Wade Wilson's Guide to Studying Your Spider

Reminder: This fic is rated MATURE. Keep that in mind for future chapters and read at your own discretion.

Also, BIG SHOUT OUT and THANKS to PeterReidNotParker Thank you for staying up late and reading over this for me! You're amazing!

Also MASSIVE thanks to Kitty for being my Beta! I absolutely LOVE you and I will burn the world for you, just let me know when Boo, I've got the matches <3

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In hindsight, Wade doesn't know what he should've expected.

The name "Spider-Man" is pretty self-explanatory. The guy got bitten by a radioactive spider, gained spider powers, and used those powers for good. Basic and straightforward as far as origin stories go.

Sure, it left a plethora of unanswered questions, like:

Does he have six eyes now? Can he control an army of spiders? Why doesn't he shoot webs out of his butt?

But taking into consideration all the above, Spider-Man's schtick isn't very deep.

And yet, Wade's got a shovel, and he's digging for treasure.

It all starts with an explosion.

He feels the heat before he hears the boom and is halfway through a building across the street when his brain catches up to the rest of him in the form of a simple thought: Yep, that's a bomb, alright!

He lies beneath a blanket of plaster, drywall, and wood for several minutes, head ringing as he coughs up clouds of dust. Even on a good day, his body never truly stops hurting–give it up for a healing factor, everyone! Death is no biggie, but skin cancer is where it draws the line!–but he takes mental stock of all the minty-fresh pain littering his being and the injuries tied to them. There's a single, pulsating throb in one leg, his right arm is flopped at an unnatural angle, burns all along his left side, and he's pretty sure he broke most, if not all, of his ribs smashing 70 mph through a room of office cubicles.

The consensus: Wade's considering making this demolished desk his new home. It's kind of, almost, sort of comfortable if he doesn't think about the metal bar impaling his leg.

His ruptured eardrums will be up and running soon, and any physical damage won't last over fifteen minutes, but still, damn.

Groaning, he sits up and blearily peers around the evacuated office. When the smell of drywall and dust begins to settle, it's replaced by melted kevlar and burnt fiber. His suit is intact, thankfully. For the most part. His left side had taken the brunt of the blast, leaving a spotted mess of smoldering holes and tatters, the sleeve more or less hanging on by a thread. Miraculously, his utility belt is still attached, but he'd lost a few pouches in the tumble. And one of his holsters.

Groaning louder, he gives the metal bar in his thigh a little jostle, igniting pain all the way down to his ankle. That's technically good. Means the nerve damage isn't too bad. But, first things first, he wrenches his right arm into place and holds it there, adjusting occasionally, as bone and muscle knit themselves back together. Once he can move it again, he grabs the bar with both hands and pulls it out with–what he assumes–is a long, wet squelch. A thick stream of blood oozes out, turning the pant-leg into a deeper, more menacing red. He throws the bar aside with a snort. Any higher and it'd look like he peed himself.

Using a busted panel as support, he pulls himself to his feet just as a red and blue figure kicks down the only remaining door and stumbles out of what used to be a bathroom. That's a bit overkill. There's a perfectly good Spider-Man shaped hole right next to it.