Chapter Text
“Did you get a fucking lobotomy while I wasn’t watching? There’s no way you just used your big-boy words to ask for help.”
Wade sounds like he’s at the intersection of delighted and gob-smacked. Peter’s never seen him look so rattled in the entire time they’ve known it’s other. It’s fun, for once, being the off-putting one. It almost makes up for how irritated Peter’s about to be for the next 24 hours.
“You tell me,” Peter says around another bite of the best chicken soup he’s eaten in his life. It’s like every noodle has been marinated in pure euphoria, then drowned in an ungodly amount of pepper. He really needs to double-down on getting Wade to quit mercenary work and open up a food truck. It won’t be up to code, but god. It’s not like the health inspector would survive the encounter to stop him. Actually, maybe he shouldn’t encourage him.
Wade, uncharacteristically, has nothing to say to that. Instead, he reaches out toward Peter like he’s trying to touch him and Peter immediately twitches back on instinct.
“This is the part where you say something that pisses me off.” Peter shoves another spoonful into his mouth and scoots back on the counter when Wade tries to reach him again. “Don’t leave me hanging. Also, try to touch me again and I’m breaking your arm.”
“Just trying to make sure I’m not hallucinating this.” Wade says reverently, finally leaning back and giving Peter room to breathe. And eat another spoonful of soup. He hopes Wade was serious about letting him take a Tupperware or three back with him. This is the fullest he’s felt in weeks.
“You are actually terrible at asking for help.” Wade says after a beat. “It’s like a borderline chronic condition.”
“You asked me if I wanted help,” Peter snaps, already missing the anticipatory silence. “There’s a difference — “
“Woooow, semantics,” Wade whistles. “You are like, ICU levels of fucked.”
“You said,” Peter reminds him, shoveling down another mouthful just so he has something do with his hands that isn’t strangling. “That you were offering a non-refundable, tax-free, — “
“No, no —“ Wade holds his hands out. “I said, I felt bad for you and your whole wet kitten in a cardboard box situation and that I wanted to take you home and warm you by the fire. I fully expected you to take that in stride and then, you know, tell me to go fuck myself with a rusty knife. I didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”
“So…you don’t want to help me?” Peter drawls, waving his spoon meaningfully in Wade’s direction. Suddenly, he understands why the guy baits him so much. It’s the same reason Peter was able to swallow his pride long enough for him to even ask for help in the first place.
“No, no, no.” Wade says quickly. “I’m helping you. I’m going to help you so good that it’s going to blow your fucking mind. You’re going to leave me a 5-star Yelp Review because I’m going to help you so hard you’re going to see stars.”
“Great,” Peter says, and there’s that confusing surge of relief. Because Wade was always going to say yes. It just took a couple well-placed holes in the chest to realize that. Even if he’s not fully sure why. “When do we start?”
“Are you oh-so-seriously asking me to do a team-up run with you?” Wade claps his hands in delight, and Peter suddenly feels the ramifications of his choices. “Oh my god, I can’t believe this. Is this a one-off, or are we going full spin-off series?”
Peter chokes on a piece of tender, perfectly cooked chicken.
“Deadpool and Spidey, on a mission together, taking down bad guys. Or, girls, or whatever — it’s really such an open and diverse market these days— “
It’s really stuck in there. Peter pounds his fist against his chest as he coughs again. He half-expects Wade to reach over again and pat his back a little too hard, like Peter’s some sort of overactive purse dog, but Wade just keeps monologuing.
“— ‘cause you know I don’t mind being someone’s red right hand, ‘specially if it’s yours, baby boy.” If Peter wasn’t bent over the counter trying to do the Heimlich maneuver on himself right now he’d have some choice words on the implications of that.
“Wait!” Wade suddenly pushes away from the counter, and Peter thinks that he’s finally going to grab him a cup of water or smack him in the back or something, but instead he barrels right past him. The door swings shut behind him.
Peter coughs so hard in sheer rage that the chicken shoots right out of his throat and wetly smacks onto the tile.
That asshole. Fucking bastard. Peter can’t believe he actually asked Deadpool of all people to help find someone’s kidnapped sister. The guy couldn’t even find him a fucking water cup.
Which he really needed, because Peter’s throat feels like someone's dragged sandpaper liberally across it. There’s no way he’s opening all fifteen cabinets in front of him trying to figure out where a mercenary keeps his glassware.
There’s really only one other option. Peter shoves his mouth directly underneath the kitchen sink faucet and turns it on full blast. It like getting power-washed from the inside, borderline euphoric, and it almost drowns out the not-so-distant sound of Wade’s heavy boot-steps coming back into the room again.
“I am like 95% sure that you were raised by wolves. Next time, just ask for the cup,” Wade says suddenly, and very loudly and way too close to his ear. The proximity is so alarming that Peter jolts and slams his head hard against the edge of the sink.
“Oh my god, you literally left a dent —“
“What raised you? A machine gun?” Peter snaps, wiping his dripping mouth with the back of his arm.
“Mom actually made me by touching tips with an assault rifle, you should see the hospital photos. ” Wade gestures pointedly with the massive AR-15 in his hand. “Speaking of, are we keeping it to some like, light and morally justifiable maiming or —“
“There isn’t going to be any maiming.” Peter rasps out, which makes his throat hurt, which makes him start immediately coughing again. “I’ve told you so many times that Spider-Man doesn’t do maiming — “
Wade reaches with his free hand over Peter’s head and opens up the cabinet directly above the sink. He tosses one of the glasses inside over to Peter. It’s surprisingly decorative, with little multicolored umbrellas dotting the rim. Peter rubs his thumb against the chipped paint. It looks like something Aunt May would have collecting dust behind all her other glasses.
“Did you check this for lead?” Peter asks after he’s filled it in the sink and downed it like a shot. When he moves to refill it again, he realizes that his really did leave a dent which is absolutely mortifying.
“I really like how I can never tell if you’re being funny or if you’re just naturally that much of a kill-joy,” Wade says, before laying the massive gun onto the counter. Peter watches the leather tighten across his equally massive chest and quickly drains the rest of the glass.
“Killjoy.” Peter confirms, keeping his eyes focused squarely on the space above Wade’s head. “Speaking of, were you just going to let me choke to death in your kitchen, or could you just not hear me over the sound of your own fucking voice?”
“Hold up, aren’t you always going on and on about wanting to handle things on your lonesome?” Wade protests, holding his hands up defensively and sounding more than a little annoyed. “And here I thought that you’d appreciate me clocking out of lifeguard duty. You really are Schrödinger's vigilante.”
Peter isn’t sure how to respond to Wade when he’s actually listening to him for once. It feels like a rare natural phenomenon, like the Northern Lights being visible in the states outside Alaska or Yellowstone finally erupting.
Instinctively, he grabs the pink Scrub Daddy smiling ghoulishly up at him from the edge of the sink. There’s a mountain of dirty dishes piled up in the other section of the sink, so he grabs the nearest baking pan sticking out and starts scrubbing at it furiously.
“I’m starting to think the nanobots actually took out sizable chunks of your brain.” Wade says slowly. “Wait, is that why you actually used the words ‘thank you’ earlier, which until now I just assumed you had never heard in your life — “
“You cooked, so I’ll clean up the dishes.” Peter interrupts, derailing Wade feels like standing in front of a moving train. Actually, it’s harder considering that Peter can just pick up the train. He grabs a new thing to wash blindly. The last thing Peter wants to be thinking about right now is the physical details of what happened between them in the game room.
“You don’t have to do that,” Wade says quickly, pressing their bodies way too close as he tries to elbow Peter away from the sink, grabbing for the Scrub Daddy.
“You sure talk a big game about accepting help for someone who doesn’t believe in the universal standard of ‘You cooked, I’ll clean,” Peter snaps, reaching out on instinct and grabbing Wade’s wrist before he can grab the sponge. He uses just a little bit of strength to pull him back, but he must have misjudged it because Wade falls right into him.
Before Peter can think about it, he’s got a hand planted in front of Wade’s torso to catch him. It’s absolutely effortless to hold him up, and it strikes Peter suddenly that it’s never felt this effortless when they were fighting.
Or if it did, there wasn’t ever this much time to think about, at least. Peter feels how warm Wade’s body is now underneath the leather, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. Peter thinks about how if this was a fight, now is when he would have pulled away.
“Damn,” Wade, says, his deep voice sounds almost choked off. Peter stares down into those empty eyes and feels paralyzed. His fingers are shaking at the point of contact. “I bet I feel like nothing to you, huh?”
Peter thinks of Wade’s body, heavy and insistent on top of him. The grind of his boot against his hip, the way Peter never seemed to be able to stop Wade from dragging him back down.
“I once picked up a subway car,” Peter says, which is supposed to be a brag, but it almost feels like an excuse to keep on holding up Wade. “You weigh a lot less than 40 tons.”
“Is this how you flirt?” Wade asks in a fake whisper.
“You wish,” Peter feels his ears heat up as he pushes Wade back hard enough to make him crash into the opposite counter. It’s satisfying, even though he has to immediately grab something blindly from the sink just so he looks unaffected.
The sink runs loudly behind him, but he doesn’t stick whatever he just grabbed into the water. Just sort of holds onto it, and stares at Wade, who is staring at him.
“I don’t know if you’re strangling my Lamson stainless-steel slotted spatula to prove a point, but I’m really going to need you to put her down.” Wade says after a long minute.
“Shit!” Peter looks down to see a strangely long spatula curved into something that resembles something closer to a sink pipe. The fact that Wade dropped the brand name makes him think that this was more than eleven dollars on Amazon.
“Hold on. Let me just —“ Peter quickly bends the spatula as straight as he can. Wade watches him so closely he can feel his stare buzzing on his skin. He looks more affected by Peter warping this thing than any physical damage he’s ever inflicted on the mercenary which stings, just a little.
“Feel like you’re putting me in some sort of hostage situation with my appliances.” Wade chokes out as Peter gingerly rinses off the mostly straight spatula and sets it down in the drying rack. “I really should be revoking your dish washing privileges but there’s just something so compelling about the narrative of Spider-Man cleaning my chicken pan.”
Wade leans back against the counter and watches him appraisingly. “I honestly could get used to this view.”
“Don’t,” Peter flips him off before putting the rinsed pan away. He carefully grabs a handful of dirty forks. “It’s a one time thing.”
Peter is a terrible cook, so he’s used to being the one washing dishes. Usually the only time he eats a home-cooked meal is if he’s visiting Aunt May or when Harry is on one of his world cuisine kicks. The last time Peter was over at his house, they made tteokbokki. That was months ago though, so who knows what Harry was making now.
“If you have plans on actually drying the dishes, the silverware goes in the drawer underneath the drying rack.” Wade comments, breaking him out of that particularly depressing thought loop. Peter kind of hopes he keeps talking, which is a first.
“Obviously I’m going to dry them,” Peter grits out, before looking over his shoulder. “Hand me that bowl on the counter.”
“Your bowl?” Wade drawls, grabbing it and before tossing it under hand. “Some guest you are.”
Peter catches it effortlessly and immediately suds it up. The only sound in the kitchen is the sound of the scrubber against the ceramic of the bowl, which is making his skin itch.
“So — “ Peter starts.
“The missing person,” Wade finishes for him, which Peter tries to find annoying. “Which, by the way, is such an unnecessarily moral use of my help. I really was thinking something more along the lines of helping you out of your extraordinarily grim personal circumstances.”
“As if,” Peter growls. “I would ever — “
“— But I’m not necessarily complaining about getting to spend the day being Spider-Man’s second in command. Really see how the other side lives.” Wade interrupts him, and Peter can’t help the obnoxious thrill of Wade willingly putting him as the boss.
“Consider it a public service,” Peter looks meaningfully behind him. “Who knows, you might even feel a sense of moral accomplishment. Could be groundbreaking.”
“You know I actually have helped people before,“ Wade crosses his arms over his chest, the eyes of his masks narrowed in annoyance. “It’s not exactly a foreign concept to me. Not too long ago I took that walking pin cushion you call a personal photographer out to a very nice dinner — “
“I’m looking for someone’s missing sister.” Peter slams the pan he’s washing down so hard it bends like paper. He quickly bends it back in shape before Wade can notice. “Her name is Maggie.”
“Aww, Spidey,” Wade snickers. “I sure hope you’re not expecting me to wingman for you.”
“Someone’s kidnapped sister.” Peter scowls, and considers bending the pan in half again.
“Woefully underpaid detective on the side of being a vigilante.” Wade shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “Sarah McLachlan should really sell the rights of her animal shelter commercial song to you, I feel like you’re a much more suitable candidate for that fucking heart ringer. Not that you’d ever let the angels put you in their arms — “
“Fuck you,” Peter says, slamming the pan into the drying rack.
“Hold on…you are being paid for this one, right?” Wade continues, undettered.
Peter grabs the rag hanging on the dishwasher and starts scrubbing the pan furiously. “What do you think?”
“I’ll take that as a nooo,” Wade pushes away from the counter and walks to the other side of him. Peter can feel their proximity in a way that makes his spine itch. “Someday, you and I are going to have a real long conversation about market value. I’m serious, you doing this shit for free really devalues the service of us hardworking Americans just trying to make a buck - “
“You’re literally Canadian,” Peter sputters as he dries down the pan hard enough to make it squeak with each swipe. “Also you kill people for money. I just –“
“Find them for free?” Wade interrupts, opening the cabinet and grabbing the pan from Peter’s hand before sliding it inside with the rest of them. “Not even that, if you’re cashing in a once in a lifetime favor from yours truly for help.”
“If you don’t like how I do things, then you don’t have to fucking help.” Peter starts putting the dried silverware into the drawer, slamming the forks down hard enough to make the cabinet rattle. “I’ll just figure it out on my own.” He lies.
“Sure.” Wade says, and Peter knows he’s grinning under that mask of his. “’Cause you’re so clearly in your element. The P in Spider-Man must stand for PI.”
Peter closes his eyes, and exhales and channels every therapist he’s ever had that’s told him to take a deep breath before he punches the wall. Maggie’s life matters more than saying something stupid. Which is why he’s going to shut up, and angrily put away spoons.
“Relax,” Wade continues before Peter figures out the least humiliating way to keep the offer still standing. “I said I’d help, so I’ll help. I just wish you’d like, look out for yourself for once. Considering your recent unemployment, I’d think you’d be at least trying to scrounge some commission on this.”
“What part of vigilante do you not understand?” Peter says, and it’s not even a dig. It’s starting to hit him that Wade genuinely cannot fathom the idea of free labor. A part of him feels tempted to grab a few of the extra pamphlets he has lying around from the community aid meetings he used to help run. Maybe Deadpool needed a crash course in social reformation.
“I get that you’re like, a self-appointed crossing guard or whatever.” Wade says, “I just don’t know why you can’t put out a fucking tip jar once in a while.”
Peter rolls his eyes, tossing the now very wet rag into the sink. “It’s not about the money, Wade. I know that’s hard for you to understand, but this is like —“ He pauses. “You know, my way of giving back to the city.”
“Uh-huh.” Wade says, clearly still skeptical. “Well, all I’m saying is the city could afford to give a little back to you — “
Peter lets his voice drown out as he looks for another towel to finish drying the rest of the dishes and his hands. The only one he can see is hanging over the edge of the oven. He flicks his wrist, shooting out a web toward it.
Wade snatches it out of the air so quickly that Peter is starting to wonder if his powers extend outside the realm of regeneration.
Peter shakes his dripping wet fingers at him pointedly. “You got a fucking problem?”
“You don’t want to touch this thing.” Wade says, balling it up and throwing it behind him. “Trust me, uh, just use–“ Wade opens up a drawer and pulls out what looks to be a very nice apron with KILL THE CHEF embroidered on the front. “This.”
Peter wipes his hands pointedly on his disgusting, barely there pants. “I’m good. Guess you’re cool with letting the rest of those dishes air dry.
“So —“ Wade gingerly folds the apron before putting it neatly into the drawer again. “This person who hired you, they find your number in the yellow pages, Perry Mason?”
Peter has no idea who that is, but it feels insulting. Graciously, he’s going to let Wade change the subject.
“I was just out patrolling and uh —“ He rubs the back of his neck, thinking back to when Anne approached him on the street. “This woman flagged me down, said she needed my help and that she didn’t want the police involved because her sister is involved with some kind of underground mutant group.”
“So instead, she called in…the local spider guy instead.” Wade says slowly. “Interesting choice.”
“Listen,” Peter snaps. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the police aren’t exactly the biggest fan of mutants. I think she thought I was—you know, one of them. And that I’d want to help. Which I do, and again if you don’t –“
“Cool it, Webs,” Wade holds out a hand and Peter feels his jaw tighten. “I still want to help. And I get it, this city isn’t exactly Genosha. I’m starting to understand why this lady picked you over — like, a rabidly anti-mutant task force. ACAB, etc.”
Peter feels sick. It washes over him like a cold fever. Not because of Wade’s kind of lukewarm dismissal of cops, though the moment he stops tasting early-onset vomit, he might have to have a serious conversation about why exactly Spider-Man exists as an alternative to inadequate legal authority.
It feels like food poisoning, or actually, it feels like food poisonings older, meaner brother and Peter has to wrap his arms tightly around his stomach because it hurts so bad.
“What —“ Peter groans as another wave of nausea hits him. “Did you put in that soup?” Another point against Wade opening a food truck.
“Ohhhh, I guess they haven’t come out yet, huh?” Wade sounds sympathetic, which is never a good sign.
“WHAT?” Peter gasps. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“You ever hear the saying, what goes in, must be violently forced out?””
“If you’re hearing that regularly,” Peter keels over, knees hitting the kitchen floor hard. “I think you might be the problem.”
“You are funny, Spidey.” Wade says, and looking at him gets a little hazy, so Peter has to blink a few times to regain focus. “All I’m saying is Stark’s never been into like, product biodegradability; if you catch my drift?”
Wade reaches down and slides one of the just-washed metal bowls onto the tile in front of Peter. “Try to aim for the bowl, okay?”
It hurts slightly less coming out as it did going in. Peter can still feel their sharp insides scraping the inside of his throat raw as he heaves. When he’s finally done, his mouth tastes like pennies and his stomach feels like the only wax figure inside a medieval torture exhibit.
Peter almost feels like laughing when he gets an eyeful of the little chunks of metal winking inside the remains of his barely digested soup. It’s like the train never stops for him. Instead, he starts coughing so hard he can feel his eyes get wet.
“I totally should have mentioned that they have a pretty direct exit strategy.” Wade crouches down next to him, and Peter heaves again, even though there’s nothing left to come out. “I really thought I told you. Though, honestly by the time I personally got to the vomiting part, I wasn’t exactly considering like, every doing all that again so —“
“Is this it?” Peter interrupts by pushing the bowl away from him, he feels so woozy. “This better be it.”
“I mean, they say you shouldn’t go swimming 24 hours after, and maybe avoid donating blood for like, awhile - “
Peter slowly pushes himself to his feet, before swaying and stumbling into the counter-top. His vision is still a little spotty, and everything hurts a little more than it did before. “How about detective work?”
“Go home, Spidey,” Wade points to the door before picking up the bowl. Peter feels embarrassed watching him dump it down the sink. “If you think you’re going to go hunt for clues by the docks or whatever Scooby-Doo fantasy you have a hard-on for, then you got another coming. Like, hopefully a handful of ibuprofen and like eight hours of sleep.”
“We —“ Peter imagines his bed and almost cries. “We should go now.”
“I literally am about to shove you in a Lyft if you don’t get out of my warehouse in like, I don’t know, three seconds.” Wade sets the bowl on the counter and pulls out his phone and starts to scroll it. “I’d start swinging if I were you. I have no idea where you live, and I’m not afraid to book long rides with enjoys small talk as the additional note for the driver.
Peter doesn’t need to be threatened twice and starts for the door.
“Wait!”
Wade is standing behind him, holding up a stuffed grocery bag. “Don’t forget this.
Peter thinks of all the things that could be in that bag, ranging from Tupperware full of the soup he just threw up to a bundle of hand grenades.
“Oh, come on, you act like all I do is double-cross you.” Wade snorts before showing Peter the contents. It’s stuffed to the brim with non-perishable food items and a crooked little carton of eggs. Peter feels his cheeks heat up underneath his mask, and that familiar and terrible sensation of being pitied crashes over him like a sewage splash.
“I’m good,” Peter swallows back new bile.
Wade hesitates. “Are you….sure?”
If Peter didn’t get intimately manhandled by the guy all yesterday he would count this as the most humiliating interaction they’ve ever had. Is there a lower low than having a hired killer treat him like his personal charity case?
“I don’t need it,” Peter lies.
“Well that blows,” Wade sighs, staring down at it. “’Cause technically I don’t really need to eat and when I do I sure as hell am not making myself like, scrambled eggs. I don’t even really like eggs.”
“There’s a food pantry a few blocks away from you,” Peter says. “On Bergen Avenue? They’ll probably take all the non-perishables, and I bet you could find someone there to take the eggs.”
“Well aren’t you a man of the people.” Wade says, and for once it doesn’t sound like an insult. “Okay. Fine, superhero. I’ll drop it off later today. You sure you don’t want anything –“
Peter is out the door before he can finish.
It's too bad he doesn’t hate himself enough to see if JJ will buy a picture of Spider-Man swinging through the city in an outfit that actively encourages people to take a good look at his dick. Peter’s never been honked at more in his life.
The moment he crawls through the window, he launches himself onto his mattress. Peter bounces on it once, kicking himself up to his knees so he can wrestle off his binder and throw it into the furthest corner of the room. It feels good to be tits out and loading a much-needed bowl. Peter throws on an episode of Blue Planet and watches it through lazy half-lidded eyes.
His stomach still feels a little like a head-on collision, but the weed takes off some of the edge and David Attenborough’s voice lulls him into a false sense of security.
It takes about an episode and a half on deep sea life before his thoughts start coming on-line again. Peter didn’t have time to think when Wade was around, but it feels emptier than usual in his apartment, and now he can’t stop.
His hands are down his pants before he can think about it, and he doesn’t want to think about it. Not really, but if he’s going to, then at least he’s going to shamefully get off to it.
The taste of the warehouse dirt grinding against his teeth, the dig of a boot against the painful bruising on his ribs. Wade’s hands all over him, dragging him to his bike and the heat of their bodies together as the motorcycle hummed between Peter’s legs. The way Wade never shut up, and how that was the only thing that kept Peter from slipping under again.
Peter doesn’t even really know what he’s jacking off to anymore, why his body is so fucking — strung out and deprived. He’s not being nice about it, either, grinding his fingers against the wet drag of his dick and trying not to think of anything specific. Definitely not thinking of Wade touching him instead.
Instead, it’s just memories of Wade pushing a water glass between his lips and forcing his head back, the slide of the needle between his skin. The way it hurt. How Wade tried to keep it from hurting. It feels wrong, but Peter can’t stop his brain or the frantic twist of his fingers. He’s not even really wet, just raw.
The thing that keeps on playing over and over again though is the way Wade’s hand felt, how he never moved even though Peter kept on breaking it. The loud snap of his bones, the way he could feel them reforming so he could do it again, and again and —
After he comes, Peter traces circles around the smooth skin of his stomach, feels his skin grow cold in the dark. The burn is just smoke now, wafting through his brain and making him feel sharp and numb.
Peter takes in a shaky inhale and scratches the spot where she impaled him, where a mark would have been if it wasn’t missing.
It’s like someone’s scrubbed his life off him. Peter Parker’s entire topography wiped over and replaced with an artificial newness. The knick under his chin from when he ran into Aunt May’s coffee table, the white gash on his leg from when he ripped the skin climbing over a fence. The mark on his back from when he got shoved up against a wall at a show and was too love drunk and high to notice he was bleeding through his shirt until he got home.
It’s all gone, the scars he never bothered to count. The piercings he tried so hard to keep from healing over. At least he’s still got all hose hand poked tattoos done inside dingy bathrooms at shows. The 8-ball on his ankle is sill there in all its shaky-handed glory.
As a scientist, he’s fascinated. A part of him had wanted to take a sample of the nanobots home and study them under a microscope. Peter remembers the day he got rejected for the Stark internship and feeling like his whole life was over. That he’d never be able to beat a system that didn’t want someone like him getting in the way of a culture of nepotism and buy-ins.
It feels like something that happened to another person now. Peter closes his eyes and thinks about how in a way it did.
Spider-Man used to be whoever Peter wanted him to be, now he’s feeling a little more like a second skin, replacing something that used to be Peter.
Wade feels a little like that too. Peter isn’t ready to think too hard about that, though.
The next morning, Peter wakes up to the sun instead of his alarms. He forgot to close his curtains last night.
He groans, stretching his arms before blearily checking the time on his phone. It’s a few minutes past twelve, and even though he doesn’t have class today a part of him feels guilty for sleeping in.
It’s not like he has a job to get to.
Peter exhales, dragging his hand over the sleep sticky on his eyes, and tries not to let the wave of anxiety knock him back into the sheets. It would be so much easier to sleep through today. Rent is still due in a week, he doesn’t have anything in his fridge, and his suit still looks like someone shoved it through a paper shredder twice.
Buzz. Buzz.
Peter rolls his eyes and opens his phone expecting it to be Wade, but his stomach drops when he realizes that it’s an even worse case-scenario.
Dear, I'm taking the day off for the holiday. Would you care to come by for a visit? :)
Peter stares at his reflection in his mirror. His eye bags are beyond being saved by concealer. He’s pretty sure there’s still some warehouse dirt matted in his hair. The fact that the last thing he ate, he also threw up. He also literally forgot today was a holiday.
busy. sorry
It feels like autopilot to type, but Peter can’t actually find it in himself to press send. It’s been over a month since the last time he crawled in through her apartment window while she was out working a double. He had needed to use her sewing machine for an emergency repair to the suit. Peter glances over what’s left of that suit crumpled in the corner.
I’m making your favorite :)
Aunt May has always understood that Peter is chronically unavailable. They’re both workaholics who zap up their free time with anything but company. If Aunt May isn’t picking up an extra shift, then Peter is working overtime at the lab.
Well, before the lab dropped him two months ago for missing a shift because he was fighting a giant lizard. Aunt May doesn’t need to know that, though. While his friends are more than aware that he’s blowing them off, Aunt May usually assumes the best.
Peter deletes what he’s typed.
I’ll be there at six
It takes him only ten minutes to swing over to her place, but he’s been standing outside her door for an extra twenty. It’s stupid; the key is right there underneath the welcome mat, and he could just let himself in, or text her that he’s here but —
Peter checks his reflection in the shine of the big window behind him. He brushes his hand through his hair, trying to make it look more intentional, more like a choice, rather than the result of a hasty, less-than-stellar haircut. She’ll probably say it’s getting too shaggy anyway. It’s always something.
Aunt May isn’t exactly against his “self-expression” as she not-so-fondly calls it, but Peter can’t avoid the ingrained desire to clean up for her a little, to be the version of himself that doesn’t make her worry. A shower helped, and he even dug up that old box of skin-care MJ had given him during their short dating life. The moisturizer hopefully gave him a couple of points in the ‘I’m trying’ department.
If the ripless jeans, mostly clean black sweater, and boots that had seen better days don’t scream I’m fine—maybe even normal, then Peter doesn’t know what does. She always hated the piercings, though. Maybe she’ll see it as a positive sign.
Peter checks his phone. It’s about five minutes until six, he knocks once, waits for an appropriate two minutes before reaching underneath the mat to grab the key. By the time he stands up with it, the door is already open.
Aunt May looks about as tired as he does, mostly gray hair swept up into an untidy bun and still wearing yesterday’s scrubs even though today is literally a holiday. Peter isn’t sure why he even tried to look presentable, clearly they’re both fucked.
“Peter!”
She wraps him in a tight hug, pulling him in close enough that he can smell that hospital scent and months of accumulated stress wrapped up in lavender and Clorox. Peter buries his head into her shoulder and feels thankful that testosterone makes it very hard to cry.
“You look exhausted.” She says when she pulls back, pinching his cheek, and even testosterone can’t keep back the eye watering from how that makes him feel.
“Isn’t today a holiday?” Peter says, feeling his voice crack. It’s hard not to remember how much he missed her, now that he’s actually here. “You should be in pajamas or something.”
“I haven’t really had the chance to do a load of laundry this week.” Aunt May sighs, and then she’s giving him that critical scan of hers. “Seems like we’ve got that in common. You know, Peter, you can always bring your laundry over here, right?”
Peter bristles. “I’ve told you, I have a basement unit,” he says, defensiveness creeping into his voice. It’s a lie, mostly. The basement laundry room is always busy, and it smells faintly like mildew anyway. He never uses it. The local laundromat’s better for studying, anyway, when he has time to spare. “Besides, you’re literally one of the only people in New York with in-unit laundry, and you’re getting on my case? I probably wash my clothes more than you do.”
“When has this even seen a washer?” Aunt May interrupts by tugging at one of the stray threads of his sweater. “Or a lint roller?”
“It’s intentionally distressed!” Peter gestures pointedly down at the sweater. “It’s called a style choice.” It had taken hours of seam ripping to get the disheveled look he had been going for.
“Mmhm.” Aunt May purses her lips. “I guess my dirty scrubs are also something of a style choice — “
“You know I could look worse,” Peter says with a scowl, bending down to unlace his boots. “But you know, I try to spare you the worst of it.”
“Remember when you used to gel your hair into those little spikes?” Aunt May sighs in a way that borders on nostalgic, but Peter knows better. “I never understood that. Oh god, and the safety pins through the nose —“
“I really missed you too,” Peter grumbles, throwing his boots onto the floor. Then he hesitates, catching her glare and, after a beat, stacks them on the shoe rack. He rolls his eyes. “You’re right. Totally fine, just bringing the best version of me over. I’d never want to engage in some healthy self-expression around you.”
“You know I’ve always been supportive.” Aunt May reaffirms, mostly to herself because Peter knows that’s bullshit.
“Do you mind if I break out the sewing machine later?” Peter changes the subject quickly before she starts getting self-congratulatory about being a pretty lukewarm support system throughout his development years. “I have something I actually need to mend the holes in, which I’m sure you’ll love”
“Oh, now I see why you’re here.” Aunt May says, sighing dramatically. “You’re just using this visit to your dear old Aunt as an excuse to use me for my sewing machine.”
“Yeah, I only visit you to use your twenty-year-old Singer that breaks needles like it’s its fucking job.” Peter snorts, opening up the closet and taking the dust cover off said machine. It really should be donated to an archive at this point, but then he’d be stuck hand sewing his suits back together and he knows Aunt May only keeps it around for him.
“Language,” Aunt May scolds. “And it’s an antique! It works just fine when you don’t force it to work on such tough materials. It really does struggle with denim, remember when you made those horrible pants with all those buckles — “
Peter lets the rest of her ramble drown into background noise as he moves the machine over to the kitchen table. It’s actually clear for once, like she’s expecting company. It’s weird, though, she never clears it when he’s over. Peter’s heart twinges, a quick stab of guilt, because he realizes how infrequent his visits must be for him to be considered a guest in his own home.
“Don’t put that on the table.” Aunt May playfully swats his shoulder, and Peter can’t help the instinctive flinch. “It’ll scratch the wood.” She pauses. “You’re rather jumpy today, I was going to offer you some coffee, but I think you’ll be better off with tea.”
Peter imaging, explaining that the majority of his current social circle are people trying to kill him “Nothing personal,” he mutters instead, setting the machine carefully on the coffee table near the couch instead. “Just been overdoing it on the caffeine, been super busy with juggling work and school.”
Aunt May sets a glass of water on a coaster next to him. There’s little umbrellas on the rim, and Peter traces them with one hand and decides that maybe he’s not actually thirsty after all.
“Are you getting enough sleep?” Aunt May asks as she sits down on the couch across from him, taking a measured sip from her coffee.
“Are you?” Peter fires back, and then winces at the edge. He’s clearly been spending too much time with Wade.
He sinks onto the floor, sprawling his legs on either side of the table legs as she wrestles the suit out of his bag. Which is a mostly threadbare black tote with a rat king screen-print on it that he got at one of the local art fairs he used to have time for.
“Someone’s feeling rather snippy today,” Aunt May takes another sip from her cup. “I’ll take that as a no.” Peter thinks of pointing out that drinking coffee at eight isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement of her own sleep schedule, but he’s been enough of an asshole tonight.
“Dinner will be ready in a little bit,” Aunt May says after an uncomfortable stretch of silence. “Why don’t you catch me up on why your little friends keep on texting me how worried they are about you.”
Peter freezes mid-threading the machine needle. It misses the hole by a mile, “Um —“
“I hope you don’t mind, but I invited them over too. MJ says that you’ve ‘left her on read’? Whatever that means.”
“What?” Peter forgets what he’s doing, pushing back on instinct and almost knocking the machine off the table. He catches it just in time, chest tight with panic. “Are you f– are you being serious right now?”
Peter closes his eyes, trying to force down the frustration. Calm down. Breathe. “You’re so —” He cuts himself off, digging his fingers into the denim of his jeans so he doesn’t scratch into her coffee table. He threads the needle again, which he feels is impressive considering how bad his hands are shaking. “Why didn’t you ask me first?”
“Because then you wouldn’t have come,” Aunt May says quietly, and Peter feels like maybe the worst person alive because she’s right. There’s no way he would have. “And I wanted you to come.”
The guilt is already overwhelming, but somehow the waves hit a little higher this time. Peter shoves the fabric of the costume back under the machine, focusing hard on keeping his lines straight. He doesn’t know what to say to that. It would probably be better if he didn’t say anything at all.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic.” She sighs, softer now, as she steps into the kitchen. “You look like you’re starving. Let me heat something up for you.”
“I’m fine,” Peter mutters, but it’s lost under the hum of the machine. He feels a stab of guilt when she turns away, but he pushes it down. It’s better to not get her involved in his clusterfuck of a life right now. She doesn’t know it, but he’s doing her a favor.
Aunt May is already in the kitchen, pulling a frozen meal from the freezer and tossing it onto the counter. “Henry’s running a little late - says he’s busy at the office. Lord knows his father overworks him. I’ve never liked that man, but at least the fruit didn’t fall too close to the tree -“
“When did you tell them to come over?” Peter interrupts, finishing up the side seam on the right leg. He bites the bobbin thread off with his teeth before maneuvering the fabric over and starting on the other side. “How long does that meal take anyway?”
Aunt May snorts, sliding the meal into the microwave. “I’ll have to tell MJ you prefer Smart Ones chicken and broccoli over her company,” she quips dryly. “I’m sure that will ease her mind about you spiraling.”
“I said I was fine!” Peter snaps, one of his better therapists told him that when he got angry enough that he couldn’t stop himself from exploding that he should remove himself from the situation. He doesn’t have the luxury of a breakdown right now. Not with the suit halfway done.
“Is that what you think?” Aunt May wipes her hands on a towel as she walks back to the living room. “You clearly haven’t been eating enough, you sound like you’re off your medication, and I know the difference between your eye bags and your heavy use of eyeliner.”
“I’ve been busy!” Peter needs to calm down. Remember his breathing, center himself. Anything. He focuses on the hum of the machine, keeping his lines straight, even though he can already see them slopping up and down.
“You sound very convincing.” Aunt May says, sitting down hard enough on the couch, that her coffee cup on the side-table rattles.
Peter starts working on the tattered section of fabric that’s supposed to lie flat over his stomach. He pinned new fabric over before coming over, it’s hard to keep the edges straight when his hands are shaking like this.
“Well.” Aunt May interrupts his thoughts. “Aren’t you going to tell me what you’ve been busy with?”
“School. Work.” Peter grits out, finishing the side seam.“I told you.”
“Are you dating someone new?” Aunt May ignores him. “Pick up a new hobby? A second job? Come on Peter, I’m old, not stupid. I know how you get.”
“And how do I get?” Peter eyes the door apprehensively. He’s halfway done with the suit, if he works fast he can get it finished before he has to have another uncomfortable conversation.
“Over-involved.” Aunt May says, then the microwave beeps, and she gets off the couch.
“Over-involved.” Peter repeats under his breath. “What the fuck do you mean by that? Over-involved.” He says again, his seam lines remind him of his erratic pulse right now.
He thinks of Wade, sliding a katana through his torso. The way that burning flesh smells. The jagged edge of that crystal slamming between his ribs and out the other side. The fact that he keeps on fixing suits that he knows are just going to get shredded. Because people need him, and he keeps people safe, and he’s always going to keep his people safe even if it means —
May slides a steaming plate of chicken and broccoli in front of him before sinking back into the couch behind him. It’s so nice to be near her, even when they’re clearly not good. At all. Just the feeling of being next to someone that isn’t actively trying to kill or be saved by him feels like a luxury. Peter just wishes she wasn’t trying to save him instead.
“I don’t get ‘over-involved.’” Peter repeats numbly, snapping the bobbin thread with a tug of his finger. Aunt May would usually be asking him questions now about what he was making, but for once, her attention is on something he feels even cagier about.
“So which one is it?” Aunt May asks as Peter digs into the food. It’s not exactly delicious, but he hasn’t eaten since he threw up that soup, so it’s hard to be picky. It’s gone before he can even think of an answer.
“None of the above.” Peter finally says, setting the container down. He could probably throw back about five of those, but he’s not going to. It’s bad enough that he’s lying to her face. The fact that he’s taking her food too hurts.
“You look like you haven’t slept, you’re not eating—” Aunt May’s voice drops as he rubs her thumb over the concealer on his cheek. “What is this?”
Peter freezes, and for a split second the world goes a little fuzzy. He thinks of his face pressed painfully against the wall, the blood, the heat. His mind jumps to the way Wade’s fingers felt inside him, pulling flakes of plaster out of the wound.
“Nothing!” he says too quickly, jerking his face away from her touch. The needle snaps in the machine, vibrating erratically as it useless punches at the fabric. Everything feels like it’s starting to unravel. “Fuck his machine!”
“Peter, language!” Aunt May’s voice cracks, her own composure fraying too. “It’s clearly something – if you would just talk about it – “
He fumbles through the sewing kit, searching for the right tool, but his fingers aren’t steady enough to focus.
“God!” Peter pushes the box away, feeling the room close around him. This was a bad idea. There was definitely a reason he didn’t see her for three months. “You’re so —“ Peter searches for a word that doesn’t need a censor. “Invasive!”
“You stop talking to your friends, stop talking to me, quit your lab job -“
“How do you even know about that?” Peter’s voice cracks, and that’s great. He can’t even control his own vocal cords right now.
“Because you’re my nephew!” Aunt May slams her coffee cup down so hard that it splatters onto the lilac fabric of the couch. “And I’m worried about you, Peter. You worry me. I keep myself up at night wondering what you’re doing, where you’re at, who you’re with—“
Fighting crime in the worst part of the city alongside hired killers. Peter imagines himself telling her, and thinks about how much nicer it would be to be jumping off a building about now.
“Well, stop.” Peter says, feeling panic creep into his voice as he wrestles his suit out from under the machine. The left sleeve is mangled from the needle break, but he can’t afford to fix it. He has to get out of here right now. “Because there’s nothing to worry about. How the fuc — how do you know about my lab job?”
“Because you stopped responding to my texts, Peter,” Aunt May says, voice shaky with frustration. “And MJ didn’t know where you were. I had to call them, because I needed to know that someone knew where you were.”
“I wasn’t anywhere special.” Peter says quietly. “You don’t have to worry.”
“People who care about you are going to care about you, Peter,” Aunt May continues, her voice quieter now, almost defeated. “Whether you like it or not. And I know you don’t.”
Peter wish he had something to do with his hands that wasn’t fixing the sewing machine. Instead, he digs his fingernails hard into the soft of his palm and tries to find the pain grounding.
“I found another job.” Peter says as evenly as he can. “You don’t have to worry about it.” He says again, maybe this time it’ll come across as sincere.
“Where?” Aunt May asks, sounding unconvinced. Peter doesn’t blame her, considering that he’s lying to her face, and he’s terrible at it.
“At the Bugle.” Peter folds the suit up in an awkward bundle. It looks like a sad fabric wreck. “I — I take photographs.”
“Of what?” Aunt May arches a brow, unconvinced. “That can’t possibly pay better than lab — “
“I make it work.” Peter snaps. “Okay? I’m fine. I have a job, I have — my shit together. I’m doing things. I’m not over-involved or whatever you’re telling yourself. Just - “
Before he can finish that round of bullshit, the door unlocks and MJ storms into the apartment. Peter forgot that she knew about the key under the mat too.
“Okay, that’s it. I can’t listen to you yell at your Aunt anymore.” ” MJ is dressed for an intervention, if the intervention involved strangling him to death. A studded leather jacket that Peter helped her make, layers of spiked collars over a dangerous looking red corset. All of her rings bunched together remind him of brass knuckles, or maybe it’s the way she has them balled into fists. She looks good, even though she’s visibly furious. MJ always did look pretty angry.
“I’m not yelling! “ Peter says, and then wants to punch himself for that being the first thing he says to her after months of saying nothing at all.
“He was being incredible belligerent.” Aunt May sniffs.
“Oh? I’m being belligerent?” Peter shouts. “I’m —
“Shut up, Peter,” MJ says, taking a step toward him. Peter hasn’t seen her in so long that he’s not surprised she looks totally different. Her hair is in a new protective hairstyle, red braids with little silver charms that fall to the small of her back. She shaved her eyebrows again, and painted on tiny black stars instead. He wants to say something about them, but the words are stuck.
She notices, though, the way his eyes linger on her hair for a second too long. “What?” she asks, a little softer now, though still fiery. “You want to know where I got the charms? Or are you just finally noticing I exist?”
Peter missed her so much, it feels like gut punch to the chest.
“Yeah, I like them.” Peter says, and feels like today’s his first day on the planet.
“Also, we both know you’re the one being the asshole.” She rolls her eyes, looking over at Aunt May with a familiar look that Peter used to hate seeing during his high-school interventions. Except this isn’t about drugs, it’s way worse.
Peter feels this close to snapping, he needs to get out of here. “Were you just lurking outside the door like – like – “ He swallows the word creep, because she’s not one, he’s just angry that she’s trying to be a good friend in a situation that he doesn’t want her in at all. “Was this your idea?”
“Hell no,” MJ rolls her eyes, dragging a chair out from the kitchen table and carrying it over near the couch before flipping it around so she can straddle it. Peter wants to tell her that he likes her pants, leather and tight with little strings holding them together. They look expensive, and he wants to know if she thrifted it or if Henry’s gift giving privileges have been turned back on.
“Honestly?” She continues when he doesn’t say anything at all. “I’m shocked you came at all.”
“I didn’t know you’d be here.” Peter says, and he doesn’t mean for it to sound like that, but MJ’s face tightens and her eyes shine with a barely suppressed hurt. MJ’s never been a coward, she’s always felt loudly. Peter wonders how long it took for her to start holding back for him.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” If Aunt May wasn’t sitting right here, MJ would probably sock him straight in the jaw. Peter kind of wishes she would.
“I’m – “ Peter opens his mouth, and then closes it. The last three-month bleeds in the back of his brain like an unhealed concussion. The building exploding with everyone inside, Wade’s body crumpling lifelessly to the ground after Peter fractured every bone in his body. The mutants cornering him inside the warehouse, because Peter left the bodies of their friends outside the hospital. The overwhelming shame of every wrong step, bad choice, poor call.
The panic he felt when he thought Wade knew who he was, and who he loved, and where they lived, and how to hurt them to get to him.
“Three months,” MJ spits, voice cracking. “I’ve been one of your best friends since you were thirteen. You couldn’t even send me a text? You couldn’t tell your Aunt that you lost your job? I was worried about you, Peter.”
The guilt gnaws at him even when he’s opening his mouth to lash out. It feels like she's slamming doors he doesn’t want to open. But she’s right. And she cares, and the fact that still cares even though he doesn’t deserve it makes it hurt more.
“Fuck you.” Peter stands up so quickly he gets lightheaded. “I don’t have to deal with this.”
“No, but you do!” MJ snaps, and Peter can see the cracks under the rage. He feels them. It’s something they’ve always understood about each other, the way that anger is just a front for something tender. “ I don’t know what the hell you’ve been doing these last months, but I know you’re shutting everyone out. And I can’t –“ MJ swallows. “I can’t just watch you do that to yourself, Pete. I care about you too much to just let you run away like I know you want to.”
Peter isn’t sure if he wants to hug her or push past her. He doesn’t do either, just stares at the door and feels exposed in all the worst ways. He knows he can’t keep looking at her face though, so he bends down to shove on his boots and sloppily lace one and not the other. The room smells like lasagna, which he wants so bad he could cry. Because Aunt May actually looks like she’s about to start crying if he doesn’t stay to eat it.
It’s not like there’s a manual for how to live a double life. Peter doesn’t know if the right thing is to tell them, or to keep them in the dark. He just knows that if he wakes up and finds out that one of them got hurt because of Spider-Man the fallout would be worse than this shitty little intervention.
“Signature Parker move! Glad to see at least that hasn’t fucking changed.” MJ shouts as he throws open the door.
Aunt May doesn’t say anything, just looks at him with all the worry in the world.
Peter forces himself to look away from both of them and turns back to walk straight through the door and right into Harry. Sheepishly holding a bottle of wine and a little box, that Peter assumes is probably some super fancy desert that pairs awful with store bought lasagna. Peter pushes past him numbly, starting down the hallway.
“Peter!” Henry footsteps are heavy behind him. Peter pushes open the door leading to the stairs so hard that the hinges creak. It’s freezing in the stairwell, and he thinks how stupid he was for not bringing a jacket.
“What is going on with you, man?” Harry sounds frustrated as his footsteps follow Peter quickly down the stairs. Peter wants to hit something. Wants to punch straight through sheet metal.
“You wouldn’t understand!” Peter shouts behind him, and then immediately wishes he didn’t because then Harry’s hand is on his shoulder, and it’s like three months break apart inside him. Peter can’t move. He feels like he’s been bolted to the floor.
“Try me?” Harry says, awkward and earnest, and before Peter can stop himself he’s already buried his face in Harry’s expensive shirt. Harry’s arms are steady around him. It’s not just comfort – Peter hasn’t been this vulnerable in front of anyone for months. Harry feels like a mountain, and Peter is so tired of being the mountain.
Harry doesn’t say anything, just holds him a little tighter, offering a silent kind of support Peter hasn’t realized he needed until now.
“I can’t,” Peter mumbles. He’s not sure if Harry can even hear him through the fabric. He slowly pulls back, swiping his arm over his eyes. Maybe his dosage is lower than he thought, because he seriously cannot stop crying.
“What happened man?” Harry hasn’t changed at all. The same slick, yacht owner hair-cut that Peter and MJ always tease him about but works for him anyway. Same concerned, too-sweet brown eyes looking closer than Peter wants right now.
“Can’t talk about it,” Peter grinds the heels of his hands against his eyes until he sees spots. “I am – going through so much right now. So fucking much.” It feels good to admit it, and know that Harry knows exactly what that’s like. The best part of their friendship was always the mutual understanding that there was some shit you just couldn’t talk about it.
“Okay,” Harry takes in a deep breath. “Okay, you — I guess you don’t have to. I just - we’re so worried about you Peter. I’m — I’m worried about you. I left work early because I knew MJ and Aunt May would probably uh, you know —“ Harry mimics a throat punch.
“I deserve it,” Peter mutters, resting his forehead against the cool metal of the stairwell. “I’m the worst. I’ve been a bad friend, a bad nephew. Hell, a bad everything.”
The words burn in his throat, and he almost expects Harry to push back, tell him it’s not true. But Harry stays quiet. His silence is an answer Peter already knows.
“I mean, right now?” Harry scratches the back of his neck with a nervous chuckle, trying to keep the mood light, though it’s clear his words carry weight. “You totally are. But I get it. I do. I know you’re hurting, Pete, and it’s fucking tough. Doesn’t mean it’s easy to watch.”
Peter winces, but there’s no anger in Harry’s voice—just the kind of hurt that comes from seeing someone you care about destroy themselves slowly.
Peter pushes away from the wall to punch him lightly in the shoulder, but apparently he forgets his strength because Harry still winces even though Peter really put absolutely nothing behind it. “Ow. You’ve been working out or something, man?”
“Yeah.” Peter coughs, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Sure. Something like that.”
“Well I heard pumping iron is good for like, depression.” Harry shrugs like he isn’t the type of guy to hit the gym five times a week. “Glad you’re doing something.” He pauses. “Hey, listen…if you want me to help you find a therapist or something cause - you can’t talk about it with us, I — you could totally pay me back — “
“Frenchie,” Peter says, using the safe word that him and Harry decided on when his overgenerous friend tries to fix his problems with money he physically is incapable of accepting.
Peter’s mental health isn’t the wall keeping him from the people he cares about. It’s Spider-Man. A therapist wasn’t going to fix this.
“Fine.” Harry sighs. “I get it. I get it. I know you’re — like, trying to do this shit on your own. It’s your thing. Doing it on your own.” It sounds accusatory, but Peter can’t exactly blame him. “But — let us in, a little? Your Aunt misses you, MJ really — really misses you, even though I know she doesn’t sound like it and I — “
“I know,” Peter drags a hand through his hair and sighs. “It’s just. It’s so fucking — “ There aren’t words for it, so Peter doesn’t even try. “You wouldn’t even believe the shit I’ve been dealing with.”
“I mean, maybe I would?” Harry tries one of his disarming smiles and it drops when he realizes that Peter isn’t going to give. “You can’t run from us forever, Peter.”
“Try me.” Peter tries to smile. Harry doesn’t smile back, so he drops it too.
“I trust you Peter. I — well, not on everything, but I trust that you think you’re doing the best thing for everyone.” Harry rocks back on his heels. “Just — remember that it’s okay to do the best thing for you too.”
“What if — “ Peter starts.
“I think we both know that this doesn’t feel like the best thing for you.” Harry finishes for him, squeezing Peter’s shoulder. “But it’s your life, and I — I mean, I’m trying to respect that. I think I am?”
“I can’t go back up.” Peter says instead of answering, because of course he is. Harry is the nicest, most decent person Peter knows and he doesn’t deserve it at all right now “Could you - could you tell them - “
“That you’re sorry?” Harry sighs. “I’m sure they’d appreciate it more coming from you.”
“Yeah, well…” Peter scuffs his boot against the concrete. “I am, for the record.”
“We’re in your corner forever Peter. This isn’t going to shake us out of it, but —“ Harry stops.
“I can’t tell them.” Peter pleads, even though he’s not sure if it’s to Harry or himself. “And they won’t believe me when I tell them that it’s because I’m just trying to…I just — I can’t.”
“You’re welcome at our place any time,” Harry insists, and there’s no hesitation in his voice. It’s not a suggestion—it’s a promise. “No matter what, any time, any reason. The door is always open. Just… whenever you’re ready. We’ll be here.”
Peter’s heart aches as the words sink in, because it feels like Harry’s been offering him a lifeline this whole time, even if Peter’s too scared to reach out.
“Okay,” Peter says, his voice cracking as he takes a step back, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. “Tell them…” He pauses, unable to finish the thought.
“You have their numbers,” Harry says quietly, tossing the bottle and box into Peter’s hands. “Just tell them yourself.” Then, before Peter can protest, Harry’s already halfway up the stairs.
Harry is a fucking saint, the best guy to ever accidentally have money. Peter hates him, and loves him, and misses him so bad it feels someone’s taken out a rib.
When Peter throws open the door, he steps out into the snow-covered street. The snow falls in a soft, hypnotic haze, and the chill bites at his skin, but it feels good in a way. The distant glow from Aunt May’s apartment feels almost mocking, He stands in the middle of the street until his fingers go numb, the cold pressing into his bones as if it’s trying to freeze him into place.
It would feel so good to be Spider-Man right now and forget exactly how bad he is at being Peter.
Instead, he takes the bus home. It’s almost empty, and Peter settles in the back seats. The gentle rumble of it moving feels like the only sound in the world, until the loud growl of his stomach interrupts. He wishes MJ waited to make her entrance after the lasagna had come out.
He digs into the box of little artisan chocolates that Harry brought instead and finishes off the whole box, even though it makes his stomach hurt, and the sugar makes his teeth feel gross. There’s no around him to watch him, so he decides to uncork the wine and finish that off too.
By the time he’s done, he’s got a hint of a buzz, which he know won’t last long with his healing factor. His phone vibrates again, and he’s almost afraid to look at it. But Peter has been enough of a coward tonight, so he forces it out of his pocket and stares numbly at the screen.
found ur girl
meet me at this address 2morrow at 3p
c u there <3 <3
“Where the fuck are you?”
Peter has gotten Wade’s answering machine the last two times he’s called and it’s getting pretty tiring hearing that cheery, demented voice telling him that on the third missed call he’s eligible for a fifteen percent discount. Mostly because Peter is already getting a discount and apparently he’s getting exactly what he didn’t actually pay for.
That’s on him, really for trusting the word of a mercenary. Or asking for help from one in the first place.
Peter ends the call before he can say what he really wants to, and risks Wade not showing up at all. Then he kicks half of an old lighter over the edge of the hotel rooftop he’s been waiting on for over two hours. Peter barely hears it hitting the ground, and now he’s bored again.
He’s already stressed with everything happening with Aunt May and Harry. MJ texted him a long paragraph that he removed his notifications last night so he can avoid reading it. Aunt May left him two unlistened to voicemails. Harry ordered a fruit basket to his door. Wade should be here by now.
Buzz.
“Finally!” Peter shouts, scrambling to open up the new text message. It took Wade a couple of days before sending him this address and in that time Peter decided it was only fair to change his contact name to Wade instead of FUCK OFF. After he opens the message, he considers that maybe he should have just kept the original.
Underneath the address Wade had sent earlier, there is a blue link and a pop-up that leads to a horoscope from cafeastrology.com —
Dear Virgo, today is strong for patience with others. It's not only a great time for steadying expectations, but it's also good for stabilizing your life in critical ways. You might show your value and strength to a special someone today.
“You fucking - “ Peter’s thumb presses against the screen protector so hard that a spider-web crack absolutely obliterates it.
“Whatever.” Peter exhales sharply, shoving his phone into his pocket before Wade texts him again and he throws it off the roof. He’ll give him another ten minutes and then he’s getting down and figuring this out on his own.
Buzz. Buzz.
Peter waits a long moment before taking it out of his pocket. It’s not from Wade.
Peter, next time you come by, can you stay a bit longer? Just long enough for me to really see that you're okay? I’m sorry that you felt like you had to leave. I love you
It feels a little like getting punched in the ribs.
sorry about the other night. busy with school will come by soon
love you
sorry again
Peter imagines her shaking her head and calling bullshit. She’s probably punching the roof of her shitty blue Toyota Corolla right now, knowing that soon is proverbially never. He is sorry though. He thinks about typing it again just so she knows how sorry.
saved you some of the lasagna It’s still in the fridge, but you should come get it before it goes bad. I’d hate for it to go to waste
It’s bad enough that this hotel is right across from a ramen house and the smell coming from it is making him almost lightheaded. Peter stares blearily at the neon sign. It’s broken and it keeps flickering off and on again. It flickers back on now, holds onto its full brilliance for exactly three seconds and then immediately sputters out.
He relates with it on a molecular level.
ok
Peter sends it and tries to tell himself that he’ll follow through.
The ten minutes are up, and Wade still hasn’t texted him back but Peter doesn’t actually feel like moving from this spot. It’s not bad weather for a winter day in New York, a little cold, but not enough that he can’t feel his fingers. It’s nice to watch the world living underneath him. Peter likes that he gets to be apart from it for a bit.
Peter really hopes Wade comes through. The fact that he’s still on this roof because Peter actually trusts that he will is —
Buzz.
Peter flips open his phone to see if Wade’s texted him an ETA so he doesn’t have to finish that thought.
behind u
“You know, if we’re going to be working together you’re going to have to -“ Peter starts, but the roof is empty behind him.
“Gotcha.”
Peter feels a finger press against the curve of his skull and loops up to see Deadpool straddling the roof next to him. Wade moves his hand and blows away the invisible smoke.
“Do I even want to ask what took you so long?” Peter is too annoyed to focus on the way that Wade keeps dangling the fact that he could have taken him out by now in his face.
“Would it kill you to be just a little more susceptible?” Wade sighs, straddling the roof and scooting closer than Peter wants him.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Peter snorts. “Please don’t shoot me Mr. Deadpool,” He lilts his voice in falsetto. “I want to be in the sequel.”
“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Wade snickers, throwing a casual arm around Peter’s shoulders. Peter elbows him so hard that Wade wheezes when the breath is knocked out of him.
“Keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times, buddy.” Peter says, standing up. His body feels a little live wire right now, like the adrenaline doesn’t know what to do with itself.
“Or what?” Wade asks, and Peter feels that dangerous thing. The thing he’s been pushing down ever since he woke up inside that warehouse.
It’s s getting a little complicated, figuring the cross-section that Wade exists on inside him. Peter appreciates that Wade’s the type of asshole that triggers all of his buttons so he doesn’t have to give it a name it yet. A part of him hopes he never has to.
“Why are we at the Four Seasons?” Peter twitches, he can already feel that familiar buzz under his skin - the hot, dangerous itch right before he wants to throw down. There better be fifty well-armed goons waiting for him in that hotel. He needs to hit something in quick, brutal succession.
“Wooooww, what are you a professional?” Wade snickers. “Someone’s raring to go.”
“Maybe I want to show my value and strength to a special someone today.” Peter drawls. “Or maybe it’s the two hours I’ve spent on this fucking roof.”
“Patience is a virtue, baby boy.” Wade shrugs, clearly unbothered. “’Sides, she booked the room for the week. It’s not like she was going anywhere.”
Peter always forgets how quickly Wade can go from mostly tolerable, to the person he wants to hit in quick, brutal succession the most.
“Okay.” Wade pauses. “Not that it’s any of my business – “
“If you ask me how I’m doing, I will throw you off this roof.” Peter grits out. ”Don’t even go there.”
“Hey, never let it be said I didn’t try.” Wade shrugs. “Okay, first off. The name that you gave me was totally a cover. ‘Maggie Johnson’ does not exist. Well, I mean there are Maggie Johnsons in New York but they’re not purple haired mutants with metal powers.”
“Are you fucking with me?” Peter asks.“You better be fucking with me, Wade.”
Wade gives him a long, pointed look, then shrugs. “Not this time, Spidey.” He pauses. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you ASAP. This is a rare, not-fucking with you moment. Soon to be gone.”
Peter is suddenly finding it a little hard to breathe. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would Anne lie to be me about her name?”
“Au contraire mon cheri.” Wade’s shrug feels too casual for what Peter is processing. “Well, turns out Anne Johnson isn’t a real person either. Sorry to burst your bubble.”
“You’re fucking with me.” Peter repeats flatly. “Why are you fucking with me?”
“I’m not!” Wade says. “Honest, listen. That girl you met, she’s probably not even related to ‘Maggie’, but honestly I couldn’t tell you because I couldn’t find anything about her. She’s not a registered mutant, or regular easily traceable person. You might have come in contact with an actual ghost.”
"Then who the fuck are we here to find?" Peter looks around the rooftop. “Is this just some wild goose chase? A prank?” All this time he was worried that he wasn’t doing enough, that Maggie was trapped and alone somewhere he was too stupid to find, just for it to be nothing. It feels terrible. Peter thought he had already peaked in feeling terrible, but apparently he just broke his own glass ceiling.
“No idea.” Wade snaps his phone shut. He’s using one of those new flip ones, it’s bright pink and has several charms dangling from it. Peter lets himself be distracted by them, for a second. They’re all weird little cartoon animals, plus a bedazzled pink gun. “I mean, about it being a prank or whatever. We’re here to find your purple haired chick, she just goes by a different name. ‘Mari Fisher.’
“So….she’s…here. Mari.” Peter points down, at the hotel, and then he remembers something. “Wait – what about the apartment? We should go there first, look around maybe – “
Wade cuts him off like he’s excited to set up the punchline. “Get ready for the shocker of the century. That apartment you visited?” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Totally foreclosed. Abandoned for at least fifteen years. I think I saw a rat syndicate taking over the place.”
Peter’s stomach lurches. “But she was there. I was in her apartment. That doesn’t make any sense.”
Wade’s casual shrug feels out of place with how off-balanced Peter feels right now. “Well, either she was squatting or she’s got some freakish U-Haul game. ‘Cause when I checked, that place was dead. Fifteen years dead. Nothing there but the before mentioned rat mob and, you know, dust.”
Peter’s mind races, trying to reconcile the apartment he remembers with what Wade’s saying. “I was there,” Peter repeats, but he feels more uncertain. “This is weird. This is really fucking weird.”
Wade is quiet next to him, no snark or teasing. Just silence. It’s geniunely not at all what Peter needs right now.
“Fuck,” Peter mutters, He looks across at the flickering neon and watches it sputter and die again.
“I mean, in your defense what are the odds?” Wade says, voice light. “A boy scout like you is never going to think ‘Hey, what if neither of them exist,’”
Peter drags his hands down his face. “This is — this is fucked. I just — “ He swallows. “I wanted to help.”
“You are so sweet.” Wade says, sounding surprisingly earnest, almost affectionate, and for a moment Peter seriously thinks of shoving him off the roof. “You’ve got that good heart thing going for you, it just — sometimes people take advantage of that.”
“I don’t need your pity, dude.” Peter scowls.
“Oh, I’m not pitying you.” Wade cackles. “I’m just saying it’s a little heart-warming knowing that people really do things for others out of the goodness of their little, easily manipulated hearts. No offense, but it was really a matter of time before you got burned.”
“Are you done?”
Wade shrugs. “Listen, I don’t have answers. Just questions. And some really brutal yet honest observations about your overly trusting nature. You have a certain je ne sais quoi, or you know. A natural gullibility, take your pick.”
“I just found out I’ve been manipulated into finding a person who doesn’t exist for someone who isn’t real,” Peter spits. “Can you give me a fucking second?”
“Sure.” Wade raises his hands defensively. “Sure, sure. I mean, don’t shoot the messenger but - uh, take five. Fifteen. Whatever.”
Peter shoves his mask back down over his nose so that he doesn’t have to feel so exposed.
“It doesn’t feel great.” Wade says quietly next to him. He’s leaning with his back to the railing, arms crossed, watching Peter with a focus that makes him wish he’d look anywhere else.
Peter shrugs. Wade really is the actual last person he wants to be experiencing a heart-to-heart moment with.
“God, you’d think you’re the only guy who's ever had something bad happen to him before.” Wade groans. “Come on, get over yourself.”
Peter laughs humorlessly. “Yeah, I’m a vigilante because I think I’m the only person whose ever suffered. You really got me pinned there.”
“You think that’s bad?” Wade sounds like he’s about to go for gold in the trauma dumping Olympics, and Peter braces himself for impact, “I’ve been awake sometimes, when they were cutting parts out of me. Sometimes I don’t even know if what I have is even the right stuff, or if I don’t remember enough to know the difference.” Wade exhales, his voice hollow. “Sometimes I wouldn’t even know my own name, just the pain. The sound of it. The breath. That’s all that kept me going. Like... like that was the only thing that reminded me I was still there.”
Peter focuses on the tightness in his chest, trying to remember how to breathe. Wade's voice sounds muffled, like it's coming from underwater, but every so often a word cuts through—'awake'... 'taking parts'—Peter isn’t really paying attention.
“Are you even listening?” Wade breaks through the noise by putting a hand on his shoulder.
“Yeah.” Peter lies, aggressively shaking him off. ”For sure.”
Wade crosses his arms tighter. "I get it, okay? You don’t want to hear it. But news flash: you're not the only one with a rough life. This planet sucks, and we all just have to suck it up and keep going.”
"Very inspirational," Peter mutters, “You should do a TedTalk.”
Wade snorts, clearly not fazed. "Like I’d waste a TedTalk on being ‘inspirational.’ Please. I’d do one on the weapons manufacturing complex and the joys of open-carrying." He pauses. “Duh.”
Peter rolls his eyes, unable to keep a smile from tugging at his lips. “Count me out. You’ve already lost me.”
Wade snickers. "Okay, how about the financial backend of being a private contractor?” “Oh, right, I forget you’re an unfunded single entity non-profit. The only financial backend you have is the three dollars in your Dollar Tree wallet.”
Peter snorts. “Now you're making fun of me for not killing people for profit?"
“I thought you were a heavy lifter.” Wade says, punching him lightly in the shoulder. “You can handle it.”
Peter sighs and stares up at the gray sky. “Do not quit your day job. You’re terrible at the whole ‘making people feel better’ thing.”
Wade shrugs. “Worth a shot. Gave you something else to be pissed off at, right?”
“I have people, Wade.” Peter swallows. Not that he’s great at retaining people, but he doesn’t want them to get in the crossfire of whatever this is. “I mean, they clearly went to a lot of trouble of enlisting me for this make-believe missing person’s case. What if – “
“Your real life gets involved?” Wade finishes for him. Peter is starting to notice how often he does that. Incredibly irritating trait. “Lucky you, ‘cause they for sure won’t.” Wade points down. “’cause we’re going to pay this Mari person a little visit.”
“I mean - yeah.” Peter takes in a shaky exhale. “I do want to talk to her.”
“That is so not what paying a visit means.” Wade groans. “Ugh. You’re like a sentient child safety lock.”
“You’re not shooting her.” Peter frowns. “We talked about this.”
“Okay, sure. Be an easy target.” Wade snorts. “I’m sure your growing list of enemies is going to be real psyched to hear that you can play hop-scotch with your brain box and get off scot-free.”
“Wade - “
“Fiiiiine. Pinky-promise.” Wade holds out his pinkie and Peter ignores it. “Well, now I’m definitely shooting her.”
“Listen.” Peter leans in close, hesitating before grabbing onto the edge of Wade’s collar and pulling him close. “As long as we’re working together, then you’re not killing anybody. You said you wanted to help me, and this is what helping me looks like. Understand?”
Wade’s breath catches. “Yes? No? Maybe? I think you need to pull me in a little closer, not sure I heard you the first time — “
“Don’t make this weird.” Peter finally manages to get out, feeling his face heat up under the mask.
“I think we both know that’s not going to happen.” Wade tugs absently at his collar. “I do solemnly swear not to make our little visit a total pain for the cleaning staff.”
Peter sighs, letting go and leaning back.“Great.”
“Also, when we’re done, how would you feel about grabbing some ramen from across the street —“
“Let’s just — “ Peter sighs and thinks of his empty fridge at home, his stomach rolling. “Ask me when we’re done.”
Wade cheers. “Awesome. That’s so not a no. It’s on me, when we do. If we do.” He pauses. “We’re totally getting ramen after.”
Peter jumps onto the edge of the railing and sways as it moves with his weight. “I’m going to go find her room. You coming?”
Wade whoops, and slings a leg over the railing. Peter freezes.
“What - what are you doing?”
“I mean, it’s only thirty feet. My legs bounce back pretty fast.” Wade shrugs, and Peter has to shoot out a web before he falls. Wade dangles underneath him, suspended in the air by a thin thread of webbing connected to his right boot in a way that reminds Peter of a trapped fly.
“You’re fucking insane.” Peter grits out before slowly lowering Wade all the way down to the ground. When he flips off the side and joins him after landing in a crouch, Wade is sprawled out on the ground cutting the webbing off his foot with the edge of his knife.
“I so knew you were going to do that.” Wade says cheerfully, folding the knife back up and sliding it back one of his pockets.
“Just ask next time.” Peter scowls.
“Next time?” Wade shoots finger guns at him. “Oooh, we’re making this a regular thing. Am I being conscripted into your little vigilante one man show or something? I guess a little pro bono work wouldn’t be too bad for the ol’ resume. I mean, actually, it would be - but maybe we could - “
Peter considers shooting another web over his mouth. “Do you ever shut up?”
“Never.” Wade promises, standing up. “We’ve talked about this, but I love to talk, so I’m down to talk about it again - “
Peter is starting to realize that the only way out is through, so he pushes past Wade and starts toward the side of the building.
“Hey, where are you going?” Wade calls out.
“I’m going to try to find a way in.” Peter says, squinting up the side of the building. There’s no open windows, which makes sense, considering it’s the middle of winter and absolutely freezing. He doesn’t necessarily want to break a window to get in, either -
“Dude, let’s just book a room.” Wade jogs up beside him.
“Are you kidding me?” Peter asks because he’s not actually ever sure when Deadpool is joking with him or not. This feels like a joke, he needs it to be a joke, actually.
“Nah, it’ll be faster this way.” Wade grabs suddenly him by the arm, and tugs him toward the entrance.
“I can’t afford a room here.” Peter sputters, refusing to move.
“Obviously.” Wade says, tugging impatiently. Peter barely resists the urge to punch him. “It’ll be on my card. Duh.”
Peter peels Wade’s fingers off his arm slowly, using more strength than he needs to even though he regrets it immediately when Wade lets out a pleased half-sigh as his fingers bend back at an angle that nothing should.
“Fine.” Peter says, because he can’t think of a reason not to agree. If Deadpool wants to pay for an overpriced hotel room that neither of them are going to use, then that’s on him.
Wade scrambles behind like an over-eager puppy as Peter steps into the revolving door and pushes out until he’s in the lobby. It is a very, very nice hotel. The bright chandelier hangs, massive and glinting in the center of the room. Wade’s boots clack loudly against the polished marble tile and Peter feels poorer and poorer with every step.
The woman at the front desk openly gapes.
“Room for two please.” Wade says as they stop in front of her, he flourishes his shiny black card. She looks at both of them like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. “Oh, and we only need one bed.”
“What?” Peter elbows Wade sharply in the ribs.
“Honey.” Wade beams down at him. “I thought we talked about this.”
“I fucking - “ Peter starts, and then looks back at the front desk woman, whose name tag reads Cheryl still staring. “Fine. Whatever. It’s - it’s whatever.” He crosses his arms, feeling claustrophobic even though the lobby feels bigger than his entire apartment complex.
“Yeah, it’s Wilson, Wade Wilson. Alliteration. Fun, right?” Wade leans against the counter. “How’s your day going - hey, have you seen a purple haired woman with a deceitful quality to her come in lately?
“Are you Spider-Man?” Cheryl asks, ignoring the question and Wade entirely to stare at Peter.
“That’s me.” Peter coughs.
“Why do you keep changing suits?” She asks, and then looks over at Wade, almost look she’s sizing up a very terrifying dog. Peter can’t blame her, Wade looks objectively terrifying even when he’s being friendly. “If uh - you don’t mind asking.” She grabs two key cards, and slides it onto the counter.
“Just trying a few different looks out.” Peter leans in a way that he hopes comes across as casual. “Why, do you have a preference?”
Wade snorts beside him.
“The black is kind of uh –-“ Cheryl looks at Wade again, and flinches when he looks back. “I like the red.” She finally says. “Looks very….uh….Captain America-y?”
Peter pulls a face, even though she can’t see it. “I was honestly kind of trying to avoid that.”
Wade snickers. “Oh, too bad because it’s really giving fanboy.”
“Shut up.” Peter snaps. Cheryl’s chair audibly rolls back, away from both of them.
“So you haven’t seen an evil purple lady huh.” Wade marches undettered. “If you did, you would really be helping Spider-Man out.”
Cheryl gives him a look that Peter can only explain as trying to figure out if this is a hostage situation, and if she need someone to call someone for him. He shakes his head.
“I don’t really remember anyone like that, but I just clocked in.” Cheryl says as Wade pockets the cards.
“She’ll probably check in under the name Mari Fisher.” Wade continues, unfettered. “Or Tina Swinton” He pauses, before looking over at Spider-Man and pseudo whispering. “Those are her usual go-tos when she checks into places like these. Amateur hour, amiright?” He jostles Peter’s shoulder with his elbow.
“Don’t touch me.” Peter snaps.
“I really shouldn’t be telling you that information.” Cheryl says nervously, her fingers tapping against the edge of the counter.
“Come on — “ Wade starts, and Peter shushes him by reaching up and clamping his hand over his mouth.
“I know that it’s against customer confidentiality.” Peter says, and grimaces when he feels Wade’s lips moves against his hand. “But I –-“ He swallows. “Could really use your help.”
Cheryl looks unconvinced, and Peter is pretty sure that he’s lost this one before she starts typing slowly on her keyboard, her face pinched as she squints at the screen.
Then, she’s writing something down on a piece of paper and sliding it slowly toward Peter, staring warily up at Wade until Peter grabs and looks at it.
NOD TWICE IF U NEED ME 2 CALL POLICE
703
Wade nods twice, and Peter elbows him hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Wade wheezes as Peter slides the note into his pocket.
“I swear, I’m around him on purpose right now.” Peter grits out. “Thank you so much for your help.”
Cheryl nods slowly. “Um, happy to help.” She pauses, like she wants to say something else and Peter isn’t sure if he can handle any more of this interaction right now. “Sorry, but uh, we’re kind of in a hurry.”
“Oh!” Cheryl says. “Well uh, room is um, two floors up, take two lefts after you get out of the elevator and then go down to the end of the hall. We have a complimentary continental breakfast in the morning, if you’re uh - “ She audibly swallows. “Interested…?”
“Great.” Peter says, feeling very awkward all of a sudden. “Uh, thanks. For everything,”
“Come on darling.” Wade gestures for him to follow.
Peter scowls and flips him off, before looking over at Cheryl who is looking at him like she definitely thinks she’ll be the last person on earth to see him alive. Peter quickly scrambles to catch up with Wade before she can say anything else.
“You’re such a little flirt.” Wade comments when Peter matches his stride.
“That was not flirting.” Peter snaps. “Also what the fuck was that? One fucking bed?”
“We’re not even using the room.” Wade snickers before reaching out to pat Peter’s shoulder. “Relax.”
“She’s going to think we’re—- “ Peter interrupts himself to jerk his shoulder so that Wade’s hand slides off him.
“I don’t think she’s going to contact the fucking Daily Bugle and say that Spider-Man and Deadpool are boning each other.” Wade says and Peter groans as the headline flashes bright and loud in his head. “Can you imagine that front page spread though - mercenary and vigilante fraternizing at five-star hotel!” Wade pauses. “And there was only one bed - “
“Yes!” Peter snaps. “I can imagine that, actually. Just — do you take anything seriously?”
“I am very seriously helping you track down the chick that tried to kill you.” Wade says, voice tight. “Is that good enough for you, superstar?”
“Whatever.” Peter mutters. They enter the elevator in silence, and when the door closes, Peter can’t help but think about how weird it is, being in an elevator with Deadpool as Spider-Man. It feels safer than when he’s Peter, but only marginally
“So.” Wade says after Peter’s pressed their floor button. “She likes the red suit. You taking a poll? I think the black is sexier. Personally.”
“I don’t care what you think.” Peter says, leaning against the elevator wall and staring down at the shiny, expensive looking floor. His expression looks back at him, warped and wavy.
“Clearly.” Wade snorts. “‘cause if you did - “
The elevator dings open, and Peter is out of it before the doors are fully open. It’s marginally less claustrophobic in the big, sweeping hallway of the hotel, but only marginally. Peter desperately needs a long swing through the city after this, sit on a rooftop with nothing around him but the open air.
“Alrighty.” Wade says, coming up from behind him. “This is our floor. Well, actually our floor is one up, but this is her floor.”
“Let’s just find her.” Peter grumbles and starts down the hallway. It looks like her room is going to be on the left side.
“You run into a lot of fans, huh?” Deadpool says behind him. “I mean, obviously this girl we’re looking for took advantage of how fucking useless you are when you meet them.”
“Shut up.” Peter grits out. “And no, I don’t run into ‘a lot’ of fans. I don’t know if you’ve read the papers, but I’m not exactly a city-wide favorite.”
“Nah, that’s not true.” Wade drawls. “Well, okay maybe not city-wide, but you’re like an underground fave.”
“Lucky me.” Peter says.
“I mean, it must be cool.” Wade continues after a second. “Having fans.”
“Oh, do mercenaries not have those?” Peter asks meanly. “I wonder why?”
“We definitely do.” Wade says. “They’re a little less starry eyed, and a little more uh - well — “ He mimics shooting a gun with his fingers. “Trigger happy.”
“Do they really count as a fan if they try to kill you?”
“I don’t know, Spidey, I tried to kill you,” Wade says with a shrug, and Peter can imagine that jagged smile wide and unapologetic under the mask. “And I’m definitely a fan.”
Peter stops walking and stares. “Is that what you are?” He asks slowly, and he realizes, suddenly that he really has no idea what Wade actually thinks of him. If he had to guess, fan would not be the word that came to mind. On again off again enemy, maybe.
“Totally.” Wade agrees readily. “Huge fan. Number one, probably.”
“That’s scary.” Peter says, and means it.
“It should be.” Wade agrees with a shrug. “I mean… I get pretty possessive over the things I like.”
“Is that what I am?” Peter grits his teeth. “A thing that you like?”
“Nah.” Wade elbows him playfully. “Like is way too casual for the way I feel about you. Borderline obsessed.” He tries his fingers in a spiral near his head. “A thing that I can’t stop thinking about. A thing that lives rent-free in my brain.”
“That’s…” Peter struggles to find a good summation of how that makes him feel. “Concerning.”
“You’re telling me.”
Then, they’re standing in front of 703.
Peter takes in an unsteady breath.
“Nervous?” Wade asks.
“Not about this,” Peter says. It is genuinely a relief to be stepping into a fight and out of the implications of this conversation. Then, he looks down at the handle and realizes that there’s a card hanging off it saying that the room is unoccupied and ready to be cleaned.
“Great,” Peter scowls, trying the handle just to have something to violently shake up and down.
“Should have brought a deck of cards. I bet you’re so bad at Bullshit.” Wade leans against the wall next to him, inspecting his leather covered nails. “Maybe she’s out getting ramen from that place across the street, which by the way, we absolutely should go there after this.”
Peter shoves his shoulder into the door until there’s the satisfying sound of the hinges popping. The door drops forward, slamming down into the room. Wade whistles, low and appreciative behind him as they step inside.
“You know, we totally could have just swiped a master card from one of the cleaning carts.” Wade says as they step into the pitch black room.
“Could have mentioned that earlier.” Peter fumbles against the wall until he hits the light switch.
“Unlike the press, I actually like seeing you damage property.”
“Shut up.” Peter snaps. Wade mimics zipping his mouth shut, even though they both know that’s a temporary situation.
The room really is empty. It is nice room, just like the rest of the hotel. Peter hasn’t exactly slept in a lot of nice hotels, but this one seems extra fancy. The type of room that would probably give him anxiety to sleep in. All the furniture looks like it would cost several of his pay checks. Peter catches the reflection of his mask in the shiny glass coffee table situated in front of the massive mounted TV. Of all the places he’s feels out of place in, ritzy hotel rooms rank high.
The room also has a big, wide window that looks out into the city. The curtain has been pulled down low enough that there’s only a crack of white light showing so Peter can’t be sure if the view is actually worth the price tag.
It doesn’t look like anyone’s been inside since the cleaning ladies, if the neatly made bed and lack of luggage is an indication. It smells like cleaning spray and the faint, flowery scent of opulent wealth. Peter sneezes.
“Gesundheit.” Wade snickers behind him.
Peter turns back to glare at him.
“Do you take anything seriously?”
“Lots of things.” Wade confirms, opening up a drawer and looking inside. “Like, I can very seriously say that we’re definitely in the wrong room.”
“Oh yeah? Cheryl definitely thinks we’re in a hostage situation, but I’m pretty sure gave us the right room number.” Peter rolls his eyes, walking around the small perimeter of the room. He opens up the closet, it’s empty.
“Well I literally track and kill people for a living, so you could call me something of an expert at tearing apart someone’s hotel room.” Wade says, closing the drawer. “I don’t think anyone’s been here in like, days.”
“Well, maybe she booked it for something else.” Peter said, and then feels stupid because he actually has less then zero experience looking for a missing person. For some reason he thought Wade would make it easier. This does not feel easy.
“Maaaybe.” Wade drawls. “No offense, but I don’t think she’s trying to knock you off her trail. I don’t think she thinks you’re capable of realizing there is a trail.” He pauses. “No offense.”
“You know saying that doesn’t make you any less offensive?” Peter scowls.
“Your ego is just so baby bird, I would hate to continuously drop it out of the nest — “
“Okay, if she’s not here, where would she be?” Peter interrupts. A part of him almost feels like if Maggie isn’t in danger, and also technically doesn’t exist then maybe he should be doing something else with Spider-Man’s time. The bigger, angrier part of him knows he’s incapable of dropping this until he asks her why.
“Oh, let me just consult my crystal ball.” Wade snorts. “Why do you think I know?”
“Excuse me. I thought you knew everything.” Peter looks under the bed performatively. “I was just consulting the expert.”
“You know the cuteness urge people get when they hold a baby kitten?” Wade asks. “Well I feel the exact opposite of that with you, except I still want to squeeze you so hard your head pops off.”
Peter can’t help the bristle of true, genuine pride he feels whenever he gets under Wade’s skin. It’s only fair, considering how much Wade lives under his.
“Also, I think she might have seen us coming.” Wade continues.
“Didn’t you just say that you didn’t think she saw us coming?” Peter bristles. “I wonder what did it – as it us loudly coming through the front door? Or maybe it was you grilling Cheryl about guest information she wasn’t even legally allowed to give out?”
“No, I think it was probably you collecting audience polling on whether your red or black suit is sluttier.”
“Oh, come on--”
“Which, again she was sooo wrong.” Wade snaps. “The red suit is so - I mean, come on. The black is clearly sluttier.”
“I’m even going for slutty.” Peter crosses his arms. “Believe it or not, I want people to think hero when they see me coming.”
“Okay, but it’s literally skin tight.” Wade mimics an hourglass, stops halfway and intentionally creates a very boxy shape with an intentional bump at the hips. “For the ass.” he explains. “I’m just creating a visual.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “What, do you think Spider-Man needs to go more militant? Also your suit doesn’t exactly leave anything to the imagination either.”
“Oh, you’ve been imagining?” Wade preens, striking a pose. “What parts of me are you imagining, superstar? Maybe I should start polling too.
“Shut up.” Peter feels his face heat up. “I don’t — imagine — “
“Oh, don’t think I haven’t caught you staring.”
“Yeah, I like to keep a good visual on anything that threatens my life.” Peter says. “Call me someone with good survival instincts.”
“Baby boy, I would never.”
The sound of the door opening and then quickly slamming shut interrupts them.
“We’re just cleaning up!” Wade calls out in falsetto. “Just putting on your pillowcases.”
“Wade!” Peter snaps, scrambling for the door as the sound of footsteps loudly retreating echo down the hallway. “She’s getting away!”
“But the pillowcases.” Wade protests and just when Peter thought he couldn’t get more annoying. “We’re going to get a bad review.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
Peter throws open the door, and steps out into the hallway. Except it’s not the hallway. At least not the one they left out of. It’s not that it looks different, exactly. Peter didn’t examine the hallway too closely when they were walking through it, but his senses are ringing in his ear and something feels off about the doors.
“Why are the doors shorter?” Wade asks, coming up beside him. “They’re definitely shorter. Because you’re so big next to them, and you’re like, super short.” He pauses. “No off- “
“Shut up.” Peter grits out. “There’s something weird going on here.”
“Yeah, they’re discriminating against people who are six feet tall. The most oppressed class of people in the world.” Wade says. “I am like, six two by the way - canonically - “
“I need you to stop talking.” Peter says, almost like a prayer. “Just - why does the hallway look different?”
It’s not just the doors, it’s the carpet. Peter feels like it’s too red, and the walls are stripped even though he’s pretty sure they had a more of a wavy pattern and -
Then, all the lights shut off.
When they hum back on a second later, they aren’t in a hallway at all.
