Chapter Text
New Year’s Eve
Peter got in to Tony Stark’s infamously fabulous New Year’s Eve party, held every year in the glittering Avengers Tower, on a technicality. Okay, so the technicality was that he was Spiderman, and there had been a blanket invitation to every super in New York to the party, but it was still a technicality. If Tony Stark, world-famous scientist, billionaire, former CEO of a fortune-500 company, and Iron Man had known that Spiderman was really dinky ol’ Peter Parker, photographer for the Daily Bugle, who would sell his soul and left testicle for a job where he didn’t have to pawn off pictures of himself in spandex to a sadist with a Hitler ‘stache, well, there was no way that Peter would have been let in.
But he was. Let in, that is. Through the window.
What else was he supposed to do on New Year’s eve? Aunt May had the late shift at the hospital. It wasn’t like Peter had a great abundance of friends. At least, not as Peter. Not anymore. And at least at Tony Stark’s party there was guaranteed to be good booze. And other superheroes. His people.
His people.
And Deadpool was there, and Peter might have been nursing a crush the size of Wisconsin on the killer for hire, so there was all the reason he needed. To show up at a New Year’s Eve party in his spidey-suit. Amongst lots of supers who did not, in fact, have secret identities. Not amongst each other.
Peter looked around. The Avengers were scattered amongst other heroes and their civilian friends alike. Pepper Potts was in a corner with Clint Barton, telling him a story that required making blasting motions with her hands, as if imitating Iron Man's hand repulsors, and crossing her eyes. Clint was laughing so hard he was almost doubled over. Bruce Banner was making small talk with a man and woman whose voices Peter recognized as belonging to Ant-Man and the Wasp. Thor was trying to arm wrestle a combination of the Falcon, War Machine, and Power Man. Peter recognized Jessica Jones nursing a bottle (a whole bottle!) of Jack in the corner while listening with great interest as Natasha Romanov and the Vision took turns trying to one up each other with fantastically witty remarks, all said with flat, even expressions. Steve Rogers and Tony Stark himself were chatting with Foggy Nelson, of the law firm Nelson and Murdock. Matt Murdock was busy elsewhere, talking with Scarlet Witch, whose first name Peter still had yet to learn. There were others, lots of others, scattered across the room, but Peter was struck once more by the lack of masks he was seeing. Did everybody else know each other? That thought made him inexplicably sad.
“Awkward,” Peter muttered as he looked around the room. “Well,” Peter said to himself, “this is what you get for having to protect your loved ones, and also wanting to get wasted on ritzy booze.”
“If you are looking to partake in the libations,” said a British voice that sounded like it was coming from the ceiling, “might I suggest beginning the evening by the open bar?”
“Uh,” Peter said, “am I hallucinating a helpful yet bodiless Jeeves?”
“Not at all, Mister Spiderman,” said the British voice in a neutral tone, a voice with only the barest hints of affability, “I am merely Jarvis, an Artificial Intelligence created by Mister Stark.”
Peter’s eyes grew wide beneath the mask. “Woah. Really? Really-really? I didn’t know anyone was—”
“Spidey!” shouted a voice, interrupting Peter mid-squeal, and Peter whipped around to see Deadpool bounding towards him. He was wearing his costume, in its full katana’d glory, and that made Peter feel slightly better about being wrapped in his own spandex. Peter's shoulders unbunched with something like relief. Something he was unwilling to examine too closely.
He was at least willing to admit, to himself, that he had a crush on the merc. The thought that his feelings for the man exceeded that, were something larger, more effervescent, well, he was going to ignore that thought for as long as possible.
He knew Deadpool returned the sentiment, at least on a base level. Wade Wilson never gave up an opportunity to compliment, Peter's, ahh, assets.
Or, well, Spiderman's assets.
That was part of the problem. No one, absolutely no one knew that Spiderman was Peter Parker. And Peter was absolutely positive that if Wade ever found out Spiderman was such a nerd he'd have less than zero chances with the man.
And he liked Wade. Wade was funny and generous, even under the guise of being rude. Not that he wasn't rude, because he was, but he was kind too. The Merc had grown on Peter. Barely constrained toleration for the un-aliver had given way to something like friendship after long nights taking down baddies together, and then sitting on roofs eating tacos or burgers or hotdogs or gyros or sweet and sour chicken or anything else, and everything in between. They were friends. They could hang out (at Wade's apartment) and watch Golden Girls or the Bourne series or make fun of all the sexism and lack of realism in the old James Bond movies. Sometimes they played video games, or even board games (Wade was always winning at Clue, which Peter was a little salty about, but he could whup Wade's ass in Trivial Pursuit any day of the week). But the best part was that Wade never asked about his secret identity. Peter felt completely comfortable, flopped upside down on Wade's couch, a controller in his hand, completely decked out in his spandex and mask because Wade did the same. He'd sit in his own house for hours with his katanas strapped on and his mask pulled down to his nose. Peter kept his there as well. All the skin that they'd ever seen of each other was from their noses to their chins. Just enough space to give their food access to their mouths. As much as the fact that he'd never seen Wade's face bothered him, he was also eternally grateful that Wade never pushed the issue, never even mentioned it.
The fact that he knew Wade's name, but Wade didn't know his was a great source of internal contention, but Wade didn't seem to mind. He never even brought it up. Peter wasn't sure how he should feel about that.
"Spidey!" Wade screeched again, this time from much closer, right beside Peter's head, jolting him from his thoughts.
Peter shook his head, trying to push his thoughts to the back of his mind. He was at a party, for gob's sake. He could worry later. Right now he was there for booze.
“Here,” Deadpool said, shoving a glass of what Peter assumed was champagne into Peter’s hand as he skidded to a stop in front of Peter. “Drink this, it’s New Year’s Eve and you don’t even have a alcohol on you. I am ashamed, deeply ashamed,” he chastised.
“I did just arrive,” Peter protested, but willingly pushed the lip of his mask up over his nose and downed the glass of champagne (he’d need to drink a lot very quickly if he wanted to get wasted and stay that way). He then sputtered. “That wasn’t Champagne.”
Deadpool looked at him blankly. “No. It was Whiskey mixed with tequila.”
“Why? Why would you give that to me? That was horrid.”
Wade scoffed and pulled the champagne glass from Peter's fingers before tossing it over his shoulder, not even flinching when it shattered against the floor. "If you're not here to drink, Spidey, what are you here for? Don't tell me you crashed one of Stark's "happenin' get-togethers"" he made air quotes, "to mingle."
Peter chuckled. "No, you're right. I'm here to get drunk."
"Then let's get drunk, Baby Boy," Wade screeched, and latched on to Peter's arm. He began towing Peter towards the bar, and Peter did not put up so much as a token protest.
It was sometime between Peter's fourteenth shot of tequila and his ninth of fireball that he realized two things. The first was that he was drunk. Really drunk. So drunk that he had taken to shooting webs at every passing person and dragging himself places by way of the ceiling. The second was that Wade had one hand tucked against Peter's waist, a few gloved fingers peaking under Peter's shirt, trailing against Peter's skin, and his tongue was lapping at the crook of Peter's neck.
Then suddenly, so quick it was almost vertigo-inducing, Peter decided that that was a great idea and that they should continue perhaps somewhere less judgmental than Tony Stark's tower.
Peter knocked back the fireball before turning in Wade's arms until their lips were mere hairbreadths apart. "Let's get out of here," Peter whispered into Wade's mouth.
"But it's not midnight yet," Wade whined. "I wanna watch the ball drop."
Peter checked a clock on the wall and was surprised to find that it was barely 10 o'clock.
Peter ran a finger against Wade's jaw and felt his Adams apple bob as Wade swallowed. "Are you sure you wouldn't be interested in something else? I could keep you way more entertained than a silly ol' ball dropping."
Wade gulped again. He let out a shaky breath before nodding vigorously.
Peter looped an arm around Wade's shoulders and began the difficult process of pulling him out of the building while still keeping him upright. Wade wasn't really the problem. Well, he was, because he was weaving and wobbling as he walked, but so was Peter. The problem was that Peter wasn't really that great at controlling his strength while intoxicated, and he kept accidentally picking Wade up or pushing him faster than he was walking him because Peter just kept forgetting.
Wade didn't seem to mind. Really didn't seem to mind at all. He kept one arm tucked around Peter's waist, and his mouth was still suctioned to the spandex over Peter's neck.
They were almost to the window that opened (the access to any flying, or, well, swinging superhero who was invited to the tower), when he was intercepted by none other than Tony Stark himself.
"Kid," Tony said in a low voice, "I'm not sure I should be letting the two of you leave together. This is my party and I'd feel real guilty-like if you ended up needing therapy after this." He paused for dramatic effect. "Or a lawyer."
Peter flung his arm out to point at where a drunk Matt Murdock was leaning over a coffee table table, facing an even drunker Foggy Nelson, who was rolling on the floor in a pile of crushed Doritos which he was systematically trying to cover himself with. "Lawyer," Peter pointed out helpfully.
Tony ran a hand down his face. "You're not helping lead me to the belief that you're sober enough to consent to anything."
Peter poked Deadpool's shoulder and Wade lifted his head reluctantly. The cold spot left behind by Wade's mouth felt like sadness and Peter hated it. "Are you sober?" Peter asked Wade.
"Not even a little," Wade said with pride.
Peter gestured to Tony in a ‘see? You're wrong,’ motion.
"No," Tony slowly. "That is not at all how you disprove my point, kid."
Peter pouted. "I will have you know that I'm an adult."
"Mmm-hmmm," Tony said, in a way that didn't sound like agreement at all.
"He's twenty-four," Wade explained, only slightly slurring his words. "He is a hot twenty-four year old who wants to get in my pants. Let him."
"How do you know that, Wilson?" Tony said, crossing his arms. "You been spying on Webhead here?"
Peter scoffed and latched onto Wade with both arms. "I am offended. And aroused, but not by you. You are only offending. I'll have you know that Deadpool is the best of bros." He leaned in to make sure that Tony was getting it. Tony seemed not quite convinced. Peter didn't know why. He leaned in closer, until Peter's mouth was millimeters from Tony's ear. "I love him," he whispered, just a tad too loud, and then pulled back quickly before shushing very loudly and pressing a finger against Tony's mouth. "Shhhhhhhh, you can't tell him."
"Tell who, what?" Wade asked with a laugh.
Peter paused. "I don't know." He too laughed.
Tony sighed and uncrossed his arms. "Whatever, you're two consenting adults, I guess." He rubbed a hand down his face. "But I'm not paying for any therapy."
Peter whooped, grabbed hold of Wade, and launched them both out the window. "Iron Dad has given us permission to fuck!" He crowed.
Deadpool screamed.
"I know, right?" Peter shouted back.
"We're falling!" Wade screeched.
"It's great," Peter agreed. At the last moment he shot out a web, and then they were swinging.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhh!" Wade said. And then nothing, and then, "Are you sure you should be webbing drunk? Isn't that like drunk driving? Couldn’t it kill us? I mean, I'll come back, but you wouldn't Baby Boy."
Peter shrugged and then shot out another web. "I don't drive."
Peter let go of his web at the arc of his upward swing and Wade screamed again. "I think I'm afraid of heights," Wade admitted in a yell. Peter twisted his body to cushion the impact of hitting the roof, and he rolled to burn off the momentum.
"Why'd you stop?" Wade asked, voice still shaky.
"This is my apartment building," Peter said, because, duh.
Wade paused, and Peter could almost feel his eye growing as large as dinner plates. "What about your secret identity?"
Peter wondered himself why he wasn't freaking out about that and then shrugged. "I am about to get completely naked and fuck you," he paused to consider that, "or you can fuck me. I'm not that picky. But I will be naked. You're going to see me. I'm not sure how secret my identity will be after that."
Wade blinked. "And you're ok with that?"
Peter took a moment to actually consider that question before answering it. "I think I am. You're, like, my best friend right now. I trust you with my life. I definitely trust you with my face."
Wade let out a shaky breath. He swallowed. "Okay, Baby boy. That's, wow, that's a lot. You're probably going to regret this in the morning."
"No I'm not." Peter pressed forward into Wade and then kept pressing until they were at the edge of the roof.
"This shouldn't be this hot," Wade objected, losing track of the conversation. Peter pushed them both off the roof and Wade screamed again, but then Peter shot out a web, tugged, and they went tumbling through Peter's open bedroom window.
"You're a whirlwind," Wade said, "did you know that?"
"Mmmm," Peter hummed, and then pushed and pulled and maneuvered until they were falling across Peter's bed.
"So hot," Wade groaned, you are so hot. How are you this hot?"
"Is it the strength?" Peter asked as he stripped off his shirt. He heard as the breath stuttered in Wade's throat. "I think the strength is pretty sexy. I could pin both of your arms above your head with one hand." He heard Wade's breath stutter again and he smiled.
"Please," Wade whimpered. Peter quirked a smile but did not obey. First he wanted to be naked. He pulled off his boots, one at a time, painfully slowly, reveling in how every one of his movements made Wade twitch and writhe and keen on the bed. He flexed his bare toes. With two quick motions his hands were free, and he paused his undressing for a second to approach Wade and run his hands against Wade’s suit with his bare hands for the first time. Wade’s breath hitched.
“Is this a synthetic woven with leather?” Peter asked, running his hands up and down Wade’s sides, brushing his knuckles against Wade’s hip.
Wade whined, and seemed unable to form any actual words, let alone sentences.
Peter shrugged and then backed off, removed his hands from Wade’s sides, which was very, very difficult because he really liked touching Wade. Really liked it.
He pulled his shirt off quickly, because his patience was running thin, and Wade hummed deliciously at Peter’s naked chest. And then he shimmied out of his pants which was slightly more difficult and less sexy than pulling off his shirt, but Wade goddamn whimpered when Peter's erection was made visible, and that bolstered Peter’s confidence to a heretofore never reached peak.
It didn’t last long, because when Peter reached for his mask Wade stopped him.
"Keep it on," Wade begged, and Peter frowned. His brain drew a blank, because this was going to be it. This was supposed to be where Peter told Wade everything. Wade was supposed to, well, want that. Wasn’t he? Wade never pressured Peter to reveal his identity, to take off his mask, and Peter had always been grateful for that, but Peter thought it had been a kindness, not a lack of curiousity. Didn’t Wade want to know who Spiderman really was? Didn’t he want to see Peter’s face? Didn’t he want to know the name of the guy who spent four out of seven nights on his couch playing Mario Karts? Or was this his way of distancing himself emotionally? This drunken hook-up was not a promise for a relationship. Peter wanted Wade, wanted to date him, wanted to kiss him and hold him and spend his evenings with him. Kind of forever. They had not talked about that. Peter knew Wade liked him as a friend. Peter knew Wade… appreciated Peter’s body. Maybe Wade could separate those things. Maybe to Wade this would only ever be a single drunken hook-up before midnight even struck on New Year’s Eve. And Peter craved as much of the man as he could get. It kind of hurt, thinking Wade would not reciprocate how deep Peter felt for him. A steady ache. But he was still willing to have this one-night stand. Because he was a masochist. A hopeless masochist in love. Or something.
Peter left the mask on.
And then Peter kept Wade occupied for quite a bit of time. It was good. It was more than good, it was great. Feeling Wade squirming beneath him, making unholy noises that Peter utterly devoured, Peter loved it, but even drunk-Peter recognized that there was an undercurrent of desperation in what was happening between them, as much as Peter tried to internalize it. This might be the only time something like this happened, Peter was resigned to that, but if this was going to be the only time he would be able to feel Wade beneath him, feel his heat around him, taste his mouth, he was going to make it count.
And when they had both exhausted each other, Peter let himself flop down onto Wade's chest. He could use his intoxication as an excuse if Wade complained in the morning, though at this point he was barely buzzed. His metabolism at work.
"How was that?" Peter couldn't help but ask, with an added hint of smug that he didn't really feel.
Wade moaned. He nodded against Peter's head, and Peter couldn't help but grin.
The glowing red of the alarm clock on Peter's bedside table caught Peter's eye. He shuffled himself up and pressed a kiss to Wade's lips, something warmer than the kissing they'd already been doing that night. This was his love, pressed into a single brush of his lips.
"Happy New Years," Peter whispered into Wade's mouth.
"Mmmmm, Spidey, babe. If there’s any way better to christen a new year, I don't know it." He cupped the back of Peter's head, ran his fingers against ridges made by the pushed-up spandex of Peter's mask.
Peter smiled into Wade's chest, and it felt a little like ecstasy. It felt a little like heartbreak.
In the morning, Peter woke up alone.