Chapter Text
4. Second Act
Flee from me, keepers of the gloom
Speak to me only with your eyes
Peter’s climbing up the walls of Wade’s apartment building. It’s made of red bricks, wet and slippery with the rain that’s still going like in the space of a single night New York has moved in the middle of a tropical forest. Or something like that. Trying to keep the rain away from his goggles, the young superhero goes directly to the only window he knows to be free of booby traps. Wade prepared it for him and explained how to avoid the other trap that he’s put on the floor right under the windowsill: Peter just needs to crawl on the wall of the room, reach the ceiling and then drop on the floor. Any other intruder not capable of moving like a spider will be obliterated by an explosion. A little excessive, in Spidey’s opinion, but that’s Wade.
He’s excessive, and all over the place, and very hard to understand, sometimes, though some other times he’s way too easy to understand. And still Peter can’t seem to be able to wrap his head around the merc.
He’d thought he did, but maybe he was wrong.
Shaking the head to clear it, he latches a free hand to the device that’ll open the window from the outside and will grant him access to Wade’s home, and then Peter freezes. All of a sudden, he’s not too sure that Wade will want him inside. Not right now, at least, not without his full consent.
“I should’ve gone home,” he sighs, knowing full well that he can’t let it go just yet, he can’t listen to Natasha’s kind advice and try to talk to Wade in the morning, if he really needs to. He doesn’t understand his friend’s rage, the glooming look he gave Peter before disappearing in the night. Everything about that is so odd and so out of place. Still, he doesn’t feel comfortable to get into the house when clearly Wade’s still out.
He sighs again, takes off his mask and pushes his face against the cold glass of the window. Then, after a moment of consideration, he shifts to the other side of the building, landing on the fire escape ladder without a single sound. The ladder directly overlooks Wade’s tiny living-room and Peter can see a few pizza boxes piled up near the door at the entrance; there’s a bag of dirty clothes close to the small toilet cubicle, and a few bottles of liquors are scattered around the place. The lights in the apartment are off, but the city’s shaky glow is clearing up the place so that Peter can clearly see the sofa, the tv, the little kitchen in the corner, where plates are piling up in the sink. He takes a deep breath, knowing full well that he can’t really enter from this window either, not if he doesn’t want to be blown up into pieces; so, he rests under the roaring rain, sitting on uncomfortable metal, his face free of the mask, his wet hair attaching to the forehead and covering his view.
Not that there’s so much to see, anyway.
A few lightnings followed by the now familiar rumble of the thunder, police sirens howling in the distance, and for once Peter doesn’t feel the need to run after them. For once they can take care of themselves.
He awaits, not thinking about what he’s going to say, because he doesn’t really know what’s wrong in the first place. What he knows is that he’ll do everything he can to make thing better with Wade, because Peter can remember very well his life before Wade, before the day Steve handed Spiderman a dossier about a certain mercenary, telling him to keep an eye out for him and his bullshit (Cap may not had used said word, but still…) and that life, Spiderman’s life, sucked much more than it does now.
“It doesn’t even matter that I’ve got these stupid feelings for you,” Peter says slowly to the rain, looking up at the sky. “I just want to--” but he doesn’t finish the sentence, not because he’s interrupted, just because he doesn’t really know what he wants.
He wants to be able to land on Wade’s shoulder knowing that there will be a hand holding him by the ankle. A hand pulling him down from the swinging, and the flying, and the jumps, keeping him attached to the earth, near the living people of New York. Sometimes he swings so high that he feels like he can touch the fingertips of those that aren’t alive anymore. He can almost reach their distant smiles, their eyes, eyes he’s not seen for years, now. And sometimes he’s so attracted to that, to that feeling… the idea of disappearing up there, into the clouds, no webs to shoot, no responsibilities.
But there is always Wade’s hand keeping him closer to the world of the living.
He can’t lose that.
He’s shivering hard when Wade comes home, at last, and outside it’s still so dark and wet. The night is far from over and Peter starts to believe that, like the stupid rain, it’ll probably never end.
When the lights are switched on, Spiderman doesn’t register it as something that he has to move for: for a moment he’s alone with New York City, like he’s been for years.
But suddenly there’s a square of white ray of light that his legs and left shoulder are bathing in and when he turns around to check, he sees Wade standing opposite to him, at the apartment’s entrance. He wears a hoodie soaked in water and he still has the mask on. It looks like he walked a lot, but Peter has no idea where he found the civilian clothes.
He swallows hard and then he knocks on the glass slightly; just a tap, nothing more. Wade is fast with his hands and he already has a gun pointed at Peter before he can stop knocking.
There is a moment of disconcert in the familiar Deadpool’s facial traits, maybe because Peter is showing his real face without event thinking about it, or maybe because Wade didn’t expect Spiderman to wait for him outside his window, anyway, it takes a second too long for the merc to let go and move the gun to rest on a little table on the side.
It’s the first time that Spidey thinks about this, but there is a strong possibility that Wade will leave him outside, that he will no--
Deadpool closes the distance between the entrance and the windowsill and slides the glass up, doing something else at the same time, to disengage whatever trap there is.
Peter doesn’t move and they look at each other for a second, the silence almost unbearable, until the bigger man averts his face and says: “Either you go home, or you get in. I could see how much you were trembling from the door.”
Wade’s voice is pasty, a little uncertain on the edges, and when Peter finally enters, he can smell the strong scent of alcohol alongside the one of gunpowder, leather and stale take-aways. It doesn’t matter: the room is warm and cosy in a messy sort of way, and for a moment it’s enough for him.
“…dripping water all over our floor,” Deadpool mutters, but it’s not directed to Peter, so he ignores it and just stares at the other man’s movements until the merc, turning his back from Peter, decides to sit on the sofa. He drops on it like all of his muscles let him go at the same time and maybe it’s happening for real. Wade seems exhausted and, also, this is one of the first time that he refuses to look directly at him. Peter is behind the sofa, still so close to the window that a sharp draught of cold air makes him shiver again. He turns around to close it and the sound of the rain clattering on the metal dies out a bit.
“Ehy man, I am a little out of my depth here,” Peter says, shifting his weight from a foot to the other, not knowing what to do, but not moving in front of Wade either.
The man emits an ironic snort, something that Peter should be accustomed to, but this time the words that follow it sound kind of harsh. “You don’t even know how much, Webs.”
“Care to explain?”
There is a pause and then, with a raspy voice: “Would you like me to write it with chalk on a board? I’m sure it’ll be easier for you to understand. After all, you’re barely out of school, no?”
Peter can see the back of Wade’s hooded head, a dark spot of wet cloth, his hands are bare, clenched in two fists on the long legs and he doesn’t look at him. Everything’s so incredibly weird that Peter can’t help but turning around the couch to finally stand in front of him, arms crossed and a trembling that now has less to do with the cold and more to do with the way Deadpool is speaking to him.
“Are you implying I am a child?”
Deadpool’s mask shows Peter that, some time ago, the man has closed his eyes, the position he’s in is relaxed, but the tension in his whole body tells a different story. What the fuck is going on?
“Are you implying you are something more?”
“What the hell does that even mean, Christ, ‘Pool! I don’t get it!”. He’s upset now. Peter doesn’t like when he doesn’t get something: he’s the clever one, he gets things all the time.
Wade opens his eyes, but he doesn’t speak. He looks at him for a moment and then blinks, and all the anger’s drained from his tone when he just says, “I can see that”, and averts his gaze.
“Then fucking explain!”
The only thing Peter receives is a grin covered in red leather. “Do you kiss you Iron-Dad with that mouth?”
Spidey’s tone is a reminder of caution when he says: “’Pool…”
Wade crosses his arms. They are both so close and so distant, a huge riff building up between them and Peter is at a loss, desperate to get the answer.
“That’s not my name, you know?” Wade sounds weary, resigned. Disappointed, even. It makes Peter’s skin creeps from the need he has to see his eyes, to look at Wade’s face in the light, for once. Not that the apartment has a good lighting system, it’s barely a glow, but it doesn’t matter. Spidey’s acutely aware that his own face, his own emotions, are all there, bare and naked in front of the other man and he doesn’t know how to hide them anymore. No, even better. He doesn’t want to hide them anymore.
He also doesn’t know what to say next.
Seeing that he won’t talk, Deadpool adds, aridly: “It’s Wade, if you don’t remember.”
Peter frowns, confused. “I call you ‘Wade’.”
“You really don’t, Webs.”
But he does, though… he does. Mostly in his own head, sure, but he does. Peter takes a step towards him, it’s just a small movement before he stops, harms uncrossed, a dreadful feeling in his spine that has nothing to do with the Spidey senses, and all to do with Peter’s senses.
“Why won’t you look at me?” he demands softly. He feels like he’s stepping into quicksand and he doesn’t care if he will be sucked in.
“Because I am fucking drunk right now and I am not sure of what I will do to you, if I look too much at you face. Did anyone tell you that you wear your heart on you face? How did you manage to keep your identity a secret it’s a fucking mystery, buddy, let me tell you, and also--”
“Wade” Peter interrupts him, because he knows very well that when Deadpool gets started is really hard to keep the conversation going on both sides. The use of his name manages to shut him up very well, though. “Can’t you just tell me what I did wrong? I thought you would be ok in me revealing my identity.”
“I would’ve been super ok in you revealing your identity, sweetheart, if you wouldn’t’ve done it just to spite Tin Man in his Tin Tower, ya’know? Like a fucking teenage rebel!” He stops for a second. “This ain’t a rom-com, you idiotic piece of--” and that’s definitely not directed to Peter, who rubs his eyes and pushes his hair away from them.
It actually makes sense, and the young man doesn’t understand why he hasn’t already thought about it himself: after the stupid scene with Tony, his big reveal must have looked like his own way to punish the only father figure he has left. What a mess!
Wade is standing up now, towering over him like always and, for some weird reasons, looking smaller than he actually is. Peter thinks about the way he feels when he’s draped around Deadpool shoulders and he momentarily forgets that he’s not wearing the Spiderman mask because he’s a bit shocked when Wade exclaims: “Why are you looking at me like that, now?”
“Like what?” he sputters out, heating up, feeling himself blushing and not knowing what to do.
“I have no idea, sweetcheeks, since this is the first time I look at your pretty brown eyes.” He wants it to be a joke, as always, but at the end of the sentence Deadpool tone breaks apart and it sounds just awful, visceral and unplanned.
Peter snorts a weak laugh that is half fake and half real. “It’s affection, burp-face.” And he doesn’t look at Wade anymore when he says it. “At the beginning of this night I went to look for you. I went all over this part of town to find you, actually.”
Deadpool seems a little confused, but he’s still wearing his harms-crossed-shit-giving-attitude, locked and distant. Peter wants to put a hand on his forearm and make him open a bit, just a bit. Instead, he stays put, legs slightly ajar, muscles tensed.
“Why didn’t you text me?” Wade inquires slowly, after a moment of consideration.
The younger throws a hand into his own hair, looking everywhere but at the man. “I dunno, I guess I wanted it to look natural.”
“What?”
“Like a didn’t plan for it? You know…”
“Webs, at this point I think I will need that chalkboard. And please, don’t use big numbers.”
Peter can’t help but smile at that. He feels that the voices in Wade’s head are silent, he feels like there are only the two of them in the room, or in their city, like they were on the roof that same night, before Steve had called. Peter knows he’s told him already; he knows that it’s stupid to feel so nervous about something that has already happened, but it was never about his name, or his face, and it was always about the trust. The willingness that Peter felt in feeling the powerful, scary realization that another human being would know about him, all of him.
And he clearly didn’t say his name to spite Tony Stark, Jesus! That would have been gross, and cruel and…
“I’ve been wanting to tell you who I am for a while, Wade.” The name still sounds foreign on Peter’s lips and tongue, so maybe it’s true that he doesn’t use it a lot. But he does, he does when he talks about Deadpool to other people, right? Wade must have noticed it.
Still, it’s different to use it with him. To him. “I was about to tell you tonight, before Steve called. I mean, I can’t believe I didn’t think how it must have sound for you, but in the elevator I just… I couldn’t-- Of course there is no reason for you to believe me, I know.”
During his uncoherent little speech Wade has closed the distance between them, but he’s still inaccessible, folded harms, teeth clenched under the mask, the eyes (green? blue? black?) are nothing more than a white line lost in the black of his patches. Peter stares at him for a second, until the need to look away is too strong and he averts his eyes without thinking.
He can feel the heat of Wade’s body, a tower of muscles and soft grey cotton drenched in water standing in front of him. Peter knows that he could easily push him away with his super strength, but all that super strength is concentrated in not reaching out to unmask him.
“I am sorry?” he tries again, whispering under his breath, desperate for a single word from Wade. His quietness is so weird, so unnerving.
Before seeing it, he feels the movement. Deadpool holds out a hand and puts two bare fingers under Peter’s chin, forcing it up so that he can look at his face. It’s not exactly like looking into his eyes, but it’s quite similar and Peter’s legs are suspiciously weak for a second.
There is an instant of stasis before the red leather of Deadpool’s mask stretches in what is indubitably a big, knowing grin, but nothing else happens. Wade keeps silent and Peter wants to sneak out of his own skin and jump out the window until he remembers that he’s Spiderman and what Spiderman would do in a situation like this?
“Are you gonna kiss me?” he asks in what he hopes is a self-assured tone. He kind of want to add a confident “or what?”, but he also doesn’t wanna push it too much, so he bites the soft part inside of his cheek to keep quiet, just waiting.
And the waiting time is suuuper long before Wade lets him go and takes a step back. “No,” he announces, the grin big and wide and shit eating as always. “You know what, Spiderman? If you wanna have a kiss, you come and get it”.
After that incredible sentence he essentially takes another step back and sits on the couch again, legs a little spread, hands resting peacefully on his thighs.
Peter looks at him with wide eyes, vaguely aware of the red that colors his face, the ball of hot, wrapped desire hanging somewhere at the base of his spine. He’s breathing hard and there is no reason for it, not one reason other than the ghost feeling of Wade’s fingers burning under his chin.
He realizes abruptly that they have never touched skin-on-skin before.
Nobody moves for a second, until Peter understands that probably the man’s bluffing. Wade doesn’t really believe that Peter will do it. He doesn’t believe that Peter will bend down, roll up Deadpool’s mask and kiss him. Well, fuck that.
He’s fast, because he’s Spiderman, and Wade stays still for a moment too long when Peter literally jumps over, straddling him without asking permission. It’s a little bit like when he jumps on his shoulder, but at the same time is a hundred times better.
“I am calling your bluff” Wade says, a little uncertain, but he has already put a hand at the base of Peter back, stroking the tender part of his backbone with the same two fingers he used to make him look up at him minutes ago.
Now it’s Peter that’s looking down. “I am calling yours.”
“There is not bluff here, baby boy. You know I wanted that piece of ass since--”
To shut him up, the only thing the younger has to do is to put both thumbs under the leather of Deadpool mask and to start rolling it up slowly. Wade moves his left hand to Peter’s right wrist, keeping it in place. They both stop for a heartbeat, but when Wade lets go of the breath he’s holding, Peter takes it like a permission.
The hold on Peter’s writs gets firmer and he has to stop again when Wade breathes harshly: “Have you any idea what you’re doing?”
He can see little of the man’s skin, but he can feel his warmth under the fingers. “You’ve never treated me like a kid, before. Why now?” Peter asks, a little too conscious, remembering Tony’s voice that tried to tell him what to do and what not to do. “I know what I’m--”
“No,” Wade halts him, with a quiet laugh. “That came out wrong! I meant it to be sexy or something, like… have you any idea what you are doing to me, Webs?”
Peter moves his ass deliberately, biting back a smile that comes out anyway. “I got some ideas, yeah” he answers after a beat. However, he’s not entirely concerned about any other part of their bodies touching. Not yet. He concentrates in freeing Wade’s skin inch by inch, until he can see his bottom lip surrounded by scars that he doesn’t really give a shit about. He starts the kiss right then, without waiting a second longer, and he pushes their faces together while still moving the mask up over the other’s nose.
It’s not pretty at all. It’s immediately chaotic and Wade drives one hand into Peter’s messy, wet hair pulling at them to get more access to his mouth. He tastes of alcohol and smoke and he’s just everywhere. Peter is barely aware that he’s holding the man down using his superhuman force and he lets go only when he hears a strangled sound coming from Wade’s throat.
“Wo-oh!” Wade says, breathing hard into Peter mouth. It’s the only thing Spiderman lets him say before forcing his tongue in between Wade’s open lips again, without giving them the time to move into a smirk.
It’s another messy clash, and they keep going on until they both feel the need to breathe.
“Shit, Peter!” Wade manages, gasping for air, his big hand keeping him closer in a thigh grip, their chests almost touching, their crotches definitely touching. Peters feels something hot and unspeakable moving from his groin to his chest at the sound that Wade makes when pronouncing Spiderman’s given name, and he moves his lips to the side of Wades face, along the jaw. He’s wet and he tastes of salt and sweat. Peter closes his eyes, concentrating on the slow motions of Wades hands on his back, along his exposed neck, down to his ass.
“I think,” Deadpool says very seriously and dangerously in Peter’s ear. “I think I’m gonna die now. It’s been a crazy ride, thanks a lot, goodbye.”
Spidey moves a little to get better access to Wade’s skin and then chuckles. “You can’t die, burp-face.”
“You keep calling me like that and I might as well.”
They are both breathing hard, but Peter moves away, just to look at him. Wade’s head has dropped onto the backrest of the sofa and his lips are red and smiling.
“May I remind you” Spidey says moving one hand behind Wade’s neck, feeling the roughness of the skin under his fingers. “That Mr. Stark just called you with these exact words and you didn’t seem to like it all that much?”
“Ah, baby boy,” declares Wade moving his head down and biting the tender skin of Peter’s neck, sending new shivers down his body. “It’s not the words… it’s how one says them.”
“And how do I say them?” Peter retorts, giving him access, rolling back his eyes and hoping Wade doesn’t notice the effect he has on him. But Wade knows, he always does.
“Right now?” He breathes hot into is clavicle, pulling down Spiderman’s suits, and Peter quivers. Nothing to do with the fact that they are both still wet from the rain, this time. “Like you are thinking very seriously about fucking me. Which, by the way, is totally ok.”
Peter laughs again. “I had the feeling that was ok, Wade.”
They kiss again, this time Deadpool’s giving the pace and Peter’s brain floats away in a puddle of desire and longing. It feels like it lasts forever, in a way, but when Wade lets him go, Peter follows him, eyelids half closed and something like a moan stuck in his throat.
“Are your eyes green?” he asks after he’s sure to have found again his voice, their lips so close they almost touch, but not quite. Somehow the feeling is even more intense than before.
Wase’s distracted by trusting a hand under Peter spandex shirt. “What?”
“Your eyes… what color are your eyes?”
There is a smile again, something more self-conscious and real. It makes Peter’s throat close up in a soft ball of warm emotions that he has not even begun to untangle yet.
“Take a guess, Peter.”
Outside the rain keeps falling, and neither of them care too much anymore.