because nothing flooded her, nothing invaded her. Among the dead, she could simply be herself, certain that whatever she experienced belonged entirely to her. Nor did she want to talk about how, when confronted with the deaths of others, all she could feel was a profound internal relief. So she didn't.

—Sounds like it was good for you. Why did you change careers?

—You can lie back down now. Let me see the wound on your side.

He obeyed, and she clicked her tongue. That was definitely going to need a few stitches.

—I'm going to give you some local anesthetic before I suture this. Bite down on this gauze if it still hurts too much.

After the initial sting, she barely gave the anesthetic fifteen seconds to kick in before inserting the needle. The hero bit down hard on the gauze. At least the former mortuary assistant worked quickly. She kept talking.

—I quit because I had no way of advancing professionally. I couldn't get my degree.

She also didn't want to mention the idea that had begun to take shape during that time. That the world would be easier if everything were like the morgue. That perhaps she could find true peace if everyone were dead. Well. That fantasy had been the first red flag telling that path represented far too great a temptation to risk walking down.

—I realized I needed to leave my comfort zone. It was a good job. Shame it didn't work out.

She tied off the final stitch and cut the thread.

—Done. Now relax and try not to look. I'm going to stitch up the cut on your leg that's still bleeding. What the hell cut you here? There are chunks of flesh missing... A hacksaw?

—Something like that…

—I'll try to make this quick. Wade is always complaining that your regeneration takes forever, so, assuming the idiot is using his own ridiculous healing factor as a baseline, I'm going to assume this will close up in an hour or two. I'll only put in the stitches necessary to keep the muscle together and let your body do the rest. Sounds good?

—For some reason... I feel like I don't really get a vote in this. Just warn me before you—The needle carrying the anesthetic pierced his flesh.—OW?! Shit!

—Ooooh! That's the first time I've heard you swear. Stop the presses, New York's golden boy is setting a terrible example for children.

Spider-Man had a sarcastic comment sitting right on the tip of his tongue, which he had to swallow down in order to bite into the gauze again. Would it kill her to give the anesthetic a few more seconds?

—Ugh, the corpses never complained this much. Come on, Spidey, this is nothing.

Through the improvised gag, he muttered something she couldn't understand.

—Your mom, just in case…

A few minutes later, the wound was closed. He looked down and found a series of brutally efficient stitches. He was infinitely grateful that he rarely scarred.

—One less thing to worry about. Now for the ugly part.

—That wasn't the ugly part?!

She picked up a pair of thin forceps and clicked them open and shut twice.

—We're taking the bullet out.

—What if we just leave it in there?

—That's an option, but I don't think—

Whatever she was about to say trailed off. Spider-Man watched her turn toward the windows across the apartment, staring beyond them for several long moments while he had absolutely no idea what was happening. When she looked back at him, he immediately knew her nose had started bleeding again from the red stain spreading across her mask. She leaned her back against the wall and took a few seconds to breathe. He was tempted to get up and steady her when he noticed the blood had begun to run down her jaw, dripping heavily onto the floor.

—They're... persistent.

—I need to leave. I'm putting you in danger.

—Like hell you are. You're in no condition to move, much less fight. What exactly are you planning to do? Swing around the city until the mercenaries get tired of shooting at you? Do you have any idea how many people are injured or killed by stray bullets every week? Remember this, Webs: tonight, every bullet that misses you is going to end up somewhere. Maybe in a wall. Maybe not. —She turned toward him, her expression hard —If you're here, the mercenaries won't shoot. The logical thing is to let Wade handle this.

—I can't let him handle it! He's going to-

—What? Kill them? Probably. That's part of their world. The people looking for you out there aren't purse snatchers or neighborhood thugs. They're professionals. Humans who've dedicated their lives to killing other humans. Even with your powers, you're at a disadvantage. You're not going to kill them. They know that. And they're going to use it against you. A lot of them don't even care if they die. And you know that, don't you? That's why you're like this. Because you've protected them from yourself.

The intent was there. Spider-Man was on the verge of standing up and going out to do the right thing. The heroically right thing. Even if that meant dying in the process.

—We both know that one day, maybe not even that far from now, you're going to die because you're Spider-Man. You're going to sacrifice yourself for the greater good, like the stubborn Samaritan you are. You're going to put everyone else's life ahead of your own without expecting anything in return. —Now it was Spidey's turn to stare at her —And if that's what you choose, then that's fine by me. It's your choice whether you live or die however you please. But tonight? For this kind of people? No. This city still needs its friendly neighborhood hero. Let Wade do what he's best at. I don't care if Spidey is the kind of hero who wants to save a bunch of killers, but tonight...Spider-Man is not going to kill Peter Parker.

There was a second. A single second in which he almost gave in to the urge to put his mask back on and leave. She couldn't stop him. Even in his condition, Spider-Man was dozens of times stronger than she was. They both knew it, which was why she wasn't trying to dramatically stand in his way, hug him, or beg him not to put himself in danger. She was simply there, giving him perfectly logical reasons to stay. 

Maybe it was her convincing argument about stray bullets, or the sight of her mask slowly turning red with blood, or perhaps the fact that the painkiller was beginning to feel very potent in his system. Or maybe it was all of the above. Whatever the reason, the second passed, and she felt the impulse evaporate.

—Right. Now, get as comfortable as you can and let me see the bullet wound.

—I think that one can stay where it is. It doesn't hurt anymore.

She snorted and pointed toward the dark stain spreading across the blanket.

—You're still bleeding. Want to test your luck tonight? Fine by me. I'm not getting paid for this part.

Spider-Man shifted as best he could. God, he was tired. Extremely tired. He didn't even have the energy to complain when she tore his suit a little more to get a better look at the wound. What was one more hole? That suit was practically a total loss already.

—Hey... are you sure the dose wasn't too high? I feel... I feel kind of like I just left the dentist.

—I would be more worried about what I'm going to have to do to this wound than about a possible opioid overdose.

—Opioid? That's what was in the syringe? Wait! What are you going to do to my leg?!

Too late. She had already left the bathroom in search of something. The hero remained there, not entirely sure what to make of the situation. If possible, he wanted to sleep for a month.

She moved quickly through the apartment. Where had she seen it? She hadn't lived there long enough to remember exactly, but she knew she had seen one. She opened drawers, closets, and decorative boxes. Finally, she found it in the kitchen and returned to the bathroom just in time to see the man nodding off with one arm hanging over the edge of the tub. Was she amplifying the original numbness from the anesthetic too much? Possibly.

—Spidey. Help me out here. You can sleep when we're done, okay?

He felt the fog in his mind recede a little, enough to focus once again on the current problem: mercenaries, a price on his head, his supposed friend holding a tool.

—Why do you need a screwdriver?

—A trick my dad taught me. Here. —She handed him the screwdriver and what appeared to be a chrome lighter, either expensive, highly advanced, or both —Heat it until the tip turns red.

—Please tell me you're not going to cauterize the wound.

—Sorry, I don't use tampons and I don't have many options. But I'm going to give you another kind of anesthetic. Maybe that'll reduce the pain.

Spider-Man sighed and resigned himself to following her instructions. At least this time she'd warned him and was giving the drugs time to kick in. It was obviously going to hurt.

—I have so many questions right now.

He said as he brought what he had discovered was actually a butane lighter toward the tip of the tool.

—You can ask, if you want.

The man focused on keeping the tip steady enough to receive the flame properly.

—Why are you helping me?

—Wade is paying me well for this job, and Spider-Man is important to the New York ecosystem.

—Just that?

—No. There are other reasons.

—And... are you planning to tell me what they are?

She looked up from the wound. For a moment, he thought she was going to hit him.

—No. Now take a deep breath. I'm going to remove the bullet.

Spider-Man mentally prepared himself for what he was certain would be a sharp, penetrating pain while she searched for, grabbed, and pulled the bullet from his body. There was pain. But it wasn't even close to what he had expected. The whole process took very little time and was performed with a level of care he hadn't seen from her until that moment.

—I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but... why are you gentler when you're removing bullets than when you're stitching people up?

—Do you really want to hear the answer to that question?

—I think so...

She set the nine-millimeter round on the toilet lid while using her other hand to apply pressure to the wound, which had begun bleeding more heavily.

—At my old job, I had a lot more practice removing bullets from bodies than making pretty stitches. In mortuary science, sutures aren't concerned with aesthetics or how well something will heal. What gets stitched up never heals. It only needs to stay closed for the funeral.But … removing foreign objects from people always felt like an act of respect to me. Especially when those objects were responsible for their deaths. Give me the screwdriver and look away.

The sound and smell of his own flesh burning would stay with Peter Parker for many years. At least the anesthetic took the edge off. 

She sighed when she heard the material at the edge of the bathtub crack beneath Spider-Man's grip. That was going to add another hefty charge when she eventually handed the apartment back. When she finally set the tool aside, both of them let out long breaths. A few moments later, she stood, removed her gloves and mask, and washed her face once more. The silence had suddenly become uncomfortable, so Spider-man couldn't help filling it.

—I'm sorry...

—What exactly are you apologizing for?

—The last time we talked. We said things… I said things that... I had no right to say, at least not like that, and…

She raised a hand to interrupt him.

—Spider-Man, the only time you should apologize for defending your principles or personal values is when you've decided you're not going to follow them anymore, or you've realized they were wrong in the first place. I'm going to assume neither of those things has happened, right? Then you have nothing to apologize for.

—Even if I hurt you?

—Oh, please. It takes a lot more than a minor philosophical disagreement to hurt me.

She let out a small laugh as she busied herself collecting the trash and bloodied gauze scattered around the bathroom. Peter watched her while that strange haze slowly crept back in.

—So... friends?

He could see how the mere mention of the word made her tense up and turn her face away.

—Something like that. Now, I promised you a lollipop, but I'm going to substitute it with a bottle of salted water and one of those high-calorie bars Wade stole from Captain America. With any luck, that'll put enough energy back into your body for your healing factor to do its job.

—Salt water? Seriously?

—Oh, forgive me, Your Majesty. Unfortunately, I don't have IV bags or saline drips available at the moment. The hospital is underfunded.

Despite his complaints, Spidey drank at least half a liter of water and practically devoured the six bars left inside the Hello Kitty bag, as though that alone would patch him up enough to go back outside and be a hero again. No matter how much she amplified the drowsiness from the drugs and his own need to rest, he kept trying to get up.

Stubborn hero.

She placed another bottle of water in his hands.

—If it makes you feel any better, I got a message from Deadpool a little while ago. Apparently, he isn't the only one dealing with the mercenaries. He mentioned someone called DD and a Frankie. Ring any bells?

Peter nearly choked on the water he was drinking.

—Oh God. I don't know if that's actually better. Daredevil is fine, he'll be able to keep Wade in line, but Frank...

Peter's emotions shifted like crashing waves, and he drifted aimlessly between concern, exhaustion, and his sense of justice. She was tired just from sharing that for a few seconds.

—Just this once, you could let someone else cover for you, —she began.— Pool seems to have everything under control for now. How about a truce with your heroism? Give yourself... I don't know, twenty minutes of rest, and then you can decide whether you still want to go back out there and put your spider-ass back in the line of fire. Which still sounds like a terrible idea to me, but suit yourself.

—Twenty minutes?

Peter resisted, but it was obvious that his body was beginning to surrender to the sense of safety inside the apartment and to the drugs, whose effects had now tripled.

—I can't stay here any longer. What if they find me? Any one of those mercenaries could suddenly walk in and then you...

—Hey, when it comes to these kinds of... situations, there are only a handful of things I'm actually very good at. —She raised a finger as she counted them off —Staying out of them, escaping them, or hiding if I somehow end up involved in them. Trust me, I can give you twenty minutes. Just try to relax a little. Besides, those super senses of yours will warn you if something goes wrong, right?

That was another very convincing argument. Quite logical. Twenty minutes… Yeah. Peter could take a break.

He needed a break… He deserved a break...

—Fifteen minutes. No, ten. If something happens, yell or... or... If something happens, I can...

—Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Sleep, Little Spider. The city will still be here when you wake up.

—You... I think you should be more careful with that painkiller... I... feel like...

Peter watched a tiny bead of blood threaten to emerge from his friend's nose. But he was no longer lucid enough to think about what that meant.

It wasn't mind control. It was just a little push in the right direction, taking advantage of what the man was already feeling, so it definitely wasn't mind control. If it were, it wouldn't have taken her so much effort to dissolve Spider-Man's need to be a hero enough for him to decide that he could allow himself to rest. 

That's what she told herself as she sat down on the floor with the absurdly pink bag resting in her lap. She took a deep breath while making one of the killers who had entered her range think he saw a blur of blue and red heading toward a street that ended in a dead end.

Once that was dealt with, she pulled out another syringe and vial. The hero's healing factor would most likely take care of everything, but a little help from a broad-spectrum antibiotic wasn't going to hurt anyone. The speaker in the living room was still playing, and now, in the silence, she could focus on the music.

You know you're doing better on your own (on your own)

So don't buy in

Live right now

Yeah, just be yourself

It doesn't matter if it's good enough (good enough)

For someone else 

Wade had asked for a few hours. She could manage that. Resting her back against the bathtub, she stretched her legs out and concentrated on keeping her eyes away from the sleeping man behind her. 

Everything, everything'll be just fine

Everything, everything'll be alright, alright

Her phone finally rang. She picked it up after checking the time. 4:27 AM.

—Finished at last?

—I'm on my way to pick up Spidey as we speak, Princess. You won't believe the night I had. I think I broke a personal record.

—I think I did too. I feel like I've been hit by a train.

On the other end of the line, she caught a couple more male voices, though she couldn't quite make out what they were saying. If Wade said he was on his way, that meant he was already climbing the stairs. Within moments, she tidied up the bathroom and put Spider-Man's mask back on. She didn't know whether Wade had earned the right to know his identity yet, but she wasn't about to be responsible for breaking whatever "superbro code" existed between them. 

Finally, she pulled her range back down to normal. A long, satisfied groan escaped her as the usual levels of humanity settled around her once more. She made a mental note to move up her next detox by a couple of weeks. That little job had filled her internal tanks quite a bit. She was forgetting something...

The "code" at the door caught her attention. She had already told Wade it was pointless since she could tell it was him before he even got close, but the man kept using it anyway. She was so tired that walking over there felt like a monumental task. As she passed by her speaker, which she'd turned off shortly after ten out of consideration for the man in the apartment to the left who had to wake up at three in the morning for work after getting home from his second job at eleven, she made another mental note to charge it later.

Opening the door, she was greeted by a Deadpool covered in mud, dried blood, grease, and several other substances she chose not to examine too closely. Beneath all that, his suit was utterly wrecked, exposing patches of scarred skin. The lower part of his mask, along with a considerable portion of the back of his head, was simply gone.

—You look awful.

They both said it at the same time. She opened the door wider and let him in.

—He's in the bathtub.

As she sat down on the couch, she felt her entire body complain. Wade strolled toward the bathroom, casually inspecting the apartment as he went.

—This is the ugliest place you've rented so far. I can't believe there's a Live, Love, Laugh rug by the entrance and fake plants in the kitchen. This whole place screams pseudo-hipster with access to mommy and daddy's money. Bestie, these are not your vibes.

—Shut up, Wade. It's on the top floor and the morning view is nice. The décor isn't important.

Inside the bathroom, Deadpool placed his hands against his cheeks in theatrical shock.

—You patched up Spidey! Wait. Is this going to cost me extra?

Her voice drifted in from the living room.

—No. Consider it a loyalty bonus for being a repeat customer.

—God, you love me sooooo much, it makes you look stupid.

Her only answer was an irritated groan. Deadpool spent a few seconds looking around before stepping on the trash can pedal to inspect its contents.

—How was your night? Bet keeping the little spider indoors was a pain in the ass.

—Only at first. He's been asleep for hours.

Her voice was drawing closer down the hallway. Wade abandoned his investigation of the trash and focused on lifting the vigilante.

—I think all the wounds have closed already, but try not to move him around too much. And take that blanket with you so you can burn it. I don't need a hero's DNA mixed in with my stuff.

—Burn it? That's such a waste. I'm gonna use it fo—

—If you finish that sentence, Wade, I swear I'm going to... do something. I don't know. I'm way too tired to come up with a threat right now.

Wade slid his arms beneath Spider-Man and lifted him in what could only be described as the classic bridal carry.

—Wade, groping someone's ass while they're asleep isn't exactly gentlemanly behavior.

—You never let me do anything! I hate you! When am I ever going to get another chance like this? — Nearly two meters tall, and he still stomped his foot like a sulking teenager —One little squeeze? Two seconds max.

She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe before replying coldly.

—In this house, we don't approve sexual advances without consent. Move your hand away from that ass or I'm telling him where the glove that mysteriously "went missing" last month is.

—You wouldn't!

—Want to test that theory?

—Ugh! You're the worst!

With that, Wade slung Spider-Man over his shoulder while the hero continued sleeping deeply. She had almost entirely dialed back her influence over him by now. That sleep belonged entirely to the poor man's accumulated exhaustion. Before Wade stepped into the living room, she spoke again.

—I know why I did this today. But what about you? Why did you decide to help him? As much as you're the star attraction at Hell House, I doubt what happened tonight is going to go unnoticed. The mercenary community isn't going to appreciate your little act of betrayal, are they?

—Oh! Listen to you! Three years ago you had the mindset of a civilian, and now we're casually talking about the most dangerous mercenary bar on this side of the country. I'm so proud of you right now! —When his comment received no reaction, he continued —The city would be awfully boring without this little web-shooter trying to convert me to the good side.

She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

—Ugh. Princess, I do not have enough energy for an emotional conversation right now. I know why I did it, and you know how I feel about Spidey. Isn't that enough?

It would have to be. After all, beneath all the chaos and insanity that was Wade, she could still sense the genuine rivers of affection and love flowing through him.

—For someone who talks this much, sometimes you don't say nearly enough. Alright, get out of here, Pool. I'll send you the bill later.

—So, are we still on for coffee on Friday?

She stepped forward to open the door.

—Assuming there isn't an alien invasion, yes. Be careful when you leave the building. The moment Spider-Man gets outside my range, he's going to start waking up, and something tells me he won't be very happy with you.

—And that's exactly why I brought DD and Frankie tonight! Oh! That reminds me. Want to meet them? Daredevil is the reason Hell's Kitchen is safe enough for you to go get those burgers you like by yourself, and Punisher... I don't think you'd like Frank, but watching the two of you interact would be hilarious.

—I couldn't be paid enough to willingly meet more lunatics in spandex and Kevlar. Good night, Wade.

—But…

—Out.

2. Why Colombian?

Half of the joy or writing Deadpool is the pop and cultural references, I wanted to do that....the easiest way to do it is using a culture that i KNOW by heart, my culture....

....and is fucking hilarious every time I write a joke and i know only colombians (and latinos) will understand :3 my little vengeance to the times I've read something but i don't get it because i'm not from north America

3. The mutation......what's up with that?

OH! this is actually a trifecta. I have *some* years on my back in fanfiction. on Self-inserts and Mary sues is a... "been there, done that" kinda situation.

So i've wanted to explore something else.

The first thing in the pot was:

"Deadpool needs a friend"

and i KNOW he has friends on canon...well.."friends" idk, is complicated! Thing is: i wanted to create someone for him. but since he is...he... i didn't wanted to give that overly cute and unreasonable friendly person that.-..just likes him? just bacause???

nah nah...

i wanted to explore stuff. so i decided to create someone who could see him as a whole

second ingredient was:

"Empathy can be a curse"

and this is inspiration from a Short horror story that i'm like 40% sure is King's but i don't even remember. I just know that the MC had some special powers that were connected to the suffering of the living creatures around him and everything went to shit and he ended on a spaceship to escape humanity.....god it was soooo good.

so i went over and over crafting the mutation and it's limits to make sure it worked in a interesting way. and her personality were made around that!!!

there was a lot of "What makes a person themselves?" on that process.

Final ingredient:

"Is HAS to be entertaining"

Not good. not well done (Even if I try it to be) ENTERTAINING.

So i decided to make her physically weak, but!! emotionally unbreakable, in conflicts reside the good stories!!!!

so i made her craving solitude but made to be around people... She make herself unapproachable but her nature is philanthropist.

is the fight between the self and the subconscious!!! muahahaahah

ahh....i love to make her suffer 😬 (she is a mutant for the same reason...tbf those guys have it really bad)

So what started as "I'm creating you to be Wade's friend :3c" has developed in : "i want to see how much i can squeeeeeeze you before you break >:3C"

witch is the more "Writer" mind set possible tbh