Chapter Text
Calamity in New York is nothing new. Peter Parker has spent years and years dealing with the worst of it and even more often, the less than world-ending of it. Most of the time there’s a healthy in-between, giving Peter the opportunity to prove himself valuable to the massive city and its people since he can handle things the police definitely can’t, and pick up the slack when other supers are busy dealing with calamity outside of the city. New York is Peter’s home and he makes a point of taking care of it to the best of Spider-Man’s abilities. Right now, the tickling buzz in his skull that he’s affectionately deemed his “spider-sense” alerts him to shattered glass and warped steel beams raining into the street from overhead, and he reflexively grabs another pedestrian’s arm to yank them back from the nearest crash of a surprisingly intact window pane. They nearly drop their phone, which had held their attention until that moment.
“Are you okay?” he asks them hastily, his reaction ultimately innocuous as any other person could’ve caught and pulled them back all the same. They seem to be middle-aged, already frazzled with whatever had kept their attention on the tiny screen in one weathered hand. Hyperventilating, they dart wide but sunken eyes around the now evident chaos as others run screaming past. At least they’re aware of their surroundings now. When they look at him, stiff and bewildered, Peter releases their arm quickly and gestures for them to go. They mindlessly nod and take off in the opposite direction. He doesn’t even really need to be Spider-Man for moments like this, people generally don’t want to be around when things are blowing up nearby. Still, he’s glad they’d listened because he also needs to take advantage of this momentary lack of observation to duck into the nearest alley and strip out of his civvies.
The weather has been just so that he’s getting away with wearing his suit under his clothes the last couple of days, long sleeves and a hoodie inscrutable this last week. Summer has been suspiciously merciful this year, dropping off in the middle of July and leaving the tail-end of the month approaching sweater weather, and he would rather not think of the global climate implications that result in a mild New York summer. For now it works for Peter, who needs less time to change and can use fewer precious seconds webbing his bags high up on brick walls just beside the bottoms of fire escapes: not obvious unless you’re looking for it, and out of reach of any lazily curious person who might spy it. He’s about to do just that with his half-full messenger bag, peeling his hoodie off over his head and reflexively fixing his glasses, a brief peek of red and blue under his dark green Henley. Really, he should have just taken both his hoodie and the shirt off simultaneously, but he’d missed snagging the hem of the shirt, so he’s only one layer down when someone gasps theatrically at the other end of the alley, startling Peter.
Startling Peter. He’s rightfully confused that his spider-sense hadn’t alerted him to being watched, so he whips his head toward the source of the sound, and stares at a familiar red and black mask with blank white eyes.
Fully kitted out, Deadpool, the Merc With a Mouth, fearsome and violent gun-for-hire, and Spider-Man’s friend and occasional patrol partner, stands at the mouth of the alley, gloved hands smacked against his cheeks as he gasps again. Before Peter can convince his legs to move — to bolt, to escape, to avoid confronting Deadpool about catching him red-and-blue-handed — the mercenary is coming forward, the leather and kevlar of his suit creaking from being freshly cleaned and not yet softened with blood and sweat. He puts one fist on his hip and the other forms a waggling, accusatory finger that reminds Peter of his Aunt May when she used to scold him for leaving the orange juice on the counter after breakfast.
“Aren’t you a little young to be a seedy alley creep?” Deadpool asks in a playful tone, and Peter is frozen to the spot just gaping like an absolute moron , his heart racing as he wracks his brain for something to say to convince Spidey’s friend this isn’t what it looks like. “Listen, cutie, this is the worst time for whatever back alley shenanigans you were about to get up to,” the taller man goes on, looking down at Peter’s navy blue ESU sweatshirt half shoved into his messenger bag. Peter’s spidey-sense suddenly buzzes loudly, and something explodes in the street behind Deadpool, but neither man flinches and Deadpool continues. “You should be fleeing!” he scolds with the same jovial tone, though it looks like he’s frowning through the mask. How does he get it to do that?
“I— uh,” Peter replies haltingly, brow dipping. The mercenary isn’t reacting the way he should be if he’s caught Spider-Man changing in an alley, so Peter realizes he hasn’t actually been caught. Deadpool actually thinks he’s an ordinary citizen. Relief and a different sort of anxiety roll over him, and he straightens up, bag at his feet as he clears his throat uselessly, speaking in a slightly lower register than he does as Spider-Man. It’s a simple change that helps him maintain the illusion of separation between civilian and vigilante. “I was…?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know the mask is scary, but I swear I’m a good guy now!” Deadpool assures him, waving his hand flippantly, under the assumption Peter’s hesitation is for recognizing the deadliest mercenary to exist and not because he hadn’t been recognized himself. “You should see me on weekends. I’m all puppy shelters and soup kitchens in my free time.”
Peter skeptically quirks an eyebrow and the blank eyes of Deadpool’s mask bore back into him for a few seconds, something crackling and hissing just around the corner. Deadpool fidgets, and Peter clenches his jaw.
“Alright, that’s not entirely true, but you, fine citizen— very fine, if I may say so—,” Deadpool sighs, and makes a show of looking Peter up and down. It’s so shameless, and Peter isn’t used to being looked at appreciatively when he’s not in the super suit. The brunet’s mouth hangs mindlessly open, and he ignores the weird warmth stirring in his chest. Spider-Man and Deadpool flirt a little, sure, but he’d never been on the receiving end of Deadpool’s vaguely horny commentary as a civilian before. A little hum of approval escapes the mercenary when Peter quickly bends to pick up his bag and hoodie, glad his shirt is practically a tunic and doesn’t show his ass off as much as his jeans would. He’s just as glad the Spidey suit he’s in today doesn’t have a high neckline to peek out from his collar. Hooray for some semblance of forethought. Before Deadpool can actually continue, Peter’s spider-sense blares again and he looks past the other super to the street a mere second before another explosion sounds, much closer than previous blasts.
Deadpool jumps into action even though Peter hasn’t reacted like he expects him to, unmoving. Must be a flight, fight, or freeze response. Silly civilian! “Alright, enough dillydallying, kiddo,” he grunts, surging forward.
Peter’s spider-sense doesn’t shift intensity or pace as the mercenary quickly scoops him up at the waist, hoisting him over his shoulder effortlessly and securing his legs with an arm over the back of his knees, and jogging off to the other end of the alley with Peter bouncing slightly. Frustratingly, Peter only just remembers that Wade Wilson hasn’t set off his early warning system since they’d first met as Spider-Man and Deadpool. Deadpool had only triggered his spidey-sense back then because he hadn’t realized Spider-Man had dropped into his fight and luckily for both of them, Peter’s reflexes had him dodging an otherwise perfectly aimed bullet to the head. Deadpool had profusely apologized, slipping out of the dark persona Spider-Man has rarely seen once he’d recognized his favorite superhero.
“Wow, do you work out? Your abs are harder than a latex fetishist at a kink club on ladies’ night,” Deadpool comments appreciatively, and Peter finally finds his brain.
“What?” he asks, both bewildered and mildly offended, heat in his neck. The way Deadpool is carrying him narrowly avoids smacking Peter in the face with the sheath and hilt of one of the two katanas crossed in the scabbard at the man’s back, and Peter absently holds the sword for better purchase to try looking at him over his shoulder, using his other hand at Wade’s mid-back over the scabbard to push himself further upright. He smells strongly of dry cleaning chemicals and leather conditioner under the gunpowder, gun oil, and traces of whatever cologne he probably hasn’t worn in days. “Dude, put me down, I can run on my own!” he informs him irately.
Deadpool is already weaving through the alleys between buildings, trying not to jostle the young man over his shoulder too much, poor thing. “No can do, Bright Eyes, I’ve gotta get you somewhere safer first.” He only comes to a stop when they’re back out on the street a block from the sources of explosions and a distant, dramatic evil laugh is coming through a tinny speaker. Peter can’t place the sound or voice, so it’s not a villain he’s dealt with before, but he doesn’t have time to play damsel in distress with Deadpool. At least the mercenary finally sets him on his feet again, brushing his hands together for effect.
“There!” he chirps with satisfaction, and Peter can see his unreasonably expressive mask reflect the grin on Deadpool’s face. He takes a moment to “dust off” Peter’s shoulders, and Peter shrugs him off with a frown. He adjusts Peter’s glasses, too, and Peter swats his gloved hands away, a blush crawling up his neck. “Now get moving, Legs, there’s no time to waste!” Deadpool commands, though he’s using the sort of voice Peter imagines he thinks heroes make announcements with. Typical. “I’ve got some heroing to do,” he adds with a little more mischief, swiftly unsheathing both katanas in the blink of an eye. He winks – or, the mask winks, somehow – and turns on his heel to race back through the alleys, leaving Peter with his messenger bag in his hands and his shirt slightly rumpled, frowning deeper at his retreat as Deadpool whoops and disappears around a corner.
Rolling his eyes with a long-suffering sigh, Peter quickly darts into a different alley to change and web up his bag properly, pulling his mask on and crawling up the wall to get a better vantage on the rooftops. He’ll have to ignore whatever the hell that had been and focus on pretending he’s just shown up when he joins the fight thirty seconds later in a full mask and super suit.
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It hadn’t been a tricky villain, some low-level bomber with ambitions well above his abilities. While the property damage had been substantial enough to be notable, Peter lets himself be glad no one actually got hurt. He’d had fun teasing the bomber and his back and forth with Deadpool was satisfying as always. The mercenary had shouted excitedly up at the webslinger when he’d caught sight of him and Spider-Man had greeted him smoothly as he’d swooped in to literally kick a bomb off-course, webbing it up in the air to contain the explosion before landing on a lamppost and commenting on Deadpool’s timing. All in all, Peter thinks he could’ve done much worse.
Having carefully changed back into his civilian digs before leaving the damaged area, Peter gets home a slightly sweaty mess. He would’ve preferred to change further from the scene, but hadn’t had anything usable in the vicinity between there and home, idiot. He needs to plant a few more small backpacks of clothes and water bottles around again, having long forgotten where a lot of the ones he’d hidden over the years are. Peter groans and strips out of every piece of clothing he’s wearing on his way to the bathroom for a shower. The binder resists, of course, it always does after Spider-Man does his duties. He struggles with it for a moment before throwing it onto the bathroom tile and climbing into his tiny shower with a deep, ragged breath, lungs now uncrushed.
After he feels more human, damp hair dripping slightly, he changes into an oversized shirt and lounge pants. He has homework to do, but refuses on principle to do it in day clothes. As Deadpool had put it, he’s done his “heroing” for the day, and he’ll patrol later tonight. Probably meet up with Deadpool again. Their team ups have been going remarkably well and for all Wade’s bluster, he really is trying his best to be… heroic. Better than he used to be. Peter hasn’t seen him kill anyone in months, apparently taking Spider-Man’s anger to heart when he’d blown up in his face last time. The words “disappointed” and “thought you were better than this” had been used, and Deadpool had seemed suitably chastised, enough so that Spidey hasn’t had to admonish him again since. Not that he can guarantee the merc isn’t stirring up lethal trouble when the webbed wonder isn’t around. But the way Wade had earlier announced to civilian Peter that he had “heroing to do” settles in the back of his mind as he pulls out his beat up laptop and opens probably too many tabs to continue his school work. The assignment isn’t too bad; it’s just a standard research paper of obscene length, but he starts to lose focus as a few hours pass and he realizes he hasn’t actually eaten anything today. Whoops.
Glancing down at his growling stomach in disapproval, he scowls. “Shut up,” he tells it half-heartedly, setting his laptop aside and wandering into the tiny, sparse kitchen. The fridge is mostly empty — he needs to go grocery shopping. He snags the near-empty carton of milk and his last clean bowl, glad he’s at least got some generic corn flakes left. Well, he’s got half a cup. It’ll do.
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“Oh, Webs,” Deadpool says with something akin to dissatisfaction. He and Spider-Man are sitting on the edge of a rooftop some 30 storeys up, the mercenary kicking his heels and comfortably leaning back on both hands as the smaller man reflects the pose and lolls his head to the side to look at him through the lenses of his mask. “I can hear your tummy from here. You eat today?”
Spider-Man’s mask shifts, and Wade imagines he’s frowning at him, which makes him smile a little.
Nailed it, the boxes supply.
“I ate,” Spider-Man insists, but he doesn’t sound very convinced himself. “Just— not much.” He huffs. “I was busy today.”
“What, that ten minute fight took up your entire day?” Deadpool muses, tilting his head. The way the city lights catch the material of Spidey’s suit make the silhouette of it a little sparkly, the red and blue lit with a soft gold. A little corona he probably can’t see on himself. Pretty. Wade winds up focusing on this outline. “I don’t buy it, Baby Boy.”
“Some of us have lives outside of this stuff,” Spider-Man sniffs, turning his nose up, but Deadpool knows it’s facetious. He pokes Spidey’s shoulder and the man sighs at length. “I’m fine. I’ll go shopping in the morning or whatever,” he goes on dismissively.
Wade scoffs. This makes Spidey look at him again, lenses contracting slightly. Spidey’s glaring at him. It’s adorable.
“Buddy, let’s get tacos,” Deadpool says decisively, clapping his hands together and rolling with a backward summersault to pop up to his feet. Spider-Man chooses to spin on his butt and hop up, setting hands on his tight waist. Deadpool absently looks at the shape his hands make over his hipbones. Stupid dexterous little spider and his stupidly sexy little body. He narrowly avoids sighing dreamily. What he wouldn’t give to put his hands where Spidey’s got his. “My treat, as per uszh,” he insists while turning on his heel, making for the fire escape before the hero can protest.
“Pool,” Spider-Man says anyway, tentatively trailing after him. He’s always hesitant when Deadpool offers to buy him food, which the mercenary fully doesn’t understand. “Alright, listen—,” he tries, easily catching up to Wade, who’s swung one leg over the edge of the roof. The larger man stops and gives Spidey his full attention.
“Yes, dear?”
“It’s— I’ll take us, it’s faster,” Spider-Man tells him, refusing to let uncertainty color his tone. He waves Deadpool back up and moves to another edge of the roof.
Deadpool gasps dramatically and for a moment Spider-Man seems to half-glance back at him. Deadpool hoists himself back up and skips to his side, clapping excitedly. “Are you gonna let me ride piggyback?” he asks with unveiled enthusiasm. “Sorry, Spidey-back?” Spider-Man heaves another exaggerated sigh and nods like this is just a chore he’s gotten used to, but Wade knows he’s just playing it up. “Besides, you know how much I like to swing with you—,” he jokes, and Spider-Man lolls his head to look at him.
We’re divorced, dummy, and Spidey is clearly the most eligible bachelor out of all the supers in New York. Any “swinging” is just polyamory. Or promiscuity. Whichever strappy stiletto fits.
“That. Uh, that sounded better in my head,” Deadpool admits.
“Doesn’t everything?” Spidey drawls, but he takes a step in front of the merc and gestures for him to hop on. Wade takes a few seconds to admire the elegantly shadowed shape of Spidey’s ass before he moves, knowing he can take his weight easily as he leaps onto his back without another thought, wrapping his arms around the webslinger’s shoulders with his legs almost fully encircling the shorter man’s waist.
Spider-Man may be smaller, but he’s all hard muscle and Wade gives his firm shoulders each an appreciative squeeze, resisting the urge to roll his hips and half-grind against the small of his back. Instead, because it’s been a while since he’d last done it, Wade teasingly slides a hand down Spidey’s side and then reaches under himself to swat at the hero’s perfect ass — just a little love tap! He’s never rough with his Spidey ass slaps, and he’s never even groped! Just little smacks.
Our restraint is superhuman.
He’d done it a few times in the past, and while the first time went poorly — Deadpool genuinely forgetting himself and that the relationship he’d cultivated with Spider-Man had been strictly in his head at the time — Webs hasn’t punched him in the face for it since. The second time he’d done it, it was just to be an ass himself, and instead of nearly dislocating his jaw like the first time the other man had instead punched his shoulder the way two bros sitting in a hot tub (Five feet apart, ‘cuz they’re not gay!) might jokingly make physical contact. Playful. All seemed to have been forgiven, much to Wade’s relief when he’d realized he’d touched Spidey’s butt without consent a second time. Wade Wilson really is a “consent is mandatory” kind of guy, sometimes he’s just bad at piecing together which experiences happened in real life versus just in his head; imaginary Spidey had already slapped Deadpool’s ass, so he’d mentally transferred the mutual snarky contact into real life by mistake.
The third time, they’d been talking to some uptight antagonist type and Deadpool had facetiously (well, maybe mostly sincerely) flirted with Spider-Man in front of them, using his favorite pet name and letting his hand linger half a second longer than he had the previous two times. Either to continue the farce or because he’s no longer impressed by the merc’s handsy antics, Spidey had just sighed loudly and folded his arms over his chest, continuing their conversation with the villain.
This time Spider-Man startles, making a buzzing sound from between his teeth and jostling Deadpool. Sharply whacking the taller man’s arm when he brings it back around the hero’s shoulders, Spidey brings his other hand up behind him to swat the back of Wade’s head too, otherwise basically letting him get away with it.
“Don’t wiggle, DP,” the hero instructs firmly, and Deadpool obediently tucks his chin into Spider-Man’s nape and nods against him while the webhead holds the other man’s wrists under his collarbone to keep him steady. He’s a pro at using one arm to swing their combined weight these days, and Deadpool tries not to think about how strong and steadfast and skilled the spider is, how much he’d like the hero to maybe literally throw him around again someday. (Ah, the good old days of hassling him while he was on patrol.) Spidey is warm, even though Deadpool runs a lot hotter than him, but neither can complain in the cooling weather. Instead, Spider-Man lifts an arm to aim a web shooter before leaping off the building with Wade in tow.
Spider-Man doesn’t even have to ask where they’re going. They have the same favorite taco truck, and Deadpool wonders briefly if that spidey-sense is also a Mexican food locator, because Webs totally knows where the truck is at any given moment, able to track it down even when it moves daily. Or maybe there’s an app that he checks. Do taco trucks have tracking apps? Wade makes a mental note to put a tracker on the taco truck so he can impress Spidey next time. Do spiders get impressed by tracking skills? He knows Webs has complimented his tracking skills before, since he uses such expertise when he’s working a job or they’re on a mission together. His heart skips a beat when he remembers the way Spider-Man had warmly laughed when Wade had said it was just his “keen women’s intuition.”
They land at the street corner a few dozen feet from the truck, civilians casually greeting Spider-Man, who – like the friendly neighborhood hero he is – brightly greets them in return, waving and only pausing to crouch and quietly speak with a kid who tugs on his hand. Deadpool half watches Spidey interact with this little one and half wanders toward the truck. He orders most of the menu without looking at the truck attendant, who doesn’t seem to care enough to demand his focus. He stuffs a hand in one of his pouches and pulls out a wad of crumpled bills, dropping them almost into the street when he blindly reaches for the metal counter and pays.
“Keep the change,” he tells them absently, leaning against the truck to watch with a melting heart as Spidey puts his chin in his hands and his elbows on his knees, the lenses of his mask squinting. Spidey is clearly smiling under his mask as he coos at this child, whose guardian smiles and holds their free hand while the kid proudly hands over a piece of paper.
Spider-Man gestures with fingers splayed over his chest. For me? And the kid nods confidently. Spidey takes the page and looks it over, chattering with the kid about whatever’s on it. He points at something and laughs, just loud enough to reach Deadpool’s ears in the noise of the crowded street. Bubbly. Stupid, cute, kid-friendly little bastard. God, he adores him. Before his brain can comment on the impossibility of Wade getting a similar laugh out of the webhead, the taco truck attendant bangs a hand on the counter next to the mercenary’s head.
Jolting, he snaps his attention to the offender with a sharp glare, but it’s replaced instantly with sheer delight at the sight of two large bags of food. He squeals, and the attendant rolls their eyes, familiar enough with the two masked supers that they weren’t remotely intimidated either way. “Awesome,” Wade breathes as he hefts the weight of both bags and gives a sloppy salute, the bag in hand knocking into his face. Ignoring this, he turns to join his spider’s side just as the hero rises and waves the kid and their guardian goodbye.
“Food!” Deadpool announces, and Spider-Man looks at him, carefully folding the paper the kid gave him and tucking it away before Wade can sneak a peek at it. “If you’re done being all perfect and sweet to small children, that is.”
“Ha ha,” Spidey says, head rolling slightly to help indicate he’s rolling his eyes under the mask. His gestures are slightly exaggerated compared to Wade’s, only because his mask isn’t nearly as expressive. He has to compensate somehow, and Wade loves every second of it. Folding his arms over his chest, Spidey angles his head to look at the overfull bags in both of Deadpool’s hands. “Wow,” he says flatly. “Hungry?”
“At least one of these is all yours, baby,” Wade assures him with a shit-eating grin, because Spider-Man’s head tips just slightly up to him. “C’mon, let’s go somewhere quieter, huh? My place?” Deadpool offers hopefully, and again it seems the webslinger hesitates.
They’d gone to Wade’s apartment in Queens — his real apartment, not just a safehouse! — a few times already in the last few weeks, after a few months of Wade trying to convince Spider-Man it was neither a trap nor such a mess that it would be totally disgusting to set foot in. Give him some credit, he doesn’t keep his precious babies (Read: weapons.) in an environment that would have Child Services take them away!
The first time had been a little awkward, since he’d floated the idea multiple times before Spider-Man had agreed and actually taken him up on the offer. He’d had to tell Spidey to wait outside on the fire escape for a handful of minutes while he’d picked up some last minute not-so-heroic things (Porno mags because we’re old school, a series of guns we meant to clean the night before, and a small puddle of dried blood from an injury we couldn’t remember getting.) before welcoming him in. Spidey had looked around thoughtfully, before decidedly flopping onto Wade’s massive couch and making himself comfortable. Something about his willingness to relax – even if he’d remained masked – had left Wade sighing happily.
They’d eaten three large pizzas and two tubs of ice cream that night, playing remastered video games that Spidey had soundly schooled him in for nearly every match. The few Wade had won he’d celebrated by throwing his arms up and then shaking the webslinger’s shoulders as he crowed with delight, making Spider-Man laugh and swat him away when he’d lingered maybe a little too long. He still finds himself lingering whenever he and Webs make contact. It always leaves a little pleasant spark on Wade’s skin.
Fuck, if he can convince Spider-Man to come hang out with him more often after patrols, he might die a happy man.
Well, die a happy man a few times. Many times. Every time? We’ll take it.
“Whaddaya say?” Wade slurs with the same hope swelling in his broad chest. He weighs the bags of tacos like he’s a scale, waggling his eyebrows just enough that his mask implies the motion. “Eh? Eh?”
Spider-Man tips his head back to face him fully, lenses contracting again. Not a glare. Scrutiny.
“Yeah, okay,” he says suddenly, taking the bags with no effort whatsoever and nodding for Wade to lead the way as if he doesn’t know where they’re headed. “Let’s go.”
Deadpool barely contains an excited squeal. Spidey is coming to his house again! And this time it won’t need a quick pick-up, he’d been well-behaved the last few weeks in anticipation of the possibility Spidey might come by. A win-win, probably; he does feel better when his place is cleaner. Makes him feel like a little bit less of a fuck up to have that control over his environment, even if he doesn’t stay there every night. Not that Spidey isn’t aware he’s got a dozen safehouses throughout the boroughs and takes jobs that send him out of town sometimes. He wonders if he could ask Spidey to house-sit. Maybe he’d come back to Spidey in his civvies – mask on, of course, Spidey’s very protective of his secret identity – just chilling on his couch and lazily playing video games and eating fistfuls of chips and popcorn.
GASP! What if he comes back and the place smells like Spidey? All warm cinnamon and salt-sweat and that faintly acrid smell his web fluid leaves behind…
Fuck , that’s a distracting thought. It’s distracting enough that Wade almost walks into traffic on a red walk light.
Spider-Man catches the back of his suit collar quickly, a bag of food bonking against his shoulder blade and spine as Wade tips awkwardly back onto the sidewalk. Spidey doesn’t let go, grip firm and tugging a little against Deadpool’s throat in admittedly a pretty pleasant way. But the lenses of Spidey’s mask imply he’s glaring again. Wade puts his hands up, palms to the sky, and shrugs.
“Thanks, Baby Boy,” he says evenly, and Spider-Man’s grip lingers a few more moments before the pedestrian light shows the little white walking person and the crowd around them begins to cross the street. Freed, Wade walks at the webslinger’s side, carefully taking one of the food bags from Spidey’s nearest hand. The hero doesn’t argue, and instead heaves another famously world-weary sigh. People give them a bit of a berth on the sidewalk, and occasionally Spider-Man returns a wave or a greeting, ever the professional goody-goody. At least it’s not too far to Wade’s place.
They weave a little, getting to Deadpool’s place by sneaking around the side alley and using the fire escape. Spider-Man would probably just crawl up the wall on his own, but he seems invested in hanging by Wade’s side after watching him nearly walk into traffic. Come to think of it, why is it so busy this late at night? More importantly, what was a little kid doing awake at this hour? Should Wade have scolded that guardian for having a five-year old out of bed at… what, midnight?
IDK, plot reasons? The author is a sucker for cute scenelets? It’ll come up in the last chapter?
“Should we go back out after this?” Deadpool wonders aloud, suddenly feeling like they shouldn’t be relaxing so soon. Usually nightly patrols don’t stop until closer to 1 AM. But Spider-Man thwipps a web to pull down the fire escape ladder to make things easier for the merc and shrugs. “I love watching you work,” Wade adds with a little smile to himself.
“It’s fine,” Spidey says casually, ignoring the other comment, and Wade nods in agreement. They’d been out really late the last few joint patrols together, calling it quits closer to 3 AM. But it had been quiet most of the night, and they’d dealt with that bomber earlier anyway. Wade decides he can leave the window open so Webs can rely on his spider-sense for any surprise screams in the distance. Yeah, that’ll work.
Once they’re at Wade’s window, he slides it open easily. He almost always leaves it unlocked, but hasn’t specifically said this to Spider-Man in case he realizes or successfully assumes it’s for him. That would be weird, right? A vague, open invitation to Wade’s home? Would Spidey hate that?
Maybe not, but it would be so much worse to hear him say he’d never even use it. What if he laughs? We’d deserve it after this absolute clown shoes attempt at friendship.
Spending much too long fretting and listening to the argumentative boxes berating him in his head, Wade hovers just inside the window until Spider-Man pointedly shoves a bag of food into his arm, still outside. Fumbling, Wade holds it and scurries to set all the food down on his big, thankfully cleared dining table, a sturdy solid wood piece he’d picked up from some disused warehouse somewhere or other. Craigslist, maybe. It could be a woodworking bench for all he knows. He’d just wanted something that could take a beating, and so far it had held up.
At Wade’s side after entering in complete silence, Spider-Man hums thoughtfully, almost startling the mercenary, who moves to flip the light switch by the hall. The hero hesitates for only a moment before he starts unloading the food, filling the table with tacos and a bag of fresh tortilla chips and bean dip and pico de gallo… When everything is out of the bags, he looks it all over and Wade imagines his mouth watering, because he definitely hears the spider’s stomach rumble again.
“What are you waiting for?” Wade teases, scooping up two wrapped tacos. After a beat of his own hesitation, he swallows a lump in his throat and lifts the bottom of his mask just over his nose, revealing only the bottom half of his face and unwrapping both tacos only enough to get a huge bite from both simultaneously. It had taken him a while to feel comfortable showing this much skin in front of Spider-Man (Our hero and probably a supermodel under his own mask.), but the smaller man had never commented. Even now as he looks at Wade’s face, all he does is tilt his head just slightly. Wade really hopes it’s not disgust that makes his lenses contract again. “Dig in,” he says through a mouthful of beef, lettuce, and cheese.
Spider-Man squirms, but not the kind that sends happy little shivers up Wade’s spine. The kind of squirming a little kid does when they think they’ve done something wrong. The kind of squirming Wade does when the boxes start to win arguments about how happy he deserves to be. Wade presses his scarred lips into a tight line, swallowing his too-big bite.
"Did you need more permission, or a hand-written invitation, or...?" the mercenary asks suspiciously. Spidey does this sometimes, this weird reluctance to accept things from other people, things that aren’t just fans’ tiny trinkets or kids’ drawings. Wade could understand a superhero being distrustful of a mercenary, especially being distrustful of Deadpool, what with his reputation, but he likes to think Spider-Man knows him better than that. The chief suppliers of doubt and mockery in his head start telling him he’d never been trustworthy to begin with, that it’ll only be a matter of time before Spider-Man gives up on him, so why shouldn’t it be now? "I swear it's all from the taco truck, baby, I didn't do anything to—," he begins, an edge of hurt and maybe bitterness in his voice, but Spidey's head snaps to look at him, lenses full and wide.
"What??" he blurts, panicking. Wade actually shuts his dumb mouth and raises both hairless eyebrows under his mask. "N-no, Wade," he assures him hastily, waving his hands in front of himself. Placating. Wade scowls, and the hero backtracks. "It's not that. I just—," he goes on uneasily, wincing, and the merc starts to relax a little bit again. He recognizes that particular sound. It’s one of the only outward signs Spider-Man is actively nervous. "Sorry. It's just. It’s weird that you... feed me," Spidey admits, looking back at the food. "Are you sure?" he asks, but there's hope and hunger in the question, and Wade melts a little bit. He’d had a rough time growing up himself, but he really hopes whatever makes Spider-Man anxious to receive food for free isn't what's keeping him scrawny. With a superhuman metabolism to beat Wade's, Spider-Man should be getting more than he usually sees the hero intake.
You don't see him all day everyday, the boxes remind him, stop making assumptions like an ass — “an ass out of you and me,” remember?
"I am, without a doubt, 100% sure, Webs. Please eat," he says with careful formality, gesturing grandly to the spread the shorter man had himself made on the table. He then takes another massive double bite as if to conclude his point. Shoveling an armful of food against his chest, he happily wanders to the sofa and dumps some on the low coffee table. Making a point of not looking back, in case some of whatever Spidey's deal is includes being watched, he waits patiently and continues scarfing down deliciously seasoned meat and cheese in crunchy shells.
After some rustling and a muttering of something like "too nice" (which the boxes uproariously laugh at), Spider-Man appears next to the couch with armfuls of food himself. Another beat, and he plops onto the cushions at Wade's side, briefly tipping into him before righting himself. Wade isn't sure if Spidey had noticed, but he feels a tiny electric jolt through his leg where they’d touched, even through the suits. Wade ignores the little chill up his spine and nods in approval as Spider-Man unwraps a couple of tacos the way Wade had, bringing them up to his face and stopping short just before he smashes food all over his mask. Wade tries very hard not to snort, turning his face away briefly. Cute.
Instead of hesitating like he had the last few times they'd eaten together, Spider-Man simply reaches his free hand up to lift and roll the lower half of his mask up over his nose like Wade had, and the mercenary spares a few moments to stare at what's revealed, slowly taking another bite of his doubled up tacos as he does.
Spider-Man has freckles . He hadn't seen them before, since they're usually on a rooftop or fire escapes in ambient city light, and the last few times Spidey had been over at his place, he'd constantly rolled the mask up and down in between bites, afraid to leave it up for too long even though it had been just Deadpool in the room with him. But now Wade can see a smattering of freckles over the bridge of Spidey's nose and cheekbones. The line of his jaw is shadowed just slightly with stubble, and he wonders how often Spider-Man has to shave. Even the boxes don't have a bad word to say when Wade dares to look at the other man's lips.
With the other super blissfully unaware of being watched, Deadpool catches a glint of sharp canines as Spider-Man brings the tacos up again and takes a giant bite of both. Pieces of lettuce and cheese and taco shells fall away and into Spidey's lap, making him look down and pout with the food in his mouth as he slowly chews anyway.
Wade bursts into laughter at him and Spidey gives a little half-offended chortle before covering his mouth with his other hand as he, too, laughs through his food when Wade doubles down and smacks a huge hand against his back, jostling more of the tacos into the hero's lap and onto the floor.