Work Text:
Peter might actually, genuinely be having a panic attack. Okay, there’s really no ‘might’ about it. He’s definitely freaking out, and if this were any place other than New York, someone probably would’ve confronted him about his weird behavior by now. As it is, no one really seems to care about the teenager standing in the middle of the train car, seemingly clutching the grab rail like his life depends on it and hyperventilating at the same time.
Listen. He’s just been having a really weird, really shitty day. Like, he completely forgot that he had a physics test this morning. That wouldn’t normally be the end of the world for Peter, but he’s actually struggling through this unit, for once, so he kind of did really horrible. Then he made the mistake of walking past Flash once school let out, which is basically asking for a beating when you’re Peter Parker. That made him just late enough to miss the train, and then — because Parker luck apparently never runs out — he got bitten by a freaking spider.
Which, that shouldn’t be such a big deal, right? It’s not like it was a black widow or a brown recluse. It wasn’t even a spider he recognized. Immediately after getting bitten, he googled venomous spiders, just to be safe.
But it’s been a couple hours since then, and he isn’t sure whether he managed to somehow convince himself that that spider bite is actually a problem, or whether he really is feeling side-effects. Like, he’s sweating like mad. His shirt is practically soaked through. He feels hot all over, except he’s shivering and covered in goosebumps. His limbs ache and his head is pounding. And, most concerning of all, he can’t move his hand.
Just thinking about it reignites the panic that never really faded. Peter tries once again to flex his fingers, to shift his hand, to do anything, but his grip remains stubbornly in place along the rail. What the hell is happening to him? Is this all just in his head, somehow? Maybe feeling frozen is just a side effect of having a panic attack. Except, the panic attack only started because Peter couldn’t move his hand in the first place.
He's starting to feel dizzy, and again, he isn’t sure what’s causing it. The maybe-actually-venomous bite? The hyperventilating? Maybe he’s just convincing himself he feels dizzy?
He would speak up, ask for help, but he doesn’t even know where he would start. This is insane. He feels crazy. He just needs to get home, needs to release the fricking grab rail. He’s already seven stops past the stop he should’ve gotten off at. Soon enough, he’ll reach the end of the line, and then what? What if he can’t remove his hand even then?
Peter suppresses a whimper. He’s sixteen. He’s not going to cry. He’s just going to calm down and figure this out and stop panicking and—
He bites his lip, trying to steady his breathing. His free hand is buried in his pocket, balled up so tightly into a fist as if he could possibly forget the issue going on with his right hand and accidentally grab and stick himself to something else.
People on the subway are ignoring him. Newcomers glance at him and shuffle effectively away, knowing better than to engage with someone who definitely looks like they’re on drugs.
All newcomers except one, that is. Jesus Christ.
When this guy gets on the train, everyone ignores him even harder than they’re already ignoring Peter. Understandably, of course. He’s decked out in a full body suit, red and black, and he has so many weapons on him that Peter feels like he’s going to be sick. Fuck, is he here to terrorize this train car or something? When Peter can’t even manage to run away?
In fact, how is he even here? How is this legal? Even with an open carry license, Peter doubts anyone’s allowed to walk around with at least six guns on their person, plus two swords — are those katanas?! — on their back.
Then again — superheroes. These days, it seems like anyone can get away with doing anything as long as they’re in some kind of costume.
The guy stops right in front of Peter, grabbing the rail above his hand. Crap, he’s huge. Not just tall, but like — bulky. Muscular. He’s terrifying.
Peter can’t help looking up at the guy’s face. Mask. His head is cocked to the side, the whites of his eyes narrowed. “Jeez, are you hyperventilating ‘cause of me?”
Peter blinks. Somehow, being acknowledged after all this time shocks him. It’s jarring enough that his panic reduces a bit, the fuzzy-black haze edging out of his vision.
“N-no,” Peter says. His voice stutters, mostly because he’s still learning how to breathe properly again.
“’Cause if you are, you could literally just move anywhere else.”
“I was here first,” Peter blurts.
The man before him bursts out laughing. His head tips back and the eyes of his mask squint gleefully. Peter’s never seen a mask that expressive before. How does he do that?
“Fuck, you’re funny, kid,” he says. “Why are you freaking out, then?”
Peter doesn’t think to hide the truth. Not now that someone has come right out and asked him. Plus, he won’t realize until like a week from now that this is a part of himself that he’ll want to keep very, very secret.
“I can’t move my hand,” Peter mutters. Even though he’s admitting it, he isn’t especially interested in anyone else overhearing him.
The man before him glances at Peter’s hand, curled tightly around the rail just below his own.
“You scared of subways or something?”
“No,” Peter huffs. “I’m freaking out because I can’t move my hand. Not the other way around.”
Those eyes squint again, this time in consideration. Then the hand above his slides down, bumping into Peter’s hand firmly. It still doesn’t budge.
“Huh,” the guy says. He raises his other hand, grabs Peter’s wrist, and jostles it. Nothing happens.
Peter groans, low in his throat. Yep, the panic’s coming right back.
“Weird,” the guy comments. “If it were me, I’d just cut it off.”
“What?”
“I mean, it’d grow back,” he says. Then adds, “I’m Deadpool,” with a hand extended for a shake. Peter just looks at it, his own hand still attached to the pole, and Deadpool (apparently) finds this so hilarious that he doubles over in laughter again. “Sorry, it was too good of an opportunity to pass up.”
“I’m not cutting off my hand,” Peter says, because he’s still kind of hung up on that part.
“Yeah, probs not the best option for you,” Deadpool says. He shrugs. Peter stares at him, waiting.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Aren’t you going to help me?” Peter demands. He shrugs his left shoulder, gesturing at Deadpool without removing his hand from the safety of his pocket. “You’re a superhero, right?”
Deadpool snorts. “I’m more mutation than super,” he scoffs. “And I’m definitely not a hero.”
Okay. Cool. Any fear and anxiety that had dissipated over the course of their interaction comes rushing right back. Obviously, the dude covered in weapons from head to toe isn’t a hero. Silly, stupid Peter. With his luck, he’s probably standing across from the next up-and-coming supervillain.
He doesn’t even realize that he’s breathing like a marathon-runner again until Deadpool jabs him in the side, effectively jerking him out of his head once more.
“Fine, fine, I’ll help,” he says. “Any idea how this is happening?”
Peter shakes his head. “It just happened,” he says. “I tried to get off at my stop and I couldn’t let go. What if I can’t ever let go?” His breath shudders in, halts, and for a second he can’t seem to get any air at all, and what if he genuinely can’t breathe but the paramedics can’t get him out of this stupid train car—
Deadpool flicks him on the forehead. Peter jerks backward, blinking. “Um, ouch?”
“Ooh, pinky!” Deadpool says. Somehow, without Peter realizing, Deadpool managed to pry Peter’s pinky off the pole. He immediately extends it, keeping it away from the grab rail desperately.
“How did you do that?”
“Dunno,” Deadpool says. He grabs Peter’s wrist again and Peter almost flinches, his inner wrist feeling weirdly sensitive, but then his ring finger seems to unlock and he suddenly has two fingers free. Deadpool hums. “Guess I’m doing something right.”
It continues like that, with seemingly no rhyme or reason. Deadpool distracts him. Poses questions so far out of left field that Peter’s brain stutters. And again and again, his fingers release the pole. Part of Peter thinks that he’s calming down because his hand is unsticking itself, and part of him thinks that his hand is unsticking itself because he’s calming down.
Finally, his hand is free, and he stares at it in amazement, his mouth gaping.
“Hooray!” Deadpool says, clapping Peter on the shoulder. Peter stumbles, and he steadies himself on Deadpool’s arm rather than risk grabbing the pole again. Deadpool stares at Peter’s hand and he abruptly releases him, clearing his throat.
“Thanks,” Peter mutters, shoving his now-free hand into his other pocket. “That was— I thought— well, thanks.”
“No problem,” Deadpool says, as the train squeals to a stop now ten stations away from Peter’s destination. “Call me if you find yourself stuck to anything else.”
Peter nods, despite the fact that he doesn’t exactly have the not-superhero’s number and is kind of still wary of him anyway. He falls in with the crowd leaving the train car, opting to walk home rather than risk getting stuck to any other modes of transportation, but he risks removing his hand for his pocket just long enough to wave at Deadpool.
He raises his own hand in response, wiggling his fingers in a jaunty wave.
--
Peter crouches near the top of a skyscraper, balanced on a little stone ledge. He’s trying very diligently not to freak out.
Honestly, he has a pretty good track record of avoiding freak-outs, as of late. And if anyone deserves to be freaking out these days, it’s Peter.
It’s been three months since he was bitten by that spider. Almost three months since Uncle Ben… well. Since that day.
And it’s been almost two months since Spider-Man was well and truly born.
A lot happened in an incredibly short period of time, and Peter feels like he’s handling it pretty well. Better than could be expected of an average teenager whose life was readily flipped upside down.
It’s been almost a week since he’s found himself accidentally stuck to anything, and he’s never been stuck to anything as long as that very first time. Plus, there are other things about him that have changed, too.
Like, his eyesight? It’s perfect. He had to buy fake lenses to put into his glasses just to find a way around explaining to his Aunt May that he didn’t need them anymore. And his metabolism? God, it’s crazy. He’s constantly ravenous. He can’t even remember the last time he felt actually full. Not to mention his strength. He can lift stuff that no human should reasonably be able to lift. In the beginning, he broke dozens of things without meaning to — door handles, faucets, alarm clocks, you name it.
Although, the craziest change by far is the… spinnerets. That first week, his wrists just kept growing more and more sore. They ached and itched, and the first time he shot webs, it was completely by surprise. They just burst out of him without warning, and beneath the absolute panic and what-the-fuckness of it all, Peter felt relief. The aching, it turns out, was the build-up of webs his body was producing. Shooting the webs offers relief, and until now, Peter honestly thought that he had a never-ending supply of them.
Yep. That’s right. Until now.
How was he supposed to know that they could run out? Sure, he’s felt them get a little weaker, a little stringy, after long nights of patrol, but he just… ugh. He thought it was just some other kind of spider side-effect. He didn’t realize that he was depleting a limited store, or that he should be monitoring his usage of the webs.
Part of his brain — the logical, scientifically-inclined part — is already busy running calculations and planning experiments. He knows it’ll only take him a week tops to figure this out. If he had his notebook on him, he’d be jotting down all the information running rampant in his brain, the hypotheses and experiments and everything.
He’ll need to figure out how much webbing he naturally produces and how long it takes for him to recreate depleted supplies. He’ll need to learn how it feels when his webs are running low and learn how to reduce his output, whether that’s something he can control. Then he’ll try to figure out whether this is something he can increase, like if he uses them often and greatly enough, if his body will naturally start to produce more. After that, he’ll analyze the webs themselves and try to figure out some sort of formula to recreate them. That way, even if he does run out, he can have some sort of back-up option.
Web shooters… some sort of contraption that he could attach to his wrists… they’d have to be small enough to not hinder him, but powerful enough to shoot the webs as far as he can naturally shoot them. He’d have to create them as close and accurate as possible to his own webbing, otherwise his muscle memory wouldn’t be adjusted to the changes between his own webbing and the synthetic kind, which could definitely spell trouble while swinging or in a fight…
Anyway.
The not-so-scientifically-inclined part of his brain is pretty much freaking out, despite his best efforts.
His webs just suddenly sputtered out while he was swinging. He’d thrusted out his wrist, aimed, and when he tried to shoot — nothing.
He’d yelped, the height suddenly terrifying, and he’d flailed as he’d plummeted through the air and smacked face-first into the side of this building. Some mental facilities had kicked back into action, Peter automatically sticking to the glass, and he’d managed to scramble up to the ledge he’s sitting on now, keeping himself from panicking until he wasn’t dangling fifty stories above the streets of New York.
His wrists are aching, throbbing, but not in the way that he’s used to. They hurt because his spinnerets are empty, strained and overused. He’s wary of trying to climb down the building, too. While he’s scrambled up and down his fair share of buildings by now, he’s never done it for such a great height, and he isn’t sure whether the test to his endurance is something he wants to risk. He can’t imagine what he would do if his arms started shaking halfway down, or if he got so scared that he accidentally stopped sticking…
“Fuck,” Peter whispers, pressing a fist to his forehead. “Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
And then, like the universe decided to take pity on Peter, he spots him — Deadpool. A window on a neighboring building shatters and the mercenary crawls out of it, securing himself to the side of the building with suction cups.
Peter hadn’t necessarily forgotten about Deadpool, but he had kind of slipped his mind. That first day when his powers were starting to develop was insane, but everything that had followed was ten times as crazy. Some of it horrible.
He’d looked up Deadpool later that night, and counted his lucky stars that the guy who apparently killed people for a living had taken pity on him, but then his interaction with Deadpool had been shunted to the wayside in the face of everything else.
Peter’s calling out before he can even think about it — definitely before considering the fact that Deadpool actually met Peter before he was Spider-Man. Without considering the fact that Deadpool is a very dangerous, apparently very talented mercenary, who would probably be a horrible person to be recognized by.
But it’s too late. Deadpool hears him shout and he pauses in his ascent, readjusting his grip to look over his shoulder at Peter. He waves.
“Ayy, it’s Spider-Man!” Deadpool shouts. He releases one of the suction cups to wave back, which is terrifying, but also impressive. He holds himself up easily with one hand. “Can’t believe you know who I am!”
“Can you help me?” Peter calls back.
Deadpool cocks his head. Peter can see it from all the way over here.
“Uh. You do know who I am, right?”
“Please?” Peter says. “I— I can’t— something’s wrong, and I—”
He doesn’t really know how to explain the whole webs-slash-adjusting-to-superpowers situation, but apparently Deadpool doesn’t care about the specifics. Before Peter can even explain himself, Deadpool’s aiming some kind of harpoon-like device at him. It buries itself a foot deep into the stone beside Peter — who jerks, his heart pounding, wondering if Deadpool’s aim is that good or whether he just didn’t care if that thing impaled Spider-Man — and then Deadpool is shimmying across the rope attached to it.
Right. This was definitely a stupid idea. What was he thinking, asking for help from a murderer?
But Deadpool’s halfway across now. And Peter’s apparently going to tell him that he’s webless, defenseless, and oh God he is such an idiot, when will he ever learn, what the fuck—
“Hiya,” Deadpool says, exceedingly chipper. He pulls himself up onto the ledge beside Peter, dangling his legs over and swinging them idly, like he isn’t even scared of falling.
“Um. Hi,” Peter says.
“You’ve made quite a debut,” Deadpool says. “Seen you all over the news. And YouTube. Gotta admit, I’m impressed — even if you did rip off my costume.”
“What? I didn’t— they’re totally different!” Peter protests. This is his third version of the suit. It’s one that he finally feels confident in, and he only had to watch a few hours of sewing tutorials to get it right. The eye plates even respond to the widening of his own eyes!
“Eh,” Deadpool says. “I’ll let it slide, this time.”
Peter swallows. Dangerous killer. Right.
But… it doesn’t seem like he remembers that interaction with Peter. Or if he does, he at least hasn’t associated that weird spectacle with the new superhero, who conveniently sticks to all sorts of surfaces.
“I’m not normally in the ‘helping’ business,” Deadpool continues, as if he didn’t just threaten Peter, a bit. “But I’ve been wanting to meet you, so this is probably as good a chance as any.”
“You wanted to meet me?” Peter says, suddenly nervous again.
“Duh,” Deadpool says. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “You’re probably the coolest hero out there right now. I mean, you can practically fly.”
“I can’t fly,” Peter says. “I swing.”
“I know. That’s why I said practically,” Deadpool scoffs. “What do you need help with, anyway?”
“Uh,” Peter says. “Well, speaking of swinging… My webs kind of. Ran out.”
Deadpool blinks. Like, his mask blinks. Seriously, how does he do that?
“Can’t you make more?”
“I mean, yeah?” Peter says. “I’ve never really run out before, so I don’t know how it works, but I probably need to eat first, maybe sleep—”
“Wait,” Deadpool interrupts. “Wait, wait, wait. It comes out of your body? It’s not, like, something you made?”
Peter flushes. He doesn’t even know why. Maybe it’s because this is literally the first time he’s talked about any of this. It’s not like anyone in his life knows that he’s Spider-Man, and he wouldn’t exactly discuss his new bodily changes with the criminals he’s tying up.
“Um, yes?” Peter says. “I’ve never had a problem with it before… Maybe I’ve been patrolling more than usual lately, but—”
“I wanna see.”
“Huh?”
“Where it comes out of,” Deadpool elaborates. “I wanna see.”
Peter’s definitely blushing now. “Umm… I don’t… I don’t know.”
Deadpool hums. His legs stop swinging. “Okay,” he says with a shrug, and then he slides back onto the rope he came from.
“Wait!” Peter blurts. “Where are you going?”
“Back to my suction cups,” he says, pointing to where he left them on the opposite building. “And don’t even think about following me, Spidey, ‘cause I’ll cut the rope.”
“What?” Peter says. Deadpool swings one arm before the other, making to actually leave. “Stop, hold on, okay? Just— come back.”
Deadpool comes back. He hops back onto the ledge, looking at Peter expectantly.
“You won’t help me unless I show you?” Peter confirms.
“I’m a mercenary, Webs,” he says. “I don’t do shit for free.”
Peter bites his lip, resisting the urge to argue. After all, he’d helped Peter for free before. Not that he’s going to tell Deadpool that.
So Peter shifts on the ledge, careful to keep his balance, and extends his wrist between them. He pulls the sleeve of his suit up, just enough to expose his spinneret.
It isn’t big. Definitely not very noticeable. He isn’t even worried about people seeing them. They look more like a healing scab, or maybe a freckle, than the spinnerets that they actually are.
Deadpool grabs his wrist and pulls it up closer to his face. Peter feels oddly exposed, weirdly vulnerable. He jerks when Deadpool runs a thumb over the tiny hole, yanking his arm back toward himself.
“Shit,” Deadpool says. “That hurt?”
“Uh, I—” Peter stutters. “Not really? Just sensitive, I guess.”
Deadpool just stares at him, silent long enough for the atmosphere to start to turn tense. Peter definitely shouldn’t be offering up this much information to a mercenary. He can’t trust him — not based on some one-off interaction, something that was probably out of character for Deadpool, anyway.
But then, “All right,” Deadpool finally says. Peter draws his sleeve back down, waiting expectantly.
“So. Your webs are shot and you’re too scared to crawl down this building without ‘em. Right?”
“Yeah,” Peter admits. “I’ve never been this high without my webs… And I’ve never climbed that far, either.”
Deadpool nods. Then he leans past Peter — so quickly that Peter stiffens, holding his breath, wondering why the hell he thought it was a good idea to offer up such vulnerable information to a killer — and rips a vent out of the side of the building. He tosses it carelessly toward the ground below, and Peter prays that it doesn’t hit anyone, since he can’t exactly catch it with his webs.
“There,” Deadpool says.
Peter sits there, feeling like an idiot. How, how did he not notice the vent? Was he really that entrenched in panic? Is he this oblivious?
He presses a hand to his eyes, embarrassed. “Thanks,” he mutters.
“Don’t sweat it.”
Peter nods jerkily, and then he climbs into the vent without a backward glance, desperate to escape his embarrassment and this situation in general.
--
His heart is pounding as he sneaks through the building, his spidey-sense tingling down his spine around almost every corner. He keeps dodging out of sight at the last second, the security guards within the building on high alert.
Stupid. Peter thought he’d dismantled the alarms, but he hadn’t accounted for the back-up generator. Now a building full of criminals (namely drug dealers) are looking for him, and Peter’s no closer to catching the ringleader.
It was a careless mistake, the kind that Peter thought he was long past making. Really, he thought he’d learned something in the last year or two. Apparently not.
His spidey-sense practically screams at him and Peter jumps into a maintenance closet with barely a second to spare, a handful of guards bursting into the hallway immediately after. He’s breathing quickly, his ear pressed against the door as he listens to them go by. Fuck, this mission might just be a bust… He’d probably have better luck tracking them down again another day rather than trying to fight his way through this now.
“Fancy seeing you here,” a voice murmurs in his ear.
Peter almost shrieks, but a hand clamps around his mouth, apparently anticipating that reaction. A familiar hand. A familiar voice.
“Deadpool,” Peter mutters, muffled by the gloved hand.
“Heya, baby boy.”
Peter has run into Deadpool countless times over the course of being Spider-Man. He almost never fails to embarrass himself in some way. The mercenary just has a knack for appearing at inopportune moments.
“So, you’re the one who set off the alarms?” Deadpool says, finally releasing him. “Fucked up my job, Spidey. My mark ran away.”
“I’m finding it hard to feel too guilty about that,” Peter mutters. He recognizes that Deadpool only kills bad people, but still. That’s kind of what prison is for.
Even without Deadpool trapping him against the door, it’s practically impossible to find any personal space in the cramped closet. Peter shuffles around, choosing to face Deadpool rather than remain back-to-front with him.
“So, how’ve you been?” Deadpool says, annoyingly chipper. Peter rolls his eyes. “I’ve been great, thanks for asking,” he continues. “Even better, now that I get to be pressed up against you.”
“Very funny, ‘Pool,” Peter says. “Let’s just figure out a way to get out of here, okay?”
More footsteps echo in the halls and they both fall silent, still. Deadpool presses even closer, for whatever reason.
“I already have an escape plan,” Deadpool says. He grabs Peter’s wrist, raises it above his head, and then digs his thumb into Peter’s spinneret.
He doesn’t even know what happens. It’s, like, some weird kind of reflex or something. But the surprise and the pressure has Peter shooting a web at the ceiling, latching onto a vent that he didn’t notice (why does he never notice the vents?!), and pulling it open as Deadpool yanks Peter’s wrist back to his side.
But that’s not the weird part.
No, the weird part is the sound that escapes Peter’s throat, unbidden, and the way his hips twitch forward automatically. He didn’t even realize that Deadpool’s thigh had somehow maneuvered between his own legs until he was jerking into it on accident.
They both freeze.
Peter feels heat climb from his chest, up his neck, all the way to his ears. He’s holding himself completely still, not even breathing.
What. The. Fuck.
He seriously, genuinely doesn’t know what the hell just happened. Nothing like that has ever happened, and he touches his spinnerets all the time. Not with any sort of purpose or for any particular reason, just in the daily course of his existence. Putting on his clothes, washing his body, whatever.
And Deadpool’s only ever touched them that one time, a little over two years ago. It’d felt a little weird then, he vaguely remembers, but that had been an extremely specific scenario. His wrists had been aching, his webs totally depleted, so of course they were sensitive.
But this?
Deadpool makes a soft, curious sound. His thumb rubs in a circle and Peter shudders, his breath hitching out of him, and then he abruptly jerks away.
“I’m— I don’t—” he stutters.
“Was that—”
“I gotta go!” Peter blurts. He shoots another web at the ceiling, totally voluntary this time, and hightails it through the vents before Deadpool can even hope to follow. He escapes in record time and sets a course for home, confused and embarrassed.
And, in the privacy of his own home, Peter can confirm that his spinnerets don’t react like that to touch. At least, not to his touch. It just feels like skin, like nothing, like if he poked his shoulder or his elbow. So why did it feel like that when Deadpool had touched him?
--
“You’re late,” Deadpool calls, sprawled lazily on the rooftop. Peter lands beside him, releasing his web and plopping onto the roof.
“I’m on time,” Peter says. “You were early.”
Deadpool mumbles about how that isn’t true, he wears a watch and he would know, even as he grabs the bag of food and empties it between them, turning the bag into a makeshift tray.
Right. Peter never would’ve guessed that this would be how he ends the majority of his patrols, either.
Deadpool used to just be an acquaintance. The guy he bumped into on occasion. Peter never would’ve gone out of his way to spend time with him. In fact, he usually tried to keep their interactions as short and sweet as possible.
But sometime in the last year or so, things shifted. Maybe that’s something that’s bound to happen when you’re a junior in college, barely have friends, and spend most of your time in spandex.
College has been hard for Peter, not that he’ll ever admit it out loud. But after high school, the few friends that Peter did have left for universities out of state, and Peter realized that making new friends is hard. At least, it is when you have no free time.
In high school, Peter had managed to hold onto the friends he’d made before he became Spider-Man, but it was a completely different story when he started college. His life narrowed down to necessities. Class, homework, job, Spider-Man. Every minute of every day was allocated very specifically. He did his homework so he could pass his classes, got a job so he could pay for school and his apartment, and patrolled as often as he could manage.
Somewhere along the way, he and Deadpool became friends.
It started after Deadpool helped him out a few times, lending a hand during certain fights Peter was engaged in, and it all spiraled from there. Peter would stop and say hello if he saw the merc during patrol. Deadpool started seeking him out, sometimes tagging along, and he refrained from killing anyone in front of Peter.
He quickly became the person Peter spent the most time with, which is a pretty sure-fire way to become friends, Peter imagines. He doesn’t regret it, either. Deadpool is hilarious. They get along great, their conversations always flow, and Peter usually returns home with a stomach aching from laughter. Deadpool is surprisingly thoughtful and sweet — not to mention scarily smart — which Peter doubts most people get the pleasure of knowing.
“How’d the—” Deadpool waves his hand, speaking around a mouthful of burrito “—presentation-thingy go?”
“Good,” Peter says, snagging a quesadilla. They used to eat without looking at each other, but these days Deadpool isn’t so self-conscious about his skin, and Peter isn’t so worried about getting recognized by the lower half of his face alone. “The head of the department was there, plus a few scientists from the field. If they approve my proposal, I’ll receive a grant, lab-space, and get to start my research next month or so.”
(It’s research about nanotechnology. A new subject Peter’s taken interest in. His university encourages its students to head their own research projects and is surprisingly supportive. Of course, it’ll mean even more work for Peter, and even less time on his hands, but it’s something he’s passionate about.)
“You’ll get it,” Deadpool says, nodding seriously. “You were probably the smartest one in the room.”
Peter snorts, grinning despite himself. “Doubt it,” he says. “There were some big names in there. Very important people.”
“Yeah, one big name being Spider-Man,” Deadpool insists. He grins, too, and Peter ignores the thump in his chest. So what? He likes Deadpool’s smile. And his muscles. But that’s nothing new.
They chow down on the obscene amount of food Deadpool brought, the both of them able to eat more than several people put together. They talk about real things and nonsense, from the annoying person who speaks too much in Peter’s English class to the (probably partly made up) story of Wade’s most recent job to arguing about TV.
When Peter claims that Drake and Josh was better than Hannah Montana (shows that he thought Deadpool wouldn’t even have watched, at least not like Peter did growing up), Deadpool straight up tackles him. They wrestle for a minute or two, each pulling dirty tricks to try to outsmart the other, and Peter only just manages to evade Wade’s attempt to grab his wrists.
That’s another thing.
Deadpool tries to touch his spinnerets pretty often.
Peter’s never complained about it, and he knows that Deadpool would stop if he did, so… he doesn’t really know why he hasn’t. Then again, he’s never said anything whenever Deadpool’s grabbed his butt before, either.
Maybe it’s because he never feels anything like it any other time. And whenever Deadpool is successful, Peter gets to experience that weird, heady feeling again. As if he’s an experiment, testing the same theory over and over again, just to see if they still emit the same reaction.
Deadpool isn’t successful very often, so maybe that’s why Peter never says anything. It’s almost like some weird, secret game between the two of them. Whenever Deadpool succeeds, he’s rewarded with some assuredly embarrassing reaction, a Spider-Man that immediately departs, and at least three days of radio silence as Peter gets over himself and manages to stop thinking about it. And then everything goes back to normal, neither of them ever mentioning it.
Peter shakes Deadpool off, managing to retain his dignity once again, and their fight fizzles out as they both return to their seats by the ledge. Peter keeps an ear out for crime, but it’s reached that time of night where things really start to settle down. They hang out until Peter’s jaw is cracking with near-constant yawns and Deadpool can no longer resist teasing him, and they part with a promise to meet up the next night.
Peter swings away, ignoring Deadpool’s catcalls, and he flops into bed that night with a smile, as is customary these days.
And yeah, okay, maybe he likes more than Deadpool’s smile and his muscles. But he doesn’t really see a problem with that.
--
Peter smiles tiredly at the third customer to ask for a frappuccino, which they don’t serve, and offers an alternative. He’s exhausted, even after stealing two cups of coffee for himself.
It’s the weekend, which is usually Peter’s chance to catch up on sleep, but he picked up an extra shift when the opportunity presented itself. He can’t really afford to turn down the money, especially when he isn’t drowning in homework at the moment.
The door chimes and Peter glances toward it automatically, his entire body stiffening when he recognizes the customer. Friend. Mercenary.
His brain straight-up fizzles and floats away. He doesn’t even know how he manages to get through the next customers. Isn’t sure what words come out of his mouth, what change he hands out, or what orders he places.
All of his attention is consumed by Deadpool, who’s been staring at his phone the entire time he’s been in the coffee shop.
Peter’s mouth is dry. His ears are ringing. His hands are definitely sweating.
“Thank you,” he says automatically, staring dazedly at the girl who drops a five in the tip jar.
This is bizarre. He’s never seen Deadpool as Peter Parker before. Other than that first time, obviously. But seriously, Peter kind of thought it would never happen again. New York’s a big city, so what are the chances?
Deadpool finally steps up to the counter, putting his phone away, and some distant part of Peter’s mind wonders what he looks like right now. Whether he looks as dazed as he feels, whether his face has already turned red, whether his hair is somewhat presentable or (more likely) as messed up as it usually is.
Deadpool isn’t looking at him yet. He’s staring up at the board on the wall, his mouth open behind the mask. “Uuuhhhhh,” he says. “Can I get… hmmm… Do you guys have frappuccinos?”
Peter manages to stop gaping. “No, sorry,” he says. “But I could get you an iced coffee.”
Deadpool finally looks at him. He’s silent for a moment, and then his eyes narrow.
There’s no way, right? He’s only seen Peter Parker once, and that was four years ago. Peter was sixteen. He probably doesn’t even look the same.
“Do I know you?” Deadpool blurts.
Fuck.
Peter allows himself a small smile, forcing the panic bubbling inside him back down. “No, sorry. I think I would remember meeting you,” he teases. “Iced coffee?”
“Yeah, fine,” Deadpool says. He shuffles a little closer, tilting his head. “No, yeah, I definitely recognize you,” he says.
Peter frowns. “I’ve worked here for a few months,” he allows. “Maybe I just didn’t see you come in?”
Deadpool shakes his head. “Nah.”
Peter swallows. He punches in the order — Deadpool didn’t tell him what he wants, but he knows him well enough to guess — and he relays the total with a strained smile. His fingers threaten to stick to the keys.
Deadpool swipes his card, still staring at him. And then he snaps his fingers. “Oh!” he says, bouncing up and down. “Oh! Oh! I remember!”
Peter raises an eyebrow. He wills himself to not piss his pants.
“On the subway!” Deadpool insists. “Right? You were all—” he plants his hand on the pastry display case, pretending to struggle to pull it away. “—help me, step-Deadpool, I’m stuck! Remember?”
He can feel himself flushing. Fucking Deadpool. “What?” he manages, trying his best to look confused.
Deadpool glowers at him. “Don’t play dumb with me,” he says. He points at Peter with his free hand, the other one still pretend-stuck to the glass. “You were freaking out on the subway. That was, what, three years ago? No, four.” With that, he frowns. Peter can see it stretching his mask. And then he stares at his hand for far too long, still splayed out on the glass. “Stuck,” he mutters.
“Here’s your receipt,” Peter blurts. “I can help the next customer!”
Deadpool grabs the receipt, and Peter doesn’t miss the way his eyes scan him, lingering especially long on his outstretched wrist. Peter has never been so thankful in his life to be wearing a long-sleeve shirt.
He tries his best to ignore Deadpool, but he can feel his gaze boring into Peter relentlessly.
“Peter, can you grab more sweetener? I’ll cover the register,” his coworker, Julia, says.
“Yep,” Peter mumbles, wishing she hadn’t said his name. But he disappears into the back room, where the sweeteners are stored on some of the higher shelves. His less-vertically-inclined coworkers often call on him to grab the replacements.
When he returns to the counter, Julia is still handling the customers, so Peter delegates himself to her job instead. He refills the bottles of sweetener and makes several drinks, calling them out automatically. He fumbles a bit, his mouth feeling like it’s full of cotton, when he realizes that he’s making Deadpool’s.
He steps over to the service counter, trying his best to calm down, and doesn’t even need to call out Deadpool’s name. He’s already standing there, waiting.
“Here you are, sir,” Peter says, placing it on the counter before him.
“Thanks, Peter,” Deadpool says. A jolt races through him. Peter prays it isn’t visible on his face. “Have a good day.”
“Y-You too,” he mutters.
The rest of the day passes in a haze. Every time Peter’s heart seems to go back to normal, he remembers their interaction all over again, and it just starts back up.
At the very least, he isn’t exhausted anymore. Yay.
--
By the time Peter gets back home, he’s managed to calm down somewhat. He’s convinced himself that he was overreacting at work, reading into things that weren’t really happening. Sure, Deadpool recognized him, but who’s to say that Peter didn’t convince him that he had the wrong guy? Even if Deadpool still thinks that Peter was that same kid from the subway, that doesn’t mean that he realized Peter was Spider-Man. That’s probably Peter’s own bias, reading into that interaction because he knows he’s Spider-Man.
And anyway, he can just steer Deadpool away from that line of thinking later tonight when they meet up for patrol. If Deadpool really thinks that he found out Spidey’s identity, then he’ll be sure to bring it up. All Peter has to do is play dumb. Easy-peasy.
So he goes about his afternoon like normal. Kicks his shoes off at the door, hums while he makes himself a sandwich. He takes a shower, because his clothes and hair always smell like coffee after work, and he does the dishes wearing his boxers and his biggest, baggiest hoodie. (He calls it his comfort hoodie, even if he silently assures himself that he has no need to be comforted right now).
At that point, his exhaustion from the morning is starting to catch up to him, the adrenaline of the day finally relenting, and he decides to take a nap before he has to leave for patrol. He kicks open his bedroom door, already yawning, and collapses face-first into his bed with a groan.
He wriggles around after a moment, digging his phone out of his pocket and reaching for his charger, knowing that he’s probably at like 12%. He keeps his charger looped around the lamp on his bedside table, the cord always falling behind his bed if he doesn’t, but it’s while he’s reaching for it that something catches his eye.
The drawer is partly open. That in and of itself isn’t so strange. His bedside table has always been a finnicky piece of furniture, and that drawer in particular is stubborn. It always bounces back open unless Peter presses it into place and holds it there, which he does now. It stays, and Peter frowns at it, sure that it’d been closed when he left this morning.
“Whoopsie.”
Peter screeches, flailing so violently that he tumbles off the bed. His heart is making a mad attempt to escape through his throat, and he fumbles with the sheets entangling him as Deadpool steps out of the corner of his room.
“What the fuck,” Peter says, the words more breath than actual voice. “What’re— what— you’re in my apartment?”
“Sorry, Petey-pie,” Deadpool says. He takes another step forward. Peter finally escapes his sheets and manages to stand.
“You’re not— You weren’t hired to kill me, right?” he blurts.
Deadpool freezes, then laughs. “Fuck!” he wheezes, doubling over. “Oh God, that’s hilarious. But I guess you learned who I am, sometime between that subway ride and now?”
Peter would take a step back — just to match Deadpool’s additional step forward — if he could. Unfortunately, his thighs are already pressed into his bedside table.
“Then why are you here?” he asks. “How do you even know where I live?”
“I think you know why I’m here,” Deadpool says lightly. “And if you don’t, I’ll get out of your hair — just after I check one thing.” He’s even closer now, and Peter’s never been so intimidated before. Never imagined what it might feel like to be one of Deadpool’s marks. Like prey, helpless against a predator. “Also, it doesn’t take much more than a name and a place of work to find someone’s apartment.”
“Creepy,” Peter mutters. “Look, man, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave. This is breaking and enteri—”
“Come on,” Deadpool says. “You know that’s not going to work.”
Peter swallows. His eyes dart around the room, but he doesn’t see anything that could give him a way out of this.
And then Deadpool’s right in front of him. He looms over Peter, several inches taller, and the bulk of his body cages him. Peter’s heart is pounding, and he flinches when Deadpool reaches for him.
“Shh,” Deadpool says. “Not gonna hurt you.”
But when his fingers brush Peter’s palm, he reacts. It’s engrained, instinctual. When Deadpool tries to touch his spinnerets, he fights.
So he pushes Deadpool away and ducks under his arm, darting toward the door, but Deadpool manages to catch him around the waist. Peter struggles, kicking and elbowing, and Deadpool grunts with the effort of restraining him. He dumps Peter onto the bed and Peter rolls out of the way, yelping when Deadpool grabs him by the ankle.
“I’m just— checking— something!” Deadpool huffs, trying and failing to pin Peter. He bucks and flails, but Deadpool has experience wrestling Peter, and this time, Peter can’t resort to any of his dirty tricks. Not when he’s attempting to not reveal himself as Spider-Man (which, honestly, he’s probably already failed. Who else could hold their own against Deadpool for so long?)
It ends with Peter splayed on the bed, panting, his wrists pinned and Deadpool straddling him. “Fuck,” Deadpool says, panting too. “Finally gonna be good for me?”
Peter glares, but Deadpool ignores him. He eases his thumbs under Peter’s sleeves and he braces himself, determined not to react—
Then there’s that delicious, horrible pressure against his spinnerets. Peter arches automatically. He whines, his fingers flexing, his hips stuttering up into Deadpool.
The pressure relents and a breath escapes Deadpool. “Spidey…” he whispers, awed.
Peter grunts. “Asshole,” he says.
“It’s really you.”
Peter rolls his eyes, idly trying to free his wrists again, but Deadpool stops him. He digs his thumbs in again and Peter gasps, shivering all over. “Fuck. Is this really what you look like every time I touch these?”
Peter’s eyes fly back open. “Deadpool—”
“Call me Wade.”
“C’mon,” he says. “It’s not funny.”
Deadpool — Wade — cocks his head. “I didn’t say it was funny,” he says. He rolls his thumbs in a slow circle and Peter shudders, his head tilting back.
“D-don’t mess with me,” he gasps.
“I’m not,” Wade says. “God, you always run off when I touch you here. But where would you run to now?”
Wade releases a hand, reaching to pull up his own mask, but Peter doesn’t move. He leaves his hand where it is, shivering. Waiting.
When Wade goes to replace his grip, Peter clears his throat. “Wait,” he says.
Wade does.
“Your gloves.”
He ditches them, and then there’s bare skin — warm, scarred — pressing against his spinnerets. Peter moans, canting his hips up, and Wade meets him, adding to the delicious pressure. His thumbs move faster, press harder, and Peter just jerks and twitches underneath him, overwhelmed.
“Please!” he gasps.
“Please what, baby boy?”
Peter just whines. He doesn’t know. Just — something. Anything. More. Everything. It feels good but he can’t seem to control his hips and he feels close and not close at the same time and it’s good, it’s overwhelming, it’s fuck, oh fuck—
Wade groans, mouthing at his neck, and Peter cries out, his hips hitching upward. “Fuck, you’re responsive,” Wade mutters. “Like a virgin.”
Peter doesn’t say anything. He stills, maybe for a second, but of course, of fucking course—
“No,” Wade says, pulling away for a second. His fingers still, and his hips are out of reach, and Peter’s close but he’s far and he needs— he needs—
“Touch me,” Peter says. “Please, touch me, I-I need— Wade, please—”
Wade grinds down into him. Once. Twice. Then he keeps going and going, following this perfect rhythm and Peter stutters into him, wide-eyed and desperate. “Oh God, oh fuck—”
“Wanna fucking draw you,” Wade growls. “No, wanna record you—”
“’M close, Wade, please, please—”
His thumbs dig in again. Hard, slow circles and Peter can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t concentrate. It wells up inside him, hot and quick. Starts at his toes and builds, rises, courses through him until he’s twitching under Wade, his cock pulsing. He’s gasping, high-pitched and whiny, and he realizes somewhat belatedly that he shot out webs at some point.
Wade’s still grinding against him, faster now, and Peter’s sensitive and soft and he whimpers, shifts, and that makes Wade moan. He digs into Peter’s spinnerets until he cries out, and somehow that sends Wade over the edge. He cums with slow, deep rolls of his body into Peter’s, and then they’re both still, panting. Shaking a little, in Peter’s case.
Wade releases Peter, finally, and he flops to the side of him with a grunt. Then he turns his head to look at him. “Damn,” he breathes.
Peter huffs, rolling his eyes. Before he can think twice about it, he twists sideways and presses himself against Wade, grinning when Wade’s arm automatically comes up to hold him there.
“You coulda told me you were a virgin,” Wade says.
Peter ignores his flush. “Yeah? Should I have done that before or after you started rubbing my spinnerets?”
Wade snorts. He slides his hand down, resting it on Peter’s butt. He squeezes.
“What was up that day?” he says suddenly, tilting his head to look at Peter. “Why were you stuck in that subway?”
“That was the day I got bit by the spider,” Peter says. “Literally didn’t know what was happening to me. I was developing powers and couldn’t control them.”
“Fuck,” Wade said. “I met you before you were Spidey. That’s insane.”
Peter grunts. “I’m lucky you were there. I thought I was gonna pass out.”
Wade hums. He pulls Peter up his body by the grip on his butt — why is that hot — and presses a kiss to Peter’s mouth. Belatedly, Peter realizes that was their first one.
“How often do you do this, by the way?”
Peter raises an eyebrow. “Are you talking about getting my identity discovered, or dry humping my friends? Because I thought the answer was obvious.”
Wade laughs, snagging Peter’s wrist. He drags it up to his mouth and kisses it. “This,” he says. “How often do you… you know…” he says, running his thumb over the spinneret. Peter jerks.
“It doesn’t feel like that when I do it,” he admits.
Wade groans. “I am gonna take away all your firsts, baby boy. Just you wait.”
Peter flushes, burying his face in Wade’s shoulder. That’ll be just fine, he supposes. As long as Wade agrees to be his first boyfriend, too.