Say Anything...Except That

By Cortexikid

Chapter 1: When Harry Met Deadpool

Hi guys, Happy New Year! So, this is my first foray into the Spideypool fandom. I've read it over the years, but haven't read or written any fic in a long while, so who knows how this is gonna go. I've incorporated elements from a multitude of Spiderman and Deadpool canon across the board, from the comic books, to the film franchises, to the videogames and cartoons. So everything will be a little mix and match, with no one set of established canon and/or story-

Geez, alright already lady, enough with the boring yapipidy yap, let's get this show on the road! My adoring fan base awaits!

Sigh. Sorry. He tends to do that if my author's notes are too long. Or too short. Or if he's bored. Or hungry.

[Yellow Box]

{White Box}

"Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…Jack Frost nipping at your junk—"

{Pretty sure that's not how that song goes}

"Yuletide carols butchered by a drunk and folks dressed up as fuck-knows-what…"

[It's like he's trying to get it wrong]

"Moi? Bastardize a beloved Christmas jingle? How dare you," the red-and-black clad mercenary admonished loudly as he squinted, readjusting the M21 rifle for a better vantage point of the apartment building.

{Isn't it a little late for Christmas songs?}

[Or really, really early?]

"Isn't it really, really early for you to be a little bitch?" he asked sweetly, continuing to hum the tune.

[Someone's a little touchy]

{It's the holiday season. This time of year he's…sensitive}

"Excuse you, I'm all steel baby, have you seen these abs? Ain't nothin' about me sensitive!"

{Classic deflection}

[Borderline narcissism]

{With just a touch of delusion}

"Just a touch of love—a little bit," the masked man known as Deadpool (Wade Winston Wilson if you're nasty—his words) sang as he slowly nudged the scope around, looking through the windows of each apartment.

"Well hell-o there," he jeered at the sight of a buxom woman standing in front of her refrigerator, pouring herself a glass of lemonade.

"What fine…jugs you have," he smirked, wiggling his eyebrows at the large glassware she held.


[Weak. Could do better.]

"There's just no pleasin' some people," Deadpool sighed as he moved onto another window, a gaggle of children chasing each other around a living room, now visible.

"Ha ha 'gaggle.' Who talks like that?"

{The writer's European}

"Well, we can't all be perfect."

A shrill laugh broke through the early January air, floating out the crack in the open window as the children continued to play, their rather haggard-looking father clearly distressed as they ran under his feet.

{Pretty sure we're not here to kill some kids}

[To their dad's dismay]

"Give 'em hell, kiddies…" Deadpool smirked before tilting the rifle to the left, another apartment coming into view.

[Does nobody close their drapes anymore?]

A response was on the tip of the mercenary's tongue, but before he could open his mouth, a tall, thin, brunet man in his twenties walked through the front door, shirking off his coat and scarf and pushing his black-rimmed glasses up his nose, raking a hand through his messy mop of hair.


[10/10. Would totally bang.]

Deadpool tilted his head, his narrowed eyes drinking in the younger man as he moved about his home, opening a laptop and settling at the kitchen table, rubbing the back of his long, pale, very attractive neck.

"So we're going with Andrew Garfield Spidey instead of Tobey Maguire Spidey, huh? Good to know…"

[Shh! You're not meant to know that it's Spidey yet!]

{Have you heard of story narrative?!}

[He'll probably forget in a minute anyway]

"Forget what?"


Wade shook his head, one of his many futile attempts to silence the boxes as he continued to watch the young man. It was clear from his current posture that he was used to being hunched over for long periods of time, and yet his slim but firm form suggested that he had at least some degree of athleticism. The mercenary couldn't tear his eyes away as the brunet typed away at his keyboard, engrossed in whatever he was composing, the glare from the screen reflecting in his glasses.

"What an adorable nerd," Wade mused with a smirk as the bespectacled beaut suddenly let out a happy shout, his fist shooting up and pumping the air in excitement.

{Pretty sure we're not meant to kill him either}

"You're pretty sure about a lot of things, aren't ya?" the merc groused, forcing himself to move away from the cutie's apartment and instead focus on the one right next door.

It wouldn't be long now…

Peter Benjamin Parker was having one hell of a day. And not the good kind. Whoever said that with hard work comes great rewards, clearly had never been a grad student.

He frowned at himself when that thought flittered into his tired brain as he climbed the stairs of his apartment building. It wasn't like him to be so negative, but these last few months were really testing him.

When he accepted a research position at Stark Industries six months ago, Peter had been stoked. It had been his dream for as long as he could remember to work side by side with none other than Tony Stark – genius, billionaire, former playboy and philanthropist, but now, along with balancing his lab research, grad school, his old part-time photography gig at The Daily Bugle, and his responsibilities as your friendly neighbourhood Spider Man, he was beginning to feel the strain.

It was days like these when he missed living with his Aunt May. She always had a way of making him feel better, no matter what he was up against. Moving out of his home in Queens and down town to his small, dingy apartment alone had been difficult, but necessary. Stark did offer him a place at Avengers Tower (he was one of them after all) but Peter politely declined, feeling that he needed his own separate place, away from Spider Man and everything that went with him.

So the apartment, as cramped and begrimed as it was, became somewhat of a sanctuary. He had spent the last few months making it as hospitable as possible, carving out his own personal mark on the place, adding little touches here and there so when he came home after a long day like today, he would be able to unwind before going on patrol.

Rubbing at the creak in his neck, Peter dragged his weary body to the door and unlocked it, stepping in and dropping his book-bag to the floor, wrenching off his coat and scarf and pushing his glasses up on his nose with a deep sigh. He had been kept later at the lab than he intended (it seemed that Stark didn't care that Peter also had a million other things to do as well as help protect the city) all this week, and super endurance or not, it was taking its toll.

The only saving grace was that today was finally the day where he found out if his paper (the one he slaved over for the last three months) was to be published in the next issue's scientific journal. With an attentive grin, he scrambled over to the tiny round table that housed his laptop and quickly booted it up, his posture alight with a renewed nervous energy.

Biting his lip, the glow of the laptop basking his face, Peter typed in his email and password and waited with baited breath. His heart lurched as he saw the new email from his professor, his hand shaking slightly as he clicked on the subject line. Two hazel eyes rapidly scanned the email before a roar of elation burst from his chest, his fist rising in the air in triumph as it was confirmed he was going to be published.

Maybe it was time he reconsidered his notion about hard work after all…

"Keep it down in there!" an angered yell wafted in from behind the wall.

"Sorry Mr. Guggenheim," Peter called back, the moody old man not even being enough to wipe the ecstatic beam from his face.

After a few moments, when the initial elation began to subside, the familiar tingling sensation began licking at his skin like flames, the hairs on the back of his neck rising, alerting him to imminent trouble.

His whole body tensed as he stood up, keeping deadly still, trying to hear anything out of the ordinary. When all that greeted him was the muffled sounds of Mr. Guggenheim's nightly soap opera, Peter frowned, cautiously stepping over to the window and looking down into the street below.

The road was busy as usual, the pedestrians on the sidewalk going about their business with no visible sign of distress. Running a hand through his hair, the young hero cast his glance upwards, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses as he tried to make out shapes in the darkness.

Tilting his head, Peter scanned the rooftops of the opposite buildings, his breath catching in his throat as a flash of red and black caught his attention.

"That can't be good…" he gaped as he ducked down, hardly believing the sight, frickin' Deadpool of all people, aiming a rifle straight at his building.

How the hell does he know where I live?! How long has he been there? Oh god…did he see my face?

Brain firing off potential half-baked worries and plots a mile a minute, Peter let his autopilot take over as he leapt into action, sprinting towards his bedroom to get his gear just as the first round of shots erupted into the front of the building.

With a yell, he threw himself to the floor, crawling on his stomach towards his closet. It was when his fingers were inches from his web-shooters that he realised that it wasn't his apartment that was under attack, after all.

This notion was confirmed when he hastily glanced around and found his room completely void of bullets. Heart hammering in his chest, he frantically weighed his options before snatching the web-shooters, throwing the hood from his Stark Industries sweatshirt up over his head and racing towards his door, wrenching it open wide.

The corridor was in complete chaos, his neighbours from all around screaming and running in every direction. Peter doubted even if he dressed up as a giant panda and starting doing the conga that anyone would take any notice of him. Guess that was the normal person's response to a hail of bullets sounding off a few feet from your home.

Jaw clenched, the hooded hero made his way to the door directly next to his, the apartment that was currently being leased to a salt-and-pepper haired guy that he only saw briefly and exchanged quick pleasantries with once or twice over the last few months.

Reaching out, Peter prepared to break down the door but had the foresight to check to see if it was unlocked first. When it creaked ajar slightly, his eyebrows shot up in surprise. The guy, Haynes, didn't seem like the type to leave his place unlocked even when home. But, now that he thought about it, he also didn't seem the type to warrant someone enlisting the services of a mentally unstable mercenary either.

The gunshots had ceased almost immediately after they started, the overall round lasting mere seconds. A heavy bout of dread settled in the pit of Peter's stomach when he reflected on what that could mean as he stepped into the dwelling, crouched and ready to attack, his nerve endings on fire.

Coming up empty, Parker kept low and tip-toed to the left, calling out quietly, "Mr. Haynes? It's Peter…from 24L. Are you here? Are you hurt?"

Dead silence rang in his ears as he crept through the bedroom.

Just as he was about to give up, race back to his place, don his suit, and high-tail it after the surely long-gone Deadpool, Peter caught sight of a crimson stain on the floor, illuminated by the bright moonlight streaming through the bullet-ridden window.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, the brunet skulked towards the agape bathroom door, pushing it open to reveal a bloodied cast-iron tub. Wincing at the crimson hand-print on the wall, Peter gingerly made his way towards the shower curtain, stealing himself for the worst as he quickly reefed it back to reveal…nothing.

The tub was empty, no sign of his surely injured neighbour.

Brow furrowing in confusion, the young man turned on the spot, his senses going into overdrive as he left the bathroom and went in search of the rest of the place.

He stopped dead in his tracks when his eyes landed on a large dry-erase board standing tall in the middle of the kitchen, a gun-holster hanging on the edge of it. His spidey-senses going wild, Peter's legs automatically dragged him to the object that peaked his interest, his hand reaching out to flip it over.

His jaw dropped, eyes widening, breath knocked from his lungs.

There, plastered to the board, were dozens and dozens of surveillance photos of him in various different places from the entrance of Stark labs, to outside his college, to the bus-stop across the street from his local coffee shop.

"Whoa…" a familiar voice behind him suddenly broke Peter's stunned silence, "looks like someone went all Rear Window on your ass. Ha! Get it? REAR Window! I know, I just heard what I said. I'm a riot!"

Whipping around, Peter was met with the sight of Deadpool leaning nonchalantly against the door-frame, head cocked to the side as if in contemplation.

"Not that I can blame them. I mean, you are just darlin'," he continued with a fake southern-drawl, seemingly unfazed by his companion's combatant stance.

Peter took a step forward, keeping his face firmly in the shadows as his fingers itched towards the kitchen knives.

"Easy there, Harry Potter. No need to whip out your wand yet, we're just gettin' to know each other…" Wilson murmured, the smirk in his tone evident, an exaggerated wink unmistakeable as his mask moved with his face as it always seemed to.

"Where's…where's Mr. Haynes?" Peter asked, minding to lower his voice to try and modify it.

He and the merc with the mouth had come across one another before, even teamed up once or twice when the need arose, so he feared that his voice would give him away…that is, if Deadpool didn't see everything he needed to already.

"Mr. Haynes is…oh, how do I put this? Gone to the big pearly gates in the sky? Although, I suppose tryin' to assassinate an ass like yours would be considered a sin so…maybe he's gone down South?"

Peter's world ground to a halt as the mercenary's words rang in his ears.

Mr. Haynes was trying to assassinate him?!

"Not like Atlanta down South but like…the fire and brimstone kind, you know? Hey…kid? Yoo hoo, kid? You still in there?" Deadpool waved a hand in front of his face, somehow edging closer to him as Peter spaced out in shock.

Had he really been that distracted that he didn't realize his own neighbour was surveying and possibly plotting to murder him?!

"Guess Grad School really will be the death of me," he murmured under his breath absentmindedly.

"Oh hey, you talk to yourself too? Awesome!"

Peter shook his head, the gravity of the situation sinking into his veins. He only had Deadpool's word and a very creepy board to go on, but it was better than nothing at the moment. Apparently his neighbour had it in for him. Huh. And he'd seemed so…neighbourly.

But there were more pressing matters at hand. Namely, how Peter was gonna get the hell out of here with his identity, both secret and otherwise, intact.

"So…" Wilson was now whistling, his tone lowering an octave, clearly flexing his muscles under his spandex suit, "you come here often?"

Peter glanced about them.

"To my dead neighbour's apartment?"


A short silence fell between them.

"Hey," the merc spoke up, no doubt unable to keep quiet any longer, "so uh…how come you're not…you know, scared, and stuff?"

Words failed the brunet as he felt the other man's gaze glue to him, an edge of suspicion in his posture now.

Fortunately or unfortunately (depending how you looked at it) he was saved from trying to respond however as suddenly, a familiar tricking feeling rose up his spine a split second before something whizzed past his left ear.

"GET DOWN!" was the only head's up he got before Deadpool tackled him, their bodies colliding roughly as they slammed to the floor.

The wind was knocked from Peter's lungs as all of Wade's two hundred and ten pounds landed on his chest.

"I don't know who you are, handsome," the merc yelled into his ear over the hail of bullets, his breath bouncing off Peter's skin, "but someone sure as hell wants you deader than disco!"

Hang on—we were promised sex! Frottage, hand-jobs, blow-jobs, oh my! What gives, writer-lady?!

It's coming, Deadpool—

Ha, ha, coming.

It's a slow-build fic. But we'll get there. Hope you all liked the first instalment :)