Chapter Text
The night was humid and thick with the low, restless haze of the city-lights bleeding neon veins across wet pavement. Somewhere above, a streak of brilliant orange cut a jagged line through the sky, tracing the path of the Human Torch who had somewhere to be. Peter didn’t watch long. He couldn’t watch long. His mask hid the flush that prickled beneath his skin, the one that always flared up when he could sense Johnny was anywhere nearby. He rolled his shoulders, refocusing himself, pretending not to notice.
But Deadpool had noticed.
He noticed everything, especially when it came to Peter being weird.
Or weirder than usual.
The patrol started bad and got worse. A mugger slipped through Peter’s webbing like it was cheap party streamers. Two rooftops later, Peter’s swing clipped a laundry line, sending him sprawling into a pile of discarded takeout boxes. Then a low-level goon actually landed a punch. It stung. Not physically. But it stung.
Deadpool had been silent for a record-breaking three minutes, which for him was the equivalent of holding his breath for a month. When they finally regrouped on a grimy rooftop, he looked Peter over like he was a particularly tragic puppy.
“You wanna talk about it?” He asked, his tone surprisingly gentle for a man in a mask covered in bullet holes and pizza stains.
“No,” Peter said sharply, snatching his web-shooter to fiddle with it even though he knew it wasn’t jammed.
Wade reeled back, hands in the air in surrender. “Do you wanna talk about it at all or just not with me?” He waggled his fingers like jazz hands. “Because I’m not good at boundaries but I am good at guessing games. Is it about the guy with the flaming abs, or—?”
Peter sighed, slumping against a vent. “I don’t want to talk about it. At all.”
“Copy that,” Wade’s eyes crinkled behind his mask. “Feelings are for people who don’t have healing factors, anyway.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “But for the record? You don’t have to act like I don’t notice your whole… thing every time Hot Stuff blazes past.”
Peter frowned. “What thing?”
“The thing where your senses go haywire and your aim goes right out the window.” He slung an arm around Peter’s shoulder. “It’s like watching a freshly awakened mutie discovering their powers.”
Peter glared at the skyline, jaw tight, knuckles white around his web-shooter. “It’s nothing.”
Wade, of course, pressed on, poking at the box Peter had shoved deep in his mind. “You sure? Because the way you were staring at that trail of fire, I could practically hear the Celine Dion playing in the background.”
Peter groaned. “Please stop.”
Wade grinned, all teeth. “Hey, not judging! We all have our kryptonite. Mine’s chimichangas. Yours just happens to be a literal walking, talking ball of fire.” He sing-songed, drawing it out like a taunt.
Peter shot a web at Wade’s chest and yanked, toppling him off balance. “I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Right, right,” Wade said, untangling himself. “Mum’s the word. Your secret’s safe with me. And by ‘safe,’ I mean I’ll only mention it to everyone we know.” He paused, his tone shifting again. “Seriously, though, Webs. Just don’t—”
But Peter was already gone, swinging into the night. Chasing shadows, trying not to think about fire burning a hole straight through him, and failing spectacularly. Just a silent roll of his head then he was swinging through the city again, letting the wind cut against his skin, hoping speed could scrape the ache from his bones. Every leap, every whip of webbing, was an act of avoidance. If he moved fast enough, maybe his feelings wouldn’t catch up.
The city was quieter now. A few sirens, headlights ghosting through puddles below. Up here, it was just him, the sound of his breath, and the gravity he pretended he could defy.
He landed outside his window with numb fingers, fumbling the latch. His apartment greeted him in silence, dark except for the glimmer of a streetlamp outside. He peeled off his suit piece by piece, sticky with sweat and city grime. Each movement felt automatic, like someone else’s body performing the routine.
The shower was mercifully hot, steam fogging the mirror, but not even scalding water could wash away the memory that clung to him. He braced his palms against the tile, head hung low, eyes shut. He tried not to think, tried to imagine anything else—but the box he’d locked it all into had splintered, and every drop of water seemed to carve Johnny’s name into his skin.
He was the one who chose this. The silence. The secrecy. The promise, mostly to himself, that it was better not to talk about it, not even to Wade. No matter how much the mercenary prodded. If he could just bury it deep enough, he could keep moving, keep being Spider-Man, keep pretending nothing had changed.
But the images wouldn’t let him go.
Johnny’s face, a mess of need, burning gold in the dim light of decontamination chamber. The heat of his mouth, his tongue, that wicked grin as he looked down at Peter between his thighs. The way Johnny’s voice broke when he said Peter’s name, half-laugh, half-moan. The feeling of those over-warm fingers tangled in his hair, of bodies pressed together, slick with sweat and pleasure and something dangerously close to love.
And after, when he’d had moved inside him, taking his time, slow and sure, every thrust and gasp a language all their own. The fire in his eyes—so much more than the flames that flickered along his skin. The way he’d held Peter afterwards, warm and careless and impossibly close.
Peter pressed his forehead to the cooling tile, willing the memory to dissolve, but all it did was burn brighter.
He’d chosen this. To shove it all down, pretend it was nothing more than a night, an accident, a secret he could afford to lose. He’d chosen to lock the door on his own heart.
But Johnny was everywhere. In the curl of steam, in the ache in his chest, in the way his body remembered every touch and tremble. There was no avoiding it now. Not really.
He shut off the water and stood shivering in the cooling air. He could hear Wade’s voice echoing in his head—Do you wanna talk about it at all or just not with me?—and wondered, not for the first time, if maybe he’d made the wrong choice after all.
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The sun had just dipped beneath the horizon when Peter found himself back on the rooftops, the city sprawled wide and restless beneath him. He was tired, having not slept much the night before. Just tossed between sheets that still smelled faintly of soap and memories he didn’t want. Patrol with Wade again. Because of course Wade never gave him a day off.
Deadpool sat waiting with two coffees balanced precariously on the ledge of a billboard, like some homicidal barista in red spandex.
“Hello, sweet cheeks!” Wade chirped, shoving a cup at Peter. “Extra foam, because you look like you need to drown in something fluffy before the neighborhood chews you up again.”
Peter took it without argument, tugging his mask up and sipping, grateful for the distraction. They swung for a while in relative silence—Wade humming, Peter brooding. But by the time they’d shaken down a would-be carjacker and scared a pickpocket so badly the guy nearly dropped his wallet and his pants, Wade was ready.
“So…” Deadpool sidled up on the next rooftop, leaning against an air vent like he was setting up for a talk show. “How’s my favorite bug-boy today? Are we still not talking about your ooey-gooey spidey-feelings?”
Peter stiffened. “Can you not?”
“Ohhh, but I can,” Wade said, drawing out the words like a dare. “Because last few weeks you had that whole haunted-by-my-own-heartbreak vibe going on, and frankly, it clashed with the whole friendly neighborhood thing.” He paused dramatically. “Just saying. The neighborhood deserves better.”
Peter set his coffee down, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath the mask. He could feel the pressure building—like Wade had his thumb on the lid of that box in his head, rattling it until something inside cracked.
“I…” Peter started, then sighed. His voice was low, reluctant. “It’s complicated, okay?”
“Complicated is my middle name,” Wade shot back instantly. “Well, actually it’s Winston, but semantics.” He knocked his shoulder into Peter’s. “Go on.”
Peter stared out at the skyline, the words clawing their way up before he could stop them. “I think… I think I have feelings for him. Johnny. I don’t know what to do with it. Then the whole thing that happened with the goo, and he didn’t want to talk about it. And it’s just—” He broke off, shaking his head. “How do you tell your best friend that you might be in love with him ”
“I thought we were best friends…”
“‘Pool, we’re not—”
“Oh…” The mercenary held up his hand, then pressed it to his chest. “That cuts deep, Webs, so deep.”
“I mean,” Peter sighed. “We are friends.”
Wade tilted his head. “You say that, but the tone in which you speak makes me feel like you do not believe that we are, in fact, friends.”
“‘Pool—”
“No, no,” Wade cleared his throat, voice sounding suspiciously tight, like he’d just swallowed a marble or maybe his pride. “You’re right. If you say we’re friends, we’re friends. And if we’re friends, you can tell me how you’re in love with the Matchstick Man.”
“I’m not in love wit—”
“Shhh...” Deadpool held up a finger, pressing it against Peter’s mouth with a comically stern. “Ah-ah, try that again. With feeling. Pretend it’s karaoke night and the mic’s in your face.”
Peter swatted at the finger but the pressure in his chest spiked anyway. “I’m not… I’m not in…”
“Yes?” Wade leaned in, eyes wide and cartoonishly expectant behind the mask.
“I… I…” The words caught in his throat. Heat burned his face under the mask. “Oh god, I’m in love with him.”
“Bingo!” Wade threw his arms out like a magician after pulling a rabbit from a hat.
“I love him…” Peter groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “I… Fuck…”
“I do not see how this realization is a bad thing—”
“But… but what if he doesn’t feel the same?”
Wade cut him off with a low, sharp whistle, dragging it out until Peter’s groan deepened into something halfway between despair and wanting to crawl out of his skin.
“You’ve been in the bone zone with Fireboy,” Wade said, voice full of mock tragedy, “I watched the two of you make full doe-eye contact whilst you were balls deep in him; and now you’re here moping with me instead of tackling him for round two? Spider-Man: Into the Sad-Verse. I’d buy the Blu-ray, but only if it comes with director’s commentary.”
Peter’s head snapped up, glare sharp through his mask lenses. “Can you not—”
“Not what? Provide emotional support? Crack jokes while your heart is doing parkour? Come on, Spidey, I’m the full package here. Shoulder to cry on, ear to listen, inappropriate hand gestures on standby.” Wade wiggled his fingers demonstratively.
Peter groaned again, louder this time. “Why do I even talk to you?”
“Because,” Wade leaned back with exaggerated confidence, “I’m the only one who’ll tell you the truth. Which is: you’re a hopeless romantic in spandex who fell for a guy who could accidentally set the sheets on fire. And honestly? That’s kind of beautiful.”
Peter muttered, “You’re unbearable.”
“And yet,” Wade pointed between them. “You keep me around.”
“I don’t keep you around,” He narrowed his gaze. “You keep popping up like some weird, murderous whack-a-mole.”
“But you still keep me around…” Deadpool sighed wistfully. “So, what are you going to do?”
“What do you mean ‘what am I gonna do?’” Peter crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s not like I can do anything. He doesn’t feel th—
“Oh, hush, sweet baby boy,” Wade interrupted, finger raised like a prophet. “Here’s what you’re gonna do, Websy: you’re gonna march yourself over to that gleaming Fantastic Four skyscraper, swing up to his penthouse window, and go full-on Say Anything on him.”
“What?”
“Say Anything,” The mercenary pressed. “The seminal painfully earnest rom-com that ever slow-danced its way into your VHS collection, Say Anything.” He slumped as Peter continued to stare blankly. “It’s the classic boy-meets-girl, girl-dumps-boy-because-her-dad's-a-criminal, boy-uses-soundtrack-to-win-her-back type story, showcasing the iconic grand romantic gesture.”
Peter blinked. “Uh huh…”
“Grand romantic gesture, Spider-bae! Boombox over your head, music blaring, confess your feelings through the sheer power of John Cusack-level desperation!” Wade was practically vibrating. “Only in your case, we’ll rig up some speakers under your arms as you hang from an opposite building. Maybe play ‘Burning Love.’ Or—wait for it—Johnny Cash. Because flames. Get it?”
Peter groaned, covering his mask with both hands. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but I’m also right,” Wade shot back, nudging him. “You’ve been moping for weeks, Webs. It’s pathetic. Either go get your Matchstick or let me set you up with Carnage. At least then I wouldn’t have to listen to this sad-sack routine.”
Peter let out a shaky laugh despite himself. “You’re the worst.”
Wade leaned in close, voice dropping, sounding almost earnest. “I am the worst, but I’m also telling you what you already know you want to do. So… what’s it gonna be, lover boy?” He waggled his brows.
Peter’s stomach twisted. He stared out at the city again, the Baxter Building a faint spike on the horizon. The thought of actually doing it. The showing up, saying it out loud… It terrified him more than any villain ever had.
But Wade’s words dug in, impossible to shake.
“I guess,” He sighed, defeated. “I guess I… I guess I take your advice, ‘Pool.”